Top 10 Songs:
10. KING OF COPENHAGEN, The Mahones (2013)
9. CAME BACK HAUNTED, Nine Inch Nails (2013)
8. IF THE RIVER WAS WHISKEY, Spin Doctors (2013)
7. FOUR BLACK SHEEP, Martha Wainwright (2012)
6. KANKEJMEURRE, Les Anticipateurs (2013)
5. DRAG ROPES, Storm Corrosion (2012)
4. LE QUART DU CRISS, Les Anticipateurs (2013)
3. SIRENS, Pearl Jam (2013)
2. YOUTH WITHOUT YOUTH, Metric (2012)
1. REFLEKTOR, Arcade Fire (with David Bowie) (2013)
Top 10 Songs About Guns:
10. HAPPINESS IS A WARM GUN (The Beatles cover), The Breeders (1990)
9. MACHINE GUN, Jimi Hendrix (1970)
8. LAWYERS, GUNS AND MONEY, Warren Zevon (1978)
7. DIAMONDS AND GUNS, Transplants (2002)
6. SATURDAY NIGHT SPECIAL, Lynyrd Skynyrd (1975)
5. JANIE'S GOT A GUN, Aerosmith (1989)
4. THAT'S WHEN I REACH FOR MY REVOLVER, Mission Of Burma (1981)
3. 16 SHELLS FROM A THIRTY-OUGHT SIX, Tom Waits (1983)
2. THE GUNS OF BRIXTON, The Clash (1979)
1. BANG BANG (MY BABY SHOT ME DOWN) (Cher cover), Nancy Sinatra (1966)
Honorable mentions: Big Man With A Gun by Nine Inch Nails, and Me And A Gun by Tori Amos, both dealing with the issue of rape, one as the perpetrator, the other from the victim's side; I deliberately left out hip hop songs because that would have been the whole top-10, probably - and there would have been too many to choose from. One of the least violent groups out there, Cypress Hill, has at least 25 on their own, with Cock The Hammer, and A To The K first coming to mind.
Top 10 Songs (Mostly) About Bombs:
10. I'M A BOMB, Natasha Bedingfield (2004)
9. SPANISH BOMBS, The Clash (1979)
8. BOMBTRACK, Rage Against The Machine (1992)
7. CHERRY BOMB, The Runaways (1976)
6. YOU DROPPED A BOMB ON ME, The Gap Band (1982)
5. THE WAKE-UP BOMB, R.E.M. (1996)
4. CALM LIKE A BOMB, Rage Against The Machine (2000)
3. B.O.B. (BOMBS OVER BAGHDAD), Outkast (2000)
2. ROCKETS FALL ON ROCKET FALLS, Godspeed You! Black Emperor (2002)
1. TIME BOMB, Rancid (1995)
Honorable mentions: Tom Waits' Sex Bomb, and all the other songs in which being ''The (or Da) Bomb'' is the best thing possible, or ''bombing'' is the worst.
Showing posts with label Bombs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bombs. Show all posts
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Thursday, July 18, 2013
The (Cute) Face Of Terror
Big uproar in the social media (and media in general) regarding Rolling Stone's front page, showing Boston bombings suspect Dzhokar Tsarnaev...
Critics are saying they make him look glamourous, like a ''rock star'', comparing it to their covers featuring The Doors' Jim Morrison:
Sure, if dying in your bath is what passes for glamour.
Funny how no one batted an eye when the New York Times featured the exact same fucking picture on their front page:
I know the concept of ''innocent until proven guilty'' has taken a beating of late, and how there are innocents on death row and George Zimmerman walks free...
But to call for a boycott of one of the most important publications of the 20th Century because they dared show that appearances can be deceiving, that a popular kid who is a good student can veer from the straight path, that not all terrorists are disgruntled old men with long beards - is completely missing the point.
Shit can happen, and can spiral out of anyone's control. Not all troubled teens turn downright ''evil'', not every honor student becomes a killer, but the ''perfect storm'' of circumstances can bring a home-grown threat to life just as much as blindly waging useless wars abroad, or blindly supporting countries that get on other countries' nerves on purpose.
I say ''kudos, Rolling Stone''. Instead of putting Maroon 5 or Bruno Mars on your cover for a vapid, 3-page piece on how hard it is to do your own shopping when you're a superstar, you strapped your balls on and went ahead with the main article of the summer.
Then again, you also put Charles Manson on your cover once...
Critics are saying they make him look glamourous, like a ''rock star'', comparing it to their covers featuring The Doors' Jim Morrison:
Sure, if dying in your bath is what passes for glamour.
Funny how no one batted an eye when the New York Times featured the exact same fucking picture on their front page:
I know the concept of ''innocent until proven guilty'' has taken a beating of late, and how there are innocents on death row and George Zimmerman walks free...
But to call for a boycott of one of the most important publications of the 20th Century because they dared show that appearances can be deceiving, that a popular kid who is a good student can veer from the straight path, that not all terrorists are disgruntled old men with long beards - is completely missing the point.
Shit can happen, and can spiral out of anyone's control. Not all troubled teens turn downright ''evil'', not every honor student becomes a killer, but the ''perfect storm'' of circumstances can bring a home-grown threat to life just as much as blindly waging useless wars abroad, or blindly supporting countries that get on other countries' nerves on purpose.
I say ''kudos, Rolling Stone''. Instead of putting Maroon 5 or Bruno Mars on your cover for a vapid, 3-page piece on how hard it is to do your own shopping when you're a superstar, you strapped your balls on and went ahead with the main article of the summer.
Then again, you also put Charles Manson on your cover once...
Saturday, April 25, 2009
How I Broke My Back And Learned To Let A Bomb Go Off
Thursday, April 14th, 2009. Roughly 3:30PM.
This will seem like some Harvey Pekar-type shit - and maybe, really, I should do matter-of-fact semi-boring comics rather than blogs - but it's a story with enough sad/funny/pathetic life in it that it was worth putting up - kind of like telling the world about losing my virginity to a condom with a hot older chick watching. But here it is:
I am home, as has been the case of late, what with the lack of work I've been subjected to. With me is the Lady Of the House, and her best friend, Alternate Lady Of The House. I'm in my (home) office, working - writing. They're talking, and come to a question I have the answer to. I get up from my chair with the clear intention of providing valuable input that, admittedly, I could have screamed across three rooms, but I decided to deliver the message in person. I'm polite and gallant that way.
Except I don't make it all the way up. When I reach the second-model of the evolutionary chart, caveman-like 45-degree angle (or so it seems), my back locks in, the bottom of it turning all matter into excruciating pain. So I never make it all the way up. And as each step forward takes longer to achieve, my body also gradually fails to rise; two steps in I scream, three steps in I crouch and scream again; fourth step is a knee on the floor, a loud FUCK! and finally there I lay, flat on my stomach, immobile.
The beltway in my pants happens to be right at the junction between my office and the dining room, meaning my torso is in the dining room, and my legs are in my office. It looks silly, but it feels ridiculous. Both Ladies Of The House laugh, as they fail to comprehend the level of pain I'm in.
I can take pain. I've played injured in macho sports like hockey and football. I've walked 45 minutes home from school on a broken foot and ankle at age 9. I've had a broken foot for the past two years. I've had toothaches and tooth nerve pain. I've had regular back pain for the past 15 years, usually for a couple of days at a time, every two or three months. I know pain, and I tolerate it well. But never had I felt this particular level of pain.
I was, for all intents and purposes, paralyzed. I couldn't move my legs without provoking my back to ache, and it was worse with the left leg, which I felt still existed but didn't want to respond to my orders. Worse still, when I tried moving it, be it with my arm or my other leg, the pain was killing me.
So both Ladies, experts at ridiculing others, started making fun of me and my predicament, but even laughing brings pain, which only makes it funnier to them. Soon enough, they are next to me - well, my torso part anyway - rolling on the floor, crying of laughter.
Alternate Lady, being a professional dancer and dance teacher, also often has back injuries and back pain, and tried to help me out by using team stretching techniques, namely on my left leg. But the laughter had brought air into my body, and as soon as she lifted my bent leg up towards my ass, I passed gas. And it was one of those noisy farts, too, right in her face. Of course, First Lady starts cracking up again, so do I (and pain ensues), Alternate Lady drops my left leg in shock and awe - and that hurts even more. And apparently, that level of pain is just fucking hilarious to obdurate women, and the Funny Fest lives onwards.
Fifteen minutes pass by with little to less action action to recount, so Alternate Lady decides to leave and head to her own place. I'll still be on the floor for another hour before I can even attempt to move, when the Lady and I unite our forces and manage to get my ass in bed, where I'll lay for at least another hour without moving so much as a finger.
Throughout the course of the evening, I will attempt bold maneuvers like trying to go to the washroom to take a leak, but the first couple of times I can't even manage to get there at all and have to retreat to bed, while the third time is a semi-charm, one in which when I get there, helped, my penis seems to have stage fright. Just what I fucking need.
This will seem like some Harvey Pekar-type shit - and maybe, really, I should do matter-of-fact semi-boring comics rather than blogs - but it's a story with enough sad/funny/pathetic life in it that it was worth putting up - kind of like telling the world about losing my virginity to a condom with a hot older chick watching. But here it is:
I am home, as has been the case of late, what with the lack of work I've been subjected to. With me is the Lady Of the House, and her best friend, Alternate Lady Of The House. I'm in my (home) office, working - writing. They're talking, and come to a question I have the answer to. I get up from my chair with the clear intention of providing valuable input that, admittedly, I could have screamed across three rooms, but I decided to deliver the message in person. I'm polite and gallant that way.
Except I don't make it all the way up. When I reach the second-model of the evolutionary chart, caveman-like 45-degree angle (or so it seems), my back locks in, the bottom of it turning all matter into excruciating pain. So I never make it all the way up. And as each step forward takes longer to achieve, my body also gradually fails to rise; two steps in I scream, three steps in I crouch and scream again; fourth step is a knee on the floor, a loud FUCK! and finally there I lay, flat on my stomach, immobile.
The beltway in my pants happens to be right at the junction between my office and the dining room, meaning my torso is in the dining room, and my legs are in my office. It looks silly, but it feels ridiculous. Both Ladies Of The House laugh, as they fail to comprehend the level of pain I'm in.
I can take pain. I've played injured in macho sports like hockey and football. I've walked 45 minutes home from school on a broken foot and ankle at age 9. I've had a broken foot for the past two years. I've had toothaches and tooth nerve pain. I've had regular back pain for the past 15 years, usually for a couple of days at a time, every two or three months. I know pain, and I tolerate it well. But never had I felt this particular level of pain.
I was, for all intents and purposes, paralyzed. I couldn't move my legs without provoking my back to ache, and it was worse with the left leg, which I felt still existed but didn't want to respond to my orders. Worse still, when I tried moving it, be it with my arm or my other leg, the pain was killing me.
So both Ladies, experts at ridiculing others, started making fun of me and my predicament, but even laughing brings pain, which only makes it funnier to them. Soon enough, they are next to me - well, my torso part anyway - rolling on the floor, crying of laughter.
Alternate Lady, being a professional dancer and dance teacher, also often has back injuries and back pain, and tried to help me out by using team stretching techniques, namely on my left leg. But the laughter had brought air into my body, and as soon as she lifted my bent leg up towards my ass, I passed gas. And it was one of those noisy farts, too, right in her face. Of course, First Lady starts cracking up again, so do I (and pain ensues), Alternate Lady drops my left leg in shock and awe - and that hurts even more. And apparently, that level of pain is just fucking hilarious to obdurate women, and the Funny Fest lives onwards.
Fifteen minutes pass by with little to less action action to recount, so Alternate Lady decides to leave and head to her own place. I'll still be on the floor for another hour before I can even attempt to move, when the Lady and I unite our forces and manage to get my ass in bed, where I'll lay for at least another hour without moving so much as a finger.
Throughout the course of the evening, I will attempt bold maneuvers like trying to go to the washroom to take a leak, but the first couple of times I can't even manage to get there at all and have to retreat to bed, while the third time is a semi-charm, one in which when I get there, helped, my penis seems to have stage fright. Just what I fucking need.
My head feels dizzy from the constant pain, and I can't stand upright for more than a few minutes. And on the few chairs I do try to sit on, the pain comes to warn me that it isn't a good idea to stay there. Eventually I find out the living room couch is a relatively comfortable place where I can sit in a tolerable amount of discomfort, with the added bonus of entertainment - TV, cable, DVD player, Playstation 3, Blue-Ray discs... it's where I'll spend the next week, give or take. Sleeping sitting down, in just about the same position for a week, my back is getting better - the meds are helping, gotta love those painkillers - but my ass is starting to hurt and my legs often get numb. But I'm up-to-date on Weeds and saw every movie nominated for this year's Oscars. And I finished my season of NHL 09.
So I got my pop culture done, had an excuse to be a couch potato and to neglect my blog for a week, and even got to a level of intimacy with Alternate Lady that only anal sex could have achieved or matched, but she doesn't believe in that shit anyway.
As Ice Cube said:
So I got my pop culture done, had an excuse to be a couch potato and to neglect my blog for a week, and even got to a level of intimacy with Alternate Lady that only anal sex could have achieved or matched, but she doesn't believe in that shit anyway.
As Ice Cube said:
All in all, I gotta say, it was a good day
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