you treat me like a dog

(from The Witching Hour #49; December 1974)
Duke, the Action Dog!

When some woefully unprepared suburban adventures try to scale the slopes of Mt. Avalanche in mid-January....Duke is there!

When Mommy is sleeping off a hangover doesn't notice little Timmy's excursion into the abandoned Black Lung Mine...Duke is there!

When the enemies of Freedom^TM need a little impromptu menace to the genitalia to keep them in line...Duke is there! (Though he will deny any knowledge of it at the court martial proceedings.)

When your fancy dinner party is regrettably free of submissive urination incidents...Duke is there!

Duke's life may seem like a charmed one to many of you, what with the action, adventure, cool gadgets, and all. He even had his own secret headquarters (sold separately) kitted out with a periscope and the finest computer technology the punchcard and tape drive era had to offer.

While that's certainly a step up from usual makeshift lair under far end of the dining room table (strewed with cat food cans and fast food wrappers stolen from the trash, of course), all the fancy gear and accessories were merely futile attempts to fill the gaping void in Duke's inner being.

Duke wants YOU to be his MASTER...because without your firm guiding hand, Duke's life would be just an endless sea of emptiness and self-doubt, devoid of any meaning or purpose. He's a typical canine in that regard.

Dark ruminations about forgotten playthings aside, I wonder if it isn't time to revisit the "heroic pup as toy franchise" model, only with a 21th Century spin. My proposal has been prepared and is currently awaiting approval from the relevant powers that be...

The advances in electronics and toy design over the past three and a half decades mean that the Oscar the Pughuahua toy will include a voice activation feature, where certain key words and phrases will cause him shake off his inertial topor and prance around the house on little chicken legs. In case you were curious, those phrases will be "out," "mashed potato," "beef jerky," "go to bed?" and "donut." And, yes, there will be a variety of accessories (sold separately, of course).

Dr. Alimantado - Tribute to the Duke (from Best Dressed Chicken in Town, 1978) - When he wasn't zipping over chasms or hauling around his Rescue Rickshaw^TM, the Action Dog spent his downtime napping in front of the space heater in his secret HQ and dreaming to the sweet sounds of well-crafted reggae.

Depeche Mode - Master and Servant (from Some Great Reward, 1984) - Love in the Age of Thatcher.

you should want to hide

These are interesting times we live in, capable of turning the most sedate of souls into a honorary urban guerilla. Even if one has no intention of striking a blow against global capitalism by tossing a trashcan through the widow of a Starbucks or by pounding away on one's Authentic Anarchist Tribal Drum^TM at a protest march, there are many instances where concealing one's identity is absolutely vital.

We like to think that the courage of our convictions and righteousness of our actions are strong enough to bear close public scrutiny. However, even the staunchest soul will quail when the cashier at Trendo Records arches a pierced eyebrow in response to one's query about the release date of the new Danity Kane album.

There is no shame in using subterfuge when circumstances demand it. The guerilla is the fish that swims in the sea of the people, and it is crucial to realize that ideological purity must occasionally take a backseat to simple pragmatism.

Yes, you could deliver a stirring lecture on why your longstanding affection for Diane Lane is written in the heavens above, but odds are that your eloquence will be lost entirely on the smirking, pimply-faced goon at the ticket counter, and you run the risk of missing the first twenty minutes of Nights in Rodanthe, to boot.

It is far better to slip in under the cover of an adopted persona, something can allow to glide undetected amongst the masses. Something like a grizzled old prospector, or perhaps even Sir Walter Raleigh. This might seem like daunting undertaking for a newly awakened agent of change, but thankfully the countercultural gurus at 3M have issued this easy-to-follow manifesto on the art of disguise:



Simple, elegant, and most importantly, effective. Trust me on this, I speak from experience.

Ernie Smith - You Won't See Me (from Trojan Box Set: Beatles Tribute, 2005) - It's impossible to top pop perfection, but this reggae rendition of my favorite Fab Four track does a pretty admirable job with the source material...despite scraping up against the pilings during the chorus.

Groove Armada - If Everybody Looked the Same (from Vertigo, 2000) - Try making different tracks yourself -- It's fun figuring out all kinds of samples, fills, loops, and effects. And "Scotch" Cellophane tape holds the sound collage together like magic!

won't be worried long

One of my strongest childhood memories is of my mother relating a bit of family folklore to me. It concerned some great-great-relation of her father's side of the family, a stoically creepy bunch of Old Yankees from Maine's Androscoggin County. This particular relative worked in a lumber mill, and during the course of his duties got his arm stuck in the machinery. As his friends tried in vain to find the best way to extricate the ruined limb from the works, my laterally-thinking ancestor came up with an easy solution -- power up the machinery and let it take the limb off quickly and cleanly. So they did.

I can't help but think that lingering effects of my mother's story somehow figure into the following random, but characteristically "Andrew," autobiographical antidote.

I adopted Mia not too long after Zoe Blackfeet, my previous feline companion, wandered off and never returned. Mia had belonged to some neurotic yuppies from Winchester who had soured on the idea of pet ownership and dumped her off at the vet's office.

Unlike Zoe (or Budwina before her), Mia was not a personable cat. I don't know if it was from poor socialization or abuse experienced at the hands of her previous owners, or a simple matter of temperament. I've lived around cats my entire life; they're capricious creatures. Mia, though, wasn't so much aloof as sociopathic, and able to switch from snugglebunny to psycho-slasher with no warning whatsoever. (She also possessed the ability to shed her weight in long white fur on a daily basis.)

Even if she wasn't the nicest cat, I was still happy to have her around and living in a decent home.

On a lovely spring afternoon in 2002, I was in my bedroom reading a book when Mia hopped on the bed and stretched out beside me. I patted her. She purred. I scratched behind her ears. She viciously bit and scratched my left forearm, and refused to let go until my limb had been thoroughly flensed.

It hurt like hell, but cat scratches usually do, and this didn't appear that much worse than some of the previous feline-related injuries I had dealt with. I washed the arm with some soap and water and let nature do the rest. That the cuts seemed to be a long time in healing or there was a growing burning sensation in the arm didn't worry me a whole lot. Nor did the fact that over the course of the following week or so my forearm swelled up to near-Popeye proportions.

Maura, of course, was concerned, but it's her job to be. Besides, who is more familiar with my internal workings than I am? It wasn't until I had entered the second week following the incident that I was forced to acknowledge that something wasn't right. (Maura's mom was particularly persuasive with her worried stare and repeated use of "Jaysis.") While my co-workers and family (not Maura, because she understands me) chimed in with a loud chorus of "EMERGENCY ROOM," I decided to take matters into my own (swollen and healthy) hands.

Using a sterilized needle, I opened up the bite wounds that were the source of the infection and let the stream of pus drain out. Afterwards I soaked the arm in warm water and Epsom salt for an hour before slathering the area with anti-bacterial ointment and bandaging it up. It took about a week of such therapy before my arm started to resemble its old self (though I still have a few scars), thus proving that not only that am I too laid back for my own good, but that I can occasionally remedy the problems which arise from my complacency (in an extremely painful and disgusting way that could have been avoided with a glimmer of foresight).

Prince Buster - Pussy Cat Bite Me (from Wreck A Pum Pum, 1976) - Felis dentata ska.

Tom Jones - It Takes a Worried Man (from Along Came Jones, 1965; collected on Millennium Edition, 2000) - Devo's cover of this folk standard will always be the definitive version as far as I'm concerned, but Sir Tom's powerhouse vocals and that magnificent horn section are almost enough to make me reconsider my position.

Love and Rockets - No Big Deal (from Love and Rockets, 1989) - True, but a perfectly fine song, nonetheless.

hungry so angry

Yesterday a friend asked me "Why'd you pick 'Armagideon Time' for your blog's name?" When I decided to create whatever-the-heck-this-site-is back in the spring of 2006, there was a short list of potential names I considered using. All but one, "The Land of Clear Blue Radio" (after The Soviettes' song), were Clash-related, in honor of the high regard in which I hold for the "only band that mattered."

"Capitol Radio One," "Gates of the West," "The Right Profile" were all worthy contenders, but none felt or sounded as perfect as "Armagideon Time." Apart from being the title of an outstanding track (whether one is referring to the Willie Williams or Clash version), it also dovetailed nicely with my own personal infatuation with things apocalyptic and foreboding. It's not a religious thing with me, but a legacy of childhood anxieties that I have carried with me into adulthood.

From the depressing extrapolations of 1970's sci-fi to the nuclear dread of the Reagan Era, my formative years were spend bathing in a popcultural spring of visions of the End Times, presented as an inevitable occurrence though the actual vector of Armageddon (nuclear war, ecological collapse, revolt by intelligent apes) varied from source to source. There is something I find fascinating in apocalyptic flights of fancy -- they way they speak to the collective anxieties of an given era/culture as well as the vicarious thrill of watching the human species choke on its own excessive folly or come up short against uncaring entropy.

If there's a sincere cautionary message, it's usually so overdressed in sensationalism or hyperbole that it devolves into unintentional parody, a trite moral to justify the big draw of the spectacle itself. Or else it merely emphasizes a small-but-dramatic part of the big picture over the little details, the ones with real-life significance.

I recently came away from a trip to the local comics and used book store with a plastic grocery bag full of old paperback sci-fi and horror novels. My haul, which set me back all of twelve dollars, was evenly split between works of relative quality by the likes of Huxley and Spinrad and number of volumes of "catastrophe porn." I use the term "porn" rather loosely (though not inaccurately, as we shall see) to differentiate these dubiously prophetic potboilers from the blanket term of "disaster fiction" coined and thoughfully analyzed by Mike Davis in The Ecology of Fear.

Unlike Paul Auster's In the Country of Last Things or Cormac McCarthy's The Road, the apocalyptic elements in catastrophe porn are not integrated backdrops for an actual narrative, but in fact supercede whatever thin narrative might exist. Characterization and plot serve as skeletal frameworks from which to hang the series of sensational vignettes which are the real selling point of such works. It's not about whether or not Chuck Heston will reconcile with Eva Gardner -- it's about watching L.A. collapse into rubble and anarchy.

Here's a excerpt from the back cover of the 1981 Ace Charter edition of Graham Masterton's Famine, an excellent example of the subgenre which also happeded to be the first of the stack I pulled out to read:


Hilarious, offensive, and informative!

There is something of a plot in Famine. A big city actuary turned Kansas farmer and his Manhattan-loving wife find their existence turned upside down by a multi-pronged assault on America's food supply. While corrupt and/or politicians attempt to exploit or acknowledge the situation, the country falls into a state of complete anarchy. The mystery of who caused the crisis doesn't so much unfold as pop out like a built-in turkey thermometer. (Is it the Soviets? Who could it be but the Soviets? Maybe it isn't the Soviets? But who, if not the Soviets? Yep, it's the Soviets. Oh, well.)

Really, though, it's a lot of wheel-spinning in anticipation of the juicy parts, little lurid nuggets describing all manner of horrors unleashed by the disaster.

In Muskogee, Oklahoma, twenty men and one woman tried to break into a supermarket and steal boxes of canned meat, vegetables, and fruit. They were almost through loading when they were surprised by a National Guard patrol who machine-gunned all of them with warning. Their bodies were littered across the parking lot, and a reporter for the Herald-Bulletin of Tulsa said, "There was so much blood it was gurgling down the storm drains like crimson bathwater."

It's a veritable pagent of graphically-described murders, looting, riots, and a disturbing amount of rape, including one scene that surpasses anything from American Psycho for sheer "what the fuck is wrong with this author?" vileness). Ample lashings of sex and ultra-violence are the order of the day, resulting in something akin to a non-racist* version of Camp of the Saints or The Turner Diaries, apolitical save for the pithy observation that the American people overconsume, are overentitled, and are prone to violence.

Gee, I never noticed.

Masterton writes in a style reminiscent of James Herbert's, which is essentially a stripped down version of Stephen King's style with the sensationalism cranked to the highest setting. It certainly fits the level of the material, though lines such as this one...

"You've been growing wheat for nearly forty years, and all I've been doing is sitting on my butt in a stuffy New York office, telling little old ladies how to salt away their surplus dollars for a rainy day."

...and not recall the painful days of one's freshman creative writing class.

Famine is utter crap, but utter crap that greasily fulfills its purpose as a disposable, sleazy read which capitalizes on the fears of privation felt by a society that had recently experienced several shortages of essential goods. Yeah, I know, it seems so quaint and silly from a present-day perspective.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to take out a second mortgage so I can gas up the car and buy a loaf of bread.

Willie Williams - Armagideon Time (from Armagideon Time, 1979) - Back to the roots.

Eddie Albert & Eva Gabor - Theme from Green Acres (from Television's Greatest Hits, Vol. 1, 1990) - Ever want to see an episode of Green Acres where Oliver was seduced by a busty double agent working to cultivate a corrupt senator as the puppet leader of a future Soviet-occupied and famine-ravaged America? If so, then I have book suggestion for you.

*The book does mention that black looters were more violent than white ones in the initial wave of food riots, but by the end everyone has sunk to the same level of lawless behavior, though white L.A. residents are singled out as being especially monstrous. It's not hard to deduce the book's target audience.

seemed like the real thing

(from Blue Devil #3, August 1984; by Cohn, Mishkin, Cullins, & Martin)
Don't lose heart, Metallo! Kryptonite tickers may be hard to come by, but why not check out Armagideon Time's cardio-tastic line-up of replacement models? Our present stock includes several promising substitutes, hand-picked by our knowledgeable staff from a variety of materials and musical genres -- all guaranteed to get your blood pumping in style.

Lunachicks - Heart of Glass (from Luxury Problem, 1999) - This is for all those sad souls out there who've complained that Blondie's original version of the song sounded "too disco." Are you happy now?

Steel Pulse - Heart of Stone (from Sound System: The Island Anthology, 1997) - Soothing grooves for the end times, which seems kind of wrong yet sounds so right.

A Flock of Seagulls - Heart of Steel (from The Story of a Young Heart, 1984) - The New Wave at ebb tide. Be careful not to slice your foot open on some Big Pop flotsam; that shit can turn septic in the space of a heartbeat.

B.T. Express - Heart of Fire (from B.T. Express 1980, 1980) - WARNING: Individuals with hearts of fire should avoid wearing polyester suits, lest a real-life disco inferno occur.

he who waits is lost

So remember I couple of days ago, when I was whining about what I thought was just a bad head cold? I think it has turned out to be something a little more complicated.

Last June, when I made my long-postponed trip to the dentist, I was told that two contiguous teeth on the upper right-hand side were candidates for root canals, due to the fact that both had been cracked open and left untreated so long before being filled. My dentist wrote me up a referral for an endodontist, and was supposed to set me up an appointment for the initial consultation.

The thing is that, for whatever reason, I never got a call back from the endodontist. I didn't pursue the matter, since I had a dozen cavities that needed filling, my dental coverage was scaled back (modestly, but still) when I switched unions, and root canals are expensive. Better to nip the numerous small problems in the bud, I thought, rather than blow the entire year's benefit on a couple big procedures that, let's face it, rank rather low on the "things we prefer to experience scale." (My wife, who has had a root canal done by the same people not too long ago, says that the process is completely different these days, and that she fell asleep in the chair while it was being done. Even so, I notice she isn't hoping to undergo the experience again any time soon.)

Besides, I figured, how bad could things get in the eleven months before the next fiscal year? The rotten chompers were already sensitive, I had lived through the white hot pain of countless canker sores, and I was not going to be intimidated by some bush league toothache. Sure, my friend recounted some over-the-top horror story about a classmate of his whose jaw abscessed due to similar neglect, which made the poor kid hallucinate and speak in tongues, but my friend has similar stories for every health issue from hangnails to cerebral hemorrhages.

Despite all my rationalizations and calculations, the answer to "how bad could it be" turned out to be "pretty damn horrible, actually." I've spent the last 48 hours distracted to the point of near madness by a throbbing, itching ache in my upper jaw, the inflamed nerve endings broadcasting all sorts of nasty sensations through my sinuses, cheek, and throat (which is why I though it was a head cold at first). As much as a canker sore feels like a blowtorch being held to the fleshy tissue inside the mouth, it's an acute pain and can be blocked out with a bit of effort. Until I finally took my wife's advice about the wonders of ibuprofen (O, glorious OTC pain reliever!) this morning, I was reduced to a state where I began to consider the merits of unconventional treatment as practiced by Bruce Willis's character in 12 Monkeys (fortunately I couldn't remember where I put my hunting knife) or by the learned triumvirate of Howard, Fine, and Howard...


Bill Haley & His Comets - (Now and Then) There's a Fool Such as I (from The Decca Years & More box set, 1991) - Tell me about it, Bill.

The Upsetters - Toothache (from The Complete UK Upsetters Singles Collection, Vol. 2, 2002) - The only kind of toothache worth having.

prepare to be bored-ded

Hexachlorophene! Because there's nothing kids like better than potential carcinogens in their bubble bath. (The substance was removed from OTC products in 1969, and remains prescription-only to this day despite studies disproving its links to cancer.)

Isn't today supposed to be Run an Initially Disarming Gag into the Ground Talk Like a Pirate Day? I vaguely remember doing a post on the subject on this day last year, which a check of the archives does verify. As I said back then, the buccaneer thing really isn't my bag, but as this day only comes once a year, I figured I'd give it my best shot. Here goes:

So an industry insider passed a couple of gems onto a friend of a friend of mine: an advance copy of the Adam Sandler/Jessica Alba remake of Casablanca (with Ludacris in the role of Sam) and Michael Bay's live-action adaptation of the Rubik the Amazing Cube cartoon (with Sir Ben Kinglsey in the title role). Clean internal copies, too -- not like those shit camcorder caps being circulated by those n00bz in the PsyKKotik release group. Those asses think they're l33t as fuck, but they're lamerz who pass their shit direct to torrent sites.

I was already busy putting my liquid-cooled Alienware processor to use coming up with a workaround crack for use with Gear God of Grand Guitar Halo 5: Special Edition, but there was enough of the machine's 10 GB of RAM free to run the discs through a custom ripper, nuke any DRM or watermarks, then DVDShrink them to under 700 MBs a pop. Some folks go the VOB/SUB route, but that's not what the scene is supposed to be about, d00dz. After that it was just a matter of chunking them into 14.5 MB multi-part rars, writing up this nfo file and making them available via private newsgroups. PROPS to all the HOMIEZ keepin it REAL in the SCENE."*

Wait, that's not the type of pirate-speak they're talking about? I'm completely lost now.

(See also.)

Édith Piaf - Le Chant du Pirate (from 75 Chansons, 2001) - What is it about the French language where even saying "My bowel is impacted from eating too many baguettes and pastries" sounds profoundly classy?

Nena - Let Me Be Your Pirate (from 99 Luftballoons, 1984) - From the other side of the Maginot Line, here's some jazz-damaged Teutonic pop. Feel free to make your own "rum, sodomy, and the lash" joke here. I'm feeling lazy today.

Burning Spear - Pirate's Dub (from the Living Dub, Vol. 2 reissue, 1993) - This is the dub version of "Columbus" from the reggae outfit's Hail H.I.M. LP. The reissues of the first two Living Dub albums feature remixed versions and freshly recorded material in the same vein, which might be infuriating for purist collectors, but it's a nice treat for less-obsessed fans.

*Just to make things clear: I do not engage in such activities, okay?

one hundred hairs make a man

I was flipping though some old comics the other day when I came across this ad:


...and I got to thinking about my ranking on the Machismo Index, and how of late it seems to be dropping faster than this blog's Technorati authority score. Perhaps the addition of some facial hair would be just the ticket to turning things around. The only problem is that while I can grow wiry ginger-blonde stubble like nobody's business, after a week or so my masculine scruffiness tops out and refuses to cross the threshold into true beard and 'stache territory. (This is also around the time when my wife complains about how the stubble causes her to break out in hives when I give her a chaste peck on the cheek.)

So, Masculiner Co. of East Orange, New Jersey, can you and your MODOCRYLIC face toupees help me out of this frustrating dilemma? I'm putting my hopes and the contents of my piggy bank (eight bucks in total; I already have the sideburns covered the natural way) in your able hands.

Four to six weeks later.....


Hmmm... I was expecting a little something more from MODOCRYLIC, but it is certainly trimmable and easily styled with a pair of safety scissors. The verdict is still out on its net effect on my sense of manhood, though I have found myself experiencing random urges to swing by the local Harley dealership (and to send away fror literature about opening a southern fried chicken franchise). I also seem to have acquired a deep intuitive understanding of .38 Special's body of work, and have unconsciously found myself visiting online sporting goods stores to price gun racks for Super Lumina. It's a very curious phenom--

--HEY! ARE YOU LOOKING AT MY WOMAN? YOU BETTER NOT BE, LESS'N YOU FIND YOURSELF FACE DOWN IN THE PARKING LOT, BUSTER, LOOKIN' FOR YOUR MISSING TEETH.

Y'know, I think I'm better off just sticking with the peachfuzz Mother Nature gave me, along with those awkward pauses whenever a male neighbor or co-worker asks me if I caught the game last weekend.

Deee-Lite - You Sexy Thing (from the Dumb and Dumber OST, 1994) - I'd rather watch the Golf Channel than Dumb and Dumber (and I despise golf), but the soundtrack is better and more eclectic than it had any right to be. Echobelly? The Primitives? The Butthole Surfers? This trippy take on Hot Chocolate's signature song? Was there a mix-up in the post-production ADR between Dumb and Dumber and some psuedo-indie Gen X vehicle?

Sparks - Moustache (from Angst in My Pants, 1982) - Unforced idiosyncrasy and pop sensibility come so easily to the Mael Brothers, and make listening to this album a delightful, yet humbling, experience.

Desmond Dekker & The Aces - Fu Manchu (from Action! 1994) - Maybe that's the problem -- I should have checked the "Evil Overlord Variant" box on the order form. That version carries its own set of issues, however, such as the overwhelming compulsion to shout "Kill that meddling fool!" whenever someone pulls into a parking space before you or takes the last jelly donut during a staff meeting. Also: spontaneous outbreaks of maniacal chortling after getting back extra change from a vending machine purchase or unclogging the garbage disposal.

if you really knew me, you’d shake your heads

Rand: It just so happens that I've had some amazing adventures that a lot of people would like to read about.

Rook: You're cute, but you're dumb.

- Robotech: New Generation, “Symphony of Light”

Kevin’s post from yesterday reminded me that I had been meaning to do something similar for a while now, but have been putting off for various reasons. There are about twice as many of you out there reading (or more likely scratching your heads over) Amagideon Time now that there was at the beginning of 2007, if my logs are to be believed, so I should probably provide a meet-and-greety, mission statement sort of dealy-o for those folks who have only recently tuned in.

My name is Andrew. “bitterandrew” was an affectation carried over from my precursor journal, so as not be confused with these guys, but “Andrew” is what I usually go by. I’m a 35 year old quasi-techie type (explaining exactly what I do would take more effort than it’s worth) who shares a house on a hillside northwest of Boston with his wife, two dogs, a family of rabbits, and many, many cats both feral and domesticated. Oh, and there’s a chinchilla around there somewhere, too.

About a year and a half ago, I got the brilliant idea to start up a music blog after discovering the mp3 blogging scene. My previous plan was to create a comics-oriented site, but I was never able to figure out a proper angle for the project that wasn’t already being done better elsewhere; music felt like a much better fit. It started off rather mundanely, as I tried my hardest to color within the lines of “real” musical criticism, but I soon jettisoned any pretenses along those lines, decided to play it by ear, and let the site mutate into what it is today -- Tristram Shandy as written and musically annotated by a popcult obsessed slacker in his mid-thirties. I tend to be own harshest critic, but the formula -- an endless series of digressions from one hobbyhorse to the next -- seems to work more often than not. (I have been told by more than a couple folks that I have a knack for casting the mundane in epic light. I’m not sure what to make of that.) Who knew there was a modest audience for rambling, recursive messes incorporating autobiographical, polemical, and trivial musings set to music?

As for the musical selections, I’ve worn a lot of subcultural hats in my time. None have fit as well or been as loved by me as the punk rocker’s chapeau, though I’ve long since given up on pigeonholing myself into a single narrow role. Most of the material I post has a retro cast to it, though more recent tracks do pop up with some regularity. Armagideon Time is not, however, about plugging away for the current BIG THING, as most of that stuff falls outside my retrologist’s purview and there are hundreds of other music blogs covering that beat already. The choice and presentation of tracks on Armagideon Time has been likened to the concept behind the Back to Mine series of compilations, which --besides being a massive compliment -- is a comparison that captures the essence of what I’ve been (informally and unintentionally) doing here without having to go into messy over-explanations.

I’ve you’ve been enjoying Armagideon Time, great! If my tortured prose hasn’t entertained or enlightened, I hope that you’ve least enjoyed the music, and perhaps have been turned on to some artists and genres you may not have been aware of (and made use of the kickback-free purchase links to follow up on that interest). Feel free to comment, too -- but no pressure. I’m sparse with the comments myself, so I understand. I can always be reached at the email address in the sidebar to the right, should the need arise. (It may take time for me to reply, depending on my current situation.) I also have last.fm and Twitter accounts for those of you into those sorts of things. (My last.fm account is configured to scrobble only what I listen to at work, so the tallies are a bit lopsided.)

Something of a musical grab bag today, featuring some favorites which may or may not have been featured in previous posts:

The Clash – Armagideon Time (from the b-side to the “London Calling” single, 1979; collected on The Story of The Clash, Vol. 1, 1988) – The spiritual alpha and omega of the blog that bears its name.

Bill Haley & His Comets – Rock Around the Clock (from The Ultimate Collection, 2006) – This slice of teenage rebellion holds up pretty darn well after five decades, while Puddle of Mudd’s latest CD turns stale in the time it takes to take the shrinkwrap off the case. It makes you stop and think, doesn’t it?

Jamie Wednesday – I Think I’ll Throw a Party for Myself (from the We Three Kings of Orient Aren’t EP, 1986) – The jangle pop precursor band to Carter USM knows the right way to celebrate.

Vacation: Day 1 - Tidying Up the House

Echo and the Bunnymen - Do It Clean (from Crocodiles, 1980) - Here's a mindblowing concept: Imagine if every band that was described as "sounding like Echo and the Bunnymen" actually did?

I'm slipping into low-content mode for the duration of my vacation (or "holiday" as those wacky folks from the UK call it). The next week or so will feature posts in a format similar to this one (what I'm doing, with an associated comic panel and song). That way I can take some time to recharge without worrying about losing whatever momentum the site has.

Bonus content in commemoration of 7/7/07:

Culture - When Two Sevens Clash (from When Two Sevens Clash, 1977) - Lo, the trumpet was blown and the Four Horsemen descended from the skies on that prophecied day of July 7, 1977. But upon seeing the puke green and burnt orange polyester nightmare that the world had become, the Horsemen said "Fuck it, how much worse could we make things?" and instead decided to get shitfaced on Annie Green Springs while listening to Out of the Blue on 8-track.

Love - Seven and Seven Is (from Da Capo, 1967) - Fourteen, right? I took Intro to Sentential Logic to fulfill my college math requirement, so my 'rithmetic might be a little off.

justice for all includes talking tigers

(This a revised and musically annotated version of something I posted in my journal a while ago.)

---

I've mentioned before that I have an insane fondness for the old Otto Binder/C.C. Beck Captain Marvel Adventures stories, especially the ones from the 1945-1953 period. Even though Superman got there first with the whole godlike superbeing gimmick, Captain Marvel is purest distillation of the notion of the superhero as a childhood power fantasy. The old CMA stories have an air of innocence and whimsy about them that still feel fresh to me half a century after they were first published. After Fawcett quit publishing the series, Binder tried to work his mojo on Superman, but unlike a lot of my comics blogging pals, I find those stories kind of, well, boring and stupid, weighed down by a fixation on Kyrptonian trivia and what has become known as "superdickery".

I was checking out CMA #90 (November 1948) the other day. The big draw for me was a story featuring Mr. Atom, the homicidal robotic zeitgeist of the Atomic Age, but the issue also contains another unexpected delight -- Captain Marvel versus the Klan. (That's my name for the story. The actual title is "Mr. Tawny's New Home".)

Marvel's talking tiger buddy (What? You mean you don't have one?), Mr. Tawny, is looking for a new place to live and not having much luck in his search. Marvel tries to set him up with a club of big game hunters and adventurers, but things go sour when the club members start breaking out their rifles and taking shots at poor Mr. Tawny. "Wisdom of Solomon", my pink Swedish behind. At least it went better than the time Captain Marvel tried to pair up a lesbian separatist with a member of the Promisekeepers.

The Big Red Cheese isn't one to admit defeat easily, though, and he eventually finds a nice little subdivision willing to rent a cute little bungalow to a pants-wearing, talking beast of the jungle.

Unfortunately for Tawny, his new next door neighbor just happens to be the chairman of the previously mentioned hunting club, and begins a petition drive to chase Tawny out of the neighborhood using the tried and true "think of the children" fear tactic. Tawny considers packing up and leaving, but Captain Marvel, old school liberal that he is, won't stand for such defeatism:

(Very noble of you, Captain, but how do you explain this?)

With Tawny refusing to budge, the hunter and his cronies take the tried and true blue American method of dealing with unwanted elements in society. They form a vigilante hate group, complete with bonfires, blunt weapons, and robes with pointy hoods (which happen to be an interesting shade of violet):

("Tarnation, Cletus, the principle of separating whites and coloreds also applies to laundry!")

The good Captain makes short work of the intolerant dumbasses...

...but not before they show their credentials by setting fire not just to Tawny's house, but the a large number of other residences as well. While the Captain sees to extinguishing the fires, Tawny puts his feline speed and agility to good use by rescuing a child from a burning house, proving to the easily swayed townsfolk that he is indeed worthy to live among them.

(Ever notice that in a lot of "message" movies about equality and tolerance, the burden of proof falls on the back of those being discriminated against? "I was wrong about you ------s. You make damn good fighters, and even better Americans!" Yeah, it's great that these people had to risk life and limb to "earn" your approval of their constitutional rights, you ignorant fuck. A similarly twisted logic is at play today in the gay marriage debate, and the absurd notion that civil rights should be subject to referendum.)

Tawney's heroism (coupled with, I assume, a dose of "human guilt" on the part of townsfolk) earns him the title of honorary mayor:

Captain Marvel and Tawny seem pleased with that, although I can't shake the nagging feeling that when Tawny stops by the local diner for a cup of coffee and the morning paper, the rest of the patrons will suddenly turn quiet and awkwardly gaze down at their half eaten plates of bacon and eggs until he leaves.

(Once a cynic, always a cynic.)

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The Klan versus the Tiger Man? Smart money's on the latter, especially if he brings Bear Cat with him to the dust up.

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Steel Pulse - Ku Klux Klan (from Handsworth Revolution, 1978)

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Rufus Thomas Jr. - Tiger Man (King of the Jungle) (from The Sun Records Collection, 1994)

I don't take orders from Colonel Sanders

Plettschner: You want to be a hero? Or would you rather be a chicken man?

Otto: What?

Plettschner: A chicken man. Did you ever see a farmer's wife?

-Repo Man (1984)

Yma Sumac - Chicken Talk (from Mambo!, 1954) - I got into Sumac's blend of Latin and exotica styles after hearing her mentioned as a spiritual precursor to Lene Lovich, and quickly grew to appreciate her unique style in its own right. She also never recorded a lame cover of the already lame Rod Stewart hit "Da Ya Think I'm Sexy," which gives her a decisive advantage over the San Diego Chicken (who covered the song in 1979). Fads can lead us into some dark places.

Link Wray - Run, Chicken, Run (from a 1963 single, collected on Rumble! The Best of Link Wray, 1993) - "This whole bat persona just isn't working out. Everyone is terrified of me, even Ace the Bat-Hound! I need a change of image before I become a brutal thug as awful as the villains I fight. I know, I'll become Happy Sunshine Chicken Man Who Carries a Huge-Ass Gun!" It's a shame that scene didn't make into the final draft of the 52 maxi-series. (via)

MDC - Chicken Squawk (from Millions of Dead Cops, 1982) - Recording a punked up square dance track on behalf of poor oppressed poultry? Admirable. Dressing up in a chicken-themed S&M costume and calling one's self "Gamecock"? Not so much. Dig the tail feathers; you don't see that commitment to detail in the current generation of supervillains, and that's a clucking shame.

Dr. Alimantado - Best Dressed Chicken in Town (from Best Dressed Chicken in Town, 1978) - What the hell is up with that picture? It's either a failed early experiment in cosplay technology or else Dr. Moreau has a lot to answer for. Dr. Alimantado, on the other hand, has nothing to apologize for.

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Hope you enjoyed the post. With any luck, it ought to net me a Pullet Surprise.