Fuhrer for a Day*

In the November issue of Vanity Fair, Rich Cohen describes his experiment of wearing a toothbrush mustache in order to reclaim it from the legacy of Hitler. He explains that

In the years before the First World War, the Toothbrush was taken up by a German folk hero, which is the moment it became a craze. Before that, it had been an elite fashion shared by the dandies and swells of Berlin and Vienna. After that, it was worn by every yokel who dreamed of greatness. I am imagining young Hitler poring over newspapers in search of any mention of Hans Koeppen, a Prussian lieutenant who had become a pop star in the manner of the solo aviator, the illusionist, or the tightrope walker. Here is how he was described in The New York Times: "Lieut. Koeppen is 31 years old and unmarried. Six feet in height, slim and athletic, with a toothbrush mustache characteristic of his class."

His findings are disappointing, however.

I went out. In the street, some people looked at me, but most looked away. A few people said things after I passed. One man gave me a kind of Heil, but it was lackadaisical, and I am fairly certain he was being ironic. (People can be so mean!) Even friends said nothing until I asked, or else acted embarrassed for me. A woman said, "I think you were more handsome without the mustache." I had been worried someone might try to hurt me. I imagined toughs from the Jewish Defense League attacking with throwing stars—Jewish throwing stars! But it turns out, when you shave like Hitler, you follow the same rule you follow with bees: They're more scared of you than you are of them. Because either you really are Hitler, or you're a nut. So people do with little Hitlers what people always do with lunatics in New York, the harmless or dangerous—they ignore, they avert, they move away. If you want to fly coach without being hassled, grow a Toothbrush mustache.

I wore the mustache for about a week.* It preceded me into stores and hung in the air after I exited. It sat on my face as I slept. I was Hitler in my dreams. I went to the Jewish Museum. I went to Zabar's. I went to the Met. I went to the modern wing. I said, "All of this art is decadent." I stood on the corner of 82nd and Fifth. I stared into space. When you stare into space with a Toothbrush mustache, you are glowering. You can't help it. You're looking into crowds. You're looking at the names on the census that end in "-berg" and "-stein" while thinking, How do we get all these Juden onto trains? But in the end, my project, in its broader aims, was a failure. Because no matter how long, or how casually, or how sarcastically I wore the mustache, it still belonged to Hitler. You cannot claim it, or own it, or clean it as a drug lord cleans money. Because it's too dirty. Because it's soaked up too much history. It's his, and, as far as I'm concerned, he can keep it. When you wear the Toothbrush mustache, you are wearing the worst story in the world right under your nose.

* Okay, week. Poetic licence.

Is it A Bird ?

Only four stars?

For the man who does this!

Millwall Penalty Fiasco

Did anyone see Match of the Day on Saturday night? I taped it and have watched it several times and am still appalled that the commentators failed to mention that the penalty awarded to Millwall was taken from the Golf Road penalty spot, which I paid 50 quid to sponsor at the start of the season. Do they think I give them my hard-earned cash out of pure philanthropy? What a con!

Anyway, as cup games go, it was no great shakes. Not much atmosphere, though it was respectful of the 300-odd Millwall fans who travelled north to observe 90 minutes silence this remembrance weekend, and not much quality football barring the Alty goal and a few touches from Brkovic. Millwall were never realy under any pressure, but then again, their forwards never looked like scoring against 11 men. Both defences were on top of fairly toothless attacks in an unphysical tie where there was hardly a cynical challenge.

We would have been pleased to get to half-time level because Millwall had failed to capitalise on the strong wind at their backs; if the Lions did have a plan in the first half, it seemed to be "hit low crosses into the near post," but they'd only told the wide men and not the strikers, so it never came to anything.

The debatable sending off was a blow to Alty and, as is usual, we conceded another goal soon after. The 10 men battled hard but like Millwall failed to make the most of the conditions, although it must be said that the stature of our players is not suited to the typical non-league route-one tactic.

Good luck to Millwall in the next round. I'd like to see them give Barrow a good hiding, although Bournemouth will be favourites to progress, and it's a shame the extra 1,000 Alty fans who turned up to bait the away fans from 100 yards won't been seen anywhere near Moss Lane for the rest of the season.

Everybody now: "You ruined our crowd. You ruined our crowd. Fuck off Tesco. You ruined our crowd!"

Bald Patch at 3 o'Clock!

I'd know those moves anywhere.

For Everyone Who's Been Working All Week

New date announced: The New Roscoe, Leeds, February 14, 2008.

Bricking It

Don't forget to tune in to Football Focus on Saturday for the FA Cup 1st round previews. It is almost inevitable that the Alty vs Millwall game will be dominated by the news that Robins midfielder Warren Peyton spent the week building some new turnstiles at Moss Lane.

And if that underwhelms then take a leaf out of Tesco's book and panic unnecessarily.





*Update* It's started already. Last night's Granada Reports had an interview with Warren at work on a building site. The questions included "What's the team spirit level at the moment?" "Is there mortar come?" and, ta-da!, "Are you bricking it?"

That's Some Good Shit

Jenkem rumours are doing the rounds again:

Florida cops issue shock 'Butthash' warning

Fermented excrement, aka 'Jenkem', menaces schoolkids

Cops from Florida's Collier County have created a bit of a shitstorm stir by declaring that local high school kids are getting high on fermented "fecal matter and urine," known as "Jenkem," or "Butthash. " The memo itself - issued by Lieutenant Al Ganich - is real enough, and a shocking read it makes too.

It explains: "The fecal matter and urine are placed in a bottle or jar and covered most commonly with a balloon. The container is then placed in a sunny area for several hours or days until fermented."

"The contents of the container will separate and release a gas, which is captured in the balloon. Inhaling the gas is said to have a euphoric high similar to ingesting cocaine but with strong hallucinations of times past. Once ingested the onset of the high takes approximately 10 seconds with the most severe hallucinations happening in approximately 20 minutes. Several articles indicate that the subject immediately passes out after ingesting the gas then regains a magical/hallucinogenic state within seconds of regaining consciousness.

"The high has been described by subjects as a feeling of 'being out of it' and talking to dead people. The feeling of being 'out of it' may last for several hours or days. All subjects who used the Jenkem disliked the taste of sewage in their mouth and the fact that the taste continued for several days."

The jury is still out, as far as Snopes is concerned, but whether it's true or not, what a great rumour to start in the first place: "Let's think of something that will have kids the world over sniffing piles of shit."

Another One for the Christmas Stocking

Joe Queenan in the New York Times Book Review says,

The Toothpick . . . is the work of a maddeningly sober pedant who is anything but a crowd pleaser. “It would appear that in America the use of toothpicks has become largely a matter of class,” he writes in a passage that expertly captures his infatuation with the obvious and the insignificant. “Unlike in the late 19th century, when the urbane crutch-and-toothpick brigade proudly chewed its toothpicks on the steps of fine hotels and restaurants, now it is more the rural and less educated who openly chew theirs in the parking lots, if not at the counter itself, of big-box stores and fast-food establishments.”

Where books like Guns, Germs and Steel or Rats, Lice and History examine overlooked trends or inventions and demonstrate the decisive role they have played, The Toothpick is basically a paean to our irrepressible friend, the toothpick. Petroski assumes that once they have overcome their initially blasé attitude, people will be mesmerized by the tale of how an inexpensive oral-particle-removing device came out of nowhere to take the world by storm. He has forgotten the hoary dictum: Never send a toothpick to do a pencil’s job.

It’s possible that The Toothpick is inspired satire, a deliciously subtle send-up of a genre Petroski helped to popularize. A more plausible explanation is that the author was so emboldened by the public’s giddy response to his earlier work that he decided to go for broke. If this is the case, then we, the reading public, bear
the greatest responsibility for this misfortune.

464 pages on the toothpick! I bet this guy REALLY loved detention.

Romance Isn't What It Used to Be

In the September 24 issue of Maclean's, Patricia Treble discusses romance publisher Harlequin's increasing willingness to tackle sexual dysfunction:

For [Harlequin Presents executive editor Tessa Shapcott], the breakthrough sexual dysfunction book was Lucy Monroe's Blackmailed into Marriage. Its entire plot revolved around vaginismus, a condition that causes vaginal muscles to involuntarily contract shut. When the typically alpha-male hero discovered his bride's plight, he morphs into the most understanding husband on the planet, reassuring her that intercourse isn't the only way to sexual pleasure. "I am a 30-year-old man who understands the limits you have laid before me. I will not pressure [you] for what you cannot give . . . If I say we can make love in a way that will leave us both satisfied, you need to believe me." The book is laden not only with explicit depictions of a wide variety of sex acts, but also jaw-dropping clinical-yet-romantic descriptions of the couple engaging in the most common treatment for vaginismus: the insertion of a series of dilators. And, of course, Lia and Damian live happily ever after.

Yes, but are there pictures?

When Christians Fight

Here's a quality open letter in the latest issue of Esquire magazine from Mark Warren to Dinesh D'Souza concerning the latter's new book, What's So Great About Christianity?:


Dear Dinesh,

Poor Jesus.

In reading your latest offering, What's So Great About Christianity (Regnery, $28), I can't help but think of the scene from Woody Allen's Hannah and Her Sisters, in which Max von Sydow's character says, "if Jesus came back and saw what's going on in his name, He'd never stop throwing up."

As a Christian raised in a Christian country in a Christian epoch, I can only say that nothing makes me want to run into the waiting arms of Satan faster than your soul-killing pseudo-academic cant, which you allege to have written on behalf of Christ, which really fills me with pity for Him. Among the many other achievements of your book, you manage to blame the Inquisition on the wily Jews we foolishly always thought were its victims ("the idea that the Inquisition targeted Jews is a fantasy"), you harrumph about "why religion is winning," you embarrass yourself further by postulating on the "spiritual basis for limited government," and you take it upon yourself to pronounce, "This is not a time for Christians to turn the other cheek." You don't say. Since you've now blithely amended one of the central tenets of Christianity, I must object on His behalf.

Yes, Dinesh, you've written another vulgar book. You regard your religion as a rabid fan would regard his football team. And you use God for the most tawdry and temporal of purposes: to make a political argument. How pathetic. If He is indeed under assault as you say, from atheists and others, it is because of, not in spite of, people like you, Dinesh. So here's a tip for you: While you may well need Jesus, He really doesn't need you or your little book. If you never existed, He would be just fine. Furthermore, you don't seem to have the foggiest idea what's so great about Christianity.

In spite of this, by page 136 you accomplish what none of the great human minds has ever been able to: You prove the existence of God. It was supereasy, as it turns out. In all His wisdom, He did not fully reveal Himself to Aristotle, Augustine, Thomas Aquinas. or Mother Teresa, but He came to you, of all people. And coming as you do from the bald-assertion school of philosophy, you come to know Him in writing that is at once an offense against language, reason, and God. A stunning trifecta:

"It seems at this point that we have established the existence of a creator, but nothing can be known about the nature of that creator. I submit that this is not so . . . . As the universe comprises the totality of nature, containing everything that is natural, Its creator must necessarily be outside nature. As the creator used no natural laws or forces to create the universe, the creator is clearly supernatural . . ."

Yes, clearly. No one working today can leech the beauty, power, mystery, and integrity from the Christian message like you can, Dinesh. I've got news for you, though: Your Dartmouth-term-paper research skills notwithstanding, you can't get to God through reasoning. Especially your reasoning. That's what faith is for. And so what you intend as a pep rally for the God of Moses has the resounding opposite effect. This, it seems, is your great talent and your legacy: You have the creative imagination of a clerk, with just enough juice to arouse the ire and clarify the thinking of reasonable people far and wide. But cut it out, Dinesh. Jesus doesn't need favors like this. Please, I implore you: Stop writing.

Oh, and another thing: After your last book, The Enemy at Home, in which you sided with the Islamofascists and blamed the attacks of 9/11 on the American "cultural left," I challenged you in these pages (January 2007) to fight. I am very easy to reach, Dinesh, but somehow haven't heard from you. The offer still stands. Not a time to turn the other cheek, indeed.

Can't Decide What to Get the Kids for Christmas?

If the books recommended below are too secular, why not buy them a dolly?

A piece of advice: Don't get your kids the "Feeding of the 5,000" playset. They'll only feel cheated. By the look of One2Believe's version of the story, Jesus provided enough food for everyone by making 4,999 people disappear.

Our Cuprunneth Over?

Alty having finally won an FA Cup tie and pocketed £10,000 in the process, it looks like they'll be spending it on policing the 1st round tie vs Millwall. Still, with Millwall's away form, there's always an outside chance we could get a draw and pull in a massive crowd at the New Den.

I guess we will have to settle for a Cheshire Senior Cup and FA Trophy double then.

To Be Young(ish) at the Weekend was Very Heaven

You can tell it's Friday over at FD2W? by the sudden burst of activity and enthusiasm. Coincidence? Surely not.

And only 34!

Who's Your Leader? Which is Your Flock?

More Crass, courtesy of the Graun.

The Race Goes Not to the Swift . . .

Nor bread to the wise, as Ecclesiastes says. Proof can be found in the latest issue of GQ magazine, which has an interview with Ted Turner, a man "worth" $2 billion. Some highlights:

The sad thing about destroying the environment is that we're going to take the rest of life with us. The bluebirds will be gone, and the elephants will be gone, and the tigers will be gone, and the pandas will be gone. I don't like the idea of losing pandas or crocodiles or alligators. I just . . . you know, I think they're cool. I like snakes. I like hummingbirds. There's nothing on earth I don't like. Frogs. Salamanders. The bunnies, the giraffes, the hippopotamuses.

. . .

Oh yeah, I've been almost everywhere. I've been to over sixty countries.

. . .

What was North Korea like? I had a great time there! I was there last year. They were nice to me. There weren't a lot of fat people walking around. They were all thin. And being thin is healthier than being fat.

. . .

You don't see North Korea as a threat? Awwh! Their economy is not as big as Cleveland, Ohio! Does Cleveland, Ohio, pose a threat to the U.S.?

. . .

With your philanthropy and investments that didn't work out, you've lost a big chunk of money in the past few years. Well,yeah! I lost 80 percent of my wealth and then gave away over half of the rest. So I'm a man of modest means now. But if you budget carefully and watch your expenditures, you can get by on a couple billion dollars. You know, you don't have to have twenty billion. You can squeeze by with a couple billion.

. . .

Do you think you've been lucky or blessed in anyway? There had to be a lot of luck. If you were unlucky, you'd be born a mosquito. Or a mouse. What can a mouse do? I got all the luck in my family. My sister died when she was 17, after a lengthy illness. My father killed himself when he was 53. He had depression. My father used to say, "What the mind of man can conceive and believe, the mind of man can achieve!" That's why I know that we can get rid of nuclear weapons. A lot of people that are really into this don't think it's possible. But CNN was impossible. I've done the impossible many times. The word does not exist for me. I've got a lot of signal flags in my flag bag, but there's not a white one in there. I don't know what surrender means. I'm gonna keep fighting until the day I die, and I might keep on fighting afterwards—depends on where I am.

C'est Seulement Un Wind Oop

I don't know which is funnier, Northwich Vics or The Cheeky Girls

Harry Potter and the Golden Handshake

In the October 8 edition of Forbes magazine, regular columnist Rich Karlgaard recommends 53 books for parents to give their children so that they might grow up to be rich. They include

The Age of Turbulence: Adventures in a New World, by Alan Greenspan

The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable, by Nassim Nicholas Taleb

The Road to Serfdom, by Friedrich Hayek

Flat Tax Revolution: Using a Postcard to Abolish the IRS, by Steve Forbes

The Way the World Works, by Jude Wanniski

Losing My Virginity: How I've Survived, Had Fun, and Made a Fortune Doing Business My Way, by Richard Branson

Buffett: The Making of an American Capitalist, by Roger Lowenstein

The House of Morgan: An American Banking Dynasty and the Rise of Modern Finance, by Ron Chernow

Microtrends: The Small Forces Behind Tomorrow's Big Changes, by Mark Penn and E. Kinney Zalesne

The Innovator's Dilemma: When New Technologies Cause Great Firms to Fail, by Clayton Christensen

The Elephant and the Dragon: The Rise of India and China and What It Means for All of Us, by Robyn Meredith

Bull's Eye Investing: Targeting Real Returns in a Smoke and Mirrors Market, by John Mauldin

Rule #1: The Simple Strategy for Successful Investing in Only 15 Minutes a Week!, by Phil Town

The Only Three Questions That Count: Investing by Knowing What Others Don't, by Kenneth L. Fisher

In Search of Excellence: Lessons From Americas Best-Run Companies, by Thomas J. Peters and Robert H. Waterman

Its Your Ship: Management Techniques From the Best Damn Ship in the Navy, by Captain D. Michael Abrashoff

The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand

The Acts of the Apostles, by Luke

The Hypomanic Edge: The Link Between a Little Craziness and a Lot of Success in America, by John D. Gartner

Moneyball: The Art of Winning an Unfair Game, by Michael Lewis

and

The Bonfire of the Vanities, by Tom Wolfe.


Just think of the look on their faces on Christmas morning!

Book Early, Book Often

Always worth a visit if you can get there. Some very interesting meetings to drop in on.


Thanks to FD2W?

I've a Crack For Yer

Mick Hartley is decidedly unimpressed by Doris Salcedo's Shibboleth and the attendant art bollocks at the Tate Modern.

Sadly, it's all too clear that the work itself is in no way of sufficient quality or power to justify this nonsense. The concerns with racism, postcolonialism, difference, whatever, are all contrived and arbitrary impositions seeking to impart a spurious relevance to a self-indulgent piece of banality. If meanings have to be assigned, why these? Why not say it's about the shortcomings of a two-party system, or the Risorgimento, or, more pertinently, the need to get a proper structural survey done before you buy a house? We know why not, of course: these aren't the kind of issues that resonate with the type of people who run art galleries.

Elvis is Dead . . .

. . . Drunk

It Really Should Be Che

Given the current celebrations and continued battles over the photogenic corpse of another macho exponent of revolutionary authoritarianism.





(Posted for Darren's amusement further to this conversation)

She Wrote With a Straight Face

An amusing article in the latest issue of Film Comment magazine by Melissa Anderson, the editor of Time Out New York, reflects on the controversy that surrounded the release of the Al Pacino movie Cruising, now finally out on DVD.

Pacino's cop simultaneously digs and is terrified by the bars he must frequent to catch the killer. "This film is not intended as an indictment of the homosexual world. It is set in one small segment of that world, which is not meant to be representative of the whole," reads the disclaimer at the very beginning of Cruising, surely added in response to the gay protests. But what a world it is. Filming actual Meatpacking District clubs like the Anvil, the Ramrod, and the Eagle as sexy, stygian pleasure-domes, Friedkin shows, with absolutely no judgment, men (who were, for the most part, actual habitues of the scene) kissing, sucking each other off, and, in a scene that still astonishes with its audacity, getting fist-fucked. Only the New Queer Cinema landmark Poison, with its outlaw homo protagonists, comes even close to rivaling the film's display of sex as rough, ritualized, reckless. To paraphrase Lolita's tagline: how did they ever make a movie of Cruising? Just remember: a major studio—United Artists—greenlit some of the rawest, raunchiest man-on-man action American cinema has ever seen.

. . .

But can't Cruising also be seen as a Pre-AIDS artifact that actively advances the homosexual agenda? Filmmaker Todd Downing, 34, whose 2001 short, Jeffrey's Hollywood Screen Trick, spoofs the insipid gay rom-coms that were ubiquitous in the Nineties, thinks so. "This ostensibly straight man played by Pacino gets sucked into an underworld and is undeniably intrigued and turned on by it," he says. "He can't get enough of it and is so obsessed that it puts strains on his relationships at work and at home. And the scenes in the bar couldn't have been more lovingly photographed: slow pans across men cruising and having sex, all in lighting that couldn't be more flattering. It makes the leather scene look incredibly seductive." Perhaps one person's toxic stereotype is another's turn-on. Downing, like me, is a queer Gen-Xer. I don't think we're idealizing a cultural and political moment (not to mention a pre-Stella McCartney Meatpacking District) that we never participated in so much as we're responding to radical representations of queer sexuality financed by Hollywood. Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal wear their colored bandanas around their necks in Brokeback Mountain; high-altitude fucks aren't the same as sex while high on amyl nitrate. But in deference to one who did participate, I leave the last word to [experimental filmmaker Jim] Hubbard: "If I had known that our protests against Cruising would lead to Will & Grace, I never would've done it."

Farewell to the Gorzes

I only found out yesterday, thanks to the Observer, of the tragic but nonetheless understandable double suicide of André and Dorine Gorz, which happened a couple of weeks ago. Dorine had been suffering for quite some time with an extremely painful illness, and as André explains in his Lettre a D.

Sometimes, at night, I see the silhouette of a man walking behind a hearse along an empty road in a deserted landscape. I am that man. I don't want to attend your cremation, I don't want to receive your ashes in a bowl.

I had a bit of a Gorz binge a couple of years ago, largely as an extension of the reading I was doing around the Labour Theory of Value and the consequences for libertarian socialism of its refutation. Gorz, like Castoriadis, was one of the early sceptics of the LTV among the New Left (their criticisms not being dependent on the problems identified by the classical economics that gave us Analytic Marxism but from a more thoroughgoing examination of the Law's ambiguous place in Marx's work and its failure to correspond with basic historical facts). Both were willing to follow the consequences of their findings through to their logical conclusions, resulting in a libertarian socialism that understands that a failure on behalf of socialists to recognize humanity's actual circumstances (which is to say the circumstances revealed by science, sociology, and history, rather than by wishful thinking and the imposition of pre-defined categories demanded by ideology) has led the Left down a series of blind alleys, frequently rendering it redundant, irrelevant, or downright dangerous.

Needless to say, plenty of Marxists have been happy to dismiss Gorz's work, ever since his "ecological turn," but as I've said before, (or rather, as Maurice Brinton has said before), “One of the greatest pains to human nature is the pain of a new idea.” It may be a while yet before some manage to catch up with Gorz and fully appreciate what he had to offer.

Jeffrey Lewis & Helen Schreiner Cheer Us All Up

A wonderful reminder of Crass's near-adolescent contempt for ordinary folk.

Still, what great fucking songs.

"Do They Owe Us A Living? (Well?...Do They?)"

One - Two - Three - Four

Fuck the politically minded, here's something I want to say,
About the state of nation, the way it treats us today.
At school they give you shit, drop you in the pit,
You try and try and try to get out, but you can't because they've fucked you about.
Then you're a prime example of how they must not be,
This is just a sample of what they've done to you and me.

Do they owe us a living?
Of course they do, of course they do.
Owe us a living?
Of course they do, of course they do.
Owe us a living?
OF COURSE THEY FUCKING DO.

Don't want me anymore, cos I threw it on the floor.
They used to call me sweet thing, I'm nobody's plaything,
And now that I am different, they'd love to bust my head,
They'd love to see me cop-out, they'd love to see me dead.

Do they owe us a living?
Of course they do, of course they do.
Owe us a living?
Of course they do, of course they do.
Owe us a living?
OF COURSE THEY FUCKING DO.

The living that is owed to me I'm never going to get,
They've buggered this old world up, up to their necks in debt.
They'd give you a lobotomy for something you aint done,
They'll make you an epitomy of everything that's wrong.

Do they owe us a living?
Of course they do, of course they do.
Owe us a living?
Of course they do, of course they do.
Owe us a living?
OF COURSE THEY FUCKING DO.

Don't take any notice of what the public think,
They're so hyped up with T.V., they just don't want to think.
They'll use you as a target for demands and for advice,
When you don't want to hear it they'll say you're full of vice.

Do they owe us a living?
Of course they do, of course they do.
Owe us a living?
Of course they do, of course they do.
Owe us a living?
OF COURSE THEY FUCKING DO.

"Systematic Death"

System, system, system.
Death in life.
System, system, system.
The surgeon's knife.
System, system, system.
Hacking at the cord.
System, system, system.
A child is born.

Poor little fucker, poor little kid,
Never asked for life, no she never did.
Poor little baby, poor little mite,
Crying out for food as her parents fight.
Crying out for food as her parents fight.

System, system, system.
Send him to school.
System, system, system.
Force him to crawl.
System, system, system.
Teach him how to cheat.
System, system, system.
Kick him off his feet.

Poor little schoolboy, poor little lad,
They'll pat him if he's good and they'll beat him if he's bad.
Poor little kiddy, poor little chap,
They'll force feed his mind with their useless crap.
They'll force feed his mind with their useless crap.

System, system, system.
They'll teach her how to cook.
System, system, system.
Teach her how to look.
System, system, system.
They'll teach her all the tricks,
System, system, system.
Create another victim for their greasy pricks.

Poor little girly, poor little wench,
Another little object to prod and pinch.
Poor little sweety, poor little filly,
They'll fuck her mind so they can fuck her silly.
They'll fuck her mind so they can fuck her silly.

System, system, system.
He's grown to be a man.
System, system, system.
Taugh to fit the plan.
System, system, system.
Forty years of jobs.
System, system, system.
Pushing little buttons, pulling little knobs.

Poor fucking worker, poor little serf,
Working like a mule for half of what he's worth.
Poor fucking grafter, poor little gent,
Working for the cash that he's already spent.
Working for the cash that he's already spent.

He's selling his life,
She's his loyal wife,
Timid as a mouse,
She's got her little house,
He's got his little car,
And they share the cocktail bar
She likes to cook his meals,
You know, something that appeals.
Sometimes he works til late
So his supper has to wait,
But she doesn't really mind
Cos he's getting overtime.
He likes to put a bit away
Just for that rainy day,
Cos every little counts
As the cost of living mounts.
They do the pools each week
Hoping for that lucky break.
Then they'd take a trip abroad,
Do all the things they can't afford.
She'd really like to have a fur,
He's like a bigger car.
They could buy a bungalow,
With a Georgian door for show.
He might think of leaving work,
But no, he wouldn't like a shirk.
He'd much prefer to stay
And get his honest day's pay.
He's got a life of work ahead,
There's no rest for the dead.
She's tried to make it nice,
He's said thank-you once or twice.

System, system, system.
Deprived of any hope.
System, system, system.
Taught they couldn't cope.
System, system, system.
Slaves right from the start.
System, system, system.
Til death do them part.

Poor little fuckers, what a sorry pair,
Had their lives stolen, but they didn't really care.
Poor little darlings, just your ordinary folks,
Victims of the system and its cruel jokes.
Victims of the system and its cruel jokes.

The couple views the wreckage
And dreams of home sweet home,
They'd almost paid the mortgage,
Then the system dropped its bomb.

He Says Yes, But He Means No.

I'm sorry to have only belatedly spotted these previews of five forthcoming books on prayer and self-help in the August 13 issue of Publishers Weekly. The books under consideration are Sister Wendy on Prayer, by Sister Wendy Beckett; The Ten-Second Prayer Principle: How to Pray Powerfully & Effectively in Today's Busy World, by Mark Littleton; Sacred Attention: A Spiritual Practice for Finding God in the Moment, by Margaret D. McGee; Thank You Power: Making the Science of Gratitude Work for You, by Deborah Norville, and, best of all, God Said Yes, by Heather Hornback-Bland and Ninie Hammon:

When Hornback-Bland was four years old, she fell out of a car her mother was driving and was run over. Doctors were sure she wouldn't survive, but more than 30 years and 187 surgeries later, she is still here—a mom and a motivational speaker. In this book she tells the full story of her devastating injuries (which still cause her intense pain, nausea and complications) and her road to Christian faith. She has endured more terrible trials since the accident, including abuse, seven-figure medical debt and the horror of losing a newborn. Readers will want to have tissues handy for this pain-filled but inspiring and hopeful memoir.

You know, I feel inspired already.

Manu Chao: The Next Big Thing or A Little Old Hat?

The media circus is up and running to publicize the fact that altermondialist superstar Manu Chao is touring to promote his new album, La Radiolina (mine arrived yesterday), but they mostly seem to be recycling the same old story, namely, "When, O When will Manu Chao break into the British/U.S. market?" This is a theme that not only manages to ignore the healthy audiences that his Radio Bemba tour received a couple of years ago (he filled the Point Depot here in Dublin) but also ignores entirely his pre-solo career with Mano Negra. I think I've said before that there are a few Counagoans who will count Mano Negra's packed gig at Manchester Poly/Uni back in the late 80s as among their most memorable. What, therefore, constitutes "breaking into" the market? Having your mom and dad whistling his tunes? Hearing it used to advertise Toyota cars or flat-screen TVs?

What is most jarring is the idea that Manu Chao is being presented as just one more musical commodity, another artist on the conveyor belt who has an interest in "breaking into the market," as though his brand, his Unique Selling Point, if you will, is his countercultural integrity, his status as the torch-bearer of post-punk anarchism for the 21st century (as if the Mekons have never sold out only because they aren't good enough). I don't know, perhaps that really is the name of the game and I'm just being unusually naive. After all, there will be plenty of people, I realize, ready to accuse Manu of hypocrisy and selling out. My favourites so far have been French band Les Wampas, who at least do it with a bit of style. On their 2003 album "Never trust a guy who after having been a punk, is now playing electro," they say:

je chante dans les Glaviots un groupe punk de Normandie
on répète dans la grange tous les mardis et les jeudis
quand au bout d’un quart d’heure on a assez fait de bruit
on s’assoie dans le foin et on chante ce refrain

si j’avais le portefeuille de Manu Chao
je partirais en vacances au moins jusqu’au Congo
si j’avais le compte en banque de Louise Attaque
je partirais en vacances au moins jusqu’à pâques

c’est beau la Normandie comme le dit ma grand tante Marie
mais si j’avais du blé je partirais bien loin d’ici
souvent les soirs d’été je m’assoie dans les champs de blé
je ferme doucement les yeux et j’écoute les pommiers chanter

si j’avais le portefeuille de Manu Chao
je partirais en vacances avec tous mes poteaux
si j’avais le compte en banque de Louise Attaque
je partirais en vacances au moins jusqu’à pâques

si j’avais le portefeuille de Manu Chao
je partirais en vacances dans une superbe auto
si j’avais le compte en banque de Louise Attaque
je partirais en vacances au moins jusqu’à pâques

moi aussi si je pouvais j’irais bien jusqu’au Mexique
boire de la téquila avec le commandant Marcos
mais j’ai encore au moins cinq hectares à labourer
je remonte sur mon tracteur et je chante pour me donner du coeur

si j’avais le portefeuille de Manu Chao
je partirais en vacances au moins jusqu’au Congo
si j’avais le compte en banque de Louise Attaque
je partirais en vacances au moins jusqu’à pâques

mais j’ai pas un beau chapeau comme Manu Chao
et j’irai en vacances seulement à Saint Lô
et j’ai pas de la classe comme Didier Wampas
je resterai pour les vacances tout seul avec mes vaches

si j’avais le portefeuille de Manu Chao
je partirais en vacances avec tous mes poteaux
si j’avais le compte en banque de la Louise Attaque
je partirais en vacances au moins jusqu’à pâques

(Roughly, "If I had the wallet of Manu Chao, I'd be off to Mexico with my mates drinking tequila with Subcomandante Marcos; If I had the bank account of Louise Attaque, I'd go on holiday until Easter").

Begrudgery's an awful thing, isn't it?

They Just Keep Coming: Primavera Profiles #8 and #9

Battles

From the impossible mix between hip hop, mathematics, and experimental rock, is born one of the most interesting American forefront bands: Battles, band from New York, composed by Lan Williams (Don Caballero), John Stanier (Helmet, Tomahawk), Dave Konopka (Lynx) and Tyondai Braxton (collaborator of Prefuse 73). Working with Warp, record label which caught them after discovering their imbricate and vibrant compositions, the New Yorkers return to Barcelona to present "Atlas", debut album preceded by several EP's and important live shows like the ones they gave during their tour, together with Prefuse 73.


Beirut

After a visit to a Parisian hospital due to an assault of "extreme tiredness", the young Zach Condon comes back to continues the presentation tour of "Gulag Orkestar", and one of the hidden pearls of 2006. Supported by Jeremy Barnes (Neutral Milk Hotel), Condom has managed to create with nothing a language in which the bedroom pop looks for the reply in the hustle of the Balkan music. The result, something like Radiohead sharing stage with Emir Kusturika, has turned the North American into the new little genius of the independent village and into a talent we have to keep looking at closely.

Sky TV: So Much Else To Apologize For

It's the Black Aspidistra!

Not a new superhero or a clandestine operative smuggling undercover journalists into Burma, but one of 11 new species discovered in the past couple of years in Vietnam.

Within the ancient tropical forests of a region known as Vietnam's "Green Corridor," scientists found a snake, five orchids, and two butterflies as well as three other plants new to science and exclusive to the Annamites Mountain Range. Ten other plant species, including four orchids, are still under examination but also appear to be new species.

"Discoveries of so many new species are rare and occur only in very special places like the Green Corridor," said Dr. Chris Dickinson, WWF's chief conservation scientist in the Green Corridor. "Several large mammal species were discovered in the 1990s in the same forests so these latest discoveries may be just the tip of the iceberg."

More details here.

How To Abuse Steve McClaren Without Leaving Your Bedroom

1) Open your bedroom window

2) Shout "Oi, McClaren! You haven't got a clue!"


School gives England pitch boost

Do They Owe Us A Home Win? (Of Course They Do!)

What a fun Saturday that was! First Alty grabbed their first win of the season at home to Droylsden, despite starting with an 18-year-old loanee goalkeeper making his debut, conceding an early penalty, and then playing the last half-hour with a midfielder between the sticks after the keeper was stretchered off. I've never known a more nerve-wracking 30 minutes of football in my life. But if The Bloods could only manage 3 shots on target in 95 minutes (and that includes the 2 pens they scored from), then they've only got themselves to blame. Pub team!

Myself and Wednesday Dave decided to celebrate the win (and the Owls' first points) by having a few pints in the club bar and a couple more in town before his missus called him in for tea. I decided to carry my good cheer on into Manchester, the plan being to go to the Cornerhouse to see the new French thriller The Serpent but I had time to pop to The Roadhouse to see if there was anyone decent on.

Now I've heard a fair bit of Jeffrey Lewis on Marc Riley's radio shows but had never seen him live so when I discovered he hadn't quite sold out the venue I thought I'd stay for the evening. Two decent supports from Ivan Campo and Onions later, Jeffrey came on to a hushed audience of mainly students and indie kids only to be assailed by some mad woman who tried to tip his keyboards over. When she was ushered away, Lewis proceeded to play a set whose first 30 minutes or so were all Crass covers. I must have been the only person in the room shouting the words to "Banned from The Roxy" and "Do They Owe Us A Living?" and bobbing up and down like an idiot. Until he delved into his own material, that is, and then the roles were reversed. Still, I left with a grin on my face, though that could have been down to the euphoria from that afternoon's footy.

Or the beer.

I'll have to see if it works again this week with Witton Albion and Vic Godard.

And Don't Get Me Started on the Beer . . .

German ambassador to Ireland gets a slapped wrist for telling potential German investors that Ireland is a coarse, grasping place with shite public service, a failing immigration policy, and high wage demands.

Clearly the German government considers this a hardship posting.

Perhaps He Wasn't Sure He Wanted to Die

Opera singer Jerry Hadley died on July 18, 8 days after shooting himself in a suicide attempt, with an air rifle.

Thank God for That!

Some vital information and handy hints in the latest Skeptical Inquirer from Stephen Asma on How to Survive the Apocalypse:

You’re not on the A-team -- you’re not even on the bench. Your skepticism and critical thinking has cost you dearly. Chances are that you’ll want to wallow in some self-pity at this juncture, but there’s no time for that now. Remember, you’re in good company. Many very smart people will be damned too –- in fact there turns out to be some direct correlation there. Start working with some of these intellectuals now, before you have to run. Many intelligent people can be found near libraries and liquor stores. Forge friendships of utility. This is a good time to strategize, study blueprints and subway maps, and discuss dehydrated food options.

. . .

According to Revelations 12:3, the sky will suddenly fill with a giant red dragon, “having seven heads and ten horns, and seven crowns upon his head.”

If you’re on your toes you’ll know when this red monster is coming. A series of loud trumpet blasts will signal the coming of the dragon. You need to be on the move by the time the seventh trumpet blasts, because that’s dragon time. Truthfully, you should be looking for an abandoned car or bicycle or something by the time you hear trumpet number five, because that’s when the human-headed locusts hit the scene (Rev. 9:7). And you might be thinking “Hey, I can handle human-headed locusts”, but you’d be wrong. These grasshoppers will have “tails like unto scorpions” (Rev. 9:10). It will be important to loot pharmacies and carry analgesics.

. . .

Did you know about the Human Wine Press? According to Revelations (sic), as Jesus gathers up the unsaved, he places them in a giant wine press and squashes them into a sanguineous vino. Consequently, there’s going to be a “river of blood.” This presents some great opportunities for the prepared mind. How many “escape from prison” films have you seen where the cons evade detection by submerging in the river and breathing through a hollow reed? ‘Nuff said.

Alternately, depending on how deep and wide it will be, fast moving rivers of any fluid can be good transport when roads have become choked with charnel remains. And don’t forget that bloated dead bodies can be strung together as a makeshift raft.

NPQ

It isn't out very often (well, how could it be?) but when it is, New Perspectives Quarterly carries some unusual and interesting articles. The latest issue has a special section on Turkey, which features essays or interviews by/with, among others, Orhan Pamuk, Recep Tayyip Erdogan, Amartya Sen, Joschka Fischer, Ayaan Hirsi Ali, and Bernard Lewis.

Something to annoy everyone, then.

The Rich Have It Tough

In Good Housekeeping magazine, Martha Stewart discusses her prison ordeal:

At Alderson, Stewart reached out to the other prisoners, urging them into activities. "We'd have picnics" — Stewart and the other prisoners were free to roam the prison camp's 100-plus acres during the day — "and we'd have dinner parties," she says. She and about eight other inmates regularly exercised together. "We did 500 sit-ups every night, and I taught yoga." She still practices yoga, and works out with a trainer at 6:30 a.m. three days a week. "And I told stories about what it's like to work and about good business behavior. I was a role model for a lot of these women."

and subsequent house arrest:

After prison came more than five months of house arrest at her 153-acre estate in Bedford, NY, during which Stewart wore an electronic ankle bracelet.

While, in Harper's Bazaar, to accompany a "serious" article about the popularity of rehab among celebrities as a lifestyle option, actress Chloe Sevigny is shown wearing designer gear in a mock-up photo-shoot offering precisely that.

Who said these people have no sense of irony?

From the Woman Who Brought You Great Men's Skirting Boards

Dr. Johnson's Doorknob and Other Significant Parts of Great Men's Houses, by Liz Workman, reviewed in Antiques & Collecting magazine.

Behind every great man are his objects and daily possessions, defined as much by the minutiae of domesticity as by the great works of the man himself. Dr. Johnson's Doorknob, taken from Liz Workman's National Heritage Revisited Series, published in England in 2002, is a situationist's catalog of overlooked and highly amusing ephemera from some of the most famous households in history. Each of the nine chapters in this charming slipcased volume is an anthology in itself. From the mantlepieces of Franklin D. Roosevelt to Washington Irving's crockery, Edgar Allen Poe's bannisters and Winston Churchill's baseboards, Liz Workman has peeked over the velvet ropes and turned an ironic eye on some of the most important historic homes in England and America and humorously metamorphosized their famous inhabitants along the way.

Give Me That Outdoor Life

Some recent articles:

The writer describes his experiences during a dangerous encounter with a buffalo when working as a safari guide in Zimbabwe. During a tour, he followed the track of a buffalo that he believed to be injured in order to shoot the animal, putting it out of its misery, but the buffalo charged at him and pounded on his spine. He was unable to move his legs and believed he had suffered a serious spinal injury but in fact it was the buffalo squatting on him, preventing him from moving; it then proceeded to empty its bowels all over him, adding insult to injury. Fortunately, he observes, he was not seriously injured, only embarrassed.

High schooler Joey Burleson sells rattlesnakes for cash. Having grown up in the desolate scrublands of South Texas, he began hunting the snakes at the age of 14. He sells each creature for $40 to hunters, taxidermists, labs, and one customer who "likes the meat and skins."

In response to readers' questions, the writers discuss the V formation that geese fly in, fishing tackle options, women's hunting clothes, cane guns, the best beer to drink when hunting, and head injuries that occur in the field.

In an entry in the Outdoor Life Battle Lines essay contest, the writer describes his experiences as a hunter and a U.S. Marine, two pursuits that he believes complement each other. Having served in three deployments in Iraq, he observes that the time he spends wandering freely through the hills has become more precious than ever. He notes that he increasingly finds that where he becomes a stronger hunter he also becomes a more proficient marine, particularly in terms of self-sufficiency, confidence, and ability to interpret a challenge with detachment.

The writer describes his tendency to give his wife Christmas presents that she does not seem to appreciate, including an ice fishing tent and hip waders.

A Book Worth a Look

A review, too.

What Do You Call a Horse with Wings?

Princess Märtha Louise of Norway puts in her bid for upper-class twit of the year, outdoing Prince Charles in the "New Age Crock of Shit" category. The princess is behind the Astarte Education school alongside fellow nut Elisabeth Samnøy. Says the princess,

I am trained as a physiotherapist and as a Rosen Method Practitioner. I have qualifications from the Holistic Academy, where I learned to organise my sensory impressions in order to read others. It was through horses that I learned to communicate with animals at a deeper level, and it was while I worked with horses that I came in contact with the angels. I have since come to understand the value of this great gift and am eager to share it with others – perhaps with you?

Not at 24,000 Norwegian kroner a year, princess (That's over £2,000, or more than €3,000, to you and me.)

Any questions?

Postcard from Chicago (or O'Death, Where is thy Sting?)

It was rather a frantic and packed weekend that we enjoyed over in Chicago, and I haven't got over it yet. Barely had our bodies adjusted to staying up till 8 in the morning (GMT) that we were flying home through the night on Monday afternoon/Tuesday morning. Consequently, when I arrived at the train station on Wednesday to go to work, I looked on the back seat of the car to see that I'd forgotten my rucksack, along with my train ticket, wallet, sandwiches, and phone. Definitely a day for working from home.

We left Manchester on Friday lunchtime (I flew over from Dublin the night before) and arrived in O'Hare for 1.30 in the afternoon (7.30 p.m. GMT), headed for the hotel, where we dropped off our bags and made straight for the Hideout Block Party, knowing that things got under way at 6.00. We made it by half an hour or so, which gave us a chance to locate the beer supply (312unes offered the options of Goose Island Wheat Beer (Mart) or a fantastic Urban Wheat Ale (me).

The organizers of this fabulous event very very kindly arranged for Martin and myself to receive All Access passes that enabled us to go backstage and into the VIP areas, as well as to avail of free booze. However, it's an indication of how unused we are to such treatment that we bought our beer the entire weekend and didn't find the VIP lounge until the Sunday night, while hiding from The Frames; what's more, we were only in the place 20 minutes when there was a power cut! Clearly, the VIP life is not for us (like true naifs, we walked around with our passes on display the whole first day, something no self-respecting celeb would do, even if it drew the attention of one or two pretty young ladies who wondered if we were in a band).

First on stage were the eminently likeable Cinematics from Scotland (Day One was meant to be a celebration of British pop and rock), four ridiculously young boys who you'd happily take home to your ma. There was nothing outstanding about their material, the latest in a line of Editors-inspired guitar bands, but they were self-deprecating and received everyone's sympathy because they had come unprepared for Chicago's humidity; their shirts were soaked through with sweat from early on in the set. Bless.

I don't remember much about the Scotland Yard Gospel Choir except that Kelly Hogan came on stage to sing backing vocals on a couple of songs (I'll let Martin edit this review with his own memories once I'm done), and that was enough for me, even if we could barely hear her over the cacophony. I have a vague recollection of quite enjoying their set, but if you were to ask me now to name any of their songs, I'd be stuck. Maybe the jet lag was beginning to kick in.

Jesus, you know, the more I look at that line-up, the less memorable the event becomes. The 1900s, The Changes, yes, we saw both of them. And yet, what I principally recall is that the singer from The Changes wore a hat like the sax player from the Muppets.

Bloc Party headlined on the first night, in front of a crowd of at least a couple of thousand (the Block Party once upon a time attracted a few hundred folks, whereas this year it was a sellout 11,500). Mart and I hung around for a couple of tunes, but we were a long way from the stage, it was 6.30 in the morning U.K. time, and we'd used up all of our beer tickets bar one. Besides, there was better stuff yet to behold.

It isn't possible to do justice to the Scary Toesies Theater with mere words and pictures. Part of you wonders what kind of fevered, deformed brain could have concoted such a pantomime of insanity, while another part of you just about "gets it" and revels in self-congratulatory elation at the genius of it all. I have genuinely seen nothing on earth like the performance on Saturday night. The nearest analogy I can give you is Luis Bunuel meets late-era Monty Python on Mars. The photo above was taken late at night and after a few beers, but that doesn't detract from the general obscurity and absurdity of events. The performance took the form of a quiz show in which a giant ogre-type presenter asked incomprehensible questions, in the form of whines and howls, to a number of alien contestants (one vaguely resembling Frank Sidebottom but with vacuum cleaner tubes for arms), aided by a female assistant dressed like one of the cast from UFO. Failure to answer questions correctly resulted in decapitation. There was no plot beyond this, as far as I could make out, and the colour, noise, and exuberance lent the whole thing a hallucinogenic quality, as though we'd already succumbed and fallen into the deep sleep of a psychopath. Really enjoyable stuff.

Day Two began with the Plastic Crimewave Vision Celestial Guitakestra III, which involved anyone who had brought a guitar along with them making as much noise as possible to the accompaniment of a drummer. It was a right fucking racket but entertaining all the same. One bloke had brought his very young daughter along with her three-string toy guitar and she was as much a participant as anyone, seeming not at all perturbed by the fact that her father appeared to be using popular Chica-go-go glove puppet Ratso to strum his instrument.

Cass McCombs I don't remember at all. How cavalier of me. I'm sure he was very good.

The Golden Horse Ranch Square Dance Band did exactly what it said on the tin. They spent half an hour teaching a crowd of urban boho Chicago cosmopolites the moves to the Texas Star and one other dance the name of which eludes me, and then added music. In 28-degree heat, it wasn't the ideal activity; the ideal activity was sitting in the shade drinking Urban Wheat Ale watching a bunch of Yanks square dance, but everyone came out of it smiling, especially me.

Head of Femur contitutes the latest incarnation of local band Femur. They were pretty shite, although I imagine that if you're familiar with their early work, this was like the second coming. Or not.




O'Death I shall regard as the find of this weekend, the sort of Appalachian punk/goth band that gives Deliverance a bad name. These unnaturally pink-skinned guys went hell-for-leather over a 45-minute set of Nick Cave/Meat Purveyor-type jug music that had everyone alternately (and sometimes simultaneously) dancing and laughing. They just really went for it, a fact not lost on the crowd, who loved them for the ludicrousness of their looks and their commitment. Martin bought the album and says it's ace.

No pictures of Dan Deacon, sadly, because he performed at ground level rather than onstage, but some really bouncy dance material interspersed with jokes and barmy ideas; He attempted to get the entire crowd to form a wedding arch around the lot and then everyone, beginning with the first couple, was meant to run the gantlet, like a snake devouring its own tail. I reckon 1/50 of the crowd got through before Deacon's set ran out of time. You can catch his Crystal Cat video on YouTube, and he's selling out everywhere.



Mucca Pazza is a marching band from Chicago who recently appeared on Conan O'Brien but who aren't as good as they think. If you remember The Happy End, that mob with Sarah-Jane Morris, well, Mucca Pazza are a more ramshackle, chaotic, less tuneful version. On the upside, they don't have the middle-class earnestness or simpering worship of totalitarian regimes that typified the Happy End, and there was something cheerfully anarchic about their amateurishness that was endearing.



The Hideout's resident Punk Bank took the stage under the pretense of being Art Brut and gave us frantic versions of "Formed a Band" and "18,000 Lire" (Look at that blue sky!!) A thinly disguised Jon Langford and Sally Timms, one in a gold lame duvet, the other dressed as a sheep, provided an allegorical link to singer Eddie Argos (golden fleece, Argos, you see?!) but their 15-minute set was much too short for this punter's tastes. When the real Art Brut took to the adjoining stage and the fake Art Brut announced to the crowd "You'll be sorry. You see. You'll be back," I was in half a mind to agree.



Not that the real Art Brut ever disappoints. Having seen them before at Primavera a couple of years back, we had some idea what to expect, but with a new album to promote and a new American audience to entertain, the band pulled out all the stops to impress and charm. Argos was hilarious, ploughing into the audience for singalongs and dancealongs (pogo-alongs), and even if you find his posh accent an incentive to dislike him, his vulnerability and willingness to poke fun at himself and the rest of the band disarm you.



The Blue Ribbon Glee Club constitutes one of those fey, knowing, ironic joke bands like Nouvelle Vague only without the sexy French accents, covering songs by Art Brut, the Pixies, the Clash ("Spanish Bombs"), all in the style of . . . well . . . a glee club. Not big on the harmonies, and more of an ad hoc affair than anything else, I think. The impression I got was that this was a bunch of folk who'd met up at college and done this for a joke. But then that's how the Mekons started.

The Frames began to set up on stage, so cue the hundreds of screaming teenage girls. Ew. We wandered away to the beer truck and accidentally discovered the VIP lounge, where we had a well-deserved sit-down. The band did their stuff; singer Glen Hansard is an old fiend of the proprietors of the Hideout, and in his message of thanks he observed that they had taken quite a risk in booking them for such a high-profile event. How true that is, is not for me to say, but when I arrived home in Dublin, one mate of mine came up and apologized to me on behalf of the Irish people for foisting the Frames upon the world.

It was too dark for pictures of Andrew Bird, but we bestirred ourselves to return to the fray in order to soak up some of his brilliance. I happen to be of the opinion that Andrew's music is best experienced in more intimate, enclosed, and quieter venues than this, and tonight's experience confirmed me in that view. Nonetheless, I am also of the belief that Andrew Bird's music is proof that human beings do not need a God in order to experience transcendence or the Sublime. I accept that his stuff can be hit-and-miss, and if you don't like that sort of thing, this is the sort of thing you won't like, but some of his individual songs (and almost all of the album Weather Systems) is guaranteed to bring tears of exaltation flooding from my eyes. This particular show was a kind of homecoming for him; we first saw his band, Bowl of Fire, play the Block Party in 2001, an entirely different set and set-up. But as a result, everyone was full of goodwill toward him regardless of the performance, and nobody was going to begrudge him the headlines. He was well worth the wait.

The night ended with a gang of us diehards sat on the concrete of the parking lot watching the movies from the Chicago Short Movie Brigade. These were of varying vintage and quality and gave everyone a chance to come down or sober up (beer sales had ended by that time). It was also an opportunity to plan the next day's activities. Originally, we'd thought the party would be extended over three days, so we'd booked flights and hotel accordingly, leaving us the Sunday free. "Maybe we'll take the boat tour," suggested Mart helpfully.

We left the hotel room the next morning to look for breakfast but had barely got 50 yards up the street before we had been struck by the preonderance of soccer shirts everywhere. "Hello," we said to ourselves. "This looks promising." We stopped an Asian guy in a Brazil shirt and asked "Is there a match on today." "Yes," he says. "USA are playing Brazil at Soldier Field." "Soldier Field the stadium a half-hour walk from our hotel?" we said. "Yes," he said. "The very same. Why don't you go get tickets for $50 to see Ronaldinho, Robinho, Kaka, Gilberto Silva and mates take on the finest that Reading, Fulham, Derby and Heerenveen have to offer?" "Good idea," say we, and off we trot.



What to tell? That the first USA goal was handled over the line by Boccanegra? That the first Brazil goal was a quality o.g. and that both sides had clear penalty claims that the ref brushed off, the second one just to even things out before he finally relented and gave one to Brazil right at the death.



That Ronaldinho scored from a classic curling free-kick over the wall from outside the box (though not the one above)? That Tim Howard dislocated his finger against the crossbar in the second-half, at the OTHER END of the pitch and me and Mart had his injury diagnosed accurately within a minute on the basis of his writhing (and personal, painful experience)? That the seats have cup-holders for beer and the guy who served us our beer had relatives in Cheshire? That the American guy sat next to us was wearing a United shirt? Perhaps that the whole event was just such a real bonus to one hell of a trip, a surprise cherry on the cake (one massive, fuck-off cherry!) that I'm still not sure what is jet lag and what is disbelief that such a brief excursion could go so smoothly, so wonderfully, and so perfectly in this day and age.

I expect I'll be telling everyone about it for months.




Fed up yet?

*UPDATE*: O'Death tour Ireland and U.K. in October/November. See MySpace page (linked above) for details.

*UPDATE #2*: Brazil to play friendly match against Ireland at Croke Park in February.

Who Needs Carbon Dating?

From my current train reading:

R. M. Johnson, of Morristown, is the owner of the stone with which David killed Goliath. He asked Wilbur Nelson, state geologist, to come look at it in order to value it. Johnson said that the stone has been in his family since Biblical times.

(Leo Duran, Le Grand Guignol, December 1926)

During the Meanwhilst

A full report on that Hideout Block Party weekend coming soon, but in the meantime here's Rob Loerzel's account, with some fantastic photos, and here's a description of what we saw on Sunday.

Football Is a Game for Rough Girls . . .

The excellent anthropology site Savage Minds has an interview with Elise Edwards, Assistant Professor of Anthropology at Butler University in Indiana, who is working on a book about soccer, corporate sport, and national identity construction in Japan in the late 1990s and into the present, Fields for the Future: Soccer, Nation, and Citizens in Japan at the Turn of the 21st Century. She also played for three seasons in Japan’s women’s professional L-League in the mid-1990s and continues to be involved with the sport, serving as the goalkeeping coach for Butler University’s varsity women’s team.

Many have drawn comparisons between baseball and soccer, with baseball and its militaristic-style training symbolizing the hardworking, group-oriented, and hyper-disciplined Japan of the past, and soccer representing the rapidly changing, foreign derived, and more individualistic post-industrial economy and culture of the present. In this overdrawn binary, baseball is marked as the “national” or “domestic” sport, in contrast to the “international” game of soccer. This is rather ironic since the two sports were actually both introduced to Japan in the early 1870s. (Of course, baseball, as some of these commentators have pointed out, has no equivalent to soccer’s World Cup Tournament, making it less of a “global sport.”) Other writers have suggested that the skills required of soccer players on the field – as individual decision makers in a complicated web, or network, of 21 other players – are exactly the skills required of workers in the new 21st century economy. Of course, for many soccer represents things other than globalization and its requisite dispositions; players, fans, and plenty of sports writers have characterized soccer as embodying a new found individuality and a spirit of change in the country. In 1993, the year the J-League launched, I remember a forty-year old female friend gesticulating wildly as she explained how these young soccer players expressed the freedom and rebelliousness of youth culture in a way not found in baseball. In her opinion, it was wonderful – to watch and for Japan.

Peter Addison Iz a Nob (also, British Garden Birds R Gay)

C&S stoops to including a link to the Daily Mail in order to bring you the story of criminal mastermind Peter Addison of the Adlington Massive (sorry, Massiv).

Big Jimmny Is Watching You

The most surreal image of the year to date. Jimmny being interviewed on the Tom Green Show about British comedy.


Spotted at Dumb Riffs (Thanks, Karl).

Is There A Bottomless Pit Of Primavera Profiles?

The Good The Bad And The Queen

Direct guilty of every good and bad thing in the british pop, Damon Albarn remains committed in changing skin and supporting his followers with creative impulses increasingly risky. The interest for the African music and the technicolor hip hop of Gorillaz ends now in The Good, The Bad and The Queen, all-stars project that the leader of Blur shares with Paul Sinomon (The Clash), Simon Tong (The Verve), Danger Mouse (Gnarls Barkley) and the bateria of Fela Kuti, Tony Allen. With London in the peephole and a lot of scores that mix club, jazz, reggae, pop and folk, "The Good, The Bad and The Queen" is a mysterious, surrounding record and of pessimistic atmosphere in which Albarn and his followers expose his bitter reflections on the current society.

Let's Not Go There

The July issue of the "high-society" magazine Vanity Fair was entirely devoted to the subject of Africa. As you can imagine, the letters page of the most recent issue is something to behold. A sample:

Thank you for the brilliant Africa issue [July]. As a recent college graduate, I can honestly tell you that I have learned more about Africa and global awareness from this one magazine edition than in my entire education. As a humanitarianism junkie I am constantly looking for ways to engage my knowledge and become involved in positive change. I applaud Vanity Fair for helping to raise awareness, for jumpstarting a worldwide campaign for Africa, and for promoting peace and prosperity in our world. VF is now ahead of the game and leading the way for what seems to be a new revolution; thank you for this leadership.
KATIE NEUMAN
Tempe, Arizona

YOUR ISSUE on Africa was quite impressive and comprehensive, but it still presents Africa as a poverty-stricken continent. Nothing could be further from the truth. Africa is the storehouse of the world's strategic minerals, oil, gold, diamonds, and bauxite. In that regard, no African country is poor. The root of the problems is bad governance, which translates into unequal distribution of wealth, corruption, wars, lack of resources to feed hunger, an uneducated populace, and the degradation of our environment. Africa is orphaned by lack of leadership. Is it any wonder the likes of Bono and Madonna are playing the roles African leaders should be assuming? Africa's salvation must ultimately come from within. Oh, Congo is the home of African music, not Mali, as Tom Freston depicts in "Showtime in the Sahara." Congolese music is universal. Mali, like the rest of West Africa, is the home of fabrics, high fashion, and music, in that order.
EMEKA IGWEBE
Imo State, Nigeria

I'VE BEEN a subscriber to Vanity Fair for nearly 20 years, and it used to be that I couldn't wait for each issue to arrive, I read it cover to cover. Over the last year I have been very disappointed with the content. From the Green Issue to the current Africa issue, the magazine seems to have become a platform for self-serving celebrities to tout their greatness. I miss the in-depth articles you used to publish on a variety of topics, including society and true crime. It's what sets your magazine apart from all of the others. For the first time ever I don't think I'll be renewing my subscription.
DIANE EAKES
San Diego, California

I AM TOTALLY DISGUSTED with the July issue. We are citizens of the United States of America, and the vast majority of Americans couldn't care less about Africa. The U.S. has an abundance of poor, needy children and adults. And what do VF and the American government concern themselves with? Africa. Get real. The continent will never improve, and VF's issue just adds fuel to the fire. I am not an extremist; I am an American, and I, along with a whole host of other Americans, am tired of hearing about Africa! I will not be renewing my subscription.
JAMES DIXON
Montgomery, Texas

THE CRISES in Africa rightfully deserve the full attention of an entire issue of Vanity Fair: However, the continent of Africa does not stand alone in its suffering. It seems that when references to human crises are made today everyone thinks of Africa, especially with the number of celebrities pushing for change there. Meanwhile, Asia is like a forgotten continent, and Southeast Asia in particular. There you will find the Hmong people of Laos living on tree sap and rainwater; the refugees from Burma, who have no place to turn and who are probably the only group of people right now in the world who would welcome a U.S. intervention; and the child-prostitution industry thriving in Cambodia. It would be nice - in the spirit of increasing awareness of global crises - to also include the world's largest continent.
JAGDISH GILL
Waltham, Massachusetts

THANK YOU FOR INCLUDING the leader of the Free World in your series of covers for your Africa issue. Like President Bush or not, he has made a large contribution of aid to Africa. Involving him shows that your magazine is fair and unbiased, something that is very refreshing to see in the media today.
NANCY HADLEY
Madison, Wisconsin

WITHOUT EXTREME population control measures, Africa is doomed. You can throw all the money you wish at the continent, but a lot of it goes no further than the corrupt governments. Conquering disease and poverty will only mean future hardship for those who have been saved, as populations explode and suffering becomes more extreme. Leave Africa alone and put the time, effort, and money into making our own population healthier. I hate to say this, but Africa will be saved only when its leaders decide to act from their hearts and not from their bank accounts.
WILLIAM TAYLOR
Gloucester, Massachusetts

I'M NOT a trendsetter, not really into high fashion or up on the latest celebrity gossip. Therefore, I have never really felt a need to read your magazine. (I like NPR, basic black apparel, Dansko clogs, and folk music.) I am not trying to sound snotty, I just didn't feel I fit your demographic. But after seeing the topic of your July issue, I realized we had a lot more in common than I thought: Africa. Screw buying just this one issue. If a magazine is going to take a risk like this and devote an entire issue to topics that need to be on our minds, add me to your subscriber list. I can't wait to see what the other issues bring.
WENDY CHAMBERLIN
Seattle, Washington

Good luck, Wendy.

That's Not Jesus. That's Timber Wolfe!

Members of a California family believes their backyard fence is made of holy wood, after they say the face of Jesus appeared in the grain.

"[Emily West] says whatever the image is, it's helped renew her faith after a life-threatening illness. "

ha ha ha. Priceless.

Plus You Get New Nicknames!

The Salt Lake Tribune carries a cute article describing how first-graders at Douglas T. Orchard Elementary are providing tips for kindergartners on surviving school: Stuff like, "Outline the picture first, then color it inside" and "Put antibacterial on your hands so you don't get germs on your snack."

What caught my eye, however, was this. The Wolfe parents really have some explaining to do. Who, in their right minds, calls their son Timber?

Glass, Stone, Guns, Germs, and Steel

The April 2007 issue of Smithsonian magazine has only just made its way into my grubby hands. Allow me to recommend a number of articles:

Glass: A profile of vitreous sculptor Dale Chihuly, whose beguiling works can be seen in more detail here.

Stone: An article on the House of the Temple of the Scottish Rite, a formidable neo-Classical building in the heart of Washington, D.C., that is southern H.Q. to the Freemasons.

Guns and Germs: A report on the discovery of the lost settlement of Werewocomoco, where John Smith was held captive and later negotiated with Algonquian chief Powhatan, father of Pocahontas.

Steel: A brief item on the Futurists, focusing on the works of Giacomo Bella.

The item on the Masons has an amusing reference to "Scottish Rite leader Albert Pike, a former Confederate general who spent 32 years developing Masonic rituals. Pike remains a controversial figure, with detractors alleging that he was a member of the Ku Klux Klan and a Satanist."

So, if the allegations are true, that would make him a Confederate general, a Freemason, a Klan member, and a Satanist. David Icke would have a field day.

I suspect he was just a joiner.

Sustaining a Proud Traidtion

The Graun's spelling errors this weekend:

There were several spectacular misspellings in the map accompanying the feature Not so fast, page 6, Travel, August 18: Clare, not Clair College is in Cambridge; Princes Risborough, not Prince Rosborough is in Buckinghamshire; Salisbury, not Sailsbury is in neither Whitshire nor Whitleshire but in Wiltshire; and the adjoining county is Dorset, not Dorest.

Mountain biking was subjected to "a fair bit of peddling" and the "need to peddle" in Coasting all the way, page 10, Travel, August 18. Pedalling and pedal were the appropriate actions.

One of the Irish youth teams that Andy Keogh played for was Cabinteely, not Cabin Telly (Scouting report, page 12, Sport, August 21).

Let's Get Ready to Grumble

Disappointing news from last November's Outdoor Life:

Although the World Hunting Association has decided to drop darting from their competition structure and instead to use rifles, muzzle-loaders, and bows during its inaugural 12-day deer hunt in October at Lost Arrow Ranch near Gladwin, Michigan, concerns remain about holding the event in a high-fence enclosure and promoting hunting as a professional wrestling-style entertainment.

Now, I ask you, who wouldn't pay to watch hunters accidentally shoot one another in a confined space?! If they're going to drop darting, they could at least blindfold the contestants to keep it interesting.

Les Biches, Part Deux

For some strange reason, Architectural Digest magazine recently carried a fashion supplement. One article within offered "tips on imitating the style of three female music icons whose style remains as relevant as their music: Stevie Nicks, Marianne Faithfull, and Debbie Harry."

Ouch!

Neil Spencer Understands

From today's Observer:

Mekons
Natural, (Touch & Go) £11.99

Celebrating an unlikely 30th anniversary, the Leeds tricksters eschew urban pleasures for nature's delights. The result is an English counterpart to the gothic country of the Handsome Family. Ramshackle backdrops of fiddle and echoing guitar are the setting for tales of demented midsummer celebration, dark woods where "twisted trees sing" and foxy goings-on behind a "white stone door". The playful mood occasionally gives way to a darker hue - on "Burning in the Desert" "martyrs queue up for heaven, children queue for hell". Otherwise, this is Hank Williams meets The Wicker Man, clever and entertaining. A Mekons record, in fact.


Neil Spencer

If It's Friday, It Must Be Primavera Profile Time

Dirty Three

The stormy, mad violin of Warren Ellis is the compass that leads the Dirty Three, the vigorous Australian tercet that has spent most of last decade struggling to avoid his shady folk ends in post-rock. Authors of the Autores of the solemn, rough "Ocean Songs" (1998) and connected to Nick Cave's Bad Seeds, in which Ellis plays the violin, the band from Melbourne published in 2005 the inusual "Cinder", their seventh album and first in their history where they give in to vocal charms to include the contribution of guest singers Chan Marshall (Cat Power) y Sally Timms (The Mekons).