There Really Is Nothing That Can Recreate The Experience Of Listening To A Song For The First Time Again,

I know that for nearly every queen song brian may is waiting at the 3 minute mark to perform the cuntiest guitar solo imaginable and thats what gets me through life.

"why is EVERY song about love" I'm begging you to dig just a tiny bit deeper, there's literally thousands of songs that aren't love songs. You don't even have to look for the most obscure underground artists ever, the fucking Beatles of all people have a song about a guy who kills people with a hammer

When I say “I love this artist” I either know 5 of their songs that I play on repeat or I know their entire discography and you just have to guess which one it is

Oh he was down BADDD

Reposting this photo I shared yesterday because I think I finally put together what Micky and Peter were actually doing. Micky “shot” Peter and Peter had to “die” so Micky could photograph his dramatic demise.

In They Made a Monkee Out of Me, Davy Jones explains a Monkee game called Killer.

We defused a lot of the tension with humour, naturally. On the set, and on the road, we had a game we used to play called Killer. Jim Frawley invented it. The idea was each person was allowed three shots per day. You could shoot whoever you liked—you just mimed your hand as a gun, like kids do, y’know—tssshhh! And whoever was shot had to die. But you couldn’t just fall down, nice and simple—it had to be a spectacular death. You had to moan and kick and fall over furniture and people and take about three-quarters of an hour to do it—like they used to in all of the best Westerns. And if you didn’t die loud enough, or long enough, or imaginatively enough, or if say you just didn’t die at all, because you were being introduced to the Queen Mother at the time, then you lost a life. And if you lost three lives—you were out of the game. Forever. No second chances. That was as good as being really dead. So, of course, we’d look for the best moments to shoot each other—when it would cause the most commotion. Not everyone was included. It was a clique of about eight. Sometimes we’d have a different director—we used to have a guest director to do one or two shows. They’d be in the middle of a scene and somebody would get shot and the whole scene would be ruined because this was very serious business—you couldn’t lose a life. The game produced no end of possibilities for going right over the top. In the middle of a love scene once—I had the stars coming out of my eyes, the whole bit—I’m walking over to the girl with my arms outstretched and she says, “Oh, Davy!” We’re just about to kiss when … Tssshhh!—Peter shoots me. I have to go into an epileptic seizure routine for about five minutes—knocking lamps over, fall over a drum kit, out the door, roll around the parking lot, up the stairs, across the president’s desk—“Oh my God, are you all right, David?”—“Aaargh! Shot, sir!” Back out the door, down the stairs, onto the set, collapse in a heap at her feet. Wild applause. One time in Australia, in front of about five million fans at the airport, Micky got shot and he fell all the way down this gigantic escalator. People were stunned. They thought he’d been assassinated. It was very rarely someone wouldn’t die—not even a token head slump. One time was the Emmy Awards. I think it was Bert Schneider stepped up to receive the award for “Best New Comedy Show.” We shot him, but the moment was too special for him to spoil it. He won an Emmy and lost a life. Towards the end of the second year—to show you how badly things were going—even Frawley couldn’t be persuaded to die anymore. Everyone had been up all night, as usual. We were on the set—first diet pill of the day—started fooling around, messing up takes as always. But somehow it wasn’t the same. Nobody was laughing. Frawley was so mad. The only thing we could do was shoot him. Dolenz shot him—he didn’t die. Mike shot him—still standing. I shot him—nothing. What a bummer. All the feeling was gone. The beginning of the end.

to dress like the rockstar or the groupie, that is the question.

Chappell Roan really was like "I won't endorse Harris because of the continuing genocide and the fact that the Democrats aren't protecting trans people. I am voting for Harris but won't endorse. You should expect more from your politicians and that's what I want before I endorse anyone" and got absolutely insane amounts of hatred and vitriol for that not only normal, but morally righteous take. And then because of aforementioned insane amounts of hate had to cancel shows due to mental health and then got MORE HATE. Like wow! Starting to think you don't want principled and authentic celebrities, don't care about women's feelings, and don't understand how mental illness affects people! It will entirely be entitled fans fault if she steps back forever from releasing music

Within Andrew Yule, The Man Who “Framed” the Beatles: A Biography of Richard Lester (1994)

Chappell Roan not playing about her boundaries and personal safety and putting her foot down and yelling "shut the fuck up" at rude paparazzi during the VMAs red carpet is healing something in me truly. That is a lesbian woman refusing to act all grateful and bashful at being allowed space, she is owning the space for which she has worked over a decade and assertively setting her boundaries and giving zero fucks about whose ego she bruises on the way because only people who take advantage of you take offense when you set boundaries and I am enjoying every second of it