If you’re any kind of Star Trek fan at all, you’re gonna find this one…AWESOME.
A bit under eight minutes of unalloyed beauty, wonder, and joy, that’s what. Involving as it does the Genesis planet of fame and legend, I have to wonder what this might set the stage for, Trek-wise.
(Via Ed Driscoll)
Well whaddyaknow about that. I like Hegspeth even more now than I did; clearly, he’s my kind of guy.
BCE sez:
Seems that Hagspeth was a Rakkasan (the tat in the lower right corner in the regimental crest)
Never met him (to my memory) but it seems we were in a LOT of the same areas around the same time, to include Gitmo
Again: whaddya know about that. Where the post title came from: Skin Art, now sadly defunct. When I lapse into another of my maudlin reminiscences of the bygone days when I was “working for the magazines,” Skin Art was one of said mags.
EXTRANEOUS INSIDE-BASEBALL ADDENDUM: SA, which my boss-lady Chris proudly deemed our best and most praiseworthy publication, was put out by the likewise defunct Art & Ink Publications. Our other titles were my treasured Outlaw Biker ragazine, a labor of love for me and Chris on which I was tasked not just with ad design and layout duties but also cover design/layout now and again, as well as occasional feature articles covering full-custom Harley chops, bobjobs, and sundry uncategorizable oddities; your better class of independent shops and/or wrenches; biker events, runs, and other gatherings; and last but not least, the regular “Leatherballs” column (see the nav-bar link up top for my L-balls archive*). Additionally, we did Tattoos For Men; Tattoos For Women; and the outrageous, calculatedly offensive, disturbingly popular, and habitually pornographic Tabu Tattoo.
Tucked in a closet or under the bed someplace, I still have a big box jam-full of photos that people had sent in hoping to be run in one or the other of our mags, a great many of those pics featuring nekkid or practically nekkid women, in settings and poses that ran the gamut from “quite alluring” to “ unintentionally comical” to “what the fuuuu…?!?” A woefully high percentage of said hopefuls were uglier’n a mud fence, displaying all the sex appeal of a steaming, fresh-dropped hog turd. From the pics, you could see that these unfortunates were hard-bitten, slovenly, hatchet-faced slatterns with reek of cheap booze, BO, and broken dreams practically wafting up off the pic in an eye-tearing, all-hands olfactory assault. In Raymond Chandler’s concise, unforgettable sum-up: too much makeup on too many miles.
On the other hand, though, many of those half-clad aspiring biker-zine models were legitimately smokin’ hot, against every expectation of us office-drones slaving thanklessly away under the A&I lash.
Ahh, but the unsolicited submissions with Tabue Tetoooz Crayola’d illegibly in large, wobbly block print across the front of a ragged, worn-soft Manila envelope—no return address, because what mentally semi-sound person possessed of the smallest smidgeon of taste, discernment, self-respect, and functional eyesight would want the horrible things back, fer gawd’s sake?—were really something else again, I gotta say.
See, our production schedule required each individual staffer to upload one (1) set of the InDesign/Distiller PDF page layouts he’d been assigned to create to the printing company, with all the hi-res photos for said pages in their own separate IMGS folder (all covers were created in Illustrator, don’t know why). The uploading deadline was each and every Thursday afternoon by 2PM; on weeks the four-issues-yearly (the others were six) OB was due we doubled up, basically, kiting two (2) completed magazines off to the printers—which, surprisingly enough, there were only three of nationwide, by the by. IIRC, the one we used was way out in the untracked wilderness of Ohio or Nebraska or Indiana or some other such Godforsaken backwater.
Biker, as the boss always called it, was pretty much mine and Chris’s baby, with Jeff standing by to lend a hand as needed. Job assignments for the four mainstream, non-emetic tattoo mags were divided between the staff, said assignments written up by Chris in a four-cell table sketched up for that specific purpose, printed via the office inkjet, then distributed to the worker bees on Monday morning. When Tabu week rolled around the impending ordeal (permanently assigned to moi shortly after I started at A&I) of wading through the most recent soul-blighting submissions imbued me with a queasy combination of dread, disgust, and morbid fascination.
The five (5) members of Team A&I being the stout, indomitable sorts we were, the crew never flinched nor faltered underTabu’s unholy menace no matter what. We laughed; we cried; we jokingly mimed puking into the steel wastebaskets beside our desks; the most revolting pics were passed around amongst ourselves for the requisite snickering, mockery, and marveling at—yet somehow, some way, we persevered; we got through our shared travail more or less unscathed. We stood manfully up (okay, okay, two (2) of our number—my comely, smart-alecky, unpretentiously sexy, and staggeringly intelligent platonic GF Joy and of course our bold, fun-loving, über-competent and -professional boss-lady Chris—were of the vaginal/fallopian/uterine persuasion) to the most putrid profanations, perfidies, and provocations the Tabu freaky-deaks could hurl our way, and still we prevailed. Vidi, retchi, vici.
Thinking back on those splendid days, “the magazines” was just about the best job I ever had: tons of fun; engaging; unfailingly interesting; personable, supportive, cheerful co-workers and boss. Sure, it could be trying at times; making deadline every Thursday could be stressful, and A&I’s owner was an avaricious, conniving thief, a lecherous old sleazebag, and a consummate prick on his infrequent trips from his Miami abode to visit the office. Nonetheless, the bottom-line fact is that there was never a dull moment at A&I. I miss it terribly.
* As I like to tell folks, my one and only stab at real-deal, no-shit journalism was/is the “Myrtle Beach Goodbye” article linked under the Leatherballs heading; for that one, I made phone calls and interviewed several players both major and minor behind the tragic cancellation of the H-D Dealers Association’s annual spring rally—all of whom either agreed to be quoted on a strictly anonymous basis or flatly declined to be quoted at all, for reasons I felt were entirely understandable once I’d interviewed them, especially Myrtle Beach’s mayor, city councilmen, and several restaurant/bar/retail shop owners; gathered all the facts, details, and undisclosed motives I could; formed my own original conclusions via a careful, impartial analysis of the information gleaned from two (2) weeks of diligent sleuthing; wrote, re-wrote, and edited my reportage; published the fruits of my labor in OB, and hey presto: JOURNALISM!
1
1Low-mileage creampuff, only ever driven by Webb Pierce’s sainted mother from Pasadena to church on Sundays, never driven above 30 mph, engine oil change every 500 miles whether it needed one or not.
According to commenter greg over at Phil and CedrQ’s hang, this righteous lead sled was designed and built by the justly famous Nudie Cohn, he of Nudie suit fame. If you click on over to the ‘Nuckles joint, you’ll also see a cpl-three memes which will be showing up in tonight’s Eyrie meme post, if my internet connection will ever stabilize long enough for me to upload and post the damned thing. It’s gotten so dicey around here Intarwebs-wise that in the last two days, I’ve burned through almost all of my high-speed data allotment using the phone for a hotspot.
Re my opening used-car salesman schpiel above, here’s the video backstory for Webb’s baby.
LOVE that song, it’s one of my all-time favorites. Go Granny go Granny go Granny GO!
11Via my brother-from-another-mother BCE, this one should fit the bill. A preface, from Big Country himself.
Mongolian throat singing with metal and traditional Mongolian musical instruments… and another side note: The two string ‘guitar’ is a morin khuur which is the national instrument of Mongolia and is known as the “horse-headed fiddle”… in a few of their videos, you can plainly see the Swastika imbedded in the neck as it was originally intended to be, but freaks out the left so badly…
These guys are as awesome as you can imagine live as well. Funniest thing: NONE of them speak any English except the lead singer who’s main phrase was “FUCK YEEEEEAH!!!” which was hysterical…
He ain’t lying about all that, friends, as you can see.
More, from the “About” page of this downright frightening musical ensemble’s official website.
In 2019, an NPR story put a spotlight on “a band from Mongolia that blends the screaming guitars of heavy metal and traditional Mongolian guttural singing,” accurately highlighting the cultural importance and unique musical identity of THE HU. Founded in 2016 in Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia, THE HU, Gala, Jaya, Temka, and Enkush, are a modern rock group rooted in the tradition of their homeland. The band’s two most popular videos, “Yuve Yuve” and “Wolf Totem,” were produced by the band’s producer Dashka. The band’s name translates to the Mongolian root word for human being, and their unique approach blends instruments like the Morin Khuur (horsehead fiddle), Tovshuur (Mongolian guitar), Tumur Khuur (jaw harp) and throat singing withcontemporary sounds, creating a unique sonic profile that they call “Hunnu Rock.”
Their debut album, 2019 ‘s The Gereg, debuted at #1 on the World Album and Top New Artist Charts. With it, the band have accumulated over 250 million combined streams and video views to date and have received critical acclaim from the likes of Billboard, NPR, GQ, The Guardian, The Independent, Revolver, and even Sir Elton John himself.
Proving their global appeal, THE HU have sold out venues across the world in North America, Europe, Asia, and Australia, with scheduled festival appearances at Coachella, Lollapalooza, Download Festival, and more, creating a community of fans from all walks of life. They quickly grabbed the attention of the industry, leading to collaborations with Jacoby Shaddix of Papa Roach and Lzzy Hale of Halestorm. And most recently, the band received praise from fans and critics for their Mongolian rendition of Metallica’s “Sad But True,” which Metallica picked up on and invited them to record ‘Through The Never’ for their Metallica Blacklist album released in 2021 alongside other high-profile guest artists like Miley Cyrus, Chris Stapleton, Phoebe Bridgers, J Balvin, St. Vincent, and so many more. The band has also explored eclectic ways to reach audiences with their sound, most notably writing and recording music for EA Games’ Star Wars Jedi: Fallen Order.
The aforementioned Metallica cover is pretty awesome as well, but what really struck me most of all wasn’t so much the music but the gracious, becomingly humble acknowledgement at the end of the YT vid:
Like millions of people around the world, Metallica has been a huge influence and inspiration for us as music fans and musicians. We admire their 40 years of relentless touring and the timeless, unique music they have created. It is a great honor to show them our respect and gratitude by recording a version of “Sad But True” in our language and in the style of the HU.
Well, you can’t say fairer than that. And all’s well as ends better, as my old Gaffer liked to say, bless him.
Update! Dagnabbit, don’t know how, but this gin-yoo-wine CF institution almost got by me this year.
Ahh, the wonderful old chestnut from Jumpin’ Gene Simmons—no, not THAT Gene Simmons, the earlier, funnier one. I’ve run his version of “Haunted House” every Halloween on Ye Aulde Colde Furye Blogge for more years than I care to remember; it mortifies me to think that this year I durn near forgot. Thankfully, though, this tired old brain came through for us ere the end.
MORTIFIES, get me? A-HENH!
Updated update! What the hell, a backgrounder on Temüjin, a/k/a Genghis the Khan seems apropos.
Genghis Khan (born Temüjin; c. 1162 – August 1227), also known as Chinggis Khan, was the founder and first khan of the Mongol Empire. After spending most of his life uniting the Mongol tribes, he launched a series of military campaigns, conquering large parts of China and Central Asia.
Born between 1155 and 1167 and given the name Temüjin, he was the eldest child of Yesugei, a Mongol chieftain of the Borjigin clan, and his wife Hö’elün. When Temüjin was eight, his father died and his family was abandoned by its tribe. Reduced to near-poverty, Temüjin killed his older half-brother to secure his familial position. His charismatic personality helped to attract his first followers and to form alliances with two prominent steppe leaders named Jamukha and Toghrul; they worked together to retrieve Temüjin’s newlywed wife Börte, who had been kidnapped by raiders. As his reputation grew, his relationship with Jamukha deteriorated into open warfare. Temüjin was badly defeated in c. 1187, and may have spent the following years as a subject of the Jin dynasty; upon reemerging in 1196, he swiftly began gaining power. Toghrul came to view Temüjin as a threat and launched a surprise attack on him in 1203. Temüjin retreated, then regrouped and overpowered Toghrul; after defeating the Naiman tribe and executing Jamukha, he was left as the sole ruler on the Mongolian steppe.
As it happens, the vast empire established by the great Genghis Khan remains the largest of all time, by a broad margin. The Brits, the Spaniards, the Dutch? Stop it already, you make me laugh.
The Mongol Empire of the 13th and 14th centuries was the largest contiguous empire in history. Originating in present-day Mongolia in East Asia, the Mongol Empire at its height stretched from the Sea of Japan to parts of Eastern Europe, extending northward into parts of the Arctic; eastward and southward into parts of the Indian subcontinent, mounted invasions of Southeast Asia, and conquered the Iranian Plateau; and reached westward as far as the Levant and the Carpathian Mountains.
The Mongol Empire emerged from the unification of several nomadic tribes in the Mongol heartland under the leadership of Temüjin, known by the more famous title of Genghis Khan (c. 1162 – 1227), whom a council proclaimed as the ruler of all Mongols in 1206. The empire grew rapidly under his rule and that of his descendants, who sent out invading armies in every direction. The vast transcontinental empire connected the East with the West, and the Pacific to the Mediterranean, in an enforced Pax Mongolica, allowing the exchange of trade, technologies, commodities, and ideologies across Eurasia.
The empire began to split due to wars over succession, as the grandchildren of Genghis Khan disputed whether the royal line should follow from his son and initial heir Ögedei or from one of his other sons, such as Tolui, Chagatai, or Jochi. The Toluids prevailed after a bloody purge of Ögedeid and Chagatayid factions, but disputes continued among the descendants of Tolui. The conflict over whether the Mongol Empire would adopt a sedentary, cosmopolitan lifestyle or stick to its nomadic, steppe-based way of life was a major factor in the breakup.
After Möngke Khan died (1259), rival kurultai councils simultaneously elected different successors, the brothers Ariq Böke and Kublai Khan, who fought each other in the Toluid Civil War (1260–1264) and also dealt with challenges from the descendants of other sons of Genghis. Kublai successfully took power, but war ensued as he sought unsuccessfully to regain control of the Chagatayid and Ögedeid families. By the time of Kublai’s death in 1294, the Mongol Empire had fractured into four separate khanates or empires, each pursuing its own interests and objectives: the Golden Horde khanate in the northwest, the Chagatai Khanate in Central Asia, the Ilkhanate in Iran, and the Yuan dynasty in China, based in modern-day Beijing. In 1304, during the reign of Temür, the three western khanates accepted the suzerainty of the Yuan dynasty.
The Kubla Khan mentioned above is the self-same fellow written of by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, if I remember right. No less exalted a literary personage than the incomparable Rudyard Kipling memorialized Coleridge’s short pome thusly: “Remember that in all the millions permitted there are no more than five—five little lines—of which one can say: ‘These are the pure Magic. These are the clear vision. The rest is only poetry’.”
I shan’t argue. I still remember—having been brought up in the long-gone days when the government schools were in fact schools and not indoctrination centers and therefore still bothered to teach their young charges about the foundation-stones of Western arts and letters such as Sam Coleridge and Rudyard Kipling, to name but two—the opening couplet of Coleridge’s opium-fueled flight of fancy:
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree…
Meh, that stuff’s old as dirt, older than that musty, dusty, rusty US Constitution thingamabobber, if such a thing is possible. Probably isn’t even an XboX version of it available, I betcher. I mean, seriously, dude: “Xanadu”? “Kubla Whatsit”? “Damsels with dulcimers,” whatever those might be, sitting around drunk off their asses on “the milk of Paradise,” all that other horsepuckey? SNOOZAPALOOZA!!!
1Never having been all that big on horror movies, I surprised myself when Bram Stoker’s Dracula became one of my all-time favorite films after I first saw it. Propelled by gifted thespian Gary Oldman’s marvelously creepy yet also unexpectedly sympathetic turn as Count Dracul, Coppola’s take on Stoker’s classic vampire tale provides an object lesson in how movies ought to be made. Atmospherics, acting, script, cinematography, SFX, set design, eye of newt, wing of bat, toe of frog—every last ingredient that goes into the cauldron to brew up a genuinely unforgettable cinematic experience is included here.
Plus, in the “Dracula’s brides” scene, TITTIES! Okay, nightmarish blood drinking ghoulie-girl titties, sure. But still. Hey, I ain’t complaining; whatever they’re attached to, it’s always nice to see a comely set. Which, y’know, these most definitely are.
I ran across a full-length, free version of the film on YewToob, and in the course of re-watching a little of it there’s one particular scene that, unfortunately, stands out as being of extraordinary relevance today. Judge for yourself why I say so.
“They’re perfectly nutritious”—sounds familiar, don’t it? Even after more than two decades, Renfield’s deranged blandishment is still as fresh and current as tomorrow’s headlines. As a YT commenter notes, Tom Waits doesn’t act much, but when he does, he’s amazing. SO: you vill eat zee bugs, eh? Yeah, NO. Just look how well that worked out for Mr Renfield, the poor schlemiel.
1DM posts a side-splittingly hilarious example.
You gotta post this one with the voice-over by @therxckstxr 🤣 pic.twitter.com/dQaDoEEPRB
— Colin Wright (@SwipeWright)
Comedy is where you find it nowadays, and that right there is solid GOLD.
21Just may be the funniest thing you’ll see all week.
As Rush Limbaugh used to say, he’s living in shitlib heads rent-free. Mollie Hemingway, for one, is grateful for our Media overlords’ kindness and consideration in refusing to allow this evil spawn of Satan and Hitler—LITERALLY!—to pull the wool over Amerikan eyes:
Mollie @MZHemingway
Where would we be without corporate media telling us that Donald Trump is *not* an actual McDonald’s employee and is *not* currently rostered with the Pittsburgh Steelers.
Said a mouthful there, Moll. Mary the K Ham, for her part, is having some trouble grokking it all.
I’m gonna have to spend some time contemplating the possibility that this was not a completely organic event featuring a former president taking a side gig at a Pennsylvania McDonald’s while he’s running for president. https://t.co/kjZeZ4eulM
— Mary Katharine Ham (@mkhammer)
Ahh, but not all is sweetness, light, beef-tallow fries, and Terrible Towels in Trumpland, I’m afraid.
Oh dear. It would seem that even into the life of the world’s wealthiest burger-flipper, some rain must fall.
31Woke up at around 3, 3:30 this morning with a post about Aerosmith already assembling itself in my head when somehow, some way, the incomparable Barrence Whitfield elbowed his way into my creative process. I dragged myself up out of bed, went to the can to take a leak (bipedal males should take a moment to thank their lucky stars for being able to enjoy life’s simple pleasure of standing up to pee), grabbed a cup of java, and off we go…
I first got hipped to the man they call the Round Mound Of Beantown Sound and his fine band back then, the Savages, when I was living in the town of Ocean Drive, SC by a DJ who gigged weekly at the bar I worked at, Fat Harold’s HOTO Tiki Bar location—Harold’s On The Ocean, that would be— beachfront under the grand old Ocean Drive Beach and Golf Resort. HOTO’s is still around, or it was last time I was down thataway a few years ago, at least. Sadly, Fat Harold, the old skimflimp (in Pogo parlance), is long gone himself.
Harold’s other joint (of three, actually), only a cpl-three blocks up the way (a tumbledown little roadhouse with a big outdoor dance-deck yclept the Pad), is of course a bona fide legend in the Shagger/Beach music community. To be honest—even though I’ve been going to OD, Myrtle Beach, and Cherry Grove ever since I was a little kid and even spent a summer living in OD and bartending for Fat Harold back in the early 80s—I’ve never once set foot in the Pad for some odd reason, couldn’t tell you why. Never learned how to dance the Shag either, although years after he died my mom shocked the living hell out of me with the revelation that my dad had actually been a world-class Shag dancer, even had a big box full of trophies he’d won in various Shag competitions stuck up in a corner of the attic someplace. Blew my mind, I tells ya, I did NOT see that coming. Dad never said a word about it, not that I ever heard.
At any rate, modern Beach music sucks the big green weenie if you ask me, although the early stuff—basically just good old-school R&B and rock and roll, mixed with a little smidge of real true blues—is a whole ’nother story. Judged by that definition, this makes Barrence’s stuff the genuine Beach music article, no more nor less, so small wonder a DJ at HOTO’s would be playing him. First up, dig if you will this perfect-for-Halloween selection: “Bloody Mary.”
The rest of the Barrence Whitfield tunes I’ll tuck below the fold. Take my word for it, you’re not gonna want to miss a one of these gems; in my whole entire life, I’ve never heard anybody quite like the guy.
Continue reading “Serendipitous musicallality”
1What a world, what a world.
Heh. I slay me. Original image swiped from Ace. Remember, kids, this is what downing a fifth of rotgut vodka—straight shots, no chaser—before lunchtime every day can do to a person. Admittedly, it does make advancing one’s career via blowing one’s boss a bit more, umm, palatable, shall we say. But still.
1Wherein the great Aaron Copland demonstrates once again why he tops the very short list* of American composers who truly, truly matter.
*That list consists, in my not at all humble opinion, of three (3) names: Copland, George Gershwin, and Lenny Bernstein. Although I freely admit that a damned good case could be made for including Ray “The Genius” Charles on that list also.
Update! I’ve run this one before, but what the hell, I see no reason to resist an encore: the National Youth Orchestra’s spirited performance of the well-known and ever-popular companion piece to the above “Saturday Night Waltz” from Copland’s Rodeo—HOE-DOWN!
Any questions on why I call him the GREAT Aaron Copland, people?
11GREAT piece on the opening-credits sequences of those classic old 70s sitcoms.
Opening credit sequences are a lost art these days. “Lost” because the ritual of collective TV watching is a thing of the past with no real place here in the streaming era. And yes, once upon a time, Network TV watching was a ritual. Like a formal State dinner with seventeen different kinds of spoons and a new glass for each course, Network TV viewing came with a set of rules and an irresistable order. All over America families gathered around the TV set at the appointed time, tuned our sets to the proper channel and waited for the opening notes of the songs we all knew by heart, excited to spend half another hour with characters we’d come to think of as friends.
There was something gratifying too about the idea that all across the country millions of our fellow Americans were doing the same exact thing at the same exact moment. If you are of a certain age, you probably have a memory of getting up during a commercial break on a warm night, maybe to let the dog out, and hearing the sound of the same commercial you were just watching coming from your neighbor’s open window. There was something special about that sense of shared culture, all of us participating at the same time, no matter where or who we were…city mouse and country mouse…doctors, lawyers, electricians and plumbers. There was an irresistable allure to being a part of something magical that would only happen once and then never again.
Streaming TV viewing, by contrast, is a solitary act with no real sense of time or place and where nobody knows your name. By the time a popular 70’s show entered syndication, a committed fan would have watched the series opener one hundred times or more. But memorable credit sequences are more rare now, a function of their incompatibility with the churn-and-burn binge-viewing nature of the streaming model. Easier to just click the “skip” button, or “next episode”, and get on with it.
Instant gratification saves time, certainly, but in the process something is lost that perhaps should not have been. There is value in waiting. Part of what makes Christmas so special is the month long run-up that precedes it. There is also something captivating and mysterious about the idea of being treated to a show. To the knowledge that we can’t speed things up at a whim. That we can’t just skip to the good stuff. It is satisfying in a way that the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am rhythm of streaming will never be able to deliver. And it’s hard not to wonder if the old ways of network TV might not have been good for us in some critical way we can no longer recall.
Sit down, relax…be still. Someone else is in charge for the next 26 minutes and you can’t skip ahead. You are not in control. If the episode ends in a cliffhanger, you’re going to have to wait a week to find out what happens. And that’s OK.
Everything moves faster now. And while it may be an article of faith at Wharton Business School that the customer is always right, there is no immutable law that says the customer will always be happier, or even better off, once they get it.
“Sometimes you wanna go…where everybody knows your name…and they’re always glad you came…”
The above closing line, of course, comes from perhaps my personal favorite of all the shows featured in the post’s embedded videos:
Cheers, Taxi, KRP, Kotter, M*A*S*H—they’re all here, folks, and it’s one hell of a great ride. No true child of the American 70s will want to miss this one, and definitely shouldn’t.
(Via Stephen Green)
Update! The comments-section discussion betwixt myself and Barry compels me to append a typical, wonderfully silly cab-depot exchange featuring Andy Kauffman as Latka Gravas and the incomparable Christopher Lloyd as the Reverend Jim Ignatowski in Taxi.
Heh. LOVE that show. What kinda disturbs me is that, what with all the things that have slipped from my increasingly unreliable memory over recent years, I can still recall both Kaufman’s and Llloyd’s characters full names without batting an eye.
31Hurricane+divorce=just too much for this poor TeeWee weatherdude to take.
“Satan’s butthole,” no less. That’s gotta be the funniest forecast I ever did see. Can’t remember where I ran across this one, but I sincerely thank whoever it was for the steer to it.
111Plenty. In fact, pretty much everything.
Before there was a Kamala Harris the Frisco district attorney, there was a Kamala the Ugandan Giant who was really just a large black guy (billed as 6 ft. 7, 380 pounds) from Senatobia, Miss. (Weirdly, the last name of the original Kamala was also Harris: James Arthur Harris.)
If you hate pro wrestling, this is the part that drives you batty: It’s a bunch of lies — mixed with a heavy helping of utter nonsense — marketed to the masses. It’s clearly a bait-and-switch: You’re pretending this “sport” is one thing, when it’s actually something else. And YES TIMES A MILLION: IT IS FAKE!
But if you love pro wrestling, this is exactly what makes it so magical: How the hell did this fictional “sport” — featuring made-up characters doing the silliest, wackiest shenanigans imaginable — ever generate such passionate fandom?
Even Jerry Seinfeld was flummoxed. “If professional wrestling did not exist, could you come up with this idea?” he wondered. “Could you envision the popularity of huge men in tiny bathing suits, pretending to fight?”
But make no mistake, this fake sport makes real money. The WWE (World Wrestling Entertainment) has 90 million fans in the United States alone.
They also have a market capitalization of $8.37 billion. The WWE just signed a blockbuster deal with Netflix for $5 billion. It’s one of the most highly-valued entertainment properties in the entire world. Its stars include the top draws in Hollywood: “The Rock” Dwayne Johnson, John Cena, and David Batista. Retired stars like Steve Austin, Ric Flair, and the Undertaker are still commanding the spotlight; Hulk Hogan just addressed the Republican National Convention in primetime.
This is Big Boy economics.
Why does it work so well? And will its “tricks of the trade” for evoking emotional responses translate to politics?
It’s probably worth noting that a very large percentage of pro wrestlers are hardcore Republicans. Kane, who played the brother of the Undertaker, is now the (Republican) Knoxville Mayor Glenn Jacobs. JBL (John Layfield) portrayed an ornery cowboy on WWE television, but he is a savvy financial planner who’s made hundreds of appearances on FOX News and FOX Business. The Undertaker (Mark Calaway), Road Dogg (Brian James), and Chris Jericho all donated money to Trump. Ric Flair and Hulk Hogan have openly campaigned for MAGA. Linda McMahon, the former president, CEO and co-owner of the WWE, served in President Trump’s cabinet.
And President Trump, of course, is a member of the WWE Hall of Fame.
Lots, lots more to this one yet, all of it bang on. For my money, sports entertainment just doesn’t come much more entertaining than this.
I consider it gratuitously insulting to compare the halcyon days of Eric Bischoff’s wild, rollicking WCW with the sewer sludge of politics theater in Amerika v2.0, but could be that’s just me.
Now those crazy, irrepressible rascals have gone into the movie business.
Certainly makes ya think, don’t it?
Another rockin’ good headline from those wild, whacky NYP kids.
The article itself is kinda meh, just more of the usual self-consciously “edgy” obnoxiousness from a standard-issue, Mark-1 Mod-0 NYC “artist” type, whereas the breathless “cache of illegal guns” hubba-hubba refers to about as scrawny and undernourished a so-called arsenal as you’re ever likely to point and laugh at—except for the Mossberg, a scattershot collection of cheap junk none but a hoplophobic denizen of the Big Rotten Apple would think frightening: a Mossberg 12 ga pump; a KelTec .22; a Seecamp .32; a goofy fixed-blade “fighting knife” likely purchased at a boondocks truck stop for less than a double-saw, made of steel so buttery-soft merely sheathing the stupid, gaudy thing would be more than enough to dull whatever notional edge it may (or may not) have ever had; random boxes of ammo, probably all in 5.56, 9mm, .45ACP, and/or other mismatched calibers; one of those useless kit-stilettos you gotta assemble yourself, a practical joke from the bottom end of the otherwise generally half-decent Boker product line so flippity, flappity, and all-round raggedy-assed you couldn’t pop a soap bubble with it (ask me how I know, I dares ya).
If you find that sort of horsepuckey intriguing, feel perfectly free to click on through and read the whole thing. For my money, the headline pretty much says it all.
HOW I KNOW: Okay, okay, here’s the skinny. Many moons ago, long before the Innarnuts was even a twinkle in Albert “Arnold the Pig” AlGore’s eye (in days of old/when knights were bold/and Amazon not invented), I mail-ordered two (2) assembly-required stiletto kits from Boker. I affixed the plastic decorative handles to the pot-metal frame with model-airplane cement (not included), attached the blade-actuator button in its slot according to the minimal instructions, and was appalled to learn that, when the button was pushed to bring the blade (NOTE: not even the vaguest hint of an edge on the sorry thing, and I do mean none) zipping out of the opening, the internal spring was too wimpy to eject the blade with sufficient force to click it into the “open, locked” position. Imagine my chagrin as I stood there slack-jawed, brand-new knife in hand, the stabby part (HA!) of which lolled weakly in and out of its frame, of no more use to me than a 2-pound bag of ice is to your average Eskimo…a great deal less than, actually.
Upon further experimentation, it developed that now and again I could make the blade lock into place with a few sharp, vigorous flicks of my wrist, which felt every bit as foolish to me then as it sounds today. Regardless of all the jiggery, pokery, and Afro-engineering trickery I attempted, though, the button steadfastly refused to get with the program; after several years occasionally endeavoring such bootless meat-beatery, I finally gave up and tossed the Boker into the broken and/or non-useful tool drawer in my rollaway at the H-D shop. Once my youthful innocence had been forever lost, the trusty old Gerber Gator resumed its established role as my EDC shank, and the Boker pieces o’ shite eventually wound up in the rubbish bin where they rightfully belonged. THE MORAL OF THE STORY: As personal defense weapons, the Boker switchers make perfectly adequate paperweights, doorstops, and/or letter openers.
NOTE: In order to comment, you must be registered and approved as a CF user. Since so many user-registrations are attempted by spam-bots for their own nefarious purposes, YOUR REGISTRATION MAY BE ERRONEOUSLY DENIED.
If you are in fact a legit hooman bean desirous of registering yourself a CF user name so as to be able to comment only to find yourself caught up as collateral damage in one of my irregularly (un)scheduled sweeps for hinky registration attempts, please shoot me a kite at the email addy over in the right sidebar and let me know so’s I can get ya fixed up manually.
ALSO NOTE: You MUST use a valid, legit email address in order to successfully register, the new anti-spam software I installed last night requires it. My thanks to Barry for all his help sorting this mess out last night.
Comments appear entirely at the whim of the guy who pays the bills for this site and may be deleted, ridiculed, maliciously edited for purposes of mockery, or otherwise pissed over as he in his capricious fancy sees fit. The CF comments section is pretty free-form and rough and tumble; tolerance level for rowdiness and misbehavior is fairly high here, but is NOT without limit.
Management is under no obligation whatever to allow the comments section to be taken over and ruined by trolls, Leftists, and/or other oxygen thieves, and will take any measures deemed necessary to prevent such. Conduct yourself with the merest modicum of decorum, courtesy, and respect and you'll be fine. Pick pointless squabbles with other commenters, fling provocative personal insults, issue threats, or annoy the host (me) and...you won't.
Should you find yourself sanctioned after running afoul of the CF comments policy as stated and feel you have been wronged, please download and complete the Butthurt Report form below in quadruplicate; retain one copy for your personal records and send the others to the email address posted in the right sidebar.
Please refrain from whining, sniveling, and/or bursting into tears and waving your chubby fists around in frustrated rage, lest you suffer an aneurysm or stroke unnecessarily. Your completed form will be reviewed and your complaint addressed whenever management feels like getting around to it. Thank you.
"Mike Hendrix is, without a doubt, the greatest one-legged blogger in the world." ‐Henry Chinaski
If you enjoy the site, please consider donating:
Email addy: mike-at-this-url dot etc
All e-mails assumed to be legitimate fodder for publication, scorn, ridicule, or other public mockery unless specified as private by the sender
Click to embiggen
"America is at that awkward stage. It's too late to work within the system, but too early to shoot the bastards."
—Claire Wolfe, 101 Things to Do 'Til the Revolution
Claire's Cabal—The Freedom Forums
"There are men in all ages who mean to govern well, but they mean to govern. They promise to be good masters, but they mean to be masters."
—Daniel Webster
“When I was young I was depressed all the time. But suicide no longer seemed a possibility in my life. At my age there was very little left to kill.”
—Charles Bukowski
“A slave is one who waits for someone to come and free him.”
—Ezra Pound
“The illusion of freedom will continue as long as it’s profitable to continue the illusion. At the point where the illusion becomes too expensive to maintain, they will just take down the scenery, they will pull back the curtains, they will move the tables and chairs out of the way and you will see the brick wall at the back of the theater.”
—Frank Zappa
“The right of a nation to kill a tyrant in case of necessity can no more be doubted than to hang a robber, or kill a flea.”
—John Adams
"A society of sheep must in time beget a government of wolves."
—Bertrand de Jouvenel
"It is terrible to contemplate how few politicians are hanged."
—GK Chesterton
"I predict that the Bush administration will be seen by freedom-wishing Americans a generation or two hence as the hinge on the cell door locking up our freedom. When my children are my age, they will not be free in any recognizably traditional American meaning of the word. I’d tell them to emigrate, but there’s nowhere left to go. I am left with nauseating near-conviction that I am a member of the last generation in the history of the world that is minimally truly free."
—Donald Sensing
"The only way to live free is to live unobserved."
—Etienne de la Boiete
"History does not long entrust the care of freedom to the weak or the timid."
—Dwight D. Eisenhower
"To put it simply, the Left is the stupid and the insane, led by the evil. You can’t persuade the stupid or the insane and you had damn well better fight the evil."
—Skeptic
"There is no better way to stamp your power on people than through the dead hand of bureaucracy. You cannot reason with paperwork."
—David Black, from Turn Left For Gibraltar
"If the laws of God and men, are therefore of no effect, when the magistracy is left at liberty to break them; and if the lusts of those who are too strong for the tribunals of justice, cannot be otherwise restrained than by sedition, tumults and war, those seditions, tumults and wars, are justified by the laws of God and man."
—John Adams
"The limits of tyranny are prescribed by the endurance of those whom they oppress."
—Frederick Douglass
"Give me the media and I will make of any nation a herd of swine."
—Joseph Goebbels
“I hope we once again have reminded people that man is not free unless government is limited. There’s a clear cause and effect here that is as neat and predictable as a law of physics: As government expands, liberty contracts.”
—Ronald Reagan
"Ain't no misunderstanding this war. They want to rule us and aim to do it. We aim not to allow it. All there is to it."
—NC Reed, from Parno's Peril
"I just want a government that fits in the box it originally came in."
—Bill Whittle
- Entries
- Comments
