WALKING THE DOG

Just walking the dog? Something that might keep a poor boy occupied as the news media wash around him? Walking the dog? Could it be that the boil of corruption is about to burst? Just walking the dog? As in London we have the MI6 agent with the somewhat androgynous features found locked naked in a red holdall with the keys on the inside, curled in a foetal position, and showing no signs of having attempted to escape while many thousands of pounds-worth of women’s clothes are stashed in his flat, but no news outlet will tell me if the clothes were his size. Just walking the dog? I discover from the New York Times that one of Obama’s Secret Service detail screwed his career-security pooch by engaging in a slagging match with a hooker at the Hotel Caribe, in Cartagena, Columbia over how much he owed her for the previous night’s fucking. She says, “I tell him, ‘Baby, my cash money.” Walking the dog? I watch in awe as the ancient toadsome Murdoch is grilled in London by lawyers for the Leveson Inquiry and doesn’t even have the good grace to squirm. Walking the dog? I observe the smooth, greasy, and now reddening face of the gravy-fed David Cameron and am repulsed by the both corruption and that infuriating lick of hair. Walking the dog? I can’t be repulsed by Mitt because I hardly believe Romney – this GOP CGI wanna-be president construct is even real. Walking the dog? And then the suggestion enters my mind that God might just be a short whiskey drunk Scotsman from a really bad part of Glasgow. On reflection, a good deal of evidence can be found to support the theory. Walking the dog? If you don’t know how to do it, I’ll show how to how to walk the dog.

Click here for Rufus Thomas

The secret word is Collar

OR CONCERNED ABOUT THE CAT?

The more I examine the evidence the more I am convinced that the Catapocalypse is closer then we think and with it, of course the end of human civilization as we know it. In the meantime, while waiting for me to reveal all, click here for the angst of the existential feline in the style of the French New Wave. (Image from Skylaire)

OR WORRIED ABOUT WHALES...

OR REJECTING THE STATUS QUO...

OR NAKED UNDER LEATHER

Click here for the whole damn movie

HOW SOON OUR ATTENTION SPAN RUNS OUT

Just over a year ago, the Fukushima nuclear disaster had us all on the edge of our seats and sending urgent are-you-okay emails to our pals on Tokyo. Now it’s almost as thought

 it never happened. But it did and the danger still lurks.

"In the aftermath of the world’s worst nuclear power disaster, the news media is just beginning to grasp that the dangers to Japan and the rest of the world posed by the Fukushima-Dai-Ichi site are far from over.   After repeated warnings by former senior Japanese officials, nuclear experts, and now a U.S. Senator, it is sinking in that the irradiated nuclear fuel stored in spent fuel pools amidst the reactor ruins may have far greater potential offsite consequences  than the molten cores. After visiting the site recently, Senator Ron Wyden (D-OR) wrote to Japan's ambassador to the U.S. stating that, "loss of containment in any of these pools could result in an even greater release than the initial accident." Click here for more

The secret word is Roentgen 

A GREAT IDEA OF YESTERYEAR

Around 1946, in the wake of World War II and the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the grand conception was proposed – and supposedly supported by no less than the eminent biologist Julian Huxley (brother of Aldous – mescaline guy) – that the Artic should be massively nuked to melt the polar icecap and warm up the planet for the good and comfort of all mankind.

Click here for Alice

THE FROZDICK FAMILY

Bambi Frozdick made friends with great ease.

A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

MOMMY…

Click here for more Alice

GRATUITOUS BARDOT

THE NME AIN’T WHAT IT USED TO BE

I haven’t read NME since I returned to the UK. I fact I wasn’t sure if my old print era stomping ground was still in business. Then our pal Skylaire posted the following on Facebook. Seems things are not good at the venerable rag – where, back in the day, we snorted speed and drank to excess – the new generation are now messing around with focus groups. Hardly good news. I’ve heard that focus groups can lead to harder and more addictive corporate foolishness.

“Well, I suppose a Happy Birthday is in order. This week the New Musical Express celebrates the 60th anniversary of its publication and while the paper was a crucial part of my life as a music fan it's now somewhat sad to see it floundering.

When I first bought it back in the early 70s it was a conduit to another world. Not only did the NME keep me informed on a weekly basis as to what was happening in rock'n'roll but it was extremely adept at tipping me off as to what might well happen a few months down the road. When the paper sensed that the musical winds were changing in the mid-70s they were first off the mark, dispatching Charles Shaar Murray to New York to check out a nascent club scene which came to be known as Punk Rock. As a 17 year-old full of vim and vigour this was like a call to arms and when Mick Farren penned the famous article The Titanic Sails at Dawn, urging youngsters to form a band rather than complain that the music they were being fed was rubbish, it had the desired effect.” (Click here for more)

Click here for The Rolling Stones

The secret word is Pulp

WE DID OUR BEST TO UPHOLD THE TRADITIONS OF ROCK & ROLL

RULES ARE MADE TO BE BROKEN

BUT THOSE DARN COMMIES WILL STOP AT NOTHING

AND IT NEVER STOPS

LEAVE IT TO BERTOLT

On a wet Monday morning, how better to duck coming to grips with reality that giving the floor to a German playwright. He might, however, have added conservative candidates for political office to his list.

Click here for P.J.Harvey

The secret word is Educate

OR TO THE EAGLE

OR WE COULD JUST DANCE

Click here for the video

THE FROZDICK FAMILY

Ward and June Frozdick were found to be wholly and completely normal even after rigorous testing. One researcher described their normality “frightening.” 

SPACE OPERA

GRATUITOUS LINGERIE

SUNDAY BREAKFAST

As the world waxes increasingly surreal, and the wake of dreams glows luminous even after waking, the poet cracks his egg and perceives – to his dire horror – an eye. A fucking eye? Poe or Lovecraft? Wither the chicken and the road uncrossed? The egg-eye stares back at him with what might be reproach. Does it resent his importunate morning intrusion? Or was it too long a night in the Saturn Lounge with girls of the Toad Forest? Should he fear that some albumen revenge will be meted out to him when he is low and least expecting the maybe deserved untoward? Or is it simply that, on this bright April day, it his mind has finally cracked with the rising of the a rooster morning sun and reason has snapped and hallucination holds sway, consigning him to an eternal landscape of fissured pavements, Granada cloudscapes, distorted limbs, and soft slither-sliding chronometers? Or is it just that the yolk is one him?

Click here for Julie London

The secret word is Shriek 

MARILYN SEZ...

“We told him not to take the brown acid.”

I’M FOREVER BLOWING…etc.

BUT IT’S ALL IN THE INTENT