Me, too. Guys especially should click through and read this piece and the comment thread if you want a greater understanding of the type of shit women have to put up with on a daily basis, just for having the audacity to be female in a public space.
I’ve said this a few time before on Jezebel, but in high school I carried one of my granny’s big old lethal hatpins and damn did they do the job. Just saying, girls…
Like I said in an earlier post, I can’t find anything of this, my favorite Frank Loesser song anywhere (sure it’s there, I’m just clumsy…)but even the lyrics are good to have in your head. I don’t believe in god, but I do something like prayer, and words like this are good enough for me. Happy Monday, people.
I hear music Mighty fine music The murmur of a morning breeze up there The rattle of the milkman on the stair Sure that’s music Mighty fine music The singing of a sparrow in the sky The perking of the coffee right near by That’s my favorite melody You my angel, phoning me I hear music Mighty fine music And anytime I think my world is wrong I get me out of bed and sing this song
A New York Times story about a Texas family struggling with unemployment and the challenge to find insurance coverage for their 21 year old son who has cancer.
I’ve said it here before and I’ll say it again: a country without a decent universal health plan is like a country without sewers. Knee deep in shit.
Those assholes running around with their Tea Parties….I’d like to see them in the doctor’s office when they get a diagnosis like this. Then in the billing office of the hospital when they find out they can’t get any more treatment because their insurance or savings have run out.
To paraphrase that Mr Clinton: ‘It’s the keyboard, stupid’. Which is why Mr Feastingonroadkill uses a Sony Viao VGN-C2S equipped with that lovely Presto Xandros Linux OS as his primary internet weapon of choice. The Eee 701 is for the train.
Some kind person tell me the Acer is good too, because it’s all I can afford. (I have had an Acer PC and keyboard for 3 months and ok so far.)
A bunch of bacteria living hundreds of meters beneath a glacier has been found. They survive by “breathing” iron with the help of a sulfur catalyst, and apparently feed off organic matter trapped with them when their habitat was sealed off 1.5-2 million years ago.
OH, I THOUGHT YOU WERE REFERRING TO MY LONELY HEART.
I see Side One was loaded with Bs and Js, so hopefully you’re not too worn out for ten more KUO Clits to Pit:
11. The Kinks, The Great Lost Kinks Album (Reprise, 1973). Cultists—me—swear by this record. It’s a collection of effluvia from the Kinks’ late-60’s period, which I will get into an argument with you was the greatest creative period by any single artist in rock and roll history. You needn’t worry about that. These are gentle, lovely, and ultimately profound; messages of devotion and aspiration, with a beat.
12. Dennis Linde, Under the Eye (Monument, 1978). Good luck finding this one. Intensely bizarre space food sticks from the guy who wrote “Burning Love” for Elvis. That song is immortal: most of these (exclude a lame “Ghost Riders in the Sky”) are better. Think amped-up rockabilly at 75 m.p.h. with Close Encounters sound efx (pre-Close Encounters) and someone running a vacuum cleaner over chooglin’ tunes about losing your sweetheart to aliens.
13. Taj Mahal, Happy To Be Just Like I Am (Columbia, 1971). Taj is a national treasure with a National Steel-Bodied Guitar. I could’ve picked 1975’s Mo Roots, poppier and cleaner, but this has the most incredible version of “Oh Susanna” you could ever dream of, and ends with “Black Spirit Boogie,” which is exactly what it sounds like.
14. Malibooz, Malibooz Rule! (Rhino, 1981).I realize I’m stretching credibility with this one, but you won’t find it anyway, so who fucking cares. Walter Egan (yeah, the “Magnet and Steel” guy who made a series of late 70’s moon-June-spoon CA Cars ‘n Blondes records with Lindsey and Stevie) and John Zambetti (who played with Kenny Loggins…I can’t believe I just typed “Kenny Loggins” without a gun pointed at me) revive their Long Island surfer band and play a bunch of Long Island surfer tunes. Believe me. It’s much better than it sounds. Fuck it. You won’t find it anyhow.
15. Kate and Anna McGarrigle, Love Over and Over (Polygram 1982). It’s just a tragedy this isn’t available anymore—and it was on CD, at one point. Stupendous songwriters, heartbreaking melodists, deft touch, poignancy out the wazoo, they’ll make you laugh and cry in a single sentence. For my $, still their best record. Inspirational Lyric (sorry, RC): “Move over Moon, get out of Uranus.”
16. Ricky Nelson, Legendary Masters (UA, 1971). So easy to dismiss him as the earliest example of teenthrob fluff—but then, there’s that solid, sonorous voice, that amazing band, and those unbelievably contagious songs. No better assortment than this one, it puts it all on four sides, to cry your troubles away when you’re a poor little fool who’s been stood up by Mary Lou.
17. Okeh Western Swing (CBS, 1982). Columbia put out four or five comp albums from its “race label,” Okeh, in the early 80’s, and astoundingly, this Dust Bowl collection gathering the likes of Bob Wills, Spade Cooley (white guy…shot his wife too, btw) and the “Goofus Five” is the best of the lot. Includes “One More River To Cross,” which you maybe need to do “When I Put On My Long White Robe” (they’re not talking about a bathrobe). Plus, it rocks.
18. Prince Charles and the City Beat Band, Stone Killers (Virgin, 1982). What to say about Charles Alexander. Well, he called himself “punk funk,” which isn’t quite the case…he played the flute…and he wrote about “Cash (Cash Money)” (he wanted more), “Big Chested Girls” (he wanted many more), and, anthemically instructed us to “Don’t Fake the Funk” (he didn’t). Any of his bizarre records will curl your noodle and shake all three of your legs. This guy is literally what would happen if George Clinton had founded a religion based upon the teachings of Viagra.
19. Lou Reed, Coney Island Baby (RCA, 1976). Coming off the scabrous Berlin, the negligible Sally Can’t Dance, and the hilarious Metal Machine Music (trust me…you don’t need the laughs that bad), Lou looked washed up. Finished. He responded with this gorgeous testament. Lost among his monolithic early and late classics, this is the one I come back to. There is so much charm here, and the title song will make you misty. Of course, someone gets knifed on Side 1, so it all works out in the end.
20. Waitresses, Bruiseology (Polygram, 1982). Gee, I just did a Polygram 1982. Patty Donahue knew what boys liked, but she knew better what a girl’s gotta do, and here she and a killer band went and fucking did it. Complex, literate, intricately rocking songs that capture the absolute zenith of New Wave post-punk pre-something-or-other.
OK. Go buy an old Monkees album. But not Headquarters.
EEEK. WE WERE EACH OTHER IN A PREVIOUS LIFE, OR IN THIS ONE, BECAUSE ALL OF THESE CHOICES ARE SUSPICIOUSLY…UH..ME.
“Tell your friends and sister if you guys eat out this weekend do not eat salmon. 80% of the production from Chile was disease ridden and that is where a lot of salmon in new york restaurants comes from. DO NOT EAT IT.”—
Email from my brother’s best friend, whose family runs a seafood distribution company. (via katoleary) (via rosasparks)
So Chilean sea bass is out… but what of Chilean wines?
MY bro works in the restaurant biz, doing various consulting jobs, teaching restaurant managment in a well-known school in NYC and whatever he can do, he’s smart that way. He was once interviewed on a national network show about food safety etc. and said something like this: “There’s something about salmon on the menu that makes people see a bear catching a fish in his paws, when in reality, that fish on your plate is about as natural as a factory raised chicken. " Or something like that, but you get the idea. Hey. Want good fish? Go to a small fish market in Astoria, Flatbush, wherever the majority population is still 1st-2nd generation immigrant and has an idea of what fish is in a diet. Buy some kind of fish that’s small and weird looking and cheap. Take it home and cook it with a minimum of olive oil. That’s a meal.
You know what this is like? Imagine if you convinced your prudish mother that a giant vibrator was actually a hand massager. And then she walked around for a week, just whipping that dildo out at work and restaurants and things — whenever she had a hand cramp — before finally figuring out, to her embarrassment, that it isn’t just a *coincidence* that her massager looks like a big, fat penis. And then she comes after you with the wrath of God, all, “Do you know how disrespectful this is?” and shaking her dildo in your face. And, of course, it’s all you can do not to laugh even harder because your mom is shaking a dildo at you and it’s even funnier and the more you laugh the angrier she gets, but you know that whatever the punishment will be is already totally worth it.
…reminds me of the time, back in the late 60’s when we were all pretty hellacious sons and daughters..so my mom is doing the dishes, and singing along to the ray conniff singers or whatever on the radio….”I’m forever blowing bubbles…” and my older brother, from the living room, yells “does dad know?”…mom keeps singing…pauses…and shrieks….”that’s disgusting!!!!”
Now I think about how hideous it was for a nice Irish Catholic mom to raise a handful of hippie hooligans back then. Sorry, Mrs. Heartburn. We were only having fun. PS. Dad laughed his ass off.
“It was fake and I wish that everyone knew that!!!!… I AM SOO SORRY!”—
Kristy Hammonds, former Domino’s employee who videotaped another ex-co-worker sticking snot on sandwiches and all sorts of other nasty shit and then POSTED IT ON YOUTUBE, in an email apologizing to the company for the incident. Hammonds claims the food orders were never delivered. But still, like, gross.
(A new addition to the blog in which I post my brother’s stories from his experiences studying abroad in Madrid. Sarah Heartburn, I hope you get a kick out of these.)
When first arriving in Madrid, all of us on the program spent our first two nights in a hotel where we had to attend a series of lectures and conferences held by [our school] to acclimate us to Madrid, Spanish culture, and the organization of the program. After the first two nights, we all gathered in one of the conference rooms where our Senora’s (homestay mothers)—whom we’d never met before—came one by one to pick us up and take us to our homestay where we’d be for the rest of the program. One thing I never picked up on in the cultural acclimation sessions was the Spanish tradition of “dos besos” (two kisses) where Spaniards greet people they know or meet with two kisses on either cheek. [Ed note: How did he not know this? Even I know this. He was probably sleeping or flirting with senoritas during class.] So, when my roommate Alex and I were called out to meet our Senora, the first thing she did was close her eyes, pucker her lips, and hold her chin in the air—signaling for us to greet her with two kisses. Thank God Alex was with me and was able to pick up on the cue, providing an example for me to follow. Because, if I had been alone, I’m sure I would have simply stared at her, stunned and bewildered, wondering if she suffered from some acute form of narcolepsy. You can only imagine how awkward of a start to the trip that would have been.
You’re right. If he’s been in Spain more than a week, he should have noticed (go to a big social gathering and your eardrums will almost pop from all the smack-smooch going on). Tell him to lay off the cerveza and look around a bit.
Knock her up? Well, unfortunate, but it happens. Marriage? Sure! Especially if the spouse supplies the beer!
Live together? In MY house? Do you NEED Karen to finish this for you?
OK, TUMBLRS, GAWKERITES, JEZZIES, WORKSMOKERS, etc…it’s obivous that Bristol is living in a toxic environment and needs help getting out. Can someone set up a PayPal to at least get this kid the deposit on a studio apartment somewhere coolish - in the lower 50, like, Austin TX, Athens GA, like that - a semester’s worth of registration and tuition, and a McJob that will keep her and the kid fed (or better, work-study)?? Come one, guys, don’t blame her mother’s sins on her. Save Bristol!!!!