21st Century Boy on TOTP 1986
21st Century Boy on TOTP 1986
Intelligent without being intellectual and always entertaining. And what about that whine? Lydon via Andrew Perry more or less chronologically recounts his life from a wee lad to the present time. A born raconteur, Lydon relates the saga of his life in the Sex Pistols and beyond and everything in-between. Full of laughs there are also decidedly more serious and tender moments than you would expect and Johnny comes off as a fairly serious person, not one for sex and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll but he’s seen it, just not participated. He’s refreshingly self-deprecating while at the same time you can see his actual pride in the things he has done. As you would expect he lives life to the fullest and has no time for fools.
Not as many sneers as you might expect.
All you english teachers stay away from this, Mr. Lydon has his own way of speaking and writing and it ain’t textbook correct. It’s more like listening to someone verbatim that knows how to speak but doesn’t know proper grammar.
Still, blind acceptance is the sign,
Of stupid fools who stand in line, like…
Reams of paper have been wasted on this trial. This and Raffaele Sollecito’s books are the only ones you “need” to read. The rest are just full of idle speculation and rumor. At the same time this book should never have been written. Ms. Knox should have been off doing whatever it was she wanted to do after her year of Study Abroad in Italy. Still we all know what happened.
For those of you that are still “on the fence” about Amanda’s culpability, well you must still believe the earth is only 6,000 years old and that the jury is still out on Galileo. There was never ever a shred of evidence that Knox or Sollecito committed any crime whatsoever and an overeager media, public, police, and a prosecutor literally bent on a 17th century witch trial ended up taking one tragedy and trying to make it into three, the lone perpetrator safely ensconced behind bars for most of the time this mess went on. The fact that Knox and Sollecito were both attractive and Knox American, strangely, or maybe not so, worked against them.
The writing isn’t great, but how can it be and stick to the facts? There is enough mystery and suspense and truly bizarre hijinks without any authorial tricks. It reads more like testimony than biography and doesn’t always convey what a fiction writer could have added to make the narrative a little more exciting at times. Still, this wasn’t the writer’s goal and at times the necessity to reveal in detail certain personal details that should quite rightly have remained private can still make the (sane) reader squirm.
There are the usual superfluous photographs that we’ve all seen a million times, but at least Knox could pick out the pose this time.
I hope she and Raffaele make scads of filthy lucre off the affair, enough to never worry about money to at least make up for some of the misery and the loss of some of the best years of their lives.
I also hope somebody also remembers Meredith Kercher and her sad and terrifying violation and murder at the hands of some Ivory Coast drifter. That’s what we should have been talking about the whole time.
Author Douglas A. Anderson posted this from the multi-contributor blog Wormwoodiana:
“Yes, Mark Valentine and I were very distressed today to learn that Goodreads has usurped this blog and posted it at their own site, renaming it “Mark Valentine’s Blog” even though this blog is multi-authored. Neither Mark nor I gave any such permission for this action, nor did we know it had happened until today.
In my view, this moves Goodreads (owned by Amazon.com) into the top of the Corporate Scum Pile. We have sent requests for it to be completely removed, but this is something we should never have had to do, if the corporate raiders would leave other people’s stuff alone.
See it for yourself. Here is the URL for the stolen blog:
***Update. Thanks to Ryan (see comments), this now appears in snippet form, but it’s still misnamed as Mark”s blog when it isn’t.***
I hope this link goes dead soon. Real soon. And any inclination I might ever have had to join Goodreads is now gone.
The sad thing, too, is that both Mark and I now feel less inclined to post anything other than snippets of news here. All thanks to the unconscionable theft by Goodreads.”
This one is gonna get me in a lot of trouble.
Elvis was good, hell Elvis was great. He made colored music acceptable (or at least accessible) to prejudiced white folks. He was also a great performer and really probably a pretty good guy all in all. He could identify a great song. He was criminally manipulated by his so-called friends and screwed by the US government. But my friend, I’m sorry to tell you, despite all of this, he is not the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll. No siree. He is merely the White King of Rock ‘n’ Roll. Not a bad thing to be really. Right up there.
So who is the real King of Rock ‘n’ Roll, you ask? Chuck Berry. That’s it. The real King of Rock ‘n’ Roll. Why? Because he invented it, plain and simple. The riffs T-Bone Walker was fingering, Berry was bending; that and four major chords says it all. Johnny B. Goode is as much an autobiography as any blues song ever written. At the same time Berry was bending he was also freeing rock and roll from its blues roots, making it acceptable for a white boy to sing and play it. No more blues minor chords. We’re off to feelin’ good now. Off to the Beach. Surfin’ USA.
Berry is the oh so woefully underappreciated inventor of rock and roll. No longer would it be called “race music.” So why is this self evident fact largely unacknowledged. Why is Elvis the marquee while good ol’ Chuck is almost a footnote? Why don’t we say: “Chuck: The King of Rock ‘n’ Roll?” Because America was (is?) a racist society that is sculpted by the Media. Chuck was Black. Chuck was a Man (not a cute teenager). Chuck was not the sleek white American ideal of what a star should be. And heaven forbid that 13-year old white girls should swoon over a black man.
So the next time you listen to Sweet Little Sixteen, Johnny B. Goode, Roll Over Beethoven, Rock and Roll Music, Maybelline, Run Rudolph Run, Little Queeny, Carol, or the Sex Pistols, or Johnny Thunders, or the New York Dolls, or The Ramones, or The Beach Boys, or the early Beatles, or the Rolling Stones remember who the real King of Rock ‘n’ Roll is.
He could play that guitar just like a ringin’ a bell.
Nobody likes the same music I do. That’s because they’re stupid. I like fast and loud songs with funny and intelligent lyrics. Nothing too long in case you don’t like that particular song. Then it’ll get over sooner and another, better, louder and faster song, will take its place. Overamped guitars and just enough of a Johnny Thunders type guitar solo to make the middle 8 kick ass for the chorus and a lively end to the song. None of that Jazz or Blues improvisation; never a weak fade-out ending, that’s for folk singers and singer-songwriters like the despised James Taylor. Something you can pogo to and get a nosebleed. Good times.
Even J.S. Bach knew this way back when (No, I’m not looking it up). They didn’t have electricity, so no electric guitar; no faster and louder; it was just a dream. Then they invented pipe organs. Don’t need electricity. All they needed was some dumb ass like you to keep the bellows going. Herr Bach knew what to do with it. Toccata and Fugue in D minor. Fast and LOUD. Creepy too. You can go beserk to Toccata like Keith Emerson before he became too pretentious (get out your dictionary). If you can climb into the pipe loft you can really go berserk. Louder than a Who and Ramones concert together. Blow your eardrums out. The pedal notes will make your chest vibrate better than a Kanye West rap in a 2010 Cadillac.
They knew what they were saying when they said: “Go for Baroque.” I bet they were sweatin’ in the pews. Toccata yo’ mama. Good times that 17th century. Kicked ass over the Middle Ages.
Fast forward to 1975. London. Kids sick of ’70s slower and softer music. Glam is dead. People want to hang hippies in effigie (I blame the ’60s for most of your problems). A bunch of guys come together and want to make some music but it’s gotta be faster and louder. They want to sound like the Beatles, only the good Beatles pre-St. Peppers Lonely Old Farts Band, or whatever. They want to make music like the Beatles, Herman’s Hermits, The Who, The Small Faces, all the good bands from the sixties, but it’s gotta be better. And you know what that means: faster and louder. The genesis of The Boys.
Soaring harmonies and punk rock guitars, but with intelligence, tongue in cheek, and what’s most important faster and louder; actual songs that have hooks that you can pogo to or just go wild. Forget poseurs like the Boomtown Crap or the Dead Boring Boys. We mean Jam and Who songs with a little Ramones thrown in. And actually singing, not some sod in a leather jacket screaming into a microphone like Dave Vanian. Real harmonies and background vocals but still faster and louder.
The problem was The Boys were too good. Too punk for the “New Wave” pop poseurs and too pop for the punks. What else can you say about a group that Joey Ramone and Paul Weller both said was their favorite band? Weller even had a Boys sticker on his Rickenbacker (look at the cover of All Mod Cons).
First there were the singles, then the eponymous (Did you put the dictionary away?)
The Boys. Next the magnificent Alternative Chartbusters, then their masterpiece, To Hell with the Boys, and finally the undeservedly maligned Boys Only. How could I forget the notoriously tasteless Christmas Album by The Yobs? Over the years a number of B-sides and throwaways have been reissued on CD, just proving that a Boys throwaway was a song most other bands would have killed for: She’s No Angel, Schooldays.
A pitiful lack of recognition by the trendy fruity uninspired synthesizer music industry that became the early ’80s caused the band to break up. Honest John Plain joined the worthless Lurkers for awhile, he wrote their best song, New Guitar in Town, and then went on to keep the flame alive in other places and with solo work with various backup bands. Well fast forward again to 2014, The Boys are back. Punk Rock Menopause. Great title, eh. Faster and Louder than even the old Boys.
I wish they would tour the States again. I’d drive a long way to see ’em, and you should too. Fly to London right now and catch a gig and pick up a Sigue Sigue Sputnik Electronic show on the side while you’re there.
I once drove 180 miles both ways on the same night to see a band, but that’s another faster and louder story.
You know I’m here to protect you from the depredations of grifters and tricksters – flim-flam men and snake oil dealers. You know that. Well I’ve uncovered one of the most unethical and morally corrupt corporations out there and I’m here to protect you from them today. My sad personal tale and my suffering should stand as a warning to all of you. I’m willing to shoulder the shame that comes from admitting I’ve been bamboozled just for your sake. I’m that big of a person.
Today’s whipping boy is the shameful and corrupt Fitbit corporation, makers of various fitness tracker devices that purport to help people digitally, electronically, track their fitness, steps, diet, and sleep. Instead I’m going to show how this corporation is responsible for the death and disability of hundreds if not thousands of people here in the United States.
Although Fitbit makes a number of high buck tracking devices, my particular expose has to do with the “affordable” tracking device called the Zip. (see picture). Well, this $50 piece of unadulterated crap and the corporation behind it are responsible for the most shocking lies and one of the most pernicious shell games ever played on people trying to extend their miserable lives.
I had one of these Zip pedometer trackers given to me by my sister for my birthday. Now I’m carrying a little extra girth these days so I could stand to miss a few meals and take a few more steps. I know this goes against the lifestyle I’ve laid out for you, but if I die who will take care of you, dear blog reader? Nobody, that’s who. So I may need to stick around a little longer than I’d like just to make sure you are okay. Again, I’m that big a person. My sister cares for my life and gave me this little canker as a symbol of her affection, so I could lose a few pounds and keep the ol’ ticker going.
Well I received the said device on July 14. At precisely 10:15 am on August 4 the dog turd purported pedometer called the Zip stopped working. It would not sync any longer to my Fitbit account. I tried everything the worthless Fitbit troubleshooting guide website said to do to resurrect this little piece of hell on earth: reinstall software, reset device, add as a new device, etc. The computer saw the little thingy, my particular device, but kept insulting me by saying there was no account paired to the device. I kindly contacted the Fitbit corporation by e-mail (no phone support, this should have started the alarm bells ringing) after doing everything the website suggested. Little did I know that this would open one of the most damaging experiences in my short stay on this mortal coil.
After giving me a bit of a runaround about taking it back to the store it was bought at (Target), they reluctantly agreed to send me a new Zip. They even admitted my device was defective. I was as happy as a clam at high tide. I even complimented the corporation, a certain Nancy R and the Fitbit Team, in my e-mail and said I would recommend their company’s products because their customer service was so helpful. Oh dear reader, did I make a grave mistake.
In due time the second implement of fitness evil arrived, a new Zip. Groovy. All is well with the world. I disable the old device and log into my Fitbit account. I insert the USB dongle. I install the software (for the third time!). The computer sees my new little tracker. I go to “add a new device” and it asks me for the dreaded four-digit code starting with zero (this had worked with the first device). To my utter bafflement there was no code displayed below the four little cubes on my computer screen. I hit the “Try Again” button. No dice. I see that it says below to click here for help. I click. I see the same worthless troubleshooting guide on the Fitbit website. Rage ensues. I rail about the insidious device on both the Amazon and Target websites.
I notice something on the Amazon website, 10% of the ratings for the Zip are one-star, if you add the two-star, 17%. I read the reviews. All say the same: “quit working, wouldn’t sync after X days, weeks, months.” (no more than the number 3 for X) Is something fishy in Denmark? Is there a faggot in the woodpile? You betcha. Fitbit has been flooding the world with these worthless little defective pedometer trackers for months, and knows it. How do I know, because each one of these Amazon complaints has the same comment from Fitbit attached to it:
We’re sorry to hear that. We’re always happy to help you get setup. Please reach out (sic) to us at contact.fitbit.com for help. In your email, please include a link to this Amazon review, for reference. We very much look forward to hearing from you.
Here is my Amazon review:
“Piece of crap. Stick with Nike products. After my first Fitbit quit working (would not sync suddenly), complained to Fitbit and they kindly sent me a second one. When this one would not give me the four digit zero-code too, I tried EVERYTHING on the Fitbit website to resurrect both devices. The computer sees the device but either won’t give me the zero-code nor pair with my account. Yes, I did everything, I am not computer illiterate. I spent literally hours reinstalling software, etc. My time is worth something too. This is $50 wasted.“
Now here is the really criminal part. Some people purchased these hateful things for themselves or loved ones because they love and care about them. Maybe they spent their last $50. They want them to live a bit longer, be able to spend more quality time with them before they take the big sleep. Now what happens? The device fails, not just ruining physical fitness programs but raising blood pressure at the same time. And where, my dear friend, does this lead? Premature death because of the defective Zip device. Peoples’ lives ruined as they abandon health regimes the happy Zip face promised them. Heart attacks and strokes at the frustration of trying to follow the Fitbit “support” advice for the umpteenth time. Do you see where I’m going? This is not just having your iPhone break, not being able to text, but your very life essence drained as you despair about your wasted and now hopeless fitness program. Bingeing on Twinkies now to soothe a savaged soul. All because of the evil Fitbit corporation.
Well dear friends, I’m not taking this lying down. Well yes I am. Trying to get MY blood pressure under control even as I pass the word on to you.
I know,I know, I should have taken my own advice and always expected to be disappointed, and I see now how true this is especially when it comes to Fitbit.
You know I love television, I’ve promoted its cultural, psychological, and physical benefits here in this blog enough. You know that. But the Emmys are the one exception. This batch of back slapping circle jerkers get together each year to supposedly “celebrate” the best of the best. Well, I’m going to tell you this incestuous relationship only leads to celebrating the worst of the best, the best being TV of course. If this was truly the best where was River Monsters? Where were the Kardashians on the so called red carpet? Where were the housewives of New Jersey, the Amish Mafia, The Barefoot Contessa? And most of all, where was season 11 of the most watched drama on network television, Naval Criminal Investigative Service? Where was Emily Wickersham? What a joke. Most importantly, where was my vote? Where does the common man/woman get his/her say?
Meanwhile shows like Orange is the New Crap, Game of Throwups, Downtown Abbey continue to garner undeserved accolades. Talk about a crime that should be investigated. Put Gibbs’ team on it!
The problem is the Emmy council, or whatever you call it, is run by one of the international conspiracy outfits, the highly secretive Bilderbergs, The Council on Foreign Relations, or the Trilateral Commission. Maybe somebody else. I’m sure Alex Jones knows. It’s another example of the elite oligarchs thinking they know what’s better for “the masses.” The idea should not be about what’s good for us, but about maintaining the liberty of our entertainment choices. These eggheads and silver spoon manipulators think they should rule the common man for his own good. Well listen up folks, the last time I checked this was still a representative republic and not a dictatorship. But democracy only happens when the common man takes the military-industrial-media bull by the horns and dumps the elites out of the thrones of Emmy power.
We need the equivalent of an Emmy Tea Party. Boycott the awarded shows on cable and streaming media. Threaten to drop HBO and PBS from your satellite package. On commercial television refuse to buy from corporations that continue to advertise during these bad shows. Disguise ourselves as ethnic stereotypes and raid the local Best Buy or WalMart and dump the DVDs for shows like Big Bang Theory or the overtly socialist Saturday Night Live into the equivalent of Boston Harbor. Make the Emmy a death sentence for any show that truly doesn’t deserve it. That is the only chink in the armor of the elite media types and we need to drive a wedge into it. All they respond to is money, money, money, so hit ’em where it hurts ’em the most.
Only if we, the common people, wrestle the reigns of power from the elitist snobs and the fixers can we hope to keep television the life enriching, some say life saving medium, it was always meant to be. Maybe then the Emmys will mean something good. Otherwise you are going to be consigned to watching Modern Family for the rest of your life. Need I say more?
Somewhere in the David Tennant era the train came off the tracks. It started to be about romance, too many episodes were on earth, there were too many folks following the Doctor around and related to him, too much self-reference to previous lives and eras, too many people actually saying “Doctor Who?” out loud. Too few good stories. Steven Moffat took control and things really got awful. In the last few years I can only think of a handful of episodes I really enjoyed. I think the Doctor actors have come off pretty well as characters, but especially Matt Smith was fed almost nothing but crap for scripts. He did as well as he could.
If you go back to the first era the series really petered out during the Colin Baker and Sylvester McCoy Doctors. BBC screwed up the franchise then with poor writers and poor choices for Doctors seeing it still as a children’s program with little potential beyond that, and it’s on the verge now. Similar to what NBC did to Star Trek in the ’60s. Capaldi is a good choice for an actor but somebody has to hand him a bloody script.
You cannot save this by bringing back the Daleks to menace the earth once again. How many times have we seen that? Quit bringing back “beloved” characters from previous episodes, eras, without some original and exciting writing to go with it. Piss on the romance. It was always about affection not romance. A certain amount of sexual tension is good until outright romance jumps the shark; a grasping at simpering sentimentality instead of good writing.
I missed Dr. Who when it went off the air in 1989 and I miss it now.
Thomas Ligotti is my kind of guy, sorta. He always expects the worst. He spends all his time worrying about how he’s going to suffer and die and expects that everyone else is just the same, except some of us are better at fooling ourselves about the outcome. That makes him mad. He thinks all the folks that don’t worry about dying and suffering are deceiving themselves and just distracting themselves with ideas of afterlives or just having a good time, you know, trying not to think about it. And he’s right, but these other folks are a whole lot happier than he is. Now we can see the real problem, sorta.
Ligotti has a big head, a really big head and that’s why he thinks about all these dreary things all the time instead of watching television or playing golf. He’s always talking about how consciousness and self awareness are a tragedy and a curse on humankind; a crappy adaptation that evolution sneaked in there. The thing he forgets is most people are really unconscious most of the time anyway, even when they’re not sleeping; they’re clueless about this kind of stuff, so why does he want to remind them and take them into his pity party? Leave them alone with their fairy tale lives. Don’t bring ’em down. Don’t rain on their parade. Not enough hobbies I guess. Not enough television. Not enough high speed internet downloading those “short films.”
Well what’s Ligotti’s answer? Don’t have any kids. That’s it. What, you say? That makes him feel better about things? Yeah, his basic argument is that by having kids we doom all the future generations to the suffering and death we have so we shouldn’t have any: antinatalism they call it. Let the species die out. Well if Ligotti had any kids he wouldn’t be worrying about his great grandbaby’s suffering, he’d be worrying about his own suffering trying to deal with his own kids, getting them through college and boyfriends, etc. I bet his parents suffered plenty with him. Forget about future generation’s suffering. Besides his kids would be the kind that would suffer because all the bullies would rag them about their egghead dad.
I think his problem maybe is really low testosterone and therefore low sperm count. He isn’t gettin’ it on enough. Only those coffin chicks would even consider hangin’ out with him he’s so dreary and down. He needs to jerk it more too, take some of the tension and pressure off it. He can’t have kids so he wants us to join him. Sour grapes.
Ligotti writes a horror story about once every decade or so, when he isn’t feeling sorry for himself and the rest of us. They’re pretty good, but enigmatic. Now I don’t expect you to understand a word like that, nor a story like that, because you are correctly spending your time feeling good and not worrying about future generation’s suffering or how the joke’s on us. Stay away from funerals. Hide the razorblades.
Sure, we’re all going to step off the pier sometime, but why waste any time thinking about that? Remember I told you to always expect the worst, so now that that’s over let’s move on to feelin’ good.
I’ve given you all the prescription you need in this blog to quit thinking about that dirt nap: TV, NCIS, loud music, giant monster movies, malt liquor. So, mix up some cocktails and turn on the wide screen to some NCIS and put a Chuck Berry record on that stereo set ’cause we’re goin’ out with a buzz in our heads and a smile on our faces.
What’s so bad about feelin’ good for the rest of your miserable little life?