Tales of True Adventure for Rugged Men Not Unlike Yourself
“The weird is a way to connect with the world around us and make sense of it.”
So they say at the H.P. Lovecraft festival, held recently in Providence, R.I. There were film screenings, readings, academic presentations, concerts, live podcasts, walking tours of Lovecraft’s Providence, gaming, hardly any cosplay, and a Cthulhu Prayer Breakfast.
I like this crowd.
My mother gave me an Amazon gift certificate, and rather than spend it on something useful like a Nic Cage pillow, I decided I’d buy something really stupid and overpriced. Kidding. I’ve been looking for this for awhile, and haven’t run across one anywhere, so I pulled the trigger because it was free money. Not in the best shape (record plays great, but cover is a little beat), but I’m happy to finally have it.
Collectors collect.
The nice thing about buying used records is the artists get fuck all from it. If I ever happen to meet any of the contributors to this very good record, I will at least buy them a beer or other beverage of their choice, but that’ll probably never happen.
I was reminded of this today and felt it needed a reposting. As the story goes, I first saw this issue of MAD at my friend Geoff’s house when we were in the third grade. I was a sensitive, sheltered kid, and remember feeling nauseated after reading MAD’s “Punk Rock Group” of the Year. Punching fans! Vomiting and urinating onstage! Self-mutilation!
But a few years later, when I actually got into punk in middle school, I spent an inordinate amount of time looking for it at Memphis Comics and Records. (I never had any success, mostly because I only had a rough timeframe for when that issue would have been published, and no Internet to assist me.)
I did, however, finally find it when my in-laws gave me every issue of MAD on CD one Christmas. These days, I’m positively obnoxious about reposting it.
BONUS: Here’s an interview with artist Harry North.
2017 Oscar-nominated animated short by Robert Valley. You may have seen his stuff here and there already; I became aware of him on Netflix’s Love Death + Robots. The real mind-blower is that he does all of this in Photoshop, which must take FOREVER.
A recent domestic rocky patch got me musing about what post-marital life might look like, should it happen. I’d like to think that I’m now sane enough to be just fine on my own. But should the desire for companionship once again override my better judgement, my premarital criteria of hotness and brains would need revising: at my age one can’t take hotness for granted, and brains in the wrong person can be dangerous. That leaves common interests, so please find below my solution for sifting through the applicants:
Submit a substantial response to at least two prompts. Cities refer to their music. There are no right or wrong answers except for #5. Choosing the incorrect answer for #5 will result in immediate disqualification regardless of the overall quality of the response. Some pairs may seem strange or are not true opposites. Deal with it.
1. Beatles or Stones?
2. Elvis or Chuck Berry?
3. Stax or Motown?
4. Nashville or Bakersfield?
5. LA or San Francisco (60’s)?
6. New York or London (‘76-‘77)?
7. Kinks or Who?
8. Ramones or Heartbreakers (Johnny Thunders)?
9. Clash or Sex Pistols?
10. Replacements or R.E.M.?
11. Strokes or Libertines?
12. Bach or Handel?
13. Mozart or Beethoven?
14. Mozart or Haydn?
15. Mahler or Brahms?
16. Radiohead or ____?
I call upon the Bastardate to complete #16. Such is Radiohead’s reputation (one criticizes them at one’s peril) that they must be included, yet I cannot think of a band of their era that inspires similar devotion. Maybe you Xers can. Feel free to add pairs as well.
I left out jazz because, although I can’t expect hotness, I certainly wouldn’t exclude it.
Catchy Tuesday features Bastard-sanctioned outfit The Chats, with a classic band television interview.
It’s the summer anthem we needed.
This song uses something very close to Pachelbel’s bird-brained Canon for its verses, then, unlike the original, actually does something with it.
We may never know what happened to Elvis.
If only I knew some well-connected Memphians.
Enjoy Mr. Pop.