The Clash. That’s Paul Simonon, I think.
“Doctors all over the world want my body when it finally goes,” said Keith Richards. “Apparently, I do have an incredible immune system. I had Hepatitis C and cured it myself just by being me. They want it so they can study it and figure out how to make other people much better. I mean, I eat everything wrong. I shove terrible things inside me.”
Look, I’m as big a Cure fan as the next non-Cure fan. I don’t want to be mean or anything. But when I saw the photos from Sasquatch, I realized that the comparison (to IMDB Character ch0003793) simply had to be made.
Robert Smith used to look pretty normal:
Great hair. Then. The photo on the top right is freaking me out, a lot.
Work by Hoagy Houghton. Very interesting.
A book made for John Cooper Clarke’s poem Evidently Chicken Town by Asger Behncke Jacobsen.
I schedule 35 minutes a day for recreation. That’s all I need to refresh myself from the rigors of punching holes through the guts of this world. Recreation typically consists of lifting something heavy or posting a new sonnet to my blog. But sometimes I want to unwind with a fine carafe of Popov and some good tunes on the hi-fi. I yearn to—in the words of Boston—lose myself in a familiar song, close my eyes, and slip awaaaaaaaaaaaay.
Here’s the problem: “More Than a Feeling” is four minutes and 47 fucking seconds long. I don’t have time for that kind of nonsense. That’s, like, one-seventh of my recreation right there.
When schoolchildren pick a musical instrument to learn, they are too often influenced by gender stereotypes, says a report. So why don’t boys like the flute or girls play the guitar?
I want this. Now.
