Tribù: Che dobbiate affrontare cavernicoli, feroci tuareg o maya coperti di tatuaggi che per lo più significano insulti a vostra madre, il rispetto delle minoranze è uno dei vostri obblighi di eroi. Quindi onorate i vostri avversari esotici e le loro armi esoticamente inutili perdendo quella mezz’ora in più a sgominarli. E non fate quelli che si fanno beccare a polverizzare un patrimonio mondiale dell’Unesco e poi sanno dire solo: “Vabbè, era mezza ziggurat coperta di erbacce, io ho salvato il mondo però”.

Umpa-Lumpa: Originari di Umpalandia, sono fastidiosi nani colorati. Utilizzati per lo più come operai specializzati, all’occorrenza possono diventare temibili soldati. Attaccateli con velocità, restate in movimento e non lasciategli iniziare una canzone.

Vegani: essere umani che ospitano parassiti alieni provenienti da Vega IV. La presenza dei suddetti parassiti altera il metabolismo impedendo all’ospite di assumere proteine animali, cosa che il Vegano giustifica con un improbabile discorso etico. Un cheeseburger ben assestato basta e avanza a sgominarli tutti.

Warlock: maghi guerrieri incappucciati, spesso appartenenti a sette medioevali. Versati sia nell’arte della magia che in quella della guerra. Possono utilizzare tutte le armi e tutte le magie dei maghi e dei chierici. +5 al tiro salvezza contro il soffio di un drago. Per sgominare i Warlock armatevi di bazooka, ci sono buone probabilità che non ne abbiano mai visto uno.

Xenomorfi: Alieni con la testa allungata, triple mascelle retrattili e acido al posto del sangue, sono considerati la razza più letale della galassia. Assicuratevi di aver portato almeno 1 lanciagranate, 1 lanciafiamme, 1 mitragliatrice pesante, tutti legati insieme col nastro isolante. Per il finale tenete da parte 1 testata nucleare.

easy samedi

German soldier armed with the Panzerschreck (Raketenpanzerbüchse 54). The Panzerschreck was a German copy of the American bazooka enlarged to 88mm calibre. Another popular nickname for the Panzerschreck was the “Ofenrohr” (stove pipe).

A couple of days ago I tweeted the following:

And this evening, while I was still at school, I received the following email from James:

I must admit, the ground did not quake at USC from this release. However, James described this event with great enthusiasm when I spoke to him on my drive home.

My arm was covered in poop. DRIPPING! And when I opened the diaper. MAN! It was CHOCK FULL OF SHIT! I mean, coated! Completely covered. Do you understand?! Not an inch was without POOP!

Looks like James’ world was rocked. Say, at least, a magnitude 8.

And, looks like the Bazooka has a new attack method in the form of ammunition containment to truly maximize eruptive impact.

Ieri am fost in parcul Izvor, cu intentia de a-i vedea pe cei de la Zdob si Zdub si Guana Apes. Pe primii i-am ratat, pentru ca am intarziat putin si am inteles ca oricum, nu au cantat decat cateva melodii. Cat despre Guana Apes, imi pierise tot entuziasmul si nu am mai avut rabdare sa-i astept.

Desi era vorba despre “greenfest”, din pacate, in Parcul Izvor gazonul cam disparuse, bine batatorit sub talpile nervoase ale multimii adunate la concert.

Nu mi-a placut faptul ca pentru o bere trebuia sa stai la ditamai coada, la jetoane intai si apoi la alta coada, de unde puteai sa-ti iei bautura cu pricina.

De asemenea, nu mi-a placut praful si nici mizeria lasata in urma de oamenii adunati ieri in parc. Singurul lucru bun a fost bratara verde “Tuborg“. Aici m-au nimerit, pentru ca sunt innebunita dupa bratari, cercei, bijuterii, ca majoritatea fetelor, de altfel.

La plecare, am primit si “Official guide-Tuborg Greenfest” in care am gasit si programul celor trei zile: 4-6 septembrie.

Asadar, astazi, 6 septembrie, ii gasiti in Parcul Izvor pe:

1. Vita-de -vie – (formatia mea preferata, in timpu facultatii) in formatie completa si anume: Adrian zis si Despot, Sorin Danescu, Sorin “Pupe” Tanase, Cezar Popescu (pe care il vedeam foarte des, in caminul studentesc Kogalniceanu) si Adrian Ciuplea. Ii admir pe baieti pentru campania “Imi pasa” – initiata pentru Asociatia UpDown – pentru persoanele afectate de sindromul Down.
2. Stefaaaan … Banica jr +Andra+ Bodo. Baiatul asta parca nu mai imbatraneste, zici ca e Madalina Manole, au aceeasi fata ca acum douazeci de ani. Bravo lor! Nu sunt innebunita dupa Stefan, insa imi place pentru ca are zvac in el si pentru ca stie mereu sa se reinventeze, ca si Loredana Groza de altfel.
3. Mandinga: Ella+Alex+Bazooka+Florin+Chupi+Omar Secada+Zach+Tony+El Nino=love. Muzica lor latino cu influiente de folclor balcanic chiar este simpatica.
4. Publika – inca nu am auzit de ei, dar citez din “official guide”: “trupa a fost infiintata in 2008 (a, de aia nu-i stiu, sunt mici inca). Solistul trupei este Ionut Ruscior.” Ceilalti membri ai formatiei se numesc: Florin Giuglea, Robby G., Hanes Radu, Adi Ciuplea (ia uite unde l-am gasit pe unul din membrii formatiei Vita-de-vie).Have fun! si asa e urat afara … sa incercam sa ne distram cumva!

El presente vídeo se grabó durante la exposición de presentación de Engin Explosif Improvisé organizada por la Arts Factory en París. Publicado por L’Association, Engin Explosif Improvisé reune las pinturas-dípticos de los falsos hermanos Picasso, miembros destacados de Bazzoka, grupo  de vanguardia del cómic francés de los años 80. Actualmente, la exposición se exhibe en la  Galerie du bal des Ardens de Lyon hasta el 5 de septiembre y, a partir del 15 de septiembre, en la Galerie la mauvaise réputation de Burdeos. Aquí tenéis a la venta serigrafías y portadas de las publicaciones del grupo.

Via: Point G Magazine

i’m back… sort of! moving was grueling — i will never, ever attempt to refinish three pieces of furniture in the week leading up to a move ever again. commuting is almost as hard, but it’s great to be coming home to manhattan again. it’s so reassuring to be inspired by my surroundings again. how can i complain? oh, wait. i have a whole blog about complaining. i’ll find a way.

daveed and i have been mainly preoccupied with unpacking (we actually have way less than we thought), rearranging, and getting settled into new routines (and for him, a new job), so we haven’t had a lot of time to discuss wedding stuff lately. but lunch breaks were made for wedding blogs, so i’ve been peeking in a little bit over the last week, and got a huge kick out of offbeat bride’s post on unexpected groomsmen gifts. my favorite? this hand grenade-shaped soap.

granted, soap isn’t the manliest thing to give to another man, but if you’re going that route, at least it isn’t shaped like a flower, or doesn’t come with a loofa. BOOSH.

I’ve been working feverishly to catalog my collection so that trading can run more smoothly. Thus far I’m about 550 cards in, and I’ve not really scratched the surface. Anyway, that’s part of the explanation for my lack of posts lately. If you care to see the trade list, check out it out here. (<- link) I’ll eventually be using this Excel spreadsheet via Google Docs instead of a separate page on this blog. Most of the stuff listed there are inserts from the 90s through today. As I said, I’ve got a ton more to add, so stay tuned as I will update you every time I add another 100 cards or so.

So yeah, as the title of this piece suggests, I found some more discount Allen & Ginter at Target. These are 2008 packs that were marked down to $1.59 each and placed in the “Power Pack” boxes. I found 11 packs which means … DING DING DING … some searcher got to these early and removed one of the packs. Typically Target’s distributor delivers one or two Power Pack discount boxes per shipment. In each one are six packs of any given brand. In short, there should have been a total of 12 Allen & Ginter packs because this Target received a double shipment of discount packs.

I’ll say upfront that these packs reveal why pack searching these days is almost a waste of time. I’m sure the guy who got to these early is plenty happy with his Jeff Francoeur jersey cards; but I pulled something that not even the most savvy pack searcher could have found without opening the pack. Can you say Bazooka back!? Keep reading for the break …

Pack 1: Vlad Guerrero, Ben Sheets, Brad Hawpe, A&G Back MINI Billy Mitchell, Ginter Code Ad card, Oscar Wilde, Bigfoot

Buddy Christ has a baseball card.

Pack 2: Freddy Sanchez, Brian Bannister, Billy Butler, MINI Rich Thompson, Chone Figgins, Rampage Jackson

Pack 3: Eric Byrnes, Jarrod Saltalamacchia, Carlos Pena, BLACK MINI Pete Webber, Ginter Code Ad card, Kerir Strug, Bonnie Blair

The Godfather also has a baseball card.

Pack 4: Frank Thomas, Takashi Saito, Gary Mathews, SP Randy Johnson, BLACK MINI Jeff Niemann, USA Barry Zito, Davy Crockett

Pack 5: Jose Valverde, David Eckstein, Brian McCann, SP Kevin Youkilis,SP MINI Allen Fisher, USA Chase Utley, Checklist 2, Chin-Lung Hu

The arm of fisher's opponent here looks phallic.Poor guy.

Pack 6: Trevor Hoffman, Wily Mo Pena, Rickie Weeks, MINI Chase Utley, USA Nick Markakis, Garrett Atkins, Jeremy Bonderman

Pack 7: Yunel Escobar, Miguel Cabrera, Jim Thome, Mini Billy Wagner, Ross Ohlendorf, Rich Thompson

Pack 8: Johan Santana, Derek Jeter, Curtis Granderson, MINI WORLD’S DEADLIEST SHARKS Tiger Shark, Tadahito Iguchi, Jose Vidro

Solid pull from a retail pack.

Pack 9: James Loney, Luis Gonzalez, SP Dave Roberts, SP MINI Brandon Wood, USA Ken Griffey Jr., James Fenimore Cooper, Johnny Cueto

Pack 10: Troy Glaus, Adam Dunn, Manny Ramirez, Kelly Johnson, Mini Carlos Guillen, Ginter Code Ad card, Golden Gate Bridge

Pack 11: Todd Helton, Melvin Mora, Prince Fielder, SP Phil Hughes, BAZOOKA BACK MINI Nick Blackburn 07/25, USA Jacoby Elsbury, Pablo Picasso

Suck it, pack searchers!

Comments: Beat the odds again. I love these Bazooka back mini cards, and the ballpoint pen numbering is just awesome. The minis are really what draw me to this set time and time again. While most of the minis aren’t worth a lot, I feel that they’re design and size kind of give it an authentic feel from more than a century ago. I’m also pleased to report that within these packs I was able to knock out three more cards from this ‘08 set. I think I’m down to eight cards or so, five of which are shortprints.

My husband likes to shoot guns. Not at a shooting range, rather out in the open field, directed at small, woodland critters. Yes, as in things die at the mercy of his hand. (I know, you’re thinking, how on earth can I love such a monster!?) He grew up doing this. I begrudgingly accept this as a part of our marriage. The first time James placed a shot gun in my hands, however, I had my first and only panic attack to date. Never again will he attempt such a foolish thing. I’ve come to understand that a dead bear or two will appear on the porch during our Thanksgiving holidays with his family, just as he’s come to accept that madras, seersucker, and popped collars will be present at any and all of my family’s gatherings. This is what marriage is all about. Putting up with the other person’s bullshit.

My one stipulation regarding the whole likes-to-shoot-guns-thing has been that guns shall never be housed in our home. At his family’s lodge at their Hunting and Fishing Club? Fine. That seems appropriate. But NOT under the roof where our sweet  baby girl sleeps.

Little did we know that said baby girl would in fact be her own weapon. Our very own poop-shooting little Bazooka. The first night we brought her home from the hospital we had yet to experience the magic of her canon-esque buttocks. Up until then, I’d felt like Br’er Rabbit swimming in black-tar-filled diapers (otherwise known as meconium), but nothing was catapulting out of that area until we were left to fend for ourselves outside the hospital walls. My clearest memory from that hazy first week home was one morning at 4 o’clock, James was standing at the changing table dealing with yet another dirty diaper (I swear babies must own stock in the diaper industry), when I hear a “HOLY HELL!” as my daughter rockets poop across the changing table and clears the diaper pail.

That was just the beginning. We’ve learned to race to cover her rump with a fresh diaper during each changing, for if left hanging in the breeze, we have a bazooka on our hands. Fully locked and loaded. Her favorite time to let loose is while she’s eating. In one end, out the other. It’s ever so flattering to be providing my child with her life’s sustenance, FROM MY BOOB, to have her pause, hold her breath, bear down, turn bright red, and FIRE IN THE HOLE right on my lap. She even manages to squeeze out a grunt, as though she’s dropping a major dooce like a dirty, old man. It’s even better when she blows out the diaper. Especially when we’re breastfeeding by the side of the road in a very public neighborhood of Ocean Beach in San Diego. I love being covered head-to-toe in drippy, yellow baby poop with my bare boob leaking breast milk while surrounded by tanned, chiseled, gorgeous surfers. Love.

There are times when I’ll turn to my husband accusingly after hearing an audible ass explosion, only to have him redirect my gaze towards our cherubic 10 lb infant.

This morning was a particular treat. You see, Sunny and I snuggle in bed together each day after James leaves for work. There’s ample space so that I don’t have to lie in panic that one of us is going to roll over and smother her to death. It is usually quite a sweet, Kodak affair, filled with rainbows and puppies and lollipops. So there I am, blissfully curled up next to my precious, sleepy daughter gazing in awe at her every perfect feature, studying each finger, each earlobe, inhaling that delicious baby scent, when BAM! The bed is literally shaken by her eurpting rumpus. She has started yet another California earthquake, and we are now both lying in her baby feces. Good morning to me!

The best part of waking up is with an ass hiccup! <sung to the tune of the Folger’s coffee diddy>

Foto libre para el día de hoy, no tiene nada que ver con lo que pasó en el día de hoy (no mucho). Y de hecho no me acuerdo ahora en qué momento del día se me ocurrió que hacer una foto con un globo de chicle, pero me pareció que iba a quedar simpática.

Una vez que ví la foto quise que el retoque le diera un look un poco caricaturezco, me hacía acordar a las tapas de la revista MAD que leía mi hermano cuando yo era chico. Asi que encontré ésta imagen y la usé de guía para el retoque.

En el nuevo trabajo teatral que estoy haciendo el chicle forma parte importante de la escena… eso me obligó a reencontrarme con el chicle globo, aquella institución de mi infancia. Los clorets no hacen globos lindos. El otro día me compré por sólo diez pesos lo que en algún otro momento fue para mí, como para cualquier niño, un impensable imposible inasequible: una caja de Bazooka de las que tienen en los kioscos, con 120 chicles adentro.

Como reflexión final, siempre me perturbó un poco que Bazooka Joe es un niño tuerto. Podría hacer parejita con la nena del afiche publicitario que ponen todas las navidades… o ser amigo de Charlie Brown, que sufre de calvicie prematura.

This appeared in the summer 2009 issue of Garageland (issue 8, pp. 30-33).

Unheard Melodies

Andrew Gallix goes in search of the most elusive of the phantom bands — L.U.V.

“As a rock critic, when you reach a certain age, you begin to wonder if all the mental and emotional energy you’ve invested in this music was such a shrewd move,” wrote Simon Reynolds in the introduction to Rip It Up and Start Again. More recently, he wondered if “searching for utopia through music” had not been “a mistake” (Totally Wired). To ascribe such doubts to impending middle age alone would be to forget that there was a time when music truly was a matter of life and death, when days were whiled away listening to records and poring over album covers in some ill-defined but all-important quest. Instead of producing plays or paintings, the best and brightest were busy perfecting one-note solos on replica Starways from Woolies. Rock’n'roll was central to contemporary culture: it was where it was at.

Needless to say, no band could ever totally live up to such high expectations. Malcolm McLaren shrewdly ensured that the Sex Pistols made precious few live appearances in order to enhance their mystique. Spandau Ballet would use a similar trick at the beginning of their career by playing invite-only gigs. Keats (Morrissey notwithstanding) was right: heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter. After all, bands are necessarily approximations of the dreams that conjured them up. Some — like the Libertines whose Arcadian rhetoric was often far more exciting than their songs — are condemned to remain pale reflections of their Platonic ideals. By the same token, a record is always a compromise: The La’s famously spent two years recording and re-recording their first album without ever achieving the desired effect. Even at its best, music cannot vie with the silence it comes from and returns to — the silence inhabited by phantom bands.

We are not talking dead silence here, but rather something akin to the background noise during a performance of 4′ 33″ or the tinnitus burned on to the mind’s ear by imaginary songs overheard through the static in between radio stations. A living silence, perhaps. According to the great academic and critic George Steiner, “A book unwritten is more than a void”. The same could be said about songs unrecorded or unplayed: they actually exist, virtually, in some Borgesian iPod of Babel. Phantom bands themselves are not complete figments of the imagination either: to qualify, they must have some kind of shadowy existence, leave some kind of (lipstick) trace. The Chris Gray Band never existed beyond a few graffiti around Victoria Coach Station in the early seventies, but the idea of forming “a totally unpleasant pop group” designed to subvert showbiz from within would obviously be a major influence on the Pistols project (1). The London SS — whose short lifespan was one long audition bringing together most of the major players on the future London punk scene — is probably the most influential group to have neither released a record nor played a single gig. Synthpunk pioneers The Screamers were described by Jello Biafra as “the best unrecorded band in the history of rock’n'roll”. Typically, their first photoshoot appeared in a magazine when they were yet to play live (2). At a later stage, they were approached to release an album cover containing no record — an art stunt which never materialised but would have been a fitting metaphor for this textbook phantom outfit from Los Angeles. The Screamers managed to become local legends although — or perhaps because — they only did a handful of gigs and never got round to cutting a record (3). The Nova Mob from Liverpool did not even try to go that far. Fronted by Julian Cope, they were a purely conceptual group dedicated to never playing a single note of music. Instead, they would hang around caffs discussing imaginary songs — a practice they referred to as “rehearsing”. Definitely one for the Borgesian iPod.

“It’s like being in love with a woman you’ve never had,” says Dominique Fury, trying to account for the enduring fascination exerted by the group in which she briefly played guitar more than three decades ago: “The relationship hasn’t been consummated”. She smiles. A ray of sunshine has crept into her artist’s studio near Belleville. Through the open window, I can glimpse the pink apple blossom in the middle of the dappled courtyard. All is quiet. All is still. When I say I’m in love, you best believe I’m in love L-U-V. For me, the most phantomatic of phantom bands has always been L.U.V., an elusive and largely illusive all-girl punk combo from Paris. I remember reading tantalising news snippets about them in the music or mainstream press at regular intervals. A quote here, a namecheck there. Just enough to whet my appetite. And then — nothing. A tale told by an idiot, full of silence and fury, signifying nothing. Nostalgia for a band yet to come.

Only one picture of the complete line-up was ever published (in the long-defunct Matin de Paris). Granted, it is worth a thousand words, but the fact that there seem to be no others speaks volumes about the fragility of L.U.V.’s collective identity. It is also rather paradoxical given that style was all the substance they had. From left to right you can see Aphrodisia Flamingo (the rebel), Dominique Fury (the femme fatale), Liliane Vittori (the cerebral rock chick) and Edwige Belmore (the It girl). Wearing matching sunglasses, Aphrodisia and Dominique — the terrible twins who formed the nucleus of the group — stand very close to each other as if they are an item. Aphrodisia stares the world down, her full mouth a smouldering moue of utter contempt — Bardot gone badass. Dominique, in terrorist chic mode, adopts a far more glamorous, almost provocative pose. Liliane, for her part, seems to be fading into the background, a faraway look on her anguished features. Edwige towers above her like some Teutonic titan, sporting a Billy Idol hairdo and the blank expression of a Galeries Lafayette mannequin.

L.U.V. (4) was the brainchild of Aphrodisia Flamingo (Laurence “Lula” Grumbach) who, having mixed with the likes of Nico, Lou Reed and Patti Smith in New York City, returned to Paris determined to launch a girl group of the punk persuasion. One night, down at the Gibus (France’s answer to CBGB), she caught sight of Dominique Fury (née Jeantet) (5). It was L.U.V. at first sight: “I just made a beeline for her because I instantly knew I wanted her in the band”. The fiery, long-haired brunette and the glacial, short-haired blonde were attracted to each other like polar opposites. Dominique speaks repeatedly of a “magnetic relationship”: “There was chemistry between us — something magical that was more than the mere sum of its parts”. Both came from very wealthy but troubled backgrounds (6). Aphrodisia lost her father when she was only eleven; Fury never really found hers (which may explain her penchant for collective experiences) (7). The latter was a revolutionary heiress who made donations to the Black Panthers and bankrolled a couple of utopian communities that she describes as “a quest for something beautifully wild”. Once the opium fumes of the communal dream had dissipated, she embarked on an equally eventful American road trip (almost meeting her fate near the Mexican border) and was soon drawn towards punk’s “dark and romantic aesthetics” — which brings us back to the Gibus circa early 1977.

Although L.U.V. revolved mainly around these two soul mates, the most famous member at the time was in fact Edwige — a striking bisexual amazon who was already a face on the local clubbing scene and would soon be crowned la reine des punks. For fifteen minutes, Paris was at her feet: she ran the door at the hippest joint this side of Studio 54 (Le Palace), was photographed with Warhol for the cover of Façade magazine, formed an electronic duo called Mathématiques Modernes, posed for Helmut Newton and allegedly had a string of affairs with the likes of Grace Jones, Madonna and Sade (“The Sweetest Taboo” is rumoured to be about her). Given her stature, Edwige seemed destined to bang the drums for L.U.V. As Fury puts it, “The group was primarily an image — a work of art — so it was great to have this iconic figure”.

This conception of the band as tableau vivant or performance art was (and indeed remains) at odds with some of the other members’ more conventional aspirations. “Aphrodisia gave me the opportunity to create something,” says Fury, but that something was not rock’n'roll. When L.U.V. petered out, she joined Bazooka, an art collective (where she famously found herself embroiled in a convoluted ménage à trois with two artists of either gender) rather than another band (8). But Liliane, the bassist (9), simply could not understand why Dominique showed no interest in musical proficiency and insisted on teaching her how to master her instrument. Fury reckons “she just wasn’t mad enough”. “She simply didn’t get it,” concurs Aphrodisia. Whenever journalists or A&R people attended rehearsals, they drafted in Hermann Schwartz — Métal Urbain’s axeman — who would play concealed behind a curtain while Fury struck guitar-heroine poses (10).

Aphrodisia, who is currently writing her autobiography, sees L.U.V. as a missed opportunity: “We never wrote a single song. We wanted to, but were probably too stoned” (11). She explains that rehearsals were constantly interrupted because someone always needed to score. She talks about major label interest. She remembers how Rock & Folk, the top French music magazine, would beg them to play a gig that they could cover in their next issue…

Some of us are still waiting for that next issue. Come, let us dance to the spirit ditties of no tone.

Endnotes:

(1) The eponymous Chris Gray was a member of the English section of the Situationist International (expelled in 1967) and the author of the seminal Leaving the 20th Century anthology (1974) which popularised Situationist ideas in Britain. Like Malcolm McLaren and Jamie Reid, he was involved with political pranksters King Mob.

(2) This is reminiscent of the Flowers of Romance (which included Sid Vicious, Viv Albertine and Keith Levene) who gave an interview to a fanzine although they had never played live (and would never do so). The Pistols would later cover the Flowers’ “Belsen Was a Gas”.

(3) The Screamers’ uncompromising music — all synthesizer, keyboard, drums, screamed vocals and not a guitar in sight — was unlikely to get heavy rotation, but delusions of grandeur were probably the main reason why the big time eluded them. A prime example of this was their decision to turn down a tour with Devo. There were also rumours that Brian Eno wanted to produce them, but the band felt that their histrionic live performance could not possibly be captured on vinyl. Instead, they envisaged a video-only release which would have been commercial suicide pre-MTV. It never saw the light of day anyway.

(4) The band’s name is obviously a reference to The New York Dolls’ “Looking For a Kiss,” but according to Laurence Grumbach it also stands for Ladies United Violently or Lipstick Used Viciously. Laurence’s nom de punk was chosen because she was born on 9 August which is St Amour’s day in the French calendar (hence Aphrodisia) and because she was fond of the Flamin’ Groovies (Flamingo). Apparently, it has nothing to do with John Waters’ 1972 film, Pink Flamingos.

(5) Dominique Jeantet reinvented herself as Fury in reference to Faulkner and the Plymouth Fury automobiles. She once owned a guitar with “Fury” inscribed on it.

(6) Fury recently discovered that her godfather was none other than the then future (and now late) President François Mitterrand.

(7) Fury’s father was a protean character. Among many other things, he was a spy with multiple identities who was involved in a plot to assassinate Hitler. Before the war, he had been a member of a far-right terrorist group.

(8) The two artists were Olivia Clavel, who introduced her into the collective, and Loulou Picasso. Bazooka are most famous in Britain for producing the cover of Elvis Costello’s Armed Forces. Dominique Fury, who was once described as the Parisian Edie Sedgwick, also dated Lenny Kaye and Mick Jones of The Clash.

(9) Liliane was also a talented photographer who worked for the music press.

(10) Hermann Schwartz also acted as L.U.V.’s Pygmalion. It was he, for instance, who introduced the girls to The Shangri-Las.

(11) L.U.V. covered two songs: Nico & The Velvet Underground’s “Femme Fatale” and The Troggs’ “Wild Thing”. Dominique Fury showed me some lyrics, both in French and English, that she had written for the band, but I’m not sure she ever shared them with the other members. Some are reminiscent of X-Ray Spex in that they describe a dystopian consumer society. Others stood out because of their violent imagery: “We’ll take the handle and you’ll take the blade”.

“That bastard Genie. I’ll never joke about girls with big bazookas again,” thought Jim.

Rome: an Italian Guy builds a really Bazooka home-made – with the help of an internet specialized Blog in weapons- and use it in his condominium!!

After the big explosion, the ‘ nextdoor neighbours’ of that guy call Carabinieri and, after confiscated the weapon, They must reported that talented Guy…

viaGUY MADE BAZOOKA AND PROVE IT IN HIS HOME.

Ha llegado a nuestras manos lo último para el combate de barrio. Su munición: patatas (o cualquier cosa que le quepa). Quien consiga tener este invento de Ultimatespdgun.com podrá acabar con todo aquel que le arañe el coche. Eso si puede permitirselo, pues el cañoncito cuesta nada menos que la friolera de unos 1100 dólares, ahí es nada…