Ma gandeam la cele mai simpatice personaje cu mari defecte care mi-au trecut prin viata. Le-as putea cuprinde in 3-4 romane. N-ar incapea toate pe aceeasi pagina; orgolii, alura de rol principal la fiecare dintre ele, nedreptatea de a lasa pe cineva mai nevorbit decat pe altul…

Le iau pe rand.

Pe cand lucram intr-o alta televiziune (nu spui care, ca sa nu se descopere cumva omu’ ), eram coleg cu un operator irepetabil. Genul de persoana pe care o poti rezuma foarte usor in cateva cuvinte. Avea trasaturi definitorii, extrem de evidente zi de zi. Daca marii scriitori l-ar fi cunosut personal, sunt sigur ca astazi era deja prin “Enigma Otiliei”, prin “Cei 3 muschetari”, prin “Amintiri din copilarie”… Ca sa nu zic decat de scrieri romanesti.

In caz ca aveai mare nevoie de 10 mii de lei, iar el ramanea fara bani de paine in buzunar, ti-i dadea fara nicio retinere. Te mirai de bunatatea lui, dar ii luai banii. Fiindca… va zic io.

Filma foarte ok. Se tavalea pe jos daca era nevoie; incerca, experimenta, tinea sa fie spectaculos si-apoi sa-i adresezi un “bravo” sincer. Si-o bere.

Frumusel, tinerel, cu mare trecere la doamne si domnisoare, inclusiv la prima nevasta oficiala, la a doua neoficiala si la cate-or mai fi urmat dupa.

Pontos. Si saritor. Nu te lasa sa fii suparat pe nimic. Intai iti dadea apa la moara si tot el te scotea din putul cu melancolie, nervi, nepasare.

Si:

Mintea de ingheta Dambovita in zilele ei cu valuri inalte. Pinocchio si-ar fi pierdut toata prestanta daca l-ar fi cunoscut pe… nici nu stiu cum sa-i spun, pentru ca avea un nume parca predestinat… Ii zic… Rasputin.

Deci mintea Rasputin ca un batalion intreg de pinocchi la un loc. Mergeam cu el la un interviu. Vedete, alea alea. Dadea bine, fiindca socializa usor, vorbea frumos, avea textele la el. Doar ca incepea: “Am filmat intr-o noapte la 3 nunti de vipuri. Fugeam de la unii la altii”. Sau: “Am facut un film documentar cu care am luat premiu la Cannes, dar in ultima clipa l-au anulat, ca eram roman si n-au vrut sa mi-l dea. Ma intreba Scorsese cum am reusit sa filmez asa, ca poate ma ia la Hollywood; mi-a scris si Spielberg. Sa va spuna Catalin, ca i-am aratat scrisoarea. Ce naiba, nu va mint, sa spuna Catalin, ca e aici de fata!”. Era clipa in care incercam sa crap pamantul cu calcaiul si sa intru acolo de rusine. Ce pana mea puteam sa zic? “Nu, domnu’, minte de rupe, uitati-va la nasul lui cum creste, e colegul meu Pinocchio”? Sau: “Da, doamna, asa e, are dreptate, l-a chemat Ron Howard sa filmeze pe Marte cand s-a facut Apollo 13″? Taceam, imi frecam lobul urechii cu 2-3 degete si priveam in jur ca la scoala cand ma scotea la tabla si habar n-aveam lectia, asteptand ajutor din clasa.

Intervievatul se uita la mine ca si cum eram complicele lui Rasputin ori ma privea cu subinteles: “Ba, ce minte asta! Nici tu nu-l crezi, este?”.

Rasputin se inchina la cel popular zeu antic: Bachus. Nu iesea din cuvantul astuia. Daca Bachus ii dadea din senin o sticla, un pahar, le golea cu sfintenie de ziceai ca n-au fost pline in viata lor!

Pe credincios il gaseai zilnic intr-una din 3 stari (mai mult sau mai putin fericite): 1.perfect treaz, fara chef, operator de duzina; 2.usor afumat, cel mai pontos din lume, operatorul perfect; 3.muci. Avea perioade cand il adunai de pe jos. Era imposibil sa pleci cu el la filmare. Asa am ajuns sa invat si meseria asta. Cat sa ma descurc onorabil ajutandu-mi colegele la interviuri, anchete etc.

Odata, la Teatrul de Vara din Mamaia, mersesem sa filmez doua vorbe cu Tociu si Palade. Nu, nu lucram la niciun Bingo, da’… na, faceam de toate. Rasputin dormea pe el din cauza tariei consumate. Mi-era si teama sa nu scape camera. N-ar fi fost pentru prima oara cand cadea cu ea. I-am tras pe oameni deoparte si le-am zis “…hai sa-ncercam, totusi”. Da’ ce, era chip? Nici nu intram in cadru. Rasputin plimba camera ca si cand urmarea vrabiute invizibile. La un moment dat, Tociu, amuzat si plictisit deopotriva, se indreapta spre Rasputin, il apuca atent de umeri si-l da cativa pasi inapoi. Il ajuta sa nu cada, il rezeama cu spatele de un perete, ii fixeaza camera pe umar, priveste prin obiectiv sa vada daca Palade intra in cadru, eu apas pe Rec si incepem filmarea. Cadru fix, dubla 1. Si ultima. Parea filmat dintr-o barca intr-o seara cu valuri decente. Dar a mers, pe cuvant. A doua zi, Rasputin se lauda ca a fost super tare la filmare, dar el nu-si mai amintea absolut nimic. Nimic!

Sau am mers odata acasa la Ion Dichiseanu. Uf, ce-mi mai placea nevasta-sa! Fiica era mica, n-o bagam in seama. Ma rog, divaghez. Dimineata, pe la 10. Maestrul avea un bar in casa, foarte frumos amenajat. Si bogat in sticle multicolore. Zice: “Beti ceva?”. Eu, repede: “NU”. Rasputin: “Daca beti si dvs, maestre, cred ca incercam si noi…”. “Nu, nu, multumim frumos, a glumit”, ma mai opun eu o data. “Eu, dimineata, nu servesc decat o vodca, un whisky. Voi?” “Noi, nimic, pe cuvant”, fac ultima incercare fara pic de zambet pe fata. “Haideti ca nu va refuzam, totusi. Puneti-ne si noua un paharel, doua”, ma face Rasputin k.o.

Inca o trasatura si gata. Imprumuta bani pe care uita sa-i mai dea vreodata inapoi. In ziua de salariu, era coada la usa redactiei. Creditorii veneau sa-si ia leii de la Rasputin. Rasputin lipsea. Invariabil. Iar contabila putea confirma ca omul isi ridicase banii cu o zi mai devreme. Parte dintre pagubiti, cu chiu, cu vai, mai primeau si inapoi, dar salariul se termina repede. Foarte repede! Si de unde sa le dea la toti, de unde sa-si mai faca si cinste zi de zi, de unde sa mai ramana si cu aia 10 mii de lei in buzunar pentru prietenul care-i cerea la nevoie? Am avut si eu o experienta nefericita cu Rasputin, insa, gratie fostei neveste, mi-am recuperat datoria si m-am invatat minte.

In final, ii raman recunoscator. Eram doar un pustiulica si la muuulte doamne mi-a facut intrarea. Nici nu stiam prea bine altceva decat pozitia misionarului pe vremea aia. Doamnele au fost si dansele foarte dragute cu mine, le multumesc.

Due to an unnerving amount of interest recently in a piece of work I did sometime last year, I decided to post it here on the ol’ blogapollooza, too.

This was just my vaguely odd sense of humour taking control of my pen like some gibbering phantom limb, but it’s real nice to see people responding so positively to it!!! It’s a mix of literary greats, political stalwarts and other riffraff who couldn’t be bothered to shave. I also drew a partner for it, documenting the heroic moustaches of the ages – check ‘er out HERE.

Due to overwhelming demand (well, it’s not that overhelming…we are talking single digits here, folks), I’ve decided to list a few poster-sized copies of this beardy-weirdy image  for sale in my new Etsy shop.

Oh, and there’ll be new work coming this way in the next few days, not just more badly-honed sales pitch….

I strip the Special Forces officer of his uniform, and dress him in my clothes. Luckily, he looks somewhat like me. I leave him at the back of the elevator, with the knife still in his neck. I take his shotgun and pull the black balaclava over my face, as to hide my face, however, there is still the hole in the side.

The elevator “dings” and blood has pooled on the floor around the body, I am now on the roof. David is there, probably thinking of stopping me from killing the chancellor, unaware that he is too late. He turns around when the elevator arrives and his ponderous look turns into a look of sheer horror as he sees “Rasputin” with a knife in “his” throat.

“H-He, he-he’s . . . dead . . ?” David says in utter horror.

“No. He is very much alive,” I say back.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

David tries to run, he plans suicide, as to escape the horrors he will face. I stop him by putting the shotgun around his throat, putting him in a chokehold.

“Damn, I wish you hadn’t tried that, then I could have threatened you with throwing you over the edge, however, there are other ways . . .” I let the sentence drop off then tighten my grip on David’s throat.

“W-Why are you d-doing this . . ?” David says while his throat squeezes together from the cold steel pressing against it.

“Like I said earlier, I’m an anarchist, chaos runs through my veins.”

“C-Chaos . .? Rasputin, this is madness.”

“Madness . . ? This is anarchy.”

I turn him towards the elevator and release my grip on his neck. I press the barrel to his spine. “Will you help me?” I say knowing I have left him no other choice.

David swallows hard,”S-Sure, but only for my safety, not for yours.”

“Whatever, just get moving. Tell any guards that ask questions that you need to return to the TV station to pick up some files. And that I will escort you.”

David nods slowly.

The barrel of the shotgun moves from his spine and into a neutral position. We walk into the elevator and it travels to the first floor.

“Ding”, we walk out into the lobby. David breaks out into a nervous sweat and when we are almost to the door when he compromises my disguise.

“Terrorist! He killed the chan-”

He is interrupted by a shotgun blast. The buckshot rips through his chest. His heart is gone and a large portion of his vertebrae. No doubt, he’s dead.

Soon there were five men in front of me, each one of them brandishing an automatic rifle. I looked around desperately for something to take them out.

C’mon. Come on. It can’t end like this . . .

I spot my way out: a chandelier hanging about twenty feet up, on the ceiling. With that much momentum it would kill all of the Special Forces, easily. Instead of snapping (which I mainly do for dramatic effect, to please the child in me) I simply use my mind (as not to tip off the Special Forces) to melt the chain.

It’s not hard to see fro twenty feet up that the chain is turning red. It becomes more brittle, and snaps, the giant glass ornament falls.

The Special Forces are too distracted by the chandelier to mind me, and they stare up in awe. Glass shatters, the crystals dance across the tile; blood pools on the floor.

Five more dead. That’s nine counts capital murder.

I do not mourn the death of these pawns, instead I discard the shotgun, and replace it with one of the assault rifles. I turn around, to leave, and walk over David’s body. Ten. Ten counts. However, I don’t mourn his death either, I leave out of the glass double doors in the lobby.

Running as fast I can, I reach the perimeter fence – which leads out to a lightly wooded area. Luckily, they haven’t put up the razor wire yet. I reach the fence, and I begin climbing over it, however, when I reach the top a huge pain appears in my shin, and travels up through my body. I see the blur of a bullet and assume it tore through my leg.

The ground met my shoulder with tremendous force, and I rolled down an embankment. The automatic rifle was lost somewhere along the way.

The dirt turned into concrete, and I was about to enter the reservoir that provided the city’s main water supply. My body skipped down the concrete slop. Cold water splashed all over me, and instantly I was drenched.

And aside from that, I was now not only a wanted man, but also a fugitive.

“What in the hell are you doing here?!” the chancellor says in a shaky and frightened voice. He begins to move for the button under his desk – which would call for backup. Intent on stopping him, I dash forward and and grab a paperweight off of his desk and hit him over the head with it. He fall out of his chair and onto the floor, I hit him with the paperweight again. I grab him by the lapels of his suit jacket and slam him into a wall over to my left. He is saying something to me, however, I can’t hear him and lay into his face with my fists. Blood pours from the chancellor’s mouth, and through broken teeth he says:

“Rasputin, please stop. You and I, we are the same.” My hands move up to his throat. “Please stop . . .”

“Chancellor, the only thing that we have in common is that we are both going to die today.” My hands tighten around the chancellor’s throat, and he smiles, I smile too. Then comes the sickening snap.

The chancellor falls limply to my feet. And I know there are cameras – eyes – that saw everything. The smile washes away from my face, replaced by a sullen, blank look. I prepare for the Special Forces to charge in.

The elevator “dings” and I turn towards it. Three Special Forces soldiers charge in. I snap with both hands, setting fire to the two men on the outside of the group. The one in the middle cocks a shotgun, I roll to the right, and the blast hits the chancellor’s desk. I stand, crouched, on the floor to his right, I luge at him, we tumble like lovers into the elevator. His shotgun falls out of his hand and onto the elevator floor. I grab him by his flak vest and throw him into another wall in the elevator. I take the knife from his belt and stab him in the side of the neck. He lets out a low gurgle and kills over.

That’s four counts capital murder, I am now a wanted man.

My arm dropped back down to my side, the dark skinned man comes back with a fire extinguisher and puts out Joseph’s body. He removes the sword from his chest and dragged the body out of the arena.

I turned around, not saying anything, and walked towards the exit: an elevator at the back of the arena. I pushed the call button, and while I stand waiting for the elevator I say to the crowd, “Fuck you, you ignorant assholes.”

Just as the elevator doors open David catches my attention, he makes an “R” in sign language with his left hand and an “F” with the right, “RF” roof. I walk into the elevator and press the button for the roof.

What in the hell does he want? Probably a scolding.

What I did will probably get me kicked out of this tournament. They’re too much of pussies to look reality in the face, perhaps I made them think. Probably not, the masses hate thought, that’s why they follow the chancellor’s order blindly.

My thoughts are interrupted by the elevator’s “ding”, the doors slide open. Davis is there, sitting on the edge of the roof, facing me, with the posture and expression of “The Thinker”.

He sees me, the elevator doors slide shut, and he exhales deeply, clearly pissed. “Rasputin, what the hell is wrong with you? Why do you act this way?”

“I’m an anarchist, chaos is something that I enjoy, naturally I want to cause as much as possible.”

“Even at the expense of your life? And before you answer that, do you realize not only did you embarrass me, and insult everyone in the crowd, but you insulted the chancellor as well?”

“I don’t care about the god damned chancellor,” I say frustrated. and what makes me even angrier is the fact that David knows I hate the chancellor and 100% meant to insult him.

“You should, he’ll have you killed for this. He’ll take you down to the arena, in front of everyone and personally put a bullet through your skull.”

“Let’s see him try.”

“David gets off the roof’s edge and walks over to me, “Rasputin, stop being so damned reckless, it’ll be the death of you.”

I ignore the statement and ask him, “Where is the chancellor’s office?”

“I’m not obligated to tell you that,” David says nervously, he knows what will come next.

“Do you wish to die today, David?”

“N-No, but I still won’t tell you . . .”

I raise an eyebrow at him, “Oh, really? Have you ever wondered what it’s like for those poor souls who get boiled alive?” I pop my knuckles. David swallows hard, and I can tell he is about to cry, I win. He tells me the chancellor’s office is on the tenth floor.

I leave David sobbing on the roof, I don’t need him anymore. I call the elevator and press the button marked “10″, my eyes are wide, an evil grin washes over my face as the elevator goes down one floor then “dings”. I walk out into a beautiful office, fit for a chancellor, and know that it is about to be soaked in blood.

There was really no way to prepare myself for the task at hand, sure I had killed before but that made little difference. Those people were criminals, they deserved it, Joseph, however, was five years younger than me, and more importantly, innocent. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Sure he attacked me, but he was desperate for his freedom, as were all of us.

I walked, tiredly, down to gray hall to the arena, two men in dark suits escorted me down to the arena. I don’t think they were the men from before, there was really no way to tell.

When I reached the arena I was on an elevated platform, on the opposite side of the stands. Cameras zoom in on me, and ignorant people cheer.

On the opposite side of the platform Joseph emerges from a tunnel and he waves to the crowd, they cheered.

He jumps off of the platform, translucent blue energy twists around his feet and he gently floats down. Once he is about five feet from the arena floor and the energy disappears and he drops to the floor. People cheer.

I carefully climb onto the railing and jump down to the arena floor. People still cheer, not that it matters.

A man with dark skin, a shaved head, and a black suit like the men at the holding center. He has two one-handed swords, holding them upside down. He stands in the middle of the ring, Joseph and I each take a sword. The man tells us to turn around and walk twenty paces in the other direction. He tells us when he yells “GO!” we whip around and start fighting. This is done for suspense.

“GO!”, he yells. The man turns around and runs for the exit.

I move my arm in an upward diagonal motion and send an arc of flame in Joseph’s direction. He fires back with a wave of telekinetic energy. I rips through the flames and straight towards me. I’m sent flying backwards, my body skips across the arena floor. I get up and see Joseph charging at me. He is shooting more telekinetic blasts at me, not hard enough to knock me back, but hard enough to keep me still.

Joseph stops with the barrage about five feet from me, he swings his sword at me. I block it, we clash for about the next thirty seconds. Joseph forces my sword over to my side, he delivers a hard roundhouse kick to my face. I fall on my stomach. Joseph is prone for a killing blow, I roll out of the way.

I sit up and slash Joseph in the shin. He stupidly lowers his guard. I get up and make a downward swing at Joseph. Joseph blocks it. However, my sword goes farther than expected, Joseph’s sword broke. My blade falls into Joseph’s shoulder, it goes in about an inch. I pull it out and his blood sprays onto the left eye of my Domo-kun jacket.

He tries to attack me with the broken sword, but I blocked it. I knocked the blade from Joseph’s hand.

The tip of my sword is at Joseph’s throat. “This is technically a defeat,” I tell him.

“Yeah,” he says. “But this isn’t what they want, they want you to kill me.”

I prepare to push my blade forward but Joseph pushes me with telekinesis. I roll across the ground and stop ten feet away on my back, gasps among the crowd.

Joseph walks up to me with my sword in his hand.

This is the . . . end . . .?

No, fire, it wants to be . . . fed . . .

“Hey,Joseph,” I say.

“What?”

“‘Bye . . .”

I snap and set him on fire, he staggers backwards and drops the sword. He falls to the floor, thrashing wildly. I look down at the sword and decide to stop his screaming. I pick it up, turn it around and stab Joseph in the heart, he is dead almost instantly.

The flames eat away at his body, and the blade, it decides against it and goes back to Joseph.

The crowd erupts into cheers.

Among them it looks as though a riot is about to break out. And they start to chant, “Rasputin, Rasputin” over the great match I gave them.

I raise my fist, well it was almost a fist, except for one finger.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” I say to the crowd, they stop cheering. “I just killed someone and you’re cheering! I killed someone . . .”

My mother and I had kind of trainwreck of a conversation earlier this week.

It was the kind of conversation where I really wonder how it is possible to go forward now.

We have had so many of those that I didn’t get it too worked up, I have no confidence in our break-ups. They haven’t helped me anyway, because even in her absence she is so present in me. At the same time, I don’t want to be relating in a strictly damaging way, for either of us.

A lot of our stuff is the same old stuff.

It is frustrating. I thought of a lot of things, taking myself away from her, trying to behave differently, which I have never been able to do.

Today I got a very moving email from her. Apologizing, which was a huge surprise. For not being there for me, for what I lost. It made me cry. That goes so far in resolving the hurts I have, just to acknoweldge them and to suggest I deserved better. I mean I know she can’t change the past, I know that there were forces at work on her that made things quite difficult.

I know that, I don’t want her to wallow in the past, but still, when she is flip, when she tries to pretend like it was no big deal or even my fault, or that is “all in the past” when it is not for me, when those unresolved situations still plague me on my good days and make me down right surly on my bad days… being reverant and sincere, well there is a lot of play in that.

That’s all I really wanted.

Releasing a lot of it, felt divine.

More transcendence, it feels so good it makes me think of my boy Rasputin and his doctrine that you had to sin to get saved, and he would therefore do you the honor of helping you reach salvation while gettin’ a little sumpin sumpin for himself.

You know my thing for Russian mystics, Madame Blavatsky be praised.

In other news, the adopted gremlin in my heart couldn’t help but giggle when I read this:

Question
My adopted twenty year old daughter has been a mess since turning that magic age of eighteen. Prior to that there were a few issues but nothing major. She did well in high school and generally lived by our rules and seemed to share our values. She had a charmed childhood and grew up without drama in the home.
Then she went off to college and did drugs and drank her way out the door by Sophomore year. Her life has been one big drama with crisis after crisis. She has made nothing but poor decisions concerning guys, is amazingly promiscuous, has lost several jobs, is currently working as a pole dancer, and refuses to follow through with mental help care we have arranged for her. Currently we are paying her rent, because she can’t live with us, and covering health insurance costs. The problem is we’re not helping her! Thing just seem to get worse. I feel like an enabler, but I’d hate to see her on the street as I’m sure she has mental health issues.
I have lost many of my loving feelings for her as she has been nothing but an ungrateful, immoral tramp with concern for no one but herself. She is smooth and is constantly making promises she never keeps and really only uses us for our money. My husband an I both at the end of our rope we can go on ” helping her” like this.

I mean I do feel for the girl, but the adoptomomomachine is so obvious– I would like to invite her over so my pony can bite her in the ass.

No one who lost their mothers in the beginning of their life had a charmed childhood. Losing your mom is like losing your compass, I have seen much older people fall apart in the face of loss of momma.

A good adoptive mom can certainly be a boon, but she doesn’t erase the original.

“but we gave her everything, not the least of which was our insecurity, need, and denial of herself” Okay am so not really picking on adoptive moms here.

In my mind there is a huge difference between being an adoptive mom and an adoptomomomachine. Still the schandefreude is unbecoming of a sweetheart like myself.

David begins to walk over to  Joseph and attempt to help him calm down. I stop him and say, “David, is it alright if I leave?”

“Sure, Rasputin. Just take the elevator that brought you up here,” he says pointing at the elevator. He then walks over to Joseph, trying to comfort him but fails miserably. Joseph shouts some obscenities at David, and through all his curses his message is clear: “Leave me alone.”

David gives up and walks by me, he presses the button marked with an up arrow on the elevator’s outside panel. I follow him.

While we are in the elevator David says: “The first match will be starting soon, are you coming?”

“No. I’ll watch the live showing on T.V. Is there a library in this damn place?”

“A library? Well, yes, the entire fourth and fifth floors are one huge library, used not only as a hall of knowledge but as a safe haven for the contestants. The arena is below the first floor.”

“After he says this the elevator “ding”s and he steps out. “Are you sure you would not rather come down to the arena and watch the fight?” he says.

“No. I want to be in that arena as little as possible. I’ll watch from the library,” I reply.

“Well alright, be seeing you, Rasputin,” David says.

“‘Bye.” I say then press the button on the elevator control panel marked “4″. The elevator doors close as David walks away, towards the death chamber.

As the elevator ascends a robotic voice sounds over the P.A., “The first round of the tournament will begin shortly, those not yet in the arena who wish to attend must do so now, the doors are closing.”

I contemplate sending the elevator back down to the arena, but ultimately decide against it. I wanted my privacy. I began to wonder if Joseph had attended, but didn’t linger on it too long as I had more important things to worry about.

“Ding” goes the elevator when it reaches the fourth floor.

I step out of the lift, and the doors shut behind me, into the mahogany clad library. A slight smile washed across my face, there were enough books in here to last me months.

I unzip my Domo-kun jacket and drape it over a nearby chair. I had on a white undershirt underneath. I began exploring the library. Starting at the first floor I glance over the shelves, trying to find something that would catch my interest, there were quite a few old volumes, I would have to look into them later. As a whole the place must have been worth a fortune.

I turn on the T.V. hanging over in the corner of the library, there was but one channel, the fight. It wasn’t anything special, I didn’t know the fighters, they were clanking swords and throwing balls of psychic energy at each other. Standard fair.

About five minutes later an invisible force threw me across the room, I slid across the row of tables in the middle of the library. The books that were piled neatly on top were pushed aside by my body. I fell off and onto the floor.

“Oh, what the hell?! Who did that?!” was all that I could think of at the time.

“Me, Rasputin,” says Joseph.

A great post over at a fantastic blog called Steel Hip Design. And it is worth remembering that the other well-known ‘Mad Monk’ was Rasputin.

I don’t go to record stores that much anymore thanks to the impossible to resist MP3s. But I ended up having the day off yesterday and decided to hit up Rasputin’s. After an hour and a half I got 5 vhs’ for $5 and a film soundtrack under $2.

Monument Ave, 1998
I was so happy to find this, I had been looking for it the last few weeks at video rental stores to no avail. I watched it last night and thought it was a great movie. It’s directed by the late Ted Demme and stars my XY Attraction Denis Leary. I just finished reading Denis Leary’s book and saw that a lot of his personality and childhood upbringing is identical to the character he plays in this movie and they used his real life family photos too. However in the movie Leary plays a small time car thief in a tight-knit Boston Irish neighborhood where the golden rule is to never snitch.

Money For Nothing, 1993
I remember seeing the trailer for this movie back in 93, I was 8 and it wasn’t appealing to me at the time. I watched it last night as well and thought it was ok. I can watch it because John Cusack looks pretty damn good but if you’re not crushing on John I’d say pass on this one.

Judgement Night, 1993
I know I’m in the minority when it comes to loving this movie, but I do. I watch it On Demand practically every week when nothing good is on. But due to the move I won’t be enjoying the luxury of cable for much longer so it was time to get my own copy.

Lieberstraum, 1991
I haven’t watched this one yet, but I always come across it at video stores. The back cover reads:

An incredibly sexy cast, sensual lighting, cinematography, and an intriguing storyline turn this tale of passion, lust and murder into one the most visually stunning, mentally stimulating, sexually charged films pf the ’90s.

We’ll see, I’m a nerd for new cinematography techniques, and who knows it might be mentally stimulating.

Seven Minutes In Heaven, 1985
Haven’t seen this one either, but I have high hopes for it. It’s a ’80s coming of age tale and it stars Jennifer Connelly, sounds good on paper the screen.

Who’s The Man, 1993
I was excited to find the Who’s The Man soundtrack, I watched this movie religiously back in the day. It’s funny listening to the songs and knowing exactly which part in the movie that song appears. One of my favorite tracks is below.

Oh weh, das hätte bär beinahe in seiner Aufregung vergessen: Er muß ja auch seinen Koffer packen. Denn Bonifaz fliegt morgen ganz früh nach Salzburg! Da trifft er als Chefbär die großen Chefs der Firma. Bär war sogar extra dafür gestern noch mal unterwegs zur Fellpflege. Also, nicht daß bär sonst schlunzig daher käme, aber er will ja doch einen guten Eindruck hinterlassen.

Und jetzt muß noch schnell der Koffer gepackt werden. Glücklicherweise hilft Rasputin.

So ist alles schnell erledigt, damit die Jungs noch gemütlich Tee saufen können, ehe bär zu Bett schleicht. Sein Wecker rappelt morgen früh um vier Uhr los. Bär ist schon ganz aufgeregt. Das werden bestimmt spannende Tage in Salzburg. Bär berichtet, wenn er zurück ist.

It’s a dark, gloomy day.  The kind where having all the lights on in the apartment is doing nothing to brighten the room.  I’m working from home, but the gloom is weighing on me and focus is proving a challenge (hence the creation of a new blog.)

Oscar is pacing, hitting everything with his giant plastic cone along the way.  He got fixed not too long ago and had a reaction to the dissolvable stitches and thusly doomed to the lampshade-like appendage for another 10 days while his junk heals more appropriately. (Hugh has been showing a rate of empathy far surpassing my own, understandably.)

Grizzly Bear is keeping me company, though not doing much to lighten the mood.  It might be time to bust out some cheerier musical guns to lift the day’s tone.  I went on a bit of a musical bender on Sunday and practically doubled my iPod’s content…surely there’s a pop-ish tune or two to break the funk somewhere on the list.

Life has been hectic and full of happy times of late.  I’m thinking of my overzealous vodka tasting at Rasputin last week.  Who knew premium vodkas, pickles and rye bread could bring such joy?  Joy until my early morning wake-up (read: hangover) the next day.  And then of course I embraced my inner 13 yr old girl by catching a “New Moon” matinee with my very indulgent (perhaps overly so that he allowed such a thing) man.  Robert Pattinson is just too delicious to resist, I don’t care how old you are.

I salvaged some dignity as a grown women and an appreciator of fine films by catching “An Education” on Friday.  Nick Hornby, I love you.  Side note: Did you know that Dave Eggers’ wife is one of the co-founders of “The Believer”?  Amazing.  And lovely that these beautiful genius people find one another.  We also went to a warm and wonderful birthday party on Saturday full of just the most interesting people.  So great because I was so socially burnt out by Saturday that dragging my ass out the door was a feat in and of itself.  It was a tasty potluck with an eclectic, beautiful spread and we enjoyed and satiated ourselves fully.

And here we are, a new work week begun, a puppy still in a cone and a blog introduced for all to read of my various whims and rambles.

I awoke in the square gray room. Groggily I got off the bed, rubbing my eyes I walked out of the room. The two men in suits escorted me back to the man in green’s study. This time they didn’t grab my jacket or point guns at me, they merely walked on either side of me.

The suited men and I reached the cherry wood door to the man in green’s study. The men stood guard on either side of the door. I turned the knob and opened the door shutting it behind me.

“Ah, Rasputin, good morning,” says the man in green in a giddy sort of tone.

“Is it? I ask. “Your men break into my apartment, beat me with their plastic rods, break my finger, point guns at me, and you tell me that I will be competing in a death tournament against my will. Is it really a good morning?”

“Listen Rasputin. I don’t need your shit this early in the morning. Why don’t we start over?”

“Fine,” I say agreeably, it isn’t like me to compromise so quickly but he could have me killed in a matter of seconds, “I’m Rasputin Write, and you are?”

“I’m David Schneider,” he says, ” and I’m about to have nineteen deaths on my conscience.”

“Hurm. So you d feel guilty,” I say, “I have gained some respect for you. Now, down to business, can you tell me about this tournament?”

“Uh, sure, Rasputin. I owe you that much. First off, I need to tell you not to be angry with me for this tournament, as I said before this is the fault of the high chancellor. I am a T.V. Executive and the chancellor gave me a small number of his Special Forces to round twenty psychics at random. I had called all of them here previously, as I did with you, to tell them basically what I am telling you now. Also, he will be doing these tournaments for years until there are only the winners left, and they will be almost brain washed into joining his army and spreading his propaganda bullshit.”

“Do you realize that you could be killed for saying such things, David?”

“Yeah.”

“Hurm. Very well. I must apologize for earlier, didn’t mean to come off as rash. Can you tell me of the rules for the tournament?”

“Yeah, the tournament will work as a tree, each match being a branch. The matches will be one on one, using any weapons they’ll give you, such as swords, knives, clubs. And as of last night you will be using your psychic powers.”

“So, David, can you tell me who my first opponent is?”

David opens a drawer in his desk and he takes out a file and drops it on his desk. I walk forward, leaning over the desk, and open the file. There is a page titled “Basic Information”, it says his name is Joseph Kovacs and that his psychic power id telekinesis. “Hmm. Think that he could beat my fire.”

“That’s the idea,” says David.

“Think it could stop me from boiling the water in his body?”

“Rasputin, we made that skill illegal for anyone with pyrokinesis, if you do that they’ll kill you.”

I close the file. “When are we going to leave to meet the other contestants?” I ask, then add: “Soon, I hope.”

David takes the file and puts it back in the door and closes it. “Well, we could leave now I suppose,” he says,”the men outside will show you to the Psychic Containment Vehicle. All of the fighters were here but they left already in the other nineteen containment vehicles.”

“Fine by me,” I say.

Then I turn around and walk out the door. The men each grab one of my arms and lift me up and carry me to a huge double door. The door opens as we approach and they walk down a small flight of stairs into a stone courtyard with many beautiful statues. They take me to a black truck, one of them opens the door and the other throws me inside, it is like a silver box.

After about fifteen minutes the truck comes to a stop, the men in suits come around the back and pull me out of the truck.

They escort me inside the building. The place is very sterile, even more so than a hospital. I didn’t have much time to look around (not that there was much to look at) before the men in suits directed me towards an elevator. But from the brief look that I got the interior almost matched that of a waiting room. But what would they be waiting for?

“So,” I begin, “where are we going?”

The men in dark suits give no reply.

When we get to the elevator one of the men presses the button with the up facing arrow.

We walk into the rectangular lift. The same man who pressed the button before steps forward and presses the button marked “RF”, roof.

The ride upward wasn’t long, about two minutes. There was a “ding” when the elevator reached its destination. There was a man standing there, I knew him, and there was another person, he wasn’t really a man, more like a kid, he looked to be about sixteen.

“Hello again, Rasputin,” chimes David.

“Hmm. Good to see you, David.” As I say this the two men silently leave through the elevator behind me.

“Likewise,” says David.” Uh, I believe we should begin with introductions,” David takes a piece of cloth from his suit pocket and dabs nervous sweat from his forehead. “Rasputin this is Joseph Kovacs, your opponent in the second match. Joseph this is Rasputin Write.”

“Good to meet you Jo-”

I am cut off by Joseph.

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Well, no need to get all pissy,” I reply.

“Argh!” he says in frustration,” Stop! Just fucking stop it! Stop with all your mind game bullshit!” It is at this moment that Joseph breaks down and starts crying.

“Er, Joseph?”

“Didn’t I tell you to shut the fuck up?!”

“Er, David?”

“Rasputin,” he says them walks over to another corner of the roof while Joseph cries, I follow. “Joseph is . . . mentally disturbed, e,g, he hears thing; says that are strange; and just plain breaks down like that . . .”

“Well,” I interrupt,”does this affect his powers at all?”

“In some ways yeah.”

“Hurm. A psychopathic telekinetic fuckwit versus a pissed off pyrokinetic. This is getting interesting.”

When I awoke there was a throbbing pain in my head from when the Special Forces smacked me over the head. I tried to move but was chained to a metal chair. My middle finger was still broken, it was really uncomfortable because there were these sort of metal mits on my hands. I sat waiting for whatever the hell the world was going to throw at me next, I didn’t have to wait long. Two men in dark suits with shaved heads and black leather gloves. They unchained me from the chair and out of the solitary room. One of them dragged me along by my jacket through the Psychic Ward, and the other had a pistol to my head. Behind every sanitized door was a psychic waiting to be executed.

But to my surprise they dragged my right by the WWII style gas chamber and into a sort of study. With walls and shelves of  cherry wood, every shelf was filled with books, and once all the shelves were filled there were books piled onto the floor and desks and tables. There was a man sitting at a desk at the back of the room, he had thinning gray hair, and a green plaid suit. The dark suite men released me and left, closing the door behind them.

“Hello, Rasputin,” the man in the green suit began in an indifferent tone. “I have been expecting you.” I am gaping, expecting me? What the hell for?

“U-Uh,” I stammer trying to think, “Why?” The man in green adjusts himself in his chair trying to get comfortable, he exhales deeply.

“Because you are one of twenty psychics chosen to be in a tournament. I was most excited to meet you, because you have killed before. You are the one I will win.”

“M-Me, really? And just what the hell is this tournament?”

“Just a little something to be held for the chancellor’s entertainment. The psychic’s will be his personal gladiators.”

“Rrr! He can’t just toy with people’s lives like that! They may be freaks to him but they’re still human’s!”

The man in plaid puts up a hand as to tell me to calm down. “There is no need to get snippy with me, Rasputin,” he says keeping his cool. “If you win you will not only get your freedom, but you will have enough money to purchase your own continent.”

“Money? Money!? You think you can buy me?! Fuck you!” I turn around for the door.

But the man in plaid stops me, he exhales deeply, clearly angry, and says. “Rasputin, just listen, if you walk out that door the men in suits will kill you. Please, I beg of you, agree.” The man lowers his voice to a whisper. “If you agree I’ll give you something special.”

“What?”

“The use of your powers.”

“What?”

“Originally we were going to have locks on all twenty contestants until the last match. However, if you agree there will be no locks.”

“None?”

“Nadda.”

“Hurm. Alright.”

“Good. Good, Rasputin, we will give you proper living arrangements for the night. Tomorrow you will be taken to a training center to further master your psychic abilities, and meet the other contestants.”

“Hmm. Sounds fun.”

I leave the room and the men in suits walk me to a plain room with gun metal gray walls and a small bed in the far right corner. Groggily, I walk over to the small twin bed and collapse. I drift away to Dream Land anxious to meet the other contestants.

"Does this even need a witty caption?"

Lady Gaga is a confusing artist. I’ll say this right now; her songs are cringe-worthy, and incredibly pretentious at times. However, she creeps up on you, and before you know it you are singing along to every chorus, and trying to join in on the absurd dance moves in her videos. Lady Gaga is the both the worst of pop, and the best of it all at once, and I don’t know if I’ll ever wrap my head around her fully. If her first album wasn’t confusing enough, this special edition bonus tracks-cum-EP-cum-new album that she calls ‘The Fame Monster’ just adds to the Gaga enigma.

Just let me take on the Lady as a whole, first off. She’s incredibly odd, in terms of look, costume, public persona, music, and especially her music videos. By rights, she should have gone the way of Bjork in the public perception, a one hit wonder that drops out of the mainstream but still has hardcore fans who can accept her strange aesthetic and unique musical style. Lady Gaga, on the other hand, endures. I think this is because she isn’t unique. Whether this is pure lack of creativity, or as I like to see her, a big postmodernist comment on the world of pop and celebrity, is still up for debate. What Gaga does well is take on the wide range of what we call pop, smash it all together through massive layers of production and create something decidedly weird, but catchy as hell and so bombastically unoriginal that it comes full circle and feels fresh and new.

I hate to go track by track, but I’m going to party have to for ‘The Fame Monster’ as it is not really a coherent album. Oh sure, it’s being sold as that now, but it was originally planned as a bonus disc for her debut release ‘The Fame’, filled with tracks that were either new or left off that release, depending on which articles you read. The only thing that seems to pull the album together is the repetition of the words “free bitch” in a few of the songs. The reason for highlighting certain tracks will just give you an idea of what to expect, and an idea of how eclectic an album ‘The Fame Monster’ is:

Bad Romance is the closest to what I’ve come to expect of Gaga thus far, with a similar sound to previous songs like Paparazzi, though with a vocal hook that reminds me of Boney M’s Rasputin, and a verse in French for no other reason than it’s a Lady Gaga song. Alejandro opens with a spoken intro in a bad, pan-European accent, and carries on in that vein, sounding like Shakira taken to the Europop extreme. Monster is booming R&B and features the line “he ate my heart and then he ate my brain.” ‘nuff said. Speechless would sound like Abbey Road/Let It Be era Beatles mixed with Christina Aguilera, if it weren’t for the strange accent Lady Gaga puts on to sing it. Try to imagine a country drawl mixed with Dick Van Dyke quality cockney and you’ll be about half way there. Dance In The Dark sounds a little like a darker version of her earlier song ‘Just Dance’, funnily enough. Telephone (feat. Beyonce) opens with a harp, and then breaks out into a thumping club track. If you like random vocal effects and hearing Beyonce for a verse, then you’ll probably enjoy it, there’s not much else to it really. So Happy I Could Die is what Rhianna would sound like if she’d been around in the 90s, pop R&B scene. Finally we have Teeth, which to my ears is the love child of Fanz Ferdinand’s ‘Ulysses’ and everything Scissor Sisters ever released. Though sadly, unlike those bands, Lady Gaga’s tongue is nowhere near her cheek in this one.

So where does that leave us? The Fame Monster is an eclectic mix of songs, which while possibly enjoyable on their own, don’t totally work together. Actually even on their own, just as you start to get into a song something, be it the lyrics, or an odd sound effect Gaga decided to add, will make you cringe. The subject matter is a little more mainstream than her main her first album, with each track seeming more about relationships than celebrity. Here’s the rub. Nothing I or any other reviewer says about this album will matter. This album will sell. It will pump out single after single, and Lady Gaga will make video after absurd video to promote it. I still can’t work out whether Lady Gaga is a genius or just very lucky to hit on some untouched artery of the market, but it doesn’t really matter. She’s cemented in pop culture now, and this album is doing nothing to endanger that.

5/10

Standout Tracks:

Bad Romance

Speechless

Telephone (feat. Beyonce)

Heute war hier Sturm und Regen. Und irgendwann war Sturm ohne Regen, das war das Signal für Monster und Flachlandhutze, sich an den Strand zu begeben. Das Meer kam fast bis an die Dünen ran. Hier zwei Fotos, wobei das auf den Bildern leider nicht halb so imposant aussieht wie es in Wirklichkeit war:

Fotografieren war ziemlich schwierig, weil das Objektiv andauernd beschlug. Jedenfalls waren die Monsterhaare vom Sturm ordentlich zerzaust:

Nun noch ein bisschen Puscheligkeit, wenn ich schon mal dabei bin, Fotos hochzuladen. Zwei Freunde knabbern einträchtig nebeneinander Schweineohren weg:

Hier ein Pony mit puscheliger “Frisur”. Besonders interessant fand ich, dass es nicht nur verschiedenfarbiges Fell hatte, sondern auch die Haare unterschiedlich sind. Kann mich nicht erinnern, so was schon mal gesehen zu haben, allerdings sehe ich auch nicht so oft Ponys oder Pferde:

Ein puscheliger Hund:

Und noch mehr Ponycontent, man beachte hier die leicht lockig-puschelige “Frisur” dieses Fohlens:

Zur Abwechslung General Rasputin auf dem Feldherrenhügel, der das bereits eroberte Gelände überblickt:

Vorm Urlaub habe ich Blinkfeuer versprochen, in Dänemark nach einem guten Ersatz für Tim Wiese zu suchen. Zwar ist Wiese zur Zeit in Topform, redet allerdings leider hier und da recht dummes Zeug, so sehr, dass es sogar Werderfans gibt, denen ihr Torwart peinlich ist. Einen kenne ich sogar persönlich.

Hier also mein Ersatzvorschlag. Rein zufällig manage ich diesen sehr talentierten Torwart, Herr Allofs möge sich also einfach umgehend mit mir in Verbindung setzen.

Dieser begnadete Nachwuchskeeper heißt übrigens Rasputin Strand. Die Devise sollte also lauten:

Ich kann dafür garantieren, dass Rasputin eine wesentliche Verbesserung für den grün-weißen Verein sein wird, und vor allem: Kein Zittern mehr, wenn ein Mikro in die Nähe des T. Wiese kommt! Vorteile über Vorteile.

Man hilft ja gern…

Der November an sich ist ja ein Monat, in dem man Puscheligkeit besonders gut gebrauchen kann. Grau, nasskalt, früh dunkel, das alles schreit nach einem großen Maß an Puschelpower.

Zunächst einmal eine besonders erfreuliche Nachricht, nicht nur im Sinne der Puscheligkeit: Murmel und Murmelchen haben es endlich geschafft, Nachwuchs zu bekommen! Großartig, oder?

Außerdem ist es mir gelungen, einen Puschelkaktus zu erwerben. Wobei darauf geachtet werden sollte, dass hier Puscheligkeit nicht gleich Kuscheligkeit ist. Pieksen kann der nämlich trotzdem ganz schön!

Auch in Dänemark sind alle Sinne darauf ausgerichet, Puscheliges zu entdecken. Hier: Puschelding am Strand:

Und die Flachlandhutze ist natürlich sofort Feuer, Flamme und Puscheligkeit, umgehend übernimmt sie den Schutz des Puscheldings:

Überhaupt treibt so ein Puschelding die Flachlandhutze zu sportlichen Höchstleistungen an. Doping by Puscheligkeit — das wird ja wohl erlaubt sein?!

Dem Hursch geht’s auch gut. Hier hat sie es sich puschelig-kuschelig gemütlich gemacht:

Und auch die Flachlandhutze ist nach drei Stunden Toben am Strand und in den Dünen puschelig-platt:

Ich hoffe, dass es Euch nun auch puschelig-warm ums Herz geworden ist, trotz tristen Novemberwetters.

The House of Blues hosted some viciously awesome metal Wednesday night, as Metalocalypse’s Dethklok and Georgia’s Mastodon packed the venue to the rafters with jacked-up metalheads. Throw in a couple of amazing underground metal bands in High on Fire and the insanely creative Converge, and you’ve got a metal tour that literally kicks the crap out of the big summer geezer quilting parties like Cruefest and Mayhem.

Is there anything more effing metal than this guy?

Unfortunately for a large number of fans (and this reviewer), the show started at the unholy crack of dawn (6:30pm, which for all intensive purposes may as well have been 6:30am), meaning most of the sold-out crowd missed out on openers Converge and High on Fire. Damn: should’ve taken that imaginary start time more seriously.

By the time progressive sludge metal rockers Mastodon took the stage, however, the HOB was packed to the gills: while the majority of the (younger) crowd was probably there to see cartoon metal, every serious metal fan in the country would kick their best friend in the junk for a chance to see Masto-effing-don live.

For better or worse, the band’s entire set was more slow and ponderous than brutal: most of the songs off their newest album, Crack the Skye, sounded better on CD than live –although that may have had something to with the sound system, which featured the drums and a whole lot of indistinguishable fuzz. Towards the end of the set, when Mastodon went back to some of their earlier material, the sound was improved but the frequent and unexpected shifts in timing took most of the crowd out of any metal groove; after seeing Mastodon live, there might actually be such a thing as being too progressive.

While the band had no stage show whatsoever, they did spruce up the visual show (touring with Dethklok, you pretty much have to), spending most of the show playing in front of a silent movie-esque Rasputin Goes to Hell and Slays the Devil storyline, and later playing in front of their totally metal backdrops: the three-headed beast fetish from the cover of Blood Mountain, the massive white whale attacking a ship in icy waters from the cover of Leviathan, and the exploding horse from their first album cover, Remission. Much like the following band, Mastodon was seemingly content to blend into the foreground and provide musical accompaniment for the surreal visuals on the projection screen behind them.

Remember, kids: the more merch you buy, the more tours you'll get to see

Finally, at the decidedly non-metal time of 10:00pm sharp (say what you will about HOB, but they get their bands to start and end on time. As a performing musician myself, you have no idea how impressive that is), Dethklok took the stage. For those of you wondering how a cartoon band could “take the stage”, Dethklok’s solution was ingenious: have the real band play almost invisibly in the foreground, while full-length videos of the television show’s songs run on the big screen. It’s a herculean task requiring impeccable timing and musicianship, but Dethklok was up for the challenge.

The actual band centers around Metalocolypse’s creator/writer/director/songwriter/voices dude Brendon Small –you can listen to our interview with Small from last year’s tour here– and a motley cast of elite mercenaries, including wizened metal drummer Gene Hoglan, former Zappa guitarist Mike Keneally and bassist Bryan Beller. Despite playing second-fiddle to the cartoon characters behind them, the band itself actually put on quite a show, throwing themselves into the show with a surprising amount of stagecraft while never missing a beat.

The band played the popular songs with amazing precision –with one possible exception during Thunderhorse when the vocals and animation didn’t quite link up– and worked the crowd with Dethklok’s Queen-inspired brand of hooky thrash metal. For the most part, the show was little different from last tour’s, with a few new videos from the most recent season like Bloodlines, The Gears and Burn the Earth mixed in with older classics like Awaken, (the highly disturbing) Murmaider, Hatredcopter, Birthday Dethday and the Duncan Hills Coffee Jingle.

Almost as soon as the set started, however, it was over at 11pm sharp –likely just in time to let the younger members of the crowd get home in time for their favorite shows on Adult Swim– but I’m not faulting the 12- and 13- year old fans in any way. However you get introduced to the beauty and power of heavy metal, whether you grew up listening to bootleg tapes of King Diamond, accidentally heard Quiet Riot on the radio once, or (like me) was turned on to metal by Metallica’s Black Album –it’s all good.

In honour of National Beard Month, a list of the 15 Scariest (and Most Culturally-Relevant) Beards of All Time. Like this one:

Rasputin – Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin’s beard may have led to the fall of the Romanovs. A Russian mystic, called by some the “Mad Monk,” he was the only person who could alleviate Tsar Nicholas II’s son Alexei’s suffering from hemophilia. We think his magic powers originated in his beard. As legend has it, he also used his beard to seduce the Tsarina and scores of other Russian women into wild orgies. We’re scared.

The 15 Scariest (and Most Culturally-Relevant) Beards of All Time [Flavorwire]

Bullingdon Boys - we know lots of them are Tories, surely none can be Liberal Democrats!

By now everyone knows of the antics of the Bullingdon Club, and whether it is trashing pubs or throwing other students ‘in the Mercury’ nothing comes as a shock any more. Even being members of the Tory front bench comes as no shock.

However, there are a number of surprise members that tell you a lot about it.  Whether it is Kings, Princes, Knights or Lords, two stood out for me as surprising.

Perhaps ‘pillars of the establishment’ like Darius Guppy, Nathaniel Rothschild and Gottfried von Bismarck from the modern era might not come as a much of a surprise.  Nor, for that matter might Cecil Rhodes, Edward VIII, Lord Randolph Churchill or Rasputin’s nemesis Prince Felix Yussupov from yesteryear. The description ‘colourful’ does not do these chaps justice. You might even be impressed to know that David Dimbleby, John Profumo and Alan Clark were members whilst at Oxford.

Two notable Liberals stand out from the list.

Tim Beaumont, President of the Liberal Party in the 1960s, who later joined the Green Party, sitting in the House of Lords, as The Rev. Lord Beaumont of Whitley, was a very engaging chap, funny and charming he surprised with his later politics as a member of the Bullingdon Club.

The other, the much lamented Sir Ludovic Kennedy, who died recently, contested Rochdale for the Liberal Party in the 1950s, and was also a Bullingdon member whilst at the University.

It makes you wonder if there are any more Liberal Democrats out there who were members of the Bullingdon Club, especially of the present crop of Liberal Democrat MPs and peers.

Endlich wieder auf dem laufenden bei Saris Projekt. Und im Gegensatz zum vorigen Motto fiel mir hier sofort was ein. Nicht umsonst habe ich den spielfreudigsten Hund der Welt.

Hier also ein paar aktuelle Bilder, frisch heute geknipst. Rasputin in Aktion.