It’s that time of year again when people forgo their usual sarcasms and recognize the good things in life. I know there is a lot to be sarcastic about these days and, if you watch entertainment news or The Soup, you know what I’m talking about. But there are many things to be thankful for such as good music. So, here are ten things that I’m thankful for (all music related of course): 

10. Drum Off 09: I’m thankful that there are corporations such as Guitar Center that still the value quality music, hosting events like this featuring the best drummers like Danny Carey from Tool and Brian Dailor from Mastodon.

9. Webcasts: I’m thankful for webcasts that bring festivals like Coachella and KROQ’s Almost Acoustic Christmas to my computer every year when I can’t be there in person.

8. The Beastie Boys, Vandals, and The Aquabats: I’m thankful that there are really talented musicians who resist the urge to take themselves seriously.

7. Natasha Khan from Bat for Lashes: I’m thankful this rising star thinks the Karate Kid and Stevie Nicks are important cultural icons.

6. Insanely unique musicians: I’m thankful for musicians such as Maynard James Keenan, Tori Amos, Bjork and Mike Patton, who all take music to places no one ever imagined or expected.

5. NIN farewell tour: I’m thankful that I finally got to see NIN live before Trent Reznor retired it.

4. Deftones’ resilliance: I’m thankful that Chi Cheng is still holding on and maybe someday we’ll get to see him play again.

3. The Cure still rocks: I’m thankful this band is still touring and making great music. Without The Cure, Deftones and Muse would never sound the way they do.

2. Rage Against the Machine reunion: I’m thankful that I got to see this band reunite at Coachella in 2007 with 80,000 other RATM fans.

1. Bad Religion continues to comment on American society: I’m thankful Greg Graffin is saying all the things that need to be said and is also a UCLA professor, who is actually doing his part to help mold American youth into critically thinking members of society. 

And now a Band of the Week I am very thankful for…Placebo!

I’ve been listening to this band for a while now and I am surprised that they are not as big in the states as they are everywhere else. Since the first time that I heard their cover of Kate Bush’s “Running Up That Hill,” I was hooked. I enthusiastically suggest anything from their 2006 album Meds, but you must hear “Lazarus” and “Drag.” They recently released a new album Battle for the Sun and I am loving “The Never-Ending Why.” I saw them live at Coachella and I highly recommend catching them live. However, this band will be on a World tour until March. Hopefully, these Brits will visit the states soon.

Until next time, protege moi. -K

I think exploring history is like looking at the nighttime starry sky. No matter where you look you can discover something new. This week I came across a powerful and moving story while researching the song “Killing in the Name” by Rage Against the Machine.

On June 11, 1963, a Vietnamese Mahayana Buddhist monk named Thích Quảng Đức performed the act of “self-immolation” at a busy Saigon road intersection in protest.

The act itself occurred at the intersection of Phan Dinh Phung Boulevard and Le Van Duyet Street. Thích Quảng Đức emerged from the car along with two other monks. One placed a cushion on the road while the second opened the trunk and took out a five-gallon gasoline can. As the marchers formed a circle around him, Thích Quảng Đức calmly seated himself in the traditional Buddhist meditative lotus position on the cushion. His colleague emptied the contents of the gasoline container over Thích Quảng Đức’s head. Thích Quảng Đức rotated a string of wooden prayer beads and recited the words “Nam Mô A Di Đà Phật” (“homage to Amitabha Buddha”) before striking a match and dropping it on himself. Flames consumed his robes and flesh, and black oily smoke emanated from his burning body.

Thích Quảng Đức was protesting against the persecution of Buddhists by South Vietnam’s Ngô Đình Diệm administration. Photos of his self-immolation were circulated widely across the world and brought attention to the policies of the Diệm regime.

A spokesperson for the Buddhists had alerted U.S. correspondents the day before that “something important” was going to happen, but most reporters disregarded that message.

Photographer and journalist Malcolm Browne did show up and took the picture above, which won the World Press Photo of the Year award in 1963.

Journalist David Halbertsam of the New York Times also was there and wrote this eyewitness account:

I was to see that sight again, but once was enough. Flames were coming from a human being; his body was slowly withering and shriveling up, his head blackening and charring. In the air was the smell of burning human flesh; human beings burn surprisingly quickly. Behind me I could hear the sobbing of the Vietnamese who were now gathering. I was too shocked to cry, too confused to take notes or ask questions, too bewildered to even think… As he burned he never moved a muscle, never uttered a sound, his outward composure in sharp contrast to the wailing people around him.

Information for this posting came from Wikipedia: Thích Quảng Đức. That page contains much more information about the aftermath of Đức’s protest.

This week I was enjoying the song “Killing in the Name” by Rage Against the Machine. The song is a commentary on killing in the name of religion or God. For the cover art for the single the band chose the famous photograph of Thích Quảng Đức’s self-immolation.

That photo is what prompted me to learn more, and I’m glad I did. I find this to be a deeply moving, powerful and disturbing story.

I was quite surprised to learn just how common the act of self-immolation can be. You can read about many more examples at Wikipdedia: Self-immolation.

Here’s a video of the song “Killing in the Name” by Rage Against the Machine:

1. the beatles – sgt. pepper’s lonely hearts club band
2. rage against the machine – dto.
3. nirvana – nevermind
4. the velvet underground – the velvet underground & nico
5. pink floyd – the dark side of the moon

Chart Attack – Kate Harper
Hey, kids. Just for the record, a Harvard degree might not get you employed right away when you’re finished with school.

Tom Morello knows that much, since the Rage Against The Machine guitarist and former Audioslave member says he worked as a male stripper after he graduated from Harvard University with a bachelors of political science degree and moved to Los Angeles in 1986.

“When I graduated from Harvard and moved to Hollywood, I was unemployable,” Morello wrote in a new guest column for NME.com. “I was literally starving, so I had to work menial labour and, at one point, I even worked as an exotic dancer. ‘Brick House’ [by The Commodores] was my jam!

“I did bachelorette parties and I’d go down to my boxer shorts. Would I go further? All I can say is thank god it was in the time before YouTube! You could make decent money doing that job – people do what they have to do.”

Morello also explained how working as late California Democratic Senator Alan Cranston for two years in the 1980s politicized him… but made him never want to go into politics.

“I never had any real desire to work in politics but if there was any ember burning in me, it was extinguished working in that job because of two things: one of them was the fact that 80 per cent of the time I spent with the Senator, he was on the phone asking rich people for money. It just made me understand that the whole business was dirty. He had to compromise his entire being every day.

“The other was the time a woman phoned up to the office and wanted to complain that there were Mexicans moving into her neighborhood. I said to her, ‘Ma’am, you’re a damn racist,’ and she was indignant. I thought I was representing our cause well, but I got yelled at for a week by everyone for saying that! I thought to myself that if I’m in a job where I can’t call a damn racist a damn racist, then it’s not for me.”

You can see Morello perform as The Nightwatchman at a benefit for The Pablove Foundation, an organization that works to improve the lives of children with cancer, at Los Angeles’ Avalon Ballroom on Nov. 21.

That’s right boys and girls, Tom Morello used to be a stripper! Well, it doesn’t change anything, but it sure is hilarious. I wonder if he said “Fuck You, I won’t do what you tell me!” when ladies asked him to get naked haha.

Chris

For many people, the Sesame Street theme song evokes images of a diverse group of joyous children playing with Big Bird and the other muppets. But for some Guantanamo Bay, Iraq, and Afghanistan detainees, the song might be a reminder of long nights interrupted by screaming kids looking for the location of Sesame Street, as the show’s theme song is one of several songs allegedly used by the United States military as part of its interrogation techniques.

On Thursday, October 22, the National Security Archive, a private research institute and library situated at George Washington University, filed Freedom of Information Act requests to obtain the names of the songs and artists used in interrogations. (The following document provides a list of bands.) Popular musicians such as Tom Morello of Rage Against the Machine and bands like R.E.M. and Pearl Jam, as part of the Close Gitmo Now campaign, have endorsed the requests. The prevailing sentiment among these musicians is that their music is supposed to promote peace and justice, not cracking the minds of detainees.

CNN reported that some musicians may be contemplating legal action against the U.S. government. The most likely claim would involve copyright infringement, but the musicians are unlikely to prevail in a suit. Section 101 of the Copyright Act states that to perform publicly means:

(1) to perform or display it at a place open to the public or at any place where a substantial number of persons outside of a normal circle of a family and its social acquaintances is gathered;

Although detainees probably do not fall within a “normal circle of a family and its social acquaintances,” the military usually played the music for only a few detainees and thus the public part is unlikely to be met.

However, even if the musicians would successfully argue for a public performance, a victory may still be elusive. Section 114(d)(1)(c)(iii) exempts from copyright infringement “a transmission within a business establishment, confined to its premises or the immediately surrounding vicinity.” The military could persuade a judge that its business establishment is the detention center and that the sounds were confined to that area.

– Chris Rigsby

Image Source

1. People with ADHD and amnesia don’t make good murderers since they always forget their original motive.

2. If you’re gonna burn crosses, wear flame-retardant cross-burning clothing, especially if your boring day job involves nothing but “work(ing) forces.”

3. How the hell can you be accused of doing “what they told ya” when you can’t even remember the name of the thing you’re killing for?

4. The easiest way to trick someone into doing something they don’t want to do is to make them say: “Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!”

5. You gotta need an awful lot of badges if “those who died, are justified for wearing the badge” and you “justify those that died by wearing a badge” too.

6. In a court of law, admitting to a murder by saying you were “killing in the name of” isn’t a guarantee of getting a reduced sentence. At most, you will be compelled by the court to get a prescription for Ritalin. (edg)

Tutto quello che segue nasce da una semplice serata a ballare, una serata come tante altre. La notte di Halloween, che poi è solo una scusa come un’altra per fare i darkettoni, truccarsi pesantemente e indossare un vestito stracciato che non vuoi ancora buttare. La cosa bella è che sono andata a questo party al Bronson, nella provincia di Ravenna, e c’era musica anni ‘90. E allora ti chiedi come mai sia quella la musica ancora capace di emozionarti, e ti accorgi che forse è tutto legato a quel decennio di transizione, in cui sei passata (almeno formalmente) dall’infanzia all’età adulta.

Negli anni ‘90 non ero certo più felice di adesso. Anzi, si può ragionevolmente sostenere il contrario. Visto che nel 1990 avevo 8 anni e nel 2000 18, quel decennio è stato sotto molti versi il più difficile della mia vita. Cioé, passare da 8 anni a 18 è già di per sé traumatico. Immaginate farlo nel decennio del grunge, quando la disperazione si respirava nell’aria. Nel decennio in cui internet si faceva strada, in cui iniziavano a diffondersi i cellulari, in cui la vita prendeva quella piega che ci ha portato all’oggi. Per molti versi, un decennio di transizione. Posso riassumerlo come il periodo in cui io passavo dalle tutine di felpa smesse da mio cugino ai pantaloni a zampa e alle rancide felpe acquistate ai mercatini. Frattanto, l’Italia passava dall’utilitaria ai primi SUV; dal negozio d’angolo agli Ipercoop; dalle serie tv più o meno artigianali a insostenibili quiz e reality. E poi ditemi che i ‘90 non hanno un significato…sono stati un decennio decisivo, in cui magari avremmo potuto fare in modo che il mondo sarebbe andato in un’altra direzione. Invece è andato in questa. Di ricordi ne ho tantissimi. Alle elementari già si respirava la lotta di classe. O almeno, io la respiravo. Sarò stata l’unica? C’era la competizione a chi aveva l’astuccio firmato e chi no, fra chi aveva la felpa firmata e chi no, fra chi aveva l’ultimo modello di Barbie e chi no. Ovviamente io ero fra i chi no, e già in questa fase embrionale del mio sviluppo mentale, mi rendevo conto delle Differenze. E’ inutile continuare a dire che i bambini di certe cose non si rendono conto, se ne rendono conto eccome. L’altra cosa assurda che ricordo è di come il sesso fosse già una parte fondamentale dei nostri interessi, per quanto poco potessimo saperne. Avevamo idee vaghe e confuse, ma pulsioni ben precise. E il mio tema dell’esame di quinta elementare, parlava anche di questo. Se lo rileggo mi sembra talmente assurdo che fossi stata capace di scriverne. Ma se non altro è vero un altro luogo comune, che i bambini sono la bocca della verità. E infatti dicono tutto quello che passa loro per la testa senza porsi eccessivi problemi. Per inciso, alle elementari avevo anche fondato un partito (con un suo programma), scritto le prime riviste e letto un casino di libri che mi sconvolgevano la mente. Ovviamente attingevo liberamente agli scaffali dei miei, e ci trovavo questi libri di Wilbur Smith (scrittore che, ora come ora, non apprezzo granché, ma che all’epoca per me era il massimo) pieni di amplessi di cui capivo ben poco. E poi si parlava di Guerra Fredda, e dei comunisti cattivi, e dei guerriglieri africani. Un delirio per le mie inesperte meningi.
Il periodo delle Medie lo ricordo come un momento di perdizione totale, in cui amavo la discomusic e il rap, soffrivo di una evidente sindrome di asocialità (materializzatasi all’improvviso, senza apparente motivo) e aspettavo che la vita iniziasse davvero. Poi c’è stata la consueta Illuminazione, il deus ex machina che ti apre la mente.
Sembra una grandissima idiozia eppure è andata davvero così: mi è bastato leggere il primo romanzo di Brizzi prima di iniziare le Superiori. Avevo sadicamente scelto il Classico a indirizzo linguistico, con un orario settimanale capace di fiaccare anche un mulo, senza parlare del fatto che era la scuola più fighetta della Provincia, con tutti i figli di papà di Ravenna e dintorni.Volevo Imparare. Ma ero anche stufa di essere la brava ragazza che fa sempre i compiti, che prende sempre ottimo, adorata da adulti e parenti ma con una vita sociale pari a zero. Ergo, bisognava senz’altro scegliere la strada tracciata dall’ottimo Brizzi e praticare forme più o meno radicali di ribellione.
Forse mi sono fatta prendere la mano, calandomi più che potevo nel ruolo dell’adolescente ribelle,  dicendo “no” per il piacere di dirlo, sfidando ovunque potessi quella che io percepivo come Autorità. Ci sono stati momenti epici, episodi rocambolesci, scene di decadenza durante le Okkupazioni e le fughe da scuola. Di quegli anni ricordo tantissime manifestazioni, tantissime capatine al cesso a fumare, tantissime giustificazioni con la firma falsa. E le serate al Rock Planet…per tutta la settimana avevi risparmiato e finalmente potevi investire quelle 10 000 lire in 5, e dico 5, cocktail tossici che avvelenavano totalmente il tuo giovanissimo organismo. Tu ballavi i Rage, i Red Hot, i primi System, il metal, il punk, lo ska. Eri in pista e pogavi e finivi regolarmente a terra, ma ti rialzavano subito. Perdevi il fiato nell’aria satura di fumo di sigarette e canne. Guardavi la tua amica che era pallida quanto te, con gli occhi in fibrillazione quanto te, e vi dicevate: andiamo a bere. Prendevi da bere e ti sbrigavi, ché col cocktail in mano si balla male. Una sera invece andavi in giro a chiedere alla gente qual’era il senso della vita. Altre volte scattava il fatidico “intorto” con sconosciuti che, il più delle volte, non si sarebbero mai più rivisti. O casomai rivisti con imbarazzo. Comunque erano ore di totale demenza che ti riscattavano dal buon senso che ti veniva imposto dal lunedì al sabato. Sono stati gli anni più folli, quelli. In cui gli amici diffidavano dal portarti in giro, perché una volta su due vomitavi in preda all’eccesso di alcol sapientemente mischiato col fumello. E la colonna sonora era quella del grunge, del punk anni ‘70, del crossover, di certi gruppi italiani particolarmente disperati e densi di malessere…
Così quando ripensi a quegli anni, ripensi a quella musica, e viceversa. Ed ecco perché ogni volta che sei lì in pista, che balli Kill in the name of o qualche altra canzone che hai ballato centinaia di volte e di cui conosci ogni singolo cambio di tempi, sei di nuovo impregnato dai ricordi. Dalla depressione del pessimo Liceo Alighieri. Dai primi esperimenti sentimentali. Dalle Prime Volte che non torneranno più, ma fa niente, perché già all’epoca ne eri ben conscia. Ecco perché gli anni ‘90 contanto. E negli anni ‘90 c’era già stata Seattle, c’era la politica, c’erano manifestazioni ogni autunno, c’erano i pullman che andavano a Roma, c’erano le bandiere e i cori.
Negli anni ‘90 c’era quell’incredibile mix di ciò che non esiste più e di ciò che sarebbe stato. Ecco perché non si possono dimenticare.

Dizzee is really on a level of his own, check this out!

Ado, j’étais partagée entre deux clans: les métalleux, qui revenaient de concerts avec des bleus à cause de pogos violents, et les rappeurs, qui fumaient beaucoup trop de joints à mon goût! Bien que ces deux styles de musique m’attiraient, aucun n’avait ma préférence: je détestais ces sirènes stridentes dans le rap des années 90 westcoast, mais adhérais complètement à leur flow, et inversement pour le rock qui me faisait vibrer avec ces instruments, mais me répulsais avec ces voix venues de l’enfer.

Et je n’étais surement pas la seule puisqu’un nouveau genre musical vint aux oreilles du grand public: la fusion!

Beastie Boys , Rage Against The Machine, Red Hot Chili Pepper, c’était dans mon walkman!

Aujourd’hui, dans mon lecteur MP3, j’ai 8 gigas de musique; toujours les mêmes plus des petits nouveaux qui viennent de débarquer et qui me rappellent mes chemises de bucheron et mes Docs montantes. The Flobots!

super tare AMV. Sunt multe cu Samurai Champloo, dar asta-i poate cel mai reusit.

Un AMV foarte reusit. Pe Samurai Champloo sunt multe tari de tot. Asta-i poate cel mai tare.

I was watching cartoons one morning about thirteen years ago when the phone rang.  Naturally, I was hesitant to answer, thinking it might be a bill collector seeking to address the small matter of my then- unpaid student loans.  I winced, but picked up anyway.

The caller asked for me by name.

“Speaking,” I replied, bracing myself for the barrage of script-driven guilt, while preparing a litany of excuses as to why I still hadn’t made good on my debt.

There was something different about the speaker’s voice.  It was slow and heavy, as though laboring beneath a weight.  Like a man who’d lost something very dear to him.

“This is Chad Matteson’s father.  We got your letter a few days ago, and we read it.  I’m afraid Chad’s not going to be able to get in touch with you.  He was killed in a motorcycle accident back in October.”

My legs went all noodles and I slid down the wall; receiver in one hand, cradle in the other.  For a moment, time stood still.

Randal was dead.

With his stoner shuffle, perpetual squint, high-top Nikes, feathered hair, ever-present blue flannel shirt, and Ugly Kid Joe ballcap turned backwards on his head, Chad Matteson was the spitting image of Randal, the wise-cracking, über-slacker

Here are a bunch of facts: Chad and I had served two years together in the Navy as Minemen while stationed in Macrihanish, Scotland.  The era was 1992-93.  I was working in the component test facility on the far side of a Royal Air Force compound, testing Cold War instrument racks and batteries for underwater mines.  Chad worked in the supply department in a separate part of the base, a job which gave him the time and means to wander.

Don’t get me wrong.  Chad was a damn hard worker, and we both understood the importance of pulling our weight.  But life is short and there are far more important things than work.  Like joyriding around the base, sharing a box of microwave egg rolls, and blaring Pantera CDs from a boom box strapped between the seats of a surplus steel pig.  He’d pull up in the deuce-and-a-half stake truck on loan to us from the RAF, and feed my supervisor some bullshit story about “needing my help for some unspecified job somewhere on the compound.”  That was pretty much the morning wasted.  Used sparingly, the ploy always worked – which meant we didn’t always have to.

Life was simple then.  We’d show up to work, do our jobs, knock off at 1600, and head to town for drinks.  In the lull between paydays, we’d go for a drive in his piece of shit Honda, a rusted out freedom bucket, in which was installed a CD player that was worth three times the value of the car, which was eventually pushed off a cliff when he couldn’t find a buyer to take it off his hands when he was transferring to Hawaii.

Wait a second.  Focus.  Randal is dead. This is important.

I’ve got a terrible memory, for whatever reason.  I should be paying very close attention to what his father’s telling me.  This is, after all, the single most important phone call taking place anywhere on the entire fucking planet at this instant.  It’s bigger than atomic secrets, the price of tea in China, the questionable mating habits of venture capitalists, the location of compromised Russian launch codes, or whether Van Halen really hired teenage girls to pick out the brown M&Ms.  (That’s half true.)

The voice on the other end of this line belongs to the man who first sired, then raised, then buried one of my best friends and, was gracious enough to pick up the phone and relate the very personal details of his son’s demise to a complete stranger.  But there are memories blocking my ears, preventing the facts of the matter from taking root.  Was this some form of denial?

Randal is dead.  I mean…

I should be paying very close attention, but right now all I can think about is the five-day road trip to Glasgow that Chad and I took with fellow cohort-in-crime Ian Conway to see Tool open for Rage Against The Machine, and also to catch up-and-coming Blind Melon in a tiny venue called “King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut.”

(Did you hear what I just said?  Did we even bother to pack?  We filled the backseat with Doritos, Jim Beam and a few paperbacks.  I seem to recall bringing a toothbrush and using my leather jacket as a pillow.)

Remember standing in line for hours to see Rage, fending off hackneyed scalpers and having an all-around hellacious time?  (It was my first time seeing Tool and they blew my mind from chord one. I’ve been a fan ever since.)  And remember how, just a few days later, we met Blind Melon and got our CDs signed by members of the band?

Remember it?  Jesus, we didn’t shut up about it for days!

Remember the time I turned Chad onto industrial act ‘1000 Homo DJ’s’, and he dragged me all over Glasgow on a holy quest to find the ‘Supernaut’ CD single?

Remember the weekend the three of us drove to Glasgow for tattoos?  I got my first piece, the spiderweb on my left elbow.  Afterwards, Ian and I watched a poor, drunken-down wretch piss herself on a street corner in broad daylight.  Be careful what gets into your head, little ones.  It’s not easy to get those things back out again.

Remember the time Chad got turned around in UK city traffic, misjudged a turn, and entered a one-way street?  Instead of turning around, he gunned it, heading straight down the throat of the beast – 50 mph headed south in a northbound tunnel in the heart of Glasgow during rush hour traffic, cackling his fucking head off, white-knuckling the wheel and swerving to avoid some very pissed-off drivers.  I thought I was gonna die right then, sure as shit.

When we got the word from on high to close the base, we spent hours throwing rocks through the windows of the now-empty warehouse where he’d once labored.  Like the Babe Ruth of vandalism, Chad could hit any window he called.  We grabbed the keys of the 5K diesel forklift and rammed the tines into the side of the rain-soaked blast revetments, chalking off our best depths and earning points for records bested.  We got the CO’s ‘personal’ vehicle stuck atop one of the blast revetments, and had to jump out quick like a bunny to rock it loose before someone saw us.  Youth is full of dumb moments.

The Randal I knew wanted nothing more than a hut on the beach, eternal sunshine, pretty girls, his motorcycle, his CDs, and his surfboard.  All day, every day, end of fucking story.  Maybe he would’ve wised up and gotten serious later in life; less Randal, more Chad.  And maybe Chad would have left the beach, got a job, bought a truck, found himself a blue-eyed girl, and raised a family.  Maybe not. I guess we’ll never know either way.  Maybe it’s not even fair to think of him this way; stuck in time, forever young, perpetually partying, and eternally laughing.  Seems kinda one-dimensional, if you think about it.  No parent should ever have to outlive their child. Time goes by, you do some healing.  Then out of nowhere you get a call and have to explain things all over again.  How he’d found the love of his life, how your high-speed son was inexorably drawn into motorcycle racing, how “faster” was his greatest passion, how he lost control on a qualifying run and laid his bike down on turn 10, and how his injuries sent him into a coma from which he never awoke.

This flashback takes place while Chad’s dad is still talking.  My eyes are watering, and my throat feels like it’s been bricked over, but I need to say something appropriate, only I don’t know what.

Struggling to speak, I told his dad how sorry I was.  “I’m.., *ahem*, I’m really very sorry for your loss, sir.  Chad was a good kid, uh, the best, a really good friend.”  I sounded like a babbling jackass, and made little to no sense.  I wanted to be able to say something meaningful, something appropriate.  Something that summed up all the good times and laughs I’d had with his son.  I owed him that much.

Come on!  We’re talking about “Front-flip-down-the-sand-dunes, got-your-back-in-a-barfight, more-girlfriends-than-I-can-clearly-remember, bourbon-swilling, whip-your-ass-at-pool, speed-metal, laugh-now-regret-later” Randal!

“Yes, sir.  Chad was the best.”  The best?  What the fuck does that even mean?  I hate it when people end their letters with ‘best’.  It seems a lazy, Los Angeles, phony baloney sun tan sort of thing to do, yet it was the only sentiment I could offer.

It suddenly occurred to me how cruel the whole thing was.  You get a call, your child’s been injured.  Wait by their side, hoping they’ll wake up from the coma they’ve lapsed into.  When they don’t, you make a very painful decision and watch your flesh and blood being lowered into the ground.

Randal is dead.

I’m barely aware of the fact that my mouth is still flapping, but my brain’s not engaged.  I have no idea what I’m saying.  Hopefully I’m not making an ass of myself, or sharing uncomfortable intel.  (Did you know your son could turn over a bottle of Jack in one night?  Did you know he had two beautiful girls in his birthday bed while we were roommates in A-School? Do you know how generous a friend he was, and much we still miss him?)

Meanwhile, Chad’s father continues to speak.  ”Yeah, we heard about the time he and Ian rolled the car.”  He gave a weary but admiring chuckle for his son’s misadventures.  (What am I thinking?  He probably knows way more about the real Randal than I ever will.)

They were coming back from seeing Faith No More at the Barrowlands.  It was two in the morning, and Chad was drinking hot salsa straight from the jar in an effort to stay awake.  Exhausted, he nodded off.  His driver-side mirror high-fived that of a car headed in the opposite direction, and suddenly they found themselves upside down in a ditch.  Dark of night, and who knows where?  When Ian told me the story later, he said Chad looked around, sniffed once and said, “Right on. Got a cigarette?”  They laughed about it, mentally adding it to their litany of good time stories to be recanted later, like epic tales related by helmeted heroes seated around an oaken slab in a modern day Valhalla.  Or something.

The call wrapped to a close.  I thanked his dad for his time, put the phone back in its cradle and just sat there for awhile, staring at the television.  The sound was turned way down on a cartoon mouse eviscerating a cat.  The light licked the walls and cast contorted triangles across the ceiling.  Outside, a bird made some stupid noises.

Randal was dead.

Tears blurred my eyes, and my throat was still constricted.  Which was good, seeing as there was no one to call, no one who’d understand.  I got up, fixed myself a very strong drink, and went back to watching the cat get his revenge.

Goodbye, Randal.

“Youth is not a time of life – it is a state of mind. It is not a matter of red cheeks, red lips and supple knees. It is a temper of the will; a quality of the imagination; a vigor of the emotions; it is a freshness of the deep springs of life. Youth means a temperamental predominance of courage over timidity, of the appetite for adventure over a life of ease. This often exists in a man of fifty, more than in a boy of twenty. Nobody grows old by merely living a number of years; people grow old by deserting their ideals.”

- Samuel Ullman

wipeboard wisdom

A little bit of ECU Track and Field throws coach David Price’s wipeboard wisdom; deconstructing the hammer throw.

Well, well, well…how could I not workout after listening to this Super Human Radio exchange between host Carl Lanore and guest Randy Roach, author of Muscle, Smoke and Mirrors.  This is a fantastic episode of SHR, and if you’ve never given the show a chance because you think it might be just a bunch of meathead, bodybuilding blather, give this episode a shot.  I promise it will change your mind.  Plenty of intelligent, edgy discussion on healthcare reform, vaccination controversy, corrupt politicians and companies, nutrition, diseased citizenry — I could go on and on, but you get the idea.  This episode will get you jacked for a workout better than downing a double red-eye (known as a black-eye in some parts) while jammin’ to my boys Rage Against the Machine. A little old school RATM here, just to set the tone–

Nicely done, boys.  And remember, now — if you don’t turn on politics, politics will turn on you.

Anyway, after an hour’s long drive home from work, listening to Carl and Randy ranting it up all the while, I was good and spun; the ol’ Friday evening kick-back was not an option at this point.  I immediately jumped out of my work-a-day garb and into some workout attire, saddled-up the ol’ fixie and headed out.  I hit about 45-minutes worth of sprint intervals around G-Vegas and the ECU campus, finally winding up out at the track and field throws practice area (aka, the playground).  From there I performed the following:

• Pull-up bar (straight bar) muscle-ups x 4
• Elevated feet ring flyes x 10
• 45 lb. plate toss* x 10

4 rounds, with very little in the way of a breather between rounds.

*For a demonstration of the plate toss, check out the athlete in this Jay Shroeder, Evo Sport clip, at 24 seconds in:

Now in my version, I used a heavier plate (a 45, in this case), and I also added a glute/hamstring kick (akin to what you’d get out of a kettlebell swing, or maybe a power snatch movement) to propel the plate as high as possible, while still maintaining “control” of the plate; i.e.,  I was able to catch the plate cleanly, at chest level, with hands just above the 9 and 3 position, and with the plate face remaining verticle to the ground (i.e., flat to me).  Believe me, snagging 45 lbs from a free-fall a few feet over your head x 10 reps will toast your shoulders and arms.  It’s good stuff.

Next up here on TTP, I’ll be ranting about the unholy beast that is the bill HR 2749, set to enter Senate debate shortly.  Want to maintain access to raw milk, grass-fed, free-range meat, organic produce, supplements and the like?  Well, it’s time to get your opposition on.  Well talk about it next up.  Until then, here’s a preview of this insidious bill, from The Proud Political Junkie’s Gazette, one of my favorite political/activist blogs.

In health,

Keith

]]> http://sansherif.wordpress.com/2009/09/11/meus-videos/ Fri, 11 Sep 2009 19:29:17 +0000 leomachado85 http://sansherif.wordpress.com/2009/09/11/meus-videos/

Ae Galera, este é um video que fiz para a  matéria de Semiologia da Imagem II no 5º periodo. O professor Samuel propôs um trabalho de tema livre, mas que deviria ser elaborado como se fosse “O” trabalho de Design. A sensação de ser desafiado é muito boa, então…. pensei…… pensei…. ……. …… pensei…… ……. …… ….. ……. e pensei mais um pouco…. e depois de muito pensar (faltavam 1,5 semana para a entrega do trabalho) decidi fazer um video….

Com uma câmera de 16mb de memoria interna e 3.0 mpx fiz 12 min. de video picados em 1 min. … editei audio… editei imagens…editei videos….. bla… bla… ralação total em plena copa do mundo… mas deu certo….. ao contrario do Brasil nesta copa, eu fui campeão e consegui passar na matéria!!!

Acho que critiquei tanto o Brasil no video que nem a seleção salvou… É isso ae… e salve….. os sansherifs!!!

I got the Marky Ramone autograph in person a long time ago when there was a Virgin Megastore. Unfortunately I was a fan of the Ramones far too late to get the whole band to sign any piece of memorabilia and anything signed by the whole band now would cost a pretty penny. Still I got to meet at least one of the members of one of my favorite bands, the one that got me craving rock N roll/ punk music.

Tom Morello is the most innovative guitarist ever. His solos are really something special. I got this signed Rage Against the Machine CD from someone who got it in person from a signing in the Virgin Megastore.

Now the record/ CD stores are being phased out for digital music. How am I supposed to get the autographs of my favorite bands now? To think of it, with only mp3s what can I get signed by the bands?

Para começar com estilo….

Vou postar aqui uma música das boas hehe!

Abraço a todos !!!

http://www.akpress.org/2005/topics/Anarchism

CHECK IT OUT! Perhaps the greatest source for Anarchism and related subversion/dissidence. You can find just about anything, from Chomsky to Punk Rock. They have the Rage Against the Machine endorsement. Do iT!

…. I wish they didn’t charge money for incendiary material. That’s for the companies to do, while the artists merely accept money as a means of survival, but through their social commentary they fight Capitalism within Capitalism….. I guess.

Chris

Összeesküdtek ellenem vagy nem tudom… Akartam menni superbuttra de senki se jött, csomó embert próbáltam elhívni, aztán senki. Egyedül meg nem akartam.. Aztán tegnap pedig Guilty Parties volt (Rage Against The Machine tribute subscribe által). Ugyanez, tényleg vagy 30 embert próbáltam hívni, de senki… wtf?!?! mi a fasz. Ez biztos egy kihívás volt, de elment egyedül, amúgy is a koncertért megyek. Tényleg megérte mert a srácok hozták a szokásos formát, és az 500ft-os dürer belépő is nagyon rendben volt. Amikorra odaéltem már próbáltak, aztán nem sokkal később el is kezdték. A kötelező híresebb dalok megvoltak (killing in the name, bulls on parade, bullet in the head, sleep now in the fire, freedom, wake up), de még többi dalukból is szemezgettek(pl: i’m housin, bombtrack…). A közönség is jó volt, tényleg olyanok voltak akik a zenéért jönnek. A Tire Me-re pedig már-már hagyománnyá váló circle pit most se maradhatott el. Mondjuk a kertben voltunk ahol elég kicsi a hely. Így nem volt valami nagy és kb a szám 1/3ig tartott. Egy kicsit kifutottak az időből, az utolsó két számnál kicsit le kellett halkuljanak, de sok különbséget nem vettem észre. Tényleg nagyon jó koncert volt, érdemes volt egyedül elmenni.

Amúgy bandával is egész jól haladunk, a coverek egyre jobban mennek és már saját számrészlet is van. Már csak egy jó énekes kéne…

P H O T O S    G A L L E R Y

Un clip de referinta, mi-ar placea sa cred ca il stiati: