Monday 31 December 2012

Happy New Year to Ya!

The Good, the Bad & the Ugly:




True tequila is made from agave.  If a tequila isn't 100% blue agave, then it's supplemented with alcohols and flavors from other sources (usually corn).  If you taste a 100% agave tequila, you'll see why tequila was invented: it's fruity and pungent, not harsh.

Like most good liquors (brandy, port, scotch), it benefits from time to develop its flavors.  If you leave it for two months to a year, it's "rested" (reposado).  Leave it for longer than that, and it's "old" or "aged" (añejo).  As with scotch, the longer you let it rest, the more expensive it is.

You can let it rest in glass or steel tanks, which will leave it clear (silver or "blanco", white).  Or you can rest it the way they do with whiskey, in charred wood barrels.  That gives it other flavors (caramel, vanilla, tannin, pepper, etc. depending on the kind of barrel), and turns it a golden color ("oro").

For cheap tequilas, not made from 100% agave, they make "gold" tequila by adding caramel colorings and flavors, but it bears little resemblance to the properly aged gold tequilas.

If you try the good tequila, you'll find that the cheap stuff is intolerable.  A good tequila is every bit as complex and interesting as a good scotch.  Unfortunately, it's also about as expensiv

cold calling ~


                   take your hand outta my pocket please..



with three generations of 'dolers' & not a pukka job in sight!

...it's time to accept..the long term achievement reward for benefit fraud ~


Sunday 30 December 2012

does my head look big in this..??


Shelley at Oxford..out now!

by Heathcote Williams

Although an aristocrat by birth, Shelley became a rebel, a passionate revolutionary, whose life’s purpose was to attack tyranny and injustice in state and society. His career of rebellion began at Oxford, from where he was expelled for atheism at the age of 19. From this crucial starting-point, Heathcote Williams provides us with a new account of Shelley’s message and gives us back the real Shelley, the intellectual revolutionary free of the romantic stereotype. In Shelley at Oxford, we have a raw and incendiary wild-child brought to life in a piece of writing that shows exactly why Shelley is thought of as so scorchingly subversive some two centuries later.
Heathcote Williams is an anarchist, magician, and writer. His unique form of polemical poetry, which questions and challenges established power and authority, is in the great tradition of visionary dissent. In many ways Williams is Shelley’s modern-day heir.
that means, they're both rich, privilege fuckers, but don't hold that against 'em!

if ya wanna follow the link to 'Huxley Scientific Press' ;
http://www.huxleyscientific.com/

zip it kid ~

never trust your betters' otherwise all kinds a mischief could befall ya!





This revolution of 'improvement' helped shape the landscape we accept today as the Scottish countryside. But it also swept aside a traditional way of life, causing immense upheaval and trauma for rural dwellers, many of whom moved to the new towns and cities or emigrated. 

Friday 28 December 2012

songs of faded love ~

2012 was just another year in paradise..here's the the best bit,
Tempest ~
The pale moon rose in its glory
Out o'er the Western town
She told a sad, sad story
Of the great ship that went down
T'was the fourteenth day of April
Over the waves she rode
Sailing into tomorrow
To a gilded age foretold
The night was black with starlight
The seas were sharp and clear
Moving through the shadows
The promised hour was near
Lights were holding steady
Gliding over the foam
All the lords and ladies
Heading for their eternal home
The chandeliers were swaying
From the balustrades above
The orchestra was playing
Songs of faded love
The watchman, he lay dreaming
As the ballroom dancers twirled
He dreamed the Titanic was sinking
Into the underworld

Leo took his sketchbook
He was often so inclined
He closed his eyes and painted
The scenery in his mind
Cupid struck his bosom
And broke it with a snap
The closest woman to him
He fell into her lap
He heard a loud commotion
Something sounded wrong
His inner spirit was saying
That he couldn't stand here long
He staggered to the quarterdeck
No time now to sleep
Water on the quarterdeck
Already three foot deep
Smokestack was leaning sideways
Heavy feet began to pound
He walked into the whirlwind
Sky splitting all around
The ship was going under
The universe had opened wide
The roll was called up yonder
The angels turned aside
Lights down in the hallway
Flickering dim and dull
Dead bodies already floating
In the double bottom hull
The engines then exploded
Propellers they failed to start
The boilers overloaded
The ship's bow split apart
Passengers were flying
Backward, forward, far and fast
They mumbled, fumbled, and tumbled
Each one more weary than the last
The veil was torn asunder
'Tween the hours of twelve and one
No change, no sudden wonder
Could undo what had been done
The watchman lay there dreaming
At forty-five degrees
He dreamed that the Titanic was sinking
Dropping to her knees
Wellington he was sleeping
His bed began to slide
His valiant heart was beating
He pushed the tables aside
Glass of shattered crystal
Lay scattered roundabout
He strapped on both his pistols
How long could he hold out?
His men and his companions
Were nowhere to be seen
In silence there he waited for
Time and space to intervene
The passageway was narrow
There was blackness in the air
He saw every kind of sorrow
Heard voices everywhere
Alarm-bells were ringing
To hold back the swelling tide
Friends and lovers clinging
To each other side by side
Mothers and their daughters
Descending down the stairs
Jumped into the icy waters
Love and pity sent their prayers
The rich man, Mister Astor
Kissed his darling wife

He had no way of knowing
Be the last trip of his life
Calvin, Blake, and Wilson
Gambled in the dark
Not one of them would ever live to
Tell the tale or disembark
Brother rose up 'gainst brother
In every circumstance
They fought and slaughtered each other
In a deadly dance
They lowered down the lifeboats
From the sinking wreck
There were traitors, there were turncoats
Broken backs and broken necks
The bishop left his cabin
To help all those in need
Turned his eyes up to the heavens
Said, "The poor are yours to feed"

Davey the brothel-keeper
Came out dismissed his girls
Saw the water getting deeper
Saw the changing of his world
Jim Backus smiled
He never learned to swim
Saw the little crippled child
And he gave his seat to him
He saw the starlight shining
Streaming from the East

Death was on the rampage
But his heart was now at peace
They battened down the hatches
But the hatches wouldn't hold
They drowned upon the staircase
Of brass and polished gold
Leo said to Cleo
I think I'm going mad
But he'd lost his mind already
Whatever mind he had
He tried to block the doorway
To save all those from harm
Blood from an open wound
Pouring down his arm
Petals fell from flowers
Til all of them were gone
In the long and dreadful hours
The wizard's curse played on
The host was pouring brandy
He was going down slow
He stayed right to the end and he
Was the last to go

There were many, many others
Nameless here forever more
They never sailed the ocean
Or left their homes before


The watchman, he lay dreaming
The damage had been done
He dreamed the Titanic was sinking
And he tried to tell someone
The captain, barely breathing
Kneeling at the wheel
Above him and beneath him
Fifty thousand tons of steel

He looked over at his compass
And he gazed into its face
Needle pointing downward
He knew he lost the race
In the dark illumination
He remembered bygone years
He read the Book of Revelation
And he filled his cup with tears
When the Reaper's task had ended
Sixteen hundred had gone to rest
The good, the bad, the rich, the poor
The loveliest and the best

They waited at the landing
And they tried to understand
But there is no understanding
For the judgment of God's hand

The news came over the wires
And struck with deadly force
The love had lost its fires
All things had run their course
The watchman he lay dreaming
Of all the things that can be
He dreamed the Titanic was sinking
Into the deep blue sea...Bob Dylan _

Thursday 27 December 2012

the teddy boys' picnic ~



If you go down to the woods today,
You're sure of a big surprise.
If you go down to the woods today,
You'd better go in disguise.
For every bear that ever there was
Will gather there for certain because
Today's the day the teddy bears have their picnic.

Picnic time for teddy bears;
The little teddy bears are having a lovely time today.
Watch us catch them unawares,
And see them picnic on their holiday.
See them gaily gad about.
They love to play and shout,
They never have any cares.
At six o'clock their mummies and daddies
Will take them home to bed
Because they're tired little teddy bears.

Tuesday 25 December 2012

christmas day in the work-house ~


more tea please..Happy Crimbo!

Monday 24 December 2012

doctor, you bastard!

a playful match at mock courtesy with the Earl of Rochester, who meeting Dr. Barrow near the king’s chamber bowed low, saying, “I am yours, doctor, to the knee strings.”  Barrow (bowing lower), “I am yours, my lord, to the shoe-tie.”  Rochester: “Yours, doctor, down to the ground.”  Barrow: “Yours, my lord, to the centre of the earth.”  Rochester (not to be out-done): “Yours, doctor, to the lowest pit of hell.”  Barrow: “There, my lord, I must leave you.”

this little gem, care of..Mutterings from the Gutter..

Sunday 23 December 2012

Wanda Jackson & Justin Townes Earle - Am I Even a Memory?


               

all things must pass ~



I tried to stop time for ya Baby, I will miss U...much love _ JoHnny

Saturday 22 December 2012

Casey Bill Weldon - Blues Everywere I Go (1937)

fire 'pon Rome ~


                       if ya deal in death, that's dressed as life, your gonna get kicked _

Friday 21 December 2012

take your finger off the trigger ~

 Leon Trotsky“The end may justify the means as long as there is something that justifies the end.”
― Leon Trotsky

Red Terror ~



 In  1918, a 28-year-old Jewish revolutionary was shot in Moscow for attempting to murder Vladimir Lenin.
Fanya (“Fanny”) Kaplan had actually drawn a life sentence for trying the same trick on a tsarist official 12 years before, so you couldn’t say she was a reactionary element.
No, she was a member of the peasant-based Socialist Revolutionary Party, the SRs — the Bolsheviks’ onetime coalition partners who had splintered into left and right factions, the latter being shut out of power when the Constituent Assembly was closed.
A peasant herself, Kaplan was incensed at the Bolshevik power grab and shot Lenin twice at close range as he left a factory on August 30.
Taken immediately, Kaplan clammed up in interrogation.
My name is Fanya Kaplan. Today I shot at Lenin. I did it on my own. I will not say whom I obtained my revolver. I will give no details. I had resolved to kill Lenin long ago. I consider him a traitor to the Revolution. I was exiled to Akatoi for participating in an assassination attempt against a Tsarist official in Kiev. I spent eleven years at hard labour. After the Revolution I was freed. I favoured the Constituent Assembly and am still for it.
Realizing there was no information to be had from her, the Cheka had her executed four days after her crime — an affair organized by Yakov Sverdlov, the same man who had recently disposed of the tsar.
On the same day Kaplan took her shots at Lenin, Bolshevik Moisei Uritsky was (successfully) assassinated. The two murders helped justify the Red Terror officially initiated on September 2 — which saw thousands of politically-motivated arrests and executions as the Bolsheviks consolidated their hold on power.

drink a little innocent blood ~

Wayne LaPierre, a bought & paid for arse-wipe, a big business butt-boy & the front man for the NRA                                      has a taste for innocent blood..you better watch out now..                                                            this man is a zombie who hides behind all fears,                                                                            patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel, said Doctor Johnson, so
when in doubt make more guns, the by-product of  civilized  man,                                                 me..?? I'm a fuckin' savage!
we don't eat our children
enough of the big stick, let Joseph Hill mash down  Rome!

                       

Thursday 20 December 2012

do nothing ~

                    

show-time ~

if Friday is to be my last day.. remember, there's more fun to be had, with a smile on ya face!


the final programme _
"Romance In Durango"
Hot chilli peppers in the blistering sun
Dust on my face and my cape
Me and Magdalena on the run
I think this time we shall escape.

Sold my guitar to the baker's son
For a few crumbs and a place to hide
But I can get another one
And I'll play for Magdalena as we ride.

No llores mi querida
Dios nos vigila
Soon the horse will take us to Durango
Agarrame mi vida
Soon the desert will be gone
Soon you will be dancing the fandango.

Past the Aztec ruins and the ghosts of our people
Hoofbeats like castanets on stone
At night I dream of bells in the village steeple
Then I see the bloody face of Ramona.

Was it me that shot him down in the cantina
Was it my hand that held the gun ?
Come let us fly my Magdalena
The dogs are barking and what's done is done.

No llores mi querida
Dios nos vigila
Soon the horse will take us to Durango
Agarrame mi vida
Soon the desert will be gone
Soon you will be dancing the fandango.

At the corrida we'll sit in the shade
And watch the young torero stand alone
We'll drink tequila where our grandfathers stayed
When they rode with Villa into Torre6n.

Then the padre will recite the prayers of old
In the little church this side of town
I will wear new boots and an earring of gold
You'll shine with diamonds in your wedding gown.

The way is long but the end is near
Already the fiesta has begun
The face of God will appear
With His serpent eyes of obsidian.

No llores mi querida
Dios nos vigila
Soon the horse will take us to Durango
Agarrame mi vida
Soon the desert will be gone
Soon you will be dancing the fandango.

Was that the thunder that I heard
My head is vibrating, I feel a sharp pain
Come sit by me don't say a word
Oh can it be that I am slain ?

Quick, Magdalena, take my gun
Look up in the hills that flash of light
Aim well my little one
We may not make it through the night.

No llores mi querida
Dios nos vigila
Soon the horse will take us to Durango
Agarrame mi vida
Soon the desert will be gone
Soon you will be dancing the fandango.

Tuesday 18 December 2012

..??..


“Bad artists copy. Good artists steal.” 
― Pablo Picasso

Monday 17 December 2012

the prophet of profit


“...the priests of all these cults, the singers, shouters, prayers and exhorters of Bootstrap-lifting have as their distinguishing characteristic that they do very little lifting at their own bootstraps, and less at any other man's. Now and then you may see one bend and give a delicate tug, of a purely symbolical character: as when the Supreme Pontiff of the Roman Bootstrap-lifters comes once a year to wash the feet of the poor; or when the Sunday-school Superintendent of the Baptist Bootstrap-lifters shakes the hand of one of his Colorado mine-slaves. But for the most part the priests and preachers of Bootstrap-lifting walk haughtily erect, many of them being so swollen with prosperity that they could not reach their bootstraps if they wanted to. Their role in life is to exhort other men to more vigorous efforts at self-elevation, that the agents of the Wholesale Pickpockets' Association may ply their immemorial role with less chance of interference.” — 

Sunday 16 December 2012

Friday 14 December 2012

Thursday 13 December 2012

new shoes ~


The latest book by DJ and designer Al Fingers, ‘Clarks in Jamaica’ takes you on a journey of current and historic photographs, interviews, and previously unseen archival material, with a particular focus on the Jamaican musicians who have worn and sung about Clarks shoes over the years.
On the creation of the book Al Fingers says: “Being from England, I have always been intrigued by the Jamaican fascination with Clark’s shoes and the way they are referenced within Jamaican music. Whilst Vybz Kartel’s song ‘Clarks’ brought the phenomenon to many people’s attention in 2010, the relationship goes back way further, and in compiling this book I wanted to bring attention to that, highlighting the work of artists such as Dillinger and Little John who had sung about Clarks many years before.”
In the words of Jamaican producer Bunny ‘Striker’ Lee: “From ever since, Clarks is a number one shoe inna Jamaica. Not just now, I’m talking from the Fifties come right up… Clarks stand the test of time inna Jamaica. All the other shoes come and bow right down at Clarks’ Foot.”

Wednesday 12 December 2012

the passage of power ~

the book of the year..??


I have not been a member of the Cult of Caro until now, although I know and admire many people who have been for many years. But this summer I read The Passage of Power, the fourth volume of Robert A Caro’s life of Lyndon Baines Johnson.
Call me simple, or herd-minded, because this is the part, from LBJ accepting the vice-presidential nomination on John F Kennedy’s ticket, to Kennedy’s assassination and LBJ’s first few weeks as President, where the story becomes mainstream. Kennedy’s death is one of the best known moments in modern history – indeed Caro describes how television made it the first live national and international news event – and the story leading up to it and away from it is a remarkable one.
And Caro tells it so well. It is not often that I have muttered, “Astonishing”, to myself as I close a book. But I see what people were on about now. Caro is a brilliant narrator of recent history. Through his long sentences and elaborate digressions he keeps up the momentum of the story, the what-happened-next, even when what actually happened next is well known. Yet such a tight grip is kept throughout on motive, analysing why decisions were taken, balancing the force of personalities against the forces of social change, and on weighing the evidence on questions where no definite verdict is possible.
The story starts with the run-up to the Democratic Convention of 1960, with LBJ’s attempt to reach for the party’s presidential nomination without being seen to reach for it – a throwback to an earlier style of politics (that was how it was in Lincoln’s time, as any reader of Team of Rivals would know) – and then his acceptance of JFK’s offer of the vice-presidential slot on his ticket. Caro disposes fairly briskly with the three years of LBJ’s vice presidency, in which the Majority Leader in the Senate gave up all his power for ceremonial job, but one with a statistical chance, which LBJ quantified before he took it, of succeeding to the top job.
The assassination occurs around the middle of the book, and Caro handles it with awe-inspiring confidence, knitting together several stories: the beginning of the end of LBJ’s career, as journalists start to close in on his suspect personal finances; the stalling of the Kennedy legislative programme; and the winding up of Kennedy’s re-election campaign, which was why he was in Dallas that day: to try to secure Texas. LBJ had delivered Texas for him in 1960, but, having lost his Senate power, it was becoming clear that he couldn’t do so again and that Kennedy would have to look to the West for the votes to secure his re-election. By November 1963, LBJ was sure that he was going to be dropped as Vice President as surplus to requirements.
The second half of the book tells the story of LBJ’s first seven weeks as President, from the assassination until his State of the Union address in January 1964. It was a remarkable reversal of fortune in which LBJ, from his lowest ebb, became President and immediately started to use its power – and the power of the Kennedy myth – to start his civil rights programme, so that, by the end of the book, he was set fair for his re-election later in 1964.
Yet Caro also skilfully weaves in to the story themes that come from earlier – the influences of his upbringing on LBJ’s politics – and that lead on into the future. The civil rights bill, for example, was unblocked in Congress over Christmas 1963, but not actually passed until July 1964. Caro jumps forward briefly to pre-empt what he says will be the fifth and final volume covering the rest of LBJ’s time as President, a year of his first term and the four years of his second, to preview how Vietnam will come to overshadow his achievements on civil rights and the war against poverty.
The book is not without weaknesses. Caro’s fondness for long sentences, vast subclauses and the full arsenal of semi-colons, dashes and brackets, tests the reader even if it is usually worth it. Occasionally he loses his thread. Sometimes his repetition ceases to be helpful signposting through complexity and becomes simply repetitive. And I deprecate the American fashion for invisible references, for which the phrase has to be hunted without even the aid of page numbers in the notes at the back. Give me footnotes on the page, or, at worst, endnotes.
But it is a work of greatness, of such acute observation of politics that its insights are applicable far beyond the time and place of the United States, 1960-64.

Tuesday 11 December 2012

'tis Pity She's a Whore ~

               

Sunday 9 December 2012

the star-gazer royel ~



..Sir Patrick Moore is 'brown-bread' at 89..   
the Captain has left the bridge,

           your get out of jail card is ready m8..shine on 

The Flaming Stars - House Of The Setting Sun

vomit on the table






BARBECUE:
A hot-looking lady.
BOIL MY CABBAGE:
Blues slang for sex.
BUCKET OF BLOOD:
A spit and sawdust bar.
BUNK HABIT:
Lounging around while others smoke opium, and inhaling the fumes.
BUTTER-AND-EGG:
Out-of-town sucker, free with his money.
CHICAGO OVERCOAT:
Coffin.
CHICAGO LIGHTNING:
Gunfire.

COLD MEAT PARTY

A funeral.

COMMUNITY JOY RIDE

A druggie party.

DEAD SOLDIERS

Empty beer bottles.

DIME DROPPER

An informer (someone who drops a dime in payphone to call the cops).

FACE LIKE A RUSSIAN FLAG

Embarrassed, ie red.

FLORIDA HONEYMOON

A dirty weekend.

FREE TO RUN FOR PRESIDENT

Out of work, unemployed.

HAEMOPHILIA OF THE LARYNX

A blabbermouth.

HARLEM SUNSET

Knife wounds.

HAVE ONE ON THE CITY

Drink some water.

HOT SQUAT/JUICE JOLT

The electric chair.

JACK RABBIT BLOOD

Habitual prison escaper.

KNOW YOUR GROCERIES

Be hip, aware, alert to the situation.

LONGHAIRS

Non-hipsters, squares, lovers of straight music.

MATTRESS ROUTE

Sleeping your way to the top.

MOOSE-EYES

A leering dude.

OLD ENOUGH TO VOTE

Vintage liquor or wine.

PREPARING BAIT

Putting on makeup.

PULLING THE DUTCH ACT

Committing suicide.

RIDING ACADEMY

Brothel.

ROUNDHEELS

Party girl (deriving from a supposed natural ability to regularly fall over backwards).

THE SCRAMBLE EGG TREATMENT

A sex show.

SCREWED, BLUED AND TATTOOED

A wild night out.

SINHOUND

A priest.

SNIFFING ARIZONA PERFUME

Going to the gas chamber.

STRAIGHT FROM THE FRIDGE

Cool. Obviously.

TAKEN OFF THE PAYROLL

Killed/assassinated.

THAT VIBRATES ME

I'm impressed, I really like it.

THROW THAT DIRT IN YOUR FACE

Being buried.

TORSO-TOSSER

Hootchie-coochie dancer, stripper.

VOMIT ON THE TABLE

Speak up.

WEEK AT THE KNEES

Unsuccessful courtship.

YOUR ROOF IS LEAKING

You're a bit crazy.