I cannot recommend everything on this list, since I often read really bad books. Knowingly, even. I am also indicating what kind of reading matter these are, though, by putting a letter at the beginning of each entry. The code is: B : regular book with text and stuff N : text and stuff, but not enough to be a whole book G : gaming material, either rulebook or supplement C : comics, graphic novels, comic strip collections P : books of pictures many not listed due to waffling over whether they count M : magazines and other periodicals more substantial than a comic S : plays, scripts, and the like.
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Casting couch cheat patreon. Elben cosplay short dress. Martina finocchio nudes on patreon. Skip to forum content Raipihindmas Teamtsto patreon. Forum Users Search Support. Depressed people should be teachers, not social failures. What depressed people are sensitive to has validity, and the power behind depression is mind-boggling. If you happen to be depressed and don't know what to do about it, you need to realize that you are not alone. The power of depression is defeating, sure, but overcoming depression has a far greater value.
Depression is a battle, and the victors can take from that fight vital knowledge to the rest of the world. Knowledge, it seems, that is sorely needed. Good luck. Are you fucking kidding me? Oh, I get it. Like the ones who quit their underpaid jobs at struggling lefty publications and went into ad copy writing. I know Honda and Volkswagon fully expect people to take their ad campaigns with a grain of salt. It puts their choices purely on the theoretical level: If no one really expects anyone to believe that PC social salvation, or peace of mind, comes with in metallic green with overpriced floor mats and an optional stereo system, then why use the strategy in the first place?
What is so attractive about the inherent illogic these car companies are using? Am I giving ad agency guys too much credit? Maybe, but these are the same folks who make their living by concocting inspirational messages one season and then turning around and sell the down-to-earth repudiation of that message the next.
What does that have to do with shoes? That's just the nature of advertising, I guess: to sell us a prevailing mood, even especially if that mood is a reaction to something they tried to sell us last week. I think I need to go take a nice, relaxing drive. War Machines: Part II. Music and politics, specifically. You have my permission to groan in exasperation. We all have our own personal politics. I was a radical leftist in high school, a radical Libertarian in college, an anar- cho-Capitalist later on and some bizarre mixture of all three of them now.
Our tax system preserves class inequalities while limiting upward mobility for the working classes. Income taxes, as they are currently structured, penalize creation- and-reward consumerism. But so what? Who cares? I could parse your politics and divine your beliefs and it would tell me very little about you—except one thing: Are you an absolutist or a pragmatist?
Do you act the absolutist by taking a position that you believe in and refusing all compromise? Do you try to change the system as best you can like a pragmatist, fully knowing that any change will be incremental at best? They never could put through their full program, but things did get better. So, how does this relate to punk? Epitaph is a pragmatic label.
Rage Against the Machine is a pragmatic band. But look, I say, what label are they on? There's nothing wrong with being a pragmatist. Just admit it. They are not shining lights of governance. Absolutists can lead by example. A real lot. Which brings me to Tim Yohannan. He believed he was right and he shouted it from the mountaintops. But he knew what he was and he knew he was right, and he dominated the scene like few other people ever have or ever will. He was a hero to the scene, and he should be.
We should all hope we accomplish as much as him. Though I never met him, he helped so many bands that I love and that mean something to me get off the ground. Though I disagreed with his attitudes about other kinds of music and his attitudes about politics, I respected him because he gave enough of a shit about it to do things I disagreed with.
Not many people do things anymore that have any meaning. We should remember that when we try to do things with our own lives. My parents enrolled me in a Montessori school in north Seattle. Every morning my dad would drive my brother and me to school on his way to work downtown. We took the same route for approximately six years; the course of streets and turns and signals grew quite familiar. I only vaguely knew who he was, but the shock and sadness was great enough to affect me and take hold in retrospect.
We spent about 11 hours a day at school, four hours of which was strictly day care, as we waited for Mom or Dad to pick us up around 6 p. In the meantime we played Atari , watched cartoons, and built houses with what seemed like endless bins full of Legos.
It seemed natural enough to me and has reinforced my belief that almost any human, regardless of age, possesses the capability to leam such fundamentals pretty much as soon as she can speak. What an incredible waste. I seem to recall a lack of a rigid class schedule and lots of free time just to read books and draw pictures. Plus we had tons of recess and three huge, wonderful playgrounds.
I was a very, very lucky kid. Class sizes were small and included kids of variable ages. The teachers tended to be hippies with long straight hair, like Mrs. Smith, who had freckles and red hair and played music for us. Mind you, this was from a 9- year-old. I look back and I am kind of surprised that I would consciously make an evaluation of my education like that. Not to mention that I was getting kind of sick of the same teachers and the same school and the same kids and the same long commute every day into Seattle and home again at night.
We did. And this probably had a lot to do with desiring a public school education, since we found out that you get the whole summer off.
They agreed readily to this suggestion, and my brother and I looked forward with great anticipation to going to school in our own neighborhood, coming home at three in the afternoon! Like regular kids. The big day came. Fourth grade. I walked to school in the new dress my mom had sewn and my new navy blue cardigan sweater. I reached my classroom and walked in, confronted by dozens of strangers all my age. The teacher was an old woman who obviously was dying her hair black.
I gave her my name, wondering if I was in the right place. There were a few giggles. You see, I was small for my age, and I always have been. I started to feel a twinge of regret about this decision, but it was too late, so I suppressed it, and found an empty desk to sit in. Only eight more years to go I usually get my pants hemmed or I used to just chop 'em off at the ankle with a pair of scissors.
So one day last fall as I was giving up on yet another pants-search- ing mission, having degraded myself to shopping at the Gap of all places, I accidentally wandered into the adjacent Gap Kids store. It was then that I noticed that there were pants there made for 13 year-old girls that would fit me to a tee. And not only that, they were half the price of an identical style over in Normal Grownups Gap.
Kick ass! I had found a new place to get cheap clothes that fit, and it was the fucking Gap. A couple weeks ago I was in Gap Kids again, trying on some cool olive green cargo pants meant for a normal-sized boy. And no elastic waist or pleated front, either. I even shop here myself sometimes. He was short, too. I paid for my perfectly fitting pants and cute little gray tank top oh yes, and half the price of the one at Normal Grownups Gap , and headed out the door only having spent thirty bucks.
For the first time in my life, I was wearing size large. Hey, look at my Website. I wrote it myself, without the aid of any bullshit Website creation software: www. Yay geeks! Or e-mail me via the Mighty Interweb: jane jane. Of course, there were all kinds of bureaucratic problems.
It took several phone calls and faxes and trips to the registrar before I got my green light. And this is only the beginning. This past year apathy has set in. Many a week goes by when I barely crack a textbook. Whenever I am called upon to write an academic paper, I surprise my professors by writing a play instead. This has had mixed responses. But I have now proven to myself and to a number of others that I am not an idiot or a degenerate bum, and now I just want to get the hell out.
I can honestly say that I believed attending college involved nothing more than playing Frisbee with your dog on large, well-manicured lawns, attending sit-ins and going on political marches. This, I assumed, was what college was all about, and my brother and I were just going along for the ride. If you follow that logic, I could have had my BA by the time I was seven. Both my parents had college educations.
Most of my grandparents and their contemporaries were immigrants and refugees and marly of them barely attended high school. I, in contrast, seemed to have every opportu- nity to pursue an education, but I loathed school almost from day one. I distinctly recall despising kindergarten, and it was all downhill from there. When I finally got old enough to drop out, the thrill was enormous. I was 16 and was convinced that I would be happy washing dishes forever. At this point, I had another perspective on college students. Now it was the late 70s and I saw a lot of girls with big hair, designer jeans, and high heels vomiting daiquiris on the sidewalk.
We had a point. And if ever anyone challenged me about my lack of a high school diploma, I had a ready argument. I had a job and I was able to support myself. What did I need a diploma for? In short, school just prepared you for more school. There really is something to this. I remember being told in seventh grade to get good grades and be a good student and prepare for the eighth grade, because in the eighth grade, it would go on your record. The last thing year-olds need to hear is that they are starting to accumulate a record of any kind.
And what was significant about this record? It would determine what kind of college you would go to. And so on. I can look back on this surly teenage bar room philosophizing with a certain amount of pride and affection. But beneath the surface of the solid logic and passion of the argument, there was also a lot of fear.
My year stint in the public school system had prepared me for nothing and convinced me that I was stupid.
If I were a kid today, they would probably diagnose me with attention deficit disorder. I diagnose myself, in retrospect, with boredom. Yes, I was bored out of my skull, in addition to having more important things to think about than the stupid stuff they tried to teach me. A lot of kids do.
Fortunately I had the resources to read books and do a lot of writing on my own. Alone in my room, I was smart. At school, I was stupid. If I had kids, I can honestly say that I would encourage them to drop out of school and get a GED if I saw any of these patterns beginning to repeat themselves. For many years, I thought of myself as a person without an education. In hindsight, I know that a lot of the things I did were highly educational.
Going across the country as a teenager, once with my thumb and another time on a Greyhound bus, was very educational. Working in restaurants was educational. The guy who taught me how to use a knife on a cutting board, that is was an ex-con, an alcoholic, and a nut, frankly, but he was a damn good teacher and I think about him almost every time I pick up a knife. I read everything from Hunter S. Somewhere along the line I must have learned something, because I seem to be passing it on.
Maybe this is the only way to find out what you really know. I have no fucking idea. A lot of it, though, comes from something else. That means that I am no longer preparing for more school. As of last semester, my GPA was still 3. I wrote a lot of plays and I taught some people some stuff. If that's what being a Master is, wrap it up. The School Issue is still pretty much a figment of my imagination but it looks good from here. I have no idea when it will be done—feel free to e-mail me if you want to submit something and then wait for an undetermined amount of time for it to be published.
I live three blocks from there now. My building is full of characters. Sometimes I wonder about that kid who lives in Apartment When I first considered moving here, they showed me his aoartment as a model. He Punk Planet introduced himself as Sean and then, without prompt, began to show me what he planned to do with his new apartment. The small bedroom, he said, would be his art studio. The man of the house reminds me of my own father—short, short- tempered, and submissive to his wife. I called the police on my upstairs neighbor today, but I hung up before they could answer.
It sounded like someone had been struck down with a jar of marbles in her hand. The sobbing grew louder until the woman fought back. When they started fighting again today, I figured I could call the cops before he hit her. Spanish was the first language I ever learned, but I dropped it almost as soon as I started school. Even now, whenever my mother talks to me in Spanish, I answer her in English. The kids I met in Spain three months ago were really sweet.
He laughed at me, but he encouraged me to keep trying. It takes practice. While I was there I practiced a lot: cab drivers, clothing merchants, random pedestrians. They speak a different dialect there, but one person told me that most everyone can at least understand Castellano, the South American language I was raised with.
The other day, here on Rivington, I called the Superintendent to check out a leak in my bathroom. My Spanish must have been pretty awful for him to think that he had to answer me in his pretty awful English. Neighborhood kids feared the sight of his car; everyone knew who he was. He stayed indoors unless there was a seriously good reason to go out. Once, while walking home from a show, he heard a car slow down and a voice call out his name. Rent-stabilization saved me, for one, from being forced to leave the city I grew up in. I used to work with Chris at the health food store on First Avenue.
He moved here from the Midwest with a limited budget and a dream to become a disco diva. The rent still seemed a bit high for a studio apartment, but he figured that the rent-stabilization laws would save him money in the long run. He took the apartment and breathed a sigh of relief. Five years later, a friend of his found out that anyone could contact the State for a rent history record of their apartment.
Chris thought it would be fun to see how little people were paying for his studio in the early 70s, and the procedure was free, so he did it. After researching the situation, Chris decided to sue the building owner for back-rent and damages. The hearing was quick and painless. Chris represented himself in court and used the state-given rent history as solid evidence that he had been screwed in some sort of lame, gentrification attempt.
In addition, the owner of the building is currently being forced to pay Chris four years in back-rent, multiplied by three. That money, Chris says, is already spent. Chad and I are sending away for our rent history at Rivington, you know. Just in case. Inside there are a few cheap tables and chairs, a boombox, and an early model color television that constantly plays Telemundo —with or without sound. The community is inside, socializing.
They drink the liquor they bought at the Ridge Street Supermarket and dance with each other whenever an upbeat salsa song comes on the radio. They have a parallel life that I, although also claiming Hispanic heritage, will probably never experience. I often wonder about the people inside: What do they do for a living? How long have they lived in the neighborhood?
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I knew somebody would be repeating my words at some posh cocktail party before the week was out. Aaron is one of the more important writers of our time, and of course you have to read him. Cometbus 42 is a collection of short stories that also functions as a novel. The people and places and events are as real as can be. Put more simply and less cutely, Aaron, like any artist or historian, is pushing a cultural agenda. This has never been so evident as in Cometbus The story is not a cheery one: Essentially it tells of how a group of punks and misfits set about methodically turning their lives into shit.
That is my take on it. Perhaps the joke that Aaron no longer finds so funny is the epitaph for a dream. Complaining has always been a mainstay of his storytelling, but in the past it's been a good-natured complaining, a fatalistic acceptance, even cherishing, of the fact that more often than not the coffee will be cold or tasteless, the road will be long and pointless, and the love affair will end up in the dumpster.
Through it all, Aaron held out the ideal of friendship and camaraderie as something that could make it all worthwhile. But I think maybe he leaves one thing out that should be there: a more passionate pursuit of the truth. Do I mean to suggest that Aaron is less than honest? No, of course H not. If he says something happened, it probably did.
But too often he fails Q to ask, let alone answer, the really hard questions. I want to take what we have and add it all up. Not much. It was true, but none of their business. Then whose? I don't think Aaron is an anarchist in the normal sense of the word, but maybe you could call him a Libertarian. Everyone is free to follow his or her own particular fantasy to its logical or even illogical conclusion. A couple years ago there was a crack house across the street from me in Berkeley.
It was really unpleasant; people coming and going at all hours, horrible loud music, fights, guns being pulled, breaking glass. I avoided hanging out in front of my window for fear of stray bullets. When the crackheads finally got taken away, naturally the neighbors were happy. Because you know what? The Double Duce house was white middle-class kids, the crack house was black middle-class kids, but both felt that they had some kind of right to do whatever the hell they wanted, no matter who was inconvenienced or hurt, because they were special.
Or does he? So has Aaron learned nothing from this whole sad story? Or was that not the point of it anyway? Does he really mean this? There is no shortage of other characters in both senses of the word , but there is always a two- dimensional, cartoonish quality to them. We see them doing fascinating, odd, colorful, even repulsive things, but we never get much insight as to why.
All writers rely to some extent on a formula, and I am no exception. But to keep growing as a writer, you need to risk shattering preconceptions, to give your readers something they neither expected nor maybe even wanted. Aaron has progressed immensely since I first started reading him in , and he was already good back then. I want him to go all the way.
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No, not really. It reminds me of when Bill Graham, the Bay Area rock promoter, died. While alive, Graham was much hated and much loved; he almost single-handedly put the San Francisco music scene of the s on the international cultural map, but he also turned it into a big business over which he had a monopoly.
In a sense, Tim Yohannan was the anti-Graham. For years, MaximumRockNRoll stood as the ultimate arbiter of what was punk, and even those who loathed it with a passion could not deny its power. Unfortunately, he took it all too far, or maybe it was just that time passed him by. As punk began to represent a multiplicity of styles and visions, Tim became more single-minded than ever.
He was a tiny man physically, but more than once I saw him go toe- to-toe against enormous skinheads while everyone else cowered behind him. His voice, abrasive and unmistakable as the sound of breaking glass, could silence an entire room in an instant. There was no point in arguing with him. Either you agreed with him or you were wrong.
Am I sorry to see him gone? On a personal level, yes, of course. If Tim had his weaknesses, self-doubt was not one Sf them. And yet, putting his place in history aside for a moment, there was something unmistakably sad about him. So goodbye, Tim, thanks for the memories and laughs, and no thanks for some of the other stuff. Weasel pointed out, you're only young once, old forever. Qthe stalag seventeen three songs from another rock band, listen to the beach boys, buy this record, often compared to shotmaker, arcwelder, jawbox, fugazi, the jam, and an army of bands they don't sound like.
Box , Austin, TX www3. Smart punk rock with the distortion at ten 'I v. Please write for a free catalog of other Texas punk and pop available from Peek-a-Boo Global Industries. WA residents add 8. US Funds only!! Wr iIr Coi a fier ralalop. An outspoken indie-evangelist, Albini has asked the difficult questions and produced the hard facts in the never ending independent vs. You are incredibly outspoken about the benefits of independent labels and a huge proponent for bands to stay on indies, yet you have produced a number of major label bands like Bush, Nirvana and the recent Jimmy Page and Robert Plant album.
How do you validate your personal relationships with certain projects that you chose where you end up working with a big record label? One of them was the Page and Plant album. I could tell from the very first conversation that we had that things were not going well between the band and the label and that the label was going to try and Much of that money has been poured into his new studio, Electrical Audio, in Chicago. Even in the wee hours of the morning, Albini was willing to talk for more than an hour about life and how to live it. The record label got to hear it and then they dug in their heels.
They want to do some more work on it. My batting average is pretty good. If things go according to history, I will get paid. Everyone in that office is gonna hate me by the time they pay me. But I will get paid. There is some logic to it. The entanglements that they find themselves in cause an awful lot of hell to rain down on them.
Historically these things have proven themselves true: People who get involved with major labels make less interesting music; they end up suffering personally, and as a band, aesthetically. Those occasions are so rare that you can equate them with meteorites crashing into houses. They are celestially rare. What reasons? That record label would be really slow about paying them or would eventually go bust. All they have to do is look at the case histories. Just look at example after example after example.
Whereas if they stay on the independent level, they can develop an independent groundswell that can then sustain the band for its natural life. Did you actually sell more records? Did anything in your life get better when you signed to a major label? But the vanity of it I think is the real problem. But more significantly, the basic tenor of the business practices of major labels has not changed in 50 years. The potential for that is there at all times. You are at risk of having somebody stomp on your aesthetic existence just on a whim. That risk is too great in my opinion. Losing the Butthole Surfers back catalogue is not going to be a crippling blow.
Do you think people can learn about how relations between indie labehs and artists change when indie bands move onto major labels from this situation? One of them was a homeless street poet, the other one was Warner I Brothers. Everyone associated with that record is going to wish they shoveled shit for a living instead. You chose to lay down in a pig pen. How do you feel about the current situation between them and the Butthole Surfers? Those record labels have lasted longer and been financially more stable and more successful professionally than all the record labels that tried have to imitate mainstream record labels who operate with hardboiled contracts and business sense.
I guess my point is that the methodology of operating on trust and of operating on an informal basis between bands and labels and all of their business partners has proved its worth because people that do things that way tend to last. If the general principles of the relationship are understood, then anything explains itself. Each of them wants to interpret that document in his favor. It behaves on a personal level where people are individually responsible for their decisions and for their activities; where the understanding of your relationship is what forms the basis of all of your activities rather than some specific rights and prescriptions that are written down someplace.
I first started experimenting with digital recording long before a DAT machine had ever been dreamed of. From the beginning, there have been fundamental flaws with digital recording that no one has gotten past yet. But the way I see it, you have all these perfectly good analog techniques which have stood the test of time. They are very mature bits of technology. Those things are in the major leagues.
For the time being, you can play it. In 20 years time, if somebody makes a great record and it survives the test of time and gets out of this little holding pen of the contemporary cattle call music scene, and somebody really cherishes that music and wants to keep it available for the future, none of those master tapes will be useable.
It means that an entire generation of music is going to be lost. Would you just recommend that they record their samples in analogue? You can either write a song and arrange it and get people to play and record it properly and mix it and then have something that you can sing over or, you can play a Curtis Mayfield album and loop it. It seems like a trivial task. I like that song. Therefore I like this thing. All of the structure of sampled music is embedded in the samples. The substance of the music was imbued into it before the sample artist ever got a hold of it.
That means that the potential for basic creative control is strictly editorial. Its not compositional in any reasonable sense of the word. That might be interesting once as an experiment. Before it had ever been done, it might generate something of interest. So much of it just seems to be an image matter.
I still think of that as one of many records that I worked on that year. I never see that stuff. It has no bearing on my life. The broader cultural perspective on a band like that means nothing to me. I still think of them as people that I know. I have a real perception of them as people. I still think of that record as one of many records that I made that year. I had a different perspective on it than a lot of people did.
I saw that as the mainstream seeing some thing of worth in the underground.
They saw money to be made and tried to exploit it, adopting the most superficial aspects of the underground culture and using those superficial aspects as a stylistic brush that they could paint on anybody. The most superficial aspects of the underground culture could be copied and applied to anything. I saw that as an insulting usurpation of a culture that I actually felt had its own value. What happens then is that you have a kid wearing a plastic garment. I see the mainstream usurpation of underground culture in the same way.
Maybe we could make some money out of ; IS i The most superficial aspects of the J underground culture could be copied " : and applied to anything.