Recommended if you like Public Image Ltd.
Recommended if you like Public Image Ltd.
Breakfast cereal video game.
Pauly Deathwish’s 3rd album.
I am behind.
I can’t keep up with this guy.
Out of the gates like Flaming Lips.
30,000 feel of despair.
Right into Isao Tomita.
Like first Stereolab album.
Here Come the Warm Jets.
Cheyenne Mountain jams.
I can no longer see what I’m typing.
That glow in The World’s End.
But a sadness.
My Bloody Valentine.
Sloshy grunge hats.
I Am the Cosmos.
Yerself Is Steam.
The disappearance of Madeleine McCann.
You don’t know how it feels.
I can only give you everything.
Black magic warded off by honesty.
Serge on the way.
Lenny Bruce, even.
Hit to Death in the Future Head.
Wait at least until track three to break it down.
Southern Harmony and Musical Companion.
The confusion of ridiculous counterpoint.
Tonal, yet dissonant.
Thick Billy Corgan.
Definitely a sadness here.
All you need is hate.
The Inflated Tear.
Columbus, Ohio with duct tape.
Posing with a bass clarinet.
Did I ever write one?
Yes, I did.
Or is it contrabassoon?
Nadia Boulanger can tell you.
My teacher’s teacher (twice over).
The Left Banke.
Transient Random-Noise Bursts with Announcements.
A little lo-fi.
Changes that pull at your heartstrings.
A fucking marimba solo?!?
Are you kidding me???
Pauly Deathwish collaboration with Gordon Gano of Violent Femmes.
Lost Bayou Ramblers.
Gordon knew him as Death.
I have become death.
Tim Gane tone.
Back to J. Spaceman.
Dirty ass rock and roll with pristine horns.
Is this the artist we’ve been waiting for?
R. Stevie Moore?
Sounds like Jack Nitzsche.
Major Velvet vibes.
Dylan with P-bass.
Too much attitude.
Let it Come Down.
Fucker kicked the bucket.
First to be vaxxed.
First Suicide album.
The Soft Bulletin.
Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space.
Gimme some lovin’?
La Monte Young.
First rehearsal tapes.
New York City heroin.
Warhol Factory torn down.
Across from YMCA.
Great throwaway lyrics.
Sound of universe.
Direct into mixing console.
Blood pressure rising.
I think I’m in love.
Will the circle remain unbroken?
When I had dinner with Roky.
First Velvets album.
But you gotta buy it.
Cop shoot cop.
On the jukebox.
Eat at the gas station.
First time in Texas.
It’s definitely Bowie.
Old is new again.
A fuck ton of flutes.
Flute loops literally.
Little fluffy clouds.
Gay glam chorus.
Boys peel out.
Gives me pants.
A Shot in the Dark.
Under the Western Freeway.
With Sean Mackowiak.
Comes back loud.
One song mastered soft.
The main influence of Pauly Deathwish’s debut album.
Chariots of fire.
Such a groove.
By the side of a freeway.
Under an underpass.
Not like RHCP.
How did a Trump supporter make this album?!?
I thought all Trump supporters were redneck morons???
This is way fucking better than Ariel Pink’s dabblings.
This sounds like a debut album.
Songs saved up.
Like The Strokes.
Cinematic as fuck.
Trail of Dead.
Because Pauly wrote the string arrangement on IX.
Snot on the crowd.
Lost Bayou Ramblers lost sessions.
This was all made on an iPhone?!?
Major 7ths in uppermost range of piano.
Almost indistinguishable from octaves.
Only for the sensuous ear.
Waters delayed bass.
No nonsense drums.
Humble Pie reference?!?
Predating new Bob Dylan album.
Check SoundCloud timestamp.
This is definitely the QAnon anthem.
This hook should be on a million conspiracy videos.
“10 Days of Darkness”.
Tell ’em Large Marge sent ya!
My end is my beginning is my end.
Great debut album (if I do say so myself).
The silence is deafening.
And as John Lydon sang, “Anger is an energy.”
Just yesterday I was surprised to run across several articles on the pizzagate scandal.
They jarred me a bit.
Brought me back to that fever pitch of intensity from our election.
That intensity from which I had had to step away.
But there these articles were.
I couldn’t resist.
And they affected me.
And so I made a conscious choice to write about J. Edgar Hoover last night.
[more or less]
But today was a different kind of weirdness.
Today, absolutely no mention of pizzagate on my favorite news site.
And conversely, Google (which is censoring pizzagate research by way of its YouTube platform) is showing strictly fake news as part of its masterly algorithmic results.
If you Google “pizzagate”, you will get these fake news sources:
-The Washington Post (Jeff Bezos’ little pet paper…for when Amazon.com bores him)
–The New York Times
–The New Yorker
plus sycophants like Snopes, The Daily Beast, Huffington Post, Slate, and too many other media losers to succinctly list.
So let me reframe:
as the alternative media went silent today on this topic, the mainstream media (which had been shirking its duty of journalism) went into hyperdrive to cover pizzagate in a very narrow, deceptive manner.
And I can’t lie:
this made me very angry.
But I would like to share a name with you.
It is the name of someone doing truly priceless research on pizzagate.
His name is David Seaman.
And YouTube is where to find him.
So why, then, The Doors?
Because “When the Music’s Over”…
Robby Krieger’s dive bomb guitar.
John Densmore gunshot snare drumming leading out of the pauses.
And Jim Morrison’s screeching howls of ecstatic catharsis on the downbeat.
Truly changed my life.
Just like my first rock concert (The Black Crowes).
It’s not a perfect film, but it teaches us some important lessons.
The right (politically) must understand art.
All of the arts.
The power of art.
And we must know poetry.
We must cogitate from a place of knowledge as we see Oliver Stone’s camera pan over Rimbaud, Artaud, and McLuhan.
And at some point we must make a faltering effort to pronounce Artaud.
We must get into the arena.
Open our ears.
The first time we heard Godard’s name…pronounced relatively correct…out of Ray Manzarek’s mouth.
And we must revisit.
Damn! Is that Dale Cooper?!? And that “d” on the end is not really necessary.
Years and years…of stars and bars…and miles of aisles.
I haven’t had the energy to be angry.
Must be getting better.
It comes and goes.
But we must value anger.
Visceral disgust with our fellow humans who would harm children.
And sober vigilance and sense of duty to see that no child’s life nor future is swept into a crack.
The current psy op in progress is one to try and wrap up (with a bow) the entire pizzagate conspiracy into one deniable package: Comet Ping Pong.
One astute researcher has even mentioned the possibility that the central casting which provided us with the Sandy Hook hoax might have supplied the useful idiot who supposedly stormed the aforementioned establishment.
The psy op is to wrap up the package. To denigrate “fake news”.
To cordon off the “scene” in service to damage control.
But YouTube’s actions taken against David Seaman just make us want to know the truth that much more.
And so there you have it.
Adam Schiff needs a brain transplant.
And Tucker Carlson deserves a raise.
But people like David Seaman are the real rebels here.
Like Jim Morrison, they understand their medium (McLuhan) and they channel their anger through highly-sophisticated, articulate journalism.
To paraphrase my hero Alex Jones, I don’t think the mainstream media and the Clinton camp (the Podesta brothers) really want to get into “the briar patch” of trading punches with the alternative media.
Alex Jones and Matt Drudge are about to squash any dilettantes at the major networks.
And up-and-comers like David Seaman will also be firing truth torpedoes to sink the already-listing ghost ship known as the MSM.
There be monsters…
There is very little doubt in my mind that this is the most important film ever made.
For once in American history, someone stood up.
That man was Jim Garrison.
When I used to spend time in New Orleans I shuddered at the courage this man had.
He had the courage to take on everything.
But this epic would not have received its rightful place in history without the auteur Oliver Stone.
Making this film was an immense act of courage.
Search your heart.
Sit alone at 2:00 a.m. on the outskirts of Nola.
The deepest, darkest part of the night.
Oliver Stone captures the beauty of humanity in the story of Jim Garrison.
Few dramatic performances have ever affected me so much as Kevin Costner’s here.
But you must look deeper.
Look to Jim Marrs.
Long ago I heard Alex Jones proclaim on air that JFK was his favorite film.
Long ago I saw JFK as a first-run film in the theater.
But I didn’t see this 3-hour-8-minute version.
I’m pretty sure of that.
Because I was just a child.
I heard the drums.
I heard the moving music of John Williams.
But, alas, it was 3’08” which was before me.
It takes a lifetime to appreciate what Mr. X is getting at.
It is packed tight as a can of sardines (even at 3’08”).
Eisenhower’s farewell address.
Really listen to it.
The nervous glances aside.
What is he announcing?
Does he not have immense testicles to yell such from the tower?
But let’s take a trip…
Acting. Real fucking acting.
If Costner didn’t have the Garrison role, Pesci might have taken it.
Stole the show.
Kevin Bacon at Angola.
Leadbelly, not Neto.
IS THIS THE MPLA?
I THOUGHT IT WAS THE UK!
You can see the parallel now in Dr. Steve Pieczenik.
You gotta watch it.
Donald Sutherland gets even closer than Pesci.
It’s that moment he says, “bubba”.
Yeah, that’s the right track.
That’s a lifetime of work.
That’s putting your ass on the line.
Have you ever put your ass on the line?
Really laying it all out there and staring into the void.
That’s the encouragement.
The words you need to hear from someone who’s paying attention.
Someone who’s saying, “Don’t be afraid of the bastards. Hit ’em back.”
Contrasted with Pesci as a walking pot of coffee.
Feel that fear for a moment.
You don’t live in a bubble
You have family.
You have people you love.
You risk it all because you know it is the right thing to do.
To ask questions.
To use your mind where none dare tread.
Who’s the Jim Garrison of today?
Yes, it is Alex Jones.
He has earned that.
But it is also very much James Tracy.
Sissy Spacek cannot compete with Costner.
And she shouldn’t.
But she’s indispensable.
The back and forth in the hallway.
She ain’t walking down that hallway anymore.
Watch JFK and you’ll understand why Anderson Cooper is a coward.
Watch the hit piece directed at Garrison.
Sad, sad men (the SAD/SOG).
Come to know Lyman L. Lemnitzer. Very few LLLs in history.
Don’t stop at Operation Mongoose.
Know the much more important Operation Northwoods (otherwise known as 9/11).
For all of the bigots out there, come to understand just how many things Israel COULD NOT have done (which were essential to 9/11).
And yet they are no doubt involved.
On the wrong side.
Just like their appalling treatment of the Palestinians.
Notice I didn’t say Jews. And I didn’t say anti-Semitism.
Pesci’s character nails it.
But we still need Gary Oldman as Oswald.
What’s on the gravestone?
Maybe it’s not rogue elements after all.
It’s the whole damn thing.
But who warned us?
They were inside the machine.
Martin Luther King.
Go to Dallas.
Feel the evil.
Like a pothole filled with steaming shit.
Thanks Michael Ovitz.
Did you really convince Costner to take the part?
More importantly, thank you Costner.
Yeah, that’s some method acting.
And it’s far too important not to feel.
With every fiber of one’s being.
Stone took the right take.
There could be only one like that.
In the courtroom.
We don’t even notice the cuts.
Academy Award for editing.
Including a chap named Scalia.
Tommy Lee Jones as the incarnation of evil.
Dainty. Subtle. Shades of James Mason from NXNW.
Tommy Lee Jones from my hometown.
I seen him at a Mexican restaurant.
And we hold out hope that the planet remembers us.
Ed Asner who stood up when the shit hit the fan after 9/11.
Where were these other fuckers? Still basking in the glory of JFK?
That’s too bad because their words then ring hollow.
How about Field of Dreams? Go the distance.
Back, and to the left.
Back, and to the left.
Back, and to the left.
John Candy as perfection.
A serious role.
Fuck all you motherfuckers!
Martin Sheen is for real.
Charlie Sheen, while not in this movie, put so many social activists to shame.
Real testicular girth.
Jim Garrison as Earl Warren.
The Coke bottle disorientation.
But the erudition.
The evil erudition.
Sean Stone is what we’re fighting for.
That’s real shit.
Mohrenschildt in Pappy Bush’s pocketbook.
Not the whole Rolodex.
Just the kind of thing you’d take on an ice-skating trip in a thunderstorm to Houston.
It’s always raining.
And a little hunting.
It comes back to Cuba.
Enough to write a book.
And publish it.
A lot of work for a little piece of meat.
Oliver Stone’s not the genius. Jim Garrison is.
Always will be.
But Garrison needed Stone.
Counter gangs. Webster Tarpley.
Frank Kitson. Low intensity.
Where Jane Rusconi and Yale University come in.
I take it all back.
A dick-measuring contest about how many books one has read.
Garrison. Stone. Rusconi.
Ok, I take it back again again: Oliver Stone is a genius.
But we need it again.
This one is darn near perfect.
And I needed it.
After an all-nighter devoted to a Power Point presentation, this got a hearty laugh from me throughout.
We really see Bean’s dark humour start coming to the fore here.
Likewise, we start to realize by now that Bean’s middle name must certainly be “Ingenuity”.
But his genius is a sort of Rube Goldberg variety.
For Bean, it’s all about the process…the journey.
It must be: he seems to miss his destination an overwhelming majority of the time.
Whether he makes it to the beach or not is immaterial.
It’s that he starts off by packing six cans of Heinz Baked Beans.
No can opener.
Just the beans, thank you very much.
For those of us in America, this makes less sense without a bit of experience.
My one and only trip to Great Britain was an eye-opener.
The English eat beans for breakfast!
Not only that, but some sautéed mushrooms and maybe a boiled tomato.
Sausage and a rasher of bacon.
And eggs: runny as Usain Bolt.
It all mixes together into a mélange of heartiness.
THAT is a true English breakfast!
A working-man’s meal.
Ahh, I miss those days.
So short and fleeting.
But with Mr. Bean, I am back in the magical mundane of English society.
The Royal Mail.
The grasp of my mother tongue.
Feeling rather “poorly”…
Yes, a glorious grasp on the language.
Of course, I could listen to the lads in Oasis talk all day long.
High and low.
And the Midlands.
God save the Queen!
We mean it, man 😉