(via famiry)
you “da man,” famiry. The best part is that there is a mirror opposite that little casper ghost and when you look in it to wash your hands, it’s waving at you.
Handjives for the Masses
My Vimeo Account
My Twizzlers Account
More Me-Related Stuff
email me at hardkorman@gmail.com
And I also play some drums in this band:
The Internet Explorers
Now you can look at these:
ValentinaJanc
WitchHunt
Cajones
Famiry
Blood Farm
Brrrptzzap The Subject
Jen Talks Occasionally
(via sciencefiction)
I assert with the strongest of confidence that Huggy Bear was the punkest band of all time.
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
bratmobile — “cherry bomb”
Fucking sweet Runaways cover!!!!
Bratmobile is a great band. I’m-a upload some more!
private fireman by Bob Odenkirk
“ To name a child is to imagine what goes on her tombstone.
Hannah Frank
My favorite joke ever aired on television ever.
“ When you’re talking about novels, the word for a completely worked-out world in which the characters act according to a grand design is escapist; when you’re talking about life, the word for a world like that is totalitarian. The totalitarian state possesses infinite knowledge, and it perpetrates infinite crime, authorized by the leader’s godlike will; its end products are mass death and documentation, which are the two means by which the fictitious world of its ideology are extended. Reality falls—or is pushed—out of the picture; what you have is an obsessively elaborated world that seems all the more real because it’s shot through with myth. The totalitarian state is engrossing the way certain books are engrossing: it offers a complete world that masks the reader’s incompleteness; its fantastic descriptions set ablaze those lazy (or young, or sad) minds that want nothing to be left to the imagination.
Paul La Farge, from the article I’m reading
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
Talking Heads - Tentative Decisions
If I recall correctly, I purchased Talking Heads’ 77 at a small record store in Midtown Manhattan on a day trip with my family chartered via the joint purchase of bus tickets from Baltimore and a matinee performance of Monty Python’s Spamalot that was ruined by the transportation strike. This was sometime in the 10th or 11th grade. I also recall falling asleep with this in my CD player on the ride home, listening to it for the first time and waking up, after that awful R.E.M.-half-awake-not-quite-done-dreaming-and-sweating state that I get after naps sometimes, in the parking lot of a restaurant in Edison, NJ called Harold’s (known for absurd corned beef sandwiches that actually look like this) and not being sure if I had died in my sleep or not. That’s what I think of when I hear this song. I also empathize with the lyric “I want to talk as much as I want,” because, well, whatevs.
The Spotted Wobbegong Australian Carpet Shark. I think my 7th grade art teacher was a carpet shark. Hey-Oh!
Another view of the Bulwer’s Wattled Pheasant. They take dust baths!
I’ve been trapped in the house all day, so I am reading a book about Bulwer’s Wattled Pheasants.
