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Dandy In The Underworld sings.
Marc Bolan: ‘Summertime Blues’
Dandy In The Underworld sings.
Marc Bolan: ‘Summertime Blues’
Recurrent thought.
“She’s not dead yet. Fuck.”
A 1979 mod pop punk gem for your listening pleasure.
The Tours: ‘Language School’
Dear Tumblr,
Just exactly when is this lank haired beardy hipster twat, and his frat boy beer chugging buddy, going to stop filling up my dashboard?
Is your sole idea for a revenue plan for a major social networking service built around convincing your users to purchase t shirts and affect stares that make them look like the less successful members of the Manson Family?
I just saw an ad for their new album on the telly box and it made me want to do what might best be described as a LOL-vomit. My subsequent discovery of the lyric “I’ve been searching all over Facebook and I can’t seem to find you, I really have to find you, baby I need you” seems to validate my hysterical gag reflex.
You don’t even have to say anything, just look at the picture.
The hideous culmination of the East 17 Life Form. Estate youth listening to bad RnB = Ubertwat.
#sneerforfun
Have a groove to that twangy guitar goodness.
The Surfaris: ‘Wipe Out’
Which should, of course read ‘public (sic) schools’. About as open to the average member of the ‘public’ as the Queens lavatory.
“It may surprise readers to learn that Eton is not, in fact, the most expensive school as judged by annual boarding fees. That distinction goes to the Purcell School, a specialist music school, where the annual fees are £29,577 as reported in Whitaker’s Almanac. In second place comes Tonbridge School in Kent, where a year’s boarding fees will cost £28,140 with Eton coming in a close third at £28,080.”
Costs a lot to produce an upper class twit these days…
One for La Contessa, methinks…
Xmind 3.1 now out. Open source, feature rich, mind mapping for Linux, Windows and OSX. Get it here
Mr Feastingonroadkill’s mindmapping weapon of choice
Via here “ In the classic cosy catastrophe, the catastrophe doesn’t take long and isn’t lingered over, the people who survive are always middle class, and have rarely lost anyone significant to them. The working classes are wiped out in a way that removes guilt. The survivors wander around an empty city, usually London, regretting the lost world of restaurants and symphony orchestras. There’s an elegiac tone: so much that was so good has passed away. Nobody ever regrets football matches or carnivals. Then they begin to rebuild civilisation along better, more scientific lines. Cosy catastrophes are very formulaic - unlike the vast majority of science fiction. You could quite easily write a program for generating one.”
Illustration from ‘If London Were Like Venice’. Somers L. Summers, Harmsworth’s Magazine, 1899.
More Victorian and Edwardian Collapsarian fiction here
The Collapsarian national anthem
Barry McGuire: ‘Eve Of Destruction’
The top 20 in Foreign Policy Magazine’s 2009 Failed States Index.
Better luck next year, Amerikanskii Collapsarians…
From High Glitz - the world of America’s child beauty pageants.
Probably the creepiest thing Mr Feastingonroadkill has seen all week.
Remember the four months after September 11, 2001?
Afghanistan! The American response to the destruction of the World Trade Center and parts of the Pentagon played out like the action movie narrative it wanted to be, violent acts of Hestonian moral clarity acted out on an ideal soundstage: the rugged mountains of Afghanistan. Our “time to put on the war paint” revenge saga would appropriate a potpourri of fantastic precedents in which ramrod American paladins export frontier justice to the pre-medieval realm beyond the Khyber Pass—Rambo, Soldier of Fortune magazine, Robert E. Howard, Rudyard Kipling, High Noon. One almost expected the White House to assemble a special team of actual 1980s action movie heroes to be HALOed in as a kind of semiotic vanguard against the bad juju emanating from the mythic territories of Central Asia.
Prior to that, our primary experience of Afghanistan was its portrayal in adventure narratives or their news media analogs, from John Huston’s The Man Who Would Be King to its 20th century Rocky Mountain döppelganger, John Milius’ Red Dawn. The CNN narrative played to all that—remember the first time you saw a picture of some Special Ops soldier in massive beard and civiilian combat gear, riding a horse across the B-movie landscape of Armageddon? In that brief period of the immediate military response to 9/11, we were all complicit in writing history real-time as a postmodern Western, each of our soldiers some kind of Outside magazine update of the frontier scout, loner Hawkeye with a customized AK-47 and a little bit of Pashto.
And the enemy was immediately personalized as an enigmatic other, a mysterious necromancer out of some 1970s Frank Frazetta painting, dark Gandalf crossed with Bond villain.
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