The 10 Most Essential Record Labels of the Post-Punk Era You've Probably Never Heard Of (And Why They Mattered)
Terrible, pretentious title.
Lovely, informative writing.
If you are into this music like I am, it will send you down quite the internet rabbit hole.
The point: I would pay good money for a recut Game of Thrones where I could choose the character that I wanted to follow – and that’s it – that’s the only scenes I’d see. I doubt this would be viable without first seeing the show proper, but I think it’d be a great way to explore a specific character.
I love this idea.
Degrees of depravity
June 24, 1973. New Orleans.
Just before 8:00p, the doorbell rang insistently. To answer it, you had to unlock a steel door that opened onto a flight of stairs leading down to the ground floor. Bartender Buddy Rasmussen, expecting a taxi driver, asked his friend Luther Boggs to let the man in. Perhaps Boggs, after he pulled the door open, had just enough time to smell the Ronsonol lighter fluid that the attacker of the UpStairs Lounge had sprayed on the steps. In the next instant, he found himself in unimaginable pain as the fireball exploded, pushing upward and into the bar.
The ensuing 15 minutes were the most horrific that any of the 65 or so customers had ever endured — full of flames, smoke, panic, breaking glass, and screams.
MCC assistant pastor George “Mitch” Mitchell escaped, but soon returned to try to rescue his boyfriend, Louis Broussard. Both died in the fire, their bodies clinging together in death, like a scene from the aftermath of Pompeii.
The UpStairs Lounge arson was the deadliest fire in New Orleans history and the largest massacre of gay people ever in the U.S. Yet it didn’t make much of an impact news-wise. The few respectable news organizations that deigned to cover the tragedy made little of the fact that the majority of the victims had been gay, while talk-radio hosts tended to take a jocular or sneering tone: What do we bury them in? Fruit jars, sniggered one, on the air, only a day after the massacre.
Goddammit I live in a goddamned bubble of ignorance.
When Cliff Burton wore that Misfits shirt—Zig Zags. When the Emergency Broadcast System interrupts that John Carpenter movie—Zig Zags. When a soggy pile of Thrasher mags and Jack Kirby comics spill out of a dumpster behind the Sunday School—Zig Zags. When the Ramones were scared of the basement and the Angry Samoans couldn’t find the right side of their mind—Zig Zags. When a kid breaks his elbow copying a WWF heel’s piledriver and starts laughing instead of crying—Zig Zags. And when the electricity goes off forever and torchlight reflects off chrome—Zig Zags.
I am into it.
Imagine if America could keep it in its pants for a few generations. Won’t happen.
Nodding along to Henry Rollins’ thoughts on Iraq. What? Yep.
But to put that another way, the ground was so solidly packed with the interlocked skeletons of 17th-century victims of the Great Plague that the Tube’s 19th-century excavation teams couldn’t even hack their way through them all. The Tube thus had to swerve to the side along a subterranean detour in order to avoid this huge congested knot of skulls, ribs, legs, and arms tangled in the soil—an artificial geology made of people, caught in the throat of greater London.
London’s Tube thus sits atop, cuts around, and tunnels through a citywide charnel ground of corpses, its very routes and station locations haunted by this earlier presence in the ground below.
Looks like a good podcasting setup.
If anyone ever asks I’m gonna tell em that thirty eight is riding your bike out to the brewpub after the kids go down and returning at midnight and eating handfuls of Kix while you think about how much better the world would be with D. Boon still in it.
This is the Tork Foam Soap Automatic Touch-Free Dispenser. I recently became acquainted with this piece of equipment when hundreds of them were installed in my office building, across all the washrooms in all the floors.
I am not a fan.
The Tork Foam Soap Automatic Touch-Free Dispenser, or TFSATFD, is a bloated, malodorous pustule on the wall of every sink proximity. It is a useless glossop-spurting whirr-twat of a machine.
If you put your hand under the TFSATFD, no soap emerges. If you wave your hand in space between TFSATFD and bathroom counter surface, you will receive no soap. It is like waving your hand at the entrance to a den of frightened chipmunks. They will not be attracted by your beckoning. The soap is scared of you. Do not signal for it to follow. It will not come.
Approximately twenty seconds after you put your hand under the dispenser, after you have bent down to make sure you are breaking the invisible motion detector seal, after you have given up and rinsed your soap-free hands under the water and then dried them with a single-use paper towel, at that point, THAT is when the soap will come out.
The soap will come out, and it will hit the countertop, forming a little foam pile with the other belated sanitary gloop from handwashings previous.
We used to have little wall-mounted hand pumps of soap. We pushed with our hands and the soap came out and we had soap in our hands and we rejoiced and reveled and rubbed our hands together under the tepid tapwater and we were happy because we were doing our antibacterial best to prevent office sickness and the spread of disease.
We were happy because we had a mentally pleasing understanding of cause and effect, that we were pressing the button, and that soap was emerging. We were effecting change on our environment, and we felt in control. We pushed, and we received, and we pushed, and we received, and we were Gods, we were creators, we had soapy bubble fingers, we rinsed and we dried and we were happy.
Now we have no control. Now we have delayed-by-twenty-seconds foam. We are no longer experiencing mastery of our surroundings. We are now helpless, nothing we do has any meaning, our lives have no meaning, no meaning and no soap, no soap and no point. Morale is low.
I hate you, Tork Foam Soap Automatic Touch-Free Dispenser. I hate you.