First of all:
I am tired.
I am true of heart!

And also:
You are tired.
You are true of heart!

Reblogged because, you know, titty lasers.

nostrich:

From the department of “What the fuck?” comes this photo, and the e-mail it was attached to:

Hello, I just found your blog and I like it.

I do the photo direction for I LOVE YOU MAGAZINE. http://www.iloveyou-magazine.com/

I am planning a sexy but beautiful girls on bikes story for the next issue. It would be so great if you could help me.

I found a story at many bike blogs at the web and I really love it. There are these amazing shots from the 80ies where I can not find any credit. You will find them attached.

Do you know these shots? I found out that it was photographed for the calender of Rossin bikes.

Please let me know if you can help me.

I got nothin’, but the photo’s a keeper. Anybody know who’s responsible?

Related.

*sniffle*

(via @sciencepunk)

You should dig out Paul Simon’s first solo album. And if you can’t dig it out because you’re one of these post-album wankers or, inexplicably, you’ve failed to buy it - though why that would be the case I couldn’t even begin to speculate on as it would probably end with me coming round to your house and explaining to you at length, with slides and much salty language why you SUCK SO HARD at everything - then you should go download it or whatever it is you punks do these days.

You should dig it out because it is a Truly Great Lost Album.

Point being that we live in a world where acoustic guitar toting toolbags are as ubiquitous as carbon molecules. This upsets me for a number of reasons, not least of which is they’re horning in on my action. That whole sensitive artist, rumpled shirt, oh-thanks-I-wrote-that-years-ago-it-means-a-lot-to-me-that-you-liked it schtick is MY SCHTICK and it’s the birthright of my children. I have nothing to teach them about life except how to pick up a guitar and get good enough at arpeggio that maybe, one day, you will receive the oral sex from someone at a party because of it.

That worked at like one of the parties I went to in my life. One of them. Out of at least 20. That’s a 1:20 chance of the oral sex. Vanishingly small. And this was in the nineties when the oral sex was common. By the time my kids are old enough to go out and get the oral sex, well, there’ll probably be an age or height restriction on it which will only make it more critical that the parties they go to are not saturated with scruffy-haired ballsacks singing about their problems.

Paul Simon is an interesting place to start learning about this kind of shit. For one, he’s about the only guitar-toting hipster I can think of who wore a toupee.  For another he could actually play the guitar and, for thirdly (?) his lyrics - on this album anyway, are incredibly spiky and mean-spirited. He’s like a jewish Elvis Costello. A bald, jewish Elvis Costello. And short with it.

This is my favourite song from that album. It’s short, nasty and almost impossibly hard to play. Its like, not content with insulting Garfunkel on the Bridge Over Troubled Water album, he’s found that he wants to continue hurling insults at him from his solo career too. I swear to god, if we could get access to the studio masters of this album we’d find tracks called ‘Why Can’t You Just Sing It In Your Normal Voice” and “Shove Your Bright Eyes Up Your Arse, Twat.’

Also, this song contains the word ‘Paraphernalia’. Beat that with a stick, Sufjan.

(File under: Exquisitely-crafted-biting -American-indie-scene-satire.)

eagleflieswiththedove:

“Dear Joanna Newsom,

“After two years, do you still think ‘I’m on a Boat’ is funny? What about that ‘Dick in a Box’ thing? Did you make a pun about that the first time you had sex?

“Have you ever stopped to wonder what ‘Only Skin’ would sound like if Andy Samberg sang on it instead?

“Half your new album sounds like you tried to overdose on sleeping pills then stayed up until 2 pm writing it.

“You wear stupid hats.

“Neil Michael Hagerty thought you were an idiot. He said he always expected you to start telling him his horoscope.

“Once I was in line at Whole Foods and saw Andy on a magazine. I pointed to it and said to the woman behind me, ‘Look, that magazine put someone with Down syndrome on the cover.’

“When it doesn’t work with Andy, I heard that Frank Caliendo is looking.

“Know what else, fashion plate? I got this Australian lesbian haircut because I knew you’d hate it.

“My jaw is clenched,

“Bill”

Mental Note - the band that dare to ask the big questions. via here and here

chrismear:

ache:

WTF WANT WANT WANT.

When I was 14, I had a little blue rowing boat that I’d row up and down the River Waveney in Bungay. It was all very idyllic - overhanging willow trees; water-meadows at sunset, that kind of thing. Once I even saw a Kingfisher. These are the kinds of things that childhoods in retrospect seem to be made of, despite the fact that at the time they seemed to feature a good deal more hanging from coat-hooks by your underwear.

Generally speaking, the first thing I’d do when I got into the boat was row the 10 metres or so upstream to the bridge and tie up underneath it. The water was clearer under there out of the sun and you could see fish, boulders and discarded traffic cones in its shade. It was nice. No one knew you were there and no one bothered you.

I took some people out on the boat too. I didn’t really have any friends at that time because I was the weirdo who liked computers - but ask a kid if he wants to have a go in a boat and, weirdo-captain or not, he’s going to say yes.

Taking people out in the boat didn’t really work. Its a solitary business, rowing. Even when you do it in teams you’re starting at the back of your teammate’s head. I can only imagine that sitting opposite someone you don’t know or even like, while they rock back and forth with the exertion of the oars was an unsettling experience for most of my passengers. Conversation, such as it was, rarely sparkled.

“Have you ever fallen in?”

“No, it’s a flat bottomed boat. It would actually be comparatively hard to capsize.”

“Oh.”

“‘Capsize’ means ‘tip over’.”

“Oh.”

So I ended up not really being bothered that no one wanted to come on the boat with me and devoted my days to exploring the two or three miles of river between the sluice gate at the Staithe near our house and the other sluice gate up beyond the swimming hole that all the kids called “The Sandy”.

In all the months I spent going up and down the river, the best things I found where as follows:

1. A huge dead pike.
2. Lots of dead eels
3. Fishing floats and lead weights knotted in the branches of trees by over-casting fishermen.

(In fact I think I indulged a fantasy that one day I’d be bobbing along the river and a fisherman would cry out in distress that his best float had become entangled in the tree opposite. “Don’t worry!” I’d cry and he’d thank me and probably give me a trout to take home for tea. No such emergency ever took place - at least while I was in rowing distance - but I used to love finding them; fluorescent, alien, expensive-looking. Sometimes they’d still have the hooks and weights attached and I’d have to spend 10 - 15 minutes delicately untangling them.)

Soon after that summer, I discovered girls, beer and smoking fags in the order named. I made some actual friends, we started going to the pub and I got far too aware of my (ridiculous, shambling) image to want to be seen dead in a fucking rowing boat. So the boat went away in the shed where it stayed until it was sold, unremarked by me, a few years later.

I guess the reason that I’m writing this  - other than to indulge in yet more whimsical melancholy - is to chide my teenaged self for not having the foresight to bring together four of the great loves of my life - rowing boats, girls, drinking and smoking fags - into one Awesome Super-Hobby.

I think its because I don’t drink, smoke or chase girls anymore that the lack of the fourth becomes so sorely missed - and I find myself in this vaseline-lensed reverie about taking my wife out on a misty Autumn evening, mooring up under my bridge with a half ounce of ready-rubbed and a bottle of whisky and, as the cars and tractors rattle along Bridge Street above us, having freaky-deaky boat sex as the sun goes slowly down.

THAT WAS THE MOST FUN I’VE EVER HAD WITHOUT LAUGHING.

by Meaghan O’Connell

It has been thirty-three years for him and five for me, but still, my visceral reaction to Woody Allen’s face in the opening credits of Annie Hall is that I want to pull it out of a TigerBeat and fasten it to my…

dwineman:

Me: (tries to visit a local restaurant’s website via iPhone)
Restaurant website: I require Flash. Fuck off.
Me: I just want to know how late you’re open.
Website: Nope.
Me: But I’m on my phone. Don’t you have a little “HTML Version” link up in the corner or something?
Website: I’m ignoring you.
Me: What if I’m on my phone because I’m out, looking for a place to eat? Didn’t that ever occur to you?
Website: Fuck entirely off.
Me: (gives up, switches to computer)
Website: Oh! Hi! What can I help you with today?
Me: What are your —
Website: Hang on, I’m loading the music.
Me: Really.
Website: You’ll love it. It’s “Girl from Ipanema” arranged for steel drum and keytar.
Me: No, you don’t have to —
Website: Loading…
Me: All I want is —
Website: I SAID DOT DOT DOT.
Me: (drums fingers on desk)
Website: There we go. Isn’t that nice? It’s… what’s the word. Ethnicky.
Me: What are your hours?
Website: Take a look at our menu! It’s a PDF of a screenshot of a scan of a Word document printed on a dishtowel. With fonts!
Me: I don’t care. What are your hours?
Website: Don’t worry, the menu loads in a new window so the music won’t stop. Can I show you some broken images?
Me: What. Are. Your. Hou. Rs.
Website: I… I don’t know.
Me: (goes to Denny’s)

theduty:

alisonagosti:

Eddie Pepitone heckles himself

5 increasingly uncomfortable minutes of a man hurling abuse at himself in the dark. I loved it.

Your new favourite band. YOUR NEW FAVOURITE BAND!

[via]

My Dad writes to tell me that it would be remiss of me not to mention that the above photo should be a recruitment poster for the British Army - though presumably he means in Scotland only.