WELCOME

Welcome. Glad to see you here in our world of strange fascinations. What do we find so strangely fascinating? Well, a lot of things, really. To sum it up...we're predisposed to the paranormal, attracted to the anachronistic, responsive to retro, passionate about pop culture, captivated by kitsch, orgasmic over the odd. This is our warehouse. Stay as long as you like. Scrawl something on the wall (we'd really like that). Just don't open that door over there behind the life size cardboard cut-out of Agent Dale Cooper. Why? Never mind. Just don't. Unless, of course, you've always wanted to be the subject of a "weird news" headline.

Velkommen. Glad for at se Dem her i vores verden på en mærkelig hensyn. Hvad ser vi så mærkeligt Fascinerende? Godt, en masse ting, virkelig. Til sidst det up...we »ad været tilbøjelig til at se, tiltrukket af det utidssvarende, lydhør over for refleksanordninger, lidenskabeligt om POP kultur, påtage ved kitsch, orgasmic over mærkeligt. Det er vores lager. Ophold så længe man vil. Scrawl noget på væggen (vi fortsat virkelig gerne høre).

OI! PSSST. HAVE YOU MET OUR MASCOT? DON'T MIND THE GOOGLY EYES.
Yeah, she's definitely creepy with that unsettling gaze trained on the camera courtesy of those big, googly eyes, but from the moment we saw her pallid mug in the musty pages of "Wisconsin Death Trip", Michael Lesy's 1972 cult classic compendium of death, disease, disaster and degradation in 1890s Black River, Wisconsin, we knew that this nameless vixen of yore would forever have a stranglehold on what passes for our heart. And, of course, she's perfect for this dark and shamelessly skewed blog. If we had the time and the focus, we'd have T-shirts made that said "I suck the life out of Cheeseheads, Go Packers!" But, luckily, we have adult ADD and will never do it. Including her eerie little face in our blog is the best we can do. We just hope that our readers appreciate our creepy little friend as much as we do. In fact, we feel a poll coming on...





CLOCKS ROCK! But...Aufpassen! We Will Not Be Responsible For Wasted Hours, Minutes, Or Intentions.
Oh, yeah....we have a theme song. Two, in fact. And a whole lot of back-up possibilities. (Videos are down below.)

Our Theme Song

A BLOG WITHOUT MUSIC IS LIKE A DAY WITHOUT BEER. IT CAN BE DONE, BUT WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO? WE HOPE THAT YOU'LL ENJOY OUR RECOMMENDED SELECTIONS.

Enhance Your Viewing Pleasure

Amazon MP3 Clips

COMING SOON! LISSA D'S "FLICKS FOR CHICKS" MOVIE PICKS AND RANDOM MUSINGS

COMING SOON! LISSA D'S "FLICKS FOR CHICKS" MOVIE PICKS AND RANDOM MUSINGS
NEXT POST: LISSA EXPLAINS WHY SHE THINKS THAT "KILL BILL" IS A NECESSARY CINEMATIC THRILL.

How To Make A Pink Squirrel

How To Make A Pink Squirrel
Why wait? Get in the pink. Click on the rodent for the recipe for a classic Pink Squirrel cocktail..

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

The Strangely Fascinating Case of Keith Richards




Keith  Richards, Rolling Stone, recovering addict,
 chain smoker, general hard ass and quite possibly the
man destined to be the sole survivor of a future Apocalypse. 
Portrait of the artist as a young man




Was there ever a man who looked like a less likely candidate to still be alive than Keith Richards, the iconic and apparently indefatigable lead guitarist for the Rolling Stones? Nope. Don't think so. Just look at him, for God's sake. Go on. Take a good, hard look (DON'T BLINK) and then tell us if this is the face of a man who should still be walking around, smoking fags and chatting up women. Of course it isn't. And, yet, inexplicably, it is. Because while some of the most famous and influential performers in rock and roll have succumbed to tragically early deaths as a result of drug use, alcohol abuse, car crashes, plane crashes, gunshots, stabbings, suicide, and illness, Keith Richards, the man who did so much heroin that his teeth turned black and whose legendary drinking binges have produced so much vomit over the years that his DNA is probably ingrained in hotel room floors and concert stage floorboards all across the world,  still lives and thrives. Not only is he still kicking inimitable ass on guitar, he's become a best selling author since his memoir, Life came out last year to great accolades and stadium-sized interest from Stones fans who learned, among other things, that a certain crucial appendage connected to Keith's anatomy is vastly superior in size to that of Stones front man Mick Jagger. We, personally, are not surprised, having once seen Mick Jagger and former girlfriend Geri Hall in close proximity while walking in Manhattan and finding ourselves astounded by the disparity in their height. And they were both wearing heels. (It was the mid-eighties.) Not to mention that strutting cock walk, Napoleon-complex shtick that Mick has made his trademark on stage.

Before they let it bleed: former couple Geri and Mick 
You don't see Keith hamming it up like that. Doesn't need to. Not with that guitar slung like a metal phallus around his waist. There's a certain theory (at least among many of the lead singers, bassists and drummers with whom I've worked over the years) that lead guitarists choose to become lead guitarists because they're attention whores who are basically just masturbating on stage. If that's true, Keith Richards has taken the concept one step further and invited the audience to participate in a grungy, grinding, hedonistic orgy over which he and his superior instrument (we mean that in all possible ways) preside. Makes us wonder if that's what Mick was thinking of when he first sang "I can't get no satisfaction" all those years ago. Sort of his own personal Altamont.

The five original Stones with the late Brian Jones
But we digress. As usual. So, now, back to the man with the cigarette-holding, three chord progression classic song playing hands.

1960s hottie
21st century grottie
Back in the days of the British music invasion, there was this stupid little sensibility war among music fans in Great Britain, which was immortalized in the 1963 Beatles film, A Hard Day's Night when a reporter asks Ringo Starr if he's "a mod or a rocker." Ringo jokingly replies, "I'm a mocker!"  But out there in the real world, the distinction between mods and rockers was actually quite a big deal and was often the cause of violent rows among the two factions. Our friend, Tasha was once beaten up in a school bathroom because she aligned herself with the Beatles instead of with the Stones. We never suffered that fate, but if we had been asked to choose sides in a school bathroom, we would have proudly taken a bullet for the Beatles. As a musician, we have always appreciated and loved the Stones as well, but as a woman, well, let's be real here. Aesthetically, the only Stone who we can even imagine kissing (let alone doing anything else of that nature with) has always been Keith Richards. He was pretty good looking before the heroin blackened his teeth, in the thin, lean, angular-featured way that we love to see in an English guitar player. Compared to dwarfish, lippy Mick, horse-faced Charlie Watts, and the almost inanimate Bill Wyman, Keith Richards is a dark-haired Adonis. Seems to be quite the devoted family man, too, despite having children by multiple partners. The only other original Stone who came close to looking like a normal person was Brian Jones, but there was just a little too much Syd Barrett in those intense blue eyes for our tastes.
Keith and former muse Anita Pallenberg 
Oh, Anita, what a drag it is getting old!
Of course, in terms of romance, Keith's most famous relationship was with German/Italian muse-at-large and fellow heroin addict, Anita Pallenberg, who left Brian Jones for him (she claims that Jones was beating her, Keith walked in on it, grabbed her and took her home with him), giving new meaning to the old adage, "Leave no stone unturned."  As far as the aging process goes, Anita and Keith seem to be pretty much neck-in-neck (pun intended).  Decades of decadence have etched deep lines into the former hippie chick's face and erased that rock and roll muse mystique that made her the go-to girl when it came time for the two most talented Stones to get their ya-ya's out. But even gray-haired and wrinkled, she can't compete with the crevices that have taken over Keith's face  so completely that it's almost impossible to imagine him as the sexy, lean, fag-hanging-rakishly-from-his-lips, too cool for words, born-to-play-rock-and-roll young guitar god that he once was. And yet the man who seemed destined to become the president of the "27 Club"before we even knew there was going to be a "27 Club" still possesses that innate Keithness which has kept him relevant all these years despite the decreasing relevance of the Stones themselves. Don't ask us to define it. We can't. We just know it's there. And although we may marvel at the fact that  Keith Richards still walks among us, we find the fact strangely inspiring somehow. Because if Keith Richards still lives and breathes and eats and drinks and plays guitar and travels the globe with and without the Stones, well, it just proves that anything is possible. Skol.

Mr. Keith Richards...
A hard ass for the ages

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