Bob Said It’s MY Turn To Be The Gay Monkee

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

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.

being doomed by the narrative with your boys from work >>>>>>

john, paul and george in every beatles movie:

oh man i love my little hobbies and getting into shenanigans

ringo's subplot:

The song’s “musical” bridge section was performed entirely by Mercury and Taylor using their voices alone, with Taylor at one point hitting the highest note on the whole album a C6. Mercury imitates woodwind instruments including a clarinet. Taylor voices mainly brass instruments such as tubas and trumpets, and even a kazoo. The tap dance segment is also “performed” by Mercury and Taylor on the mixing desk with thimbles on their fingers. Freddie (about Seaside Rendezvouz) “Another of my songs, Seaside Rendezvous, has a 1920’s feel to it and Roger Taylor does a tuba and clarinet on it vocally, if you see what I mean. I’m going to make him tap dance too, I’ll have to buy him some Ginger Rogers tap shoes.”

The Progression of Freddie Mercury’s Concert Fits

Flowing, wing-like things

teeny tiny shorts. Really really small shorts

1977, year of full-length body suits

Shirts? Never heard of her [enter mustache]

the tiny shorts strike back

LEATHER

tank tops go brrrrrr

Honorable mention: jacket with a lot of belts on it for some reason

i want one.

No fucking way I found my little rubber fetus

What do you mean only one member 😭🏳️‍🌈