What an ecelctic list it is - and what a great decade it was, with something for (nearly) everyone.  Here are the top selling songs of the 1980's, according to the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA), and the National Endowment for the Arts:

Alabama - My Home's in Alabama - 1980
George Jones - He Stopped Loving Her Today - 1980
Kool & The Gang - Celebration - 1980
Willie Nelson - On the Road Again - 1980
Dolly Parton - 9 to 5 - 1980
Pink Floyd - Another Brick in the Wall - 1980
Kim Carnes - Bette Davis Eyes - 1981
Joe Cocker/Jennifer Warnes - Up Where We Belong - 1982
The Go-Go's - We Got the Beat - 1982
Grandmaster Flash - The Message - 1982
Amy Grant - El Shaddai - 1982
Joan Jett - I Love Rock 'n' Roll - 1982
John Cougar Mellencamp - Jack and Diane - 1982
Prince - 1999 - 1982
Donna Summer - She Works Hard for the Money - 1983
Irene Cara - Flashdance - 1983
Herbie Hancock - Rockit - 1983
Michael Jackson - Beat It - 1983
Cyndi Lauper - Girls Just Want to Have Fun - 1983
Talking Heads - Burning Down the House - 1983
The Judds - Mama He's Crazy - 1984
The Pointer Sisters - I'm So Excited - 1984
The Police - Every Breath You Take - 1983
Prince - Purple Rain - 1984
Bruce Springsteen - Born in the U.S.A. - 1984
*Tina Turner - What's Love Got to Do With It - 1984
Van Halen - Jump - 1984
Hank Williams Jr. - All My Rowdy Friends Are Coming Over Tonight - 1984
USA for Africa - We Are the World - 1985
Madonna - Material Girl - 1985
Paul Simon - Graceland - 1986
Steve Winwood - Higher Love - 1986
Dionne Warwick & Friends - That's What Friends Are For - 1986
U2 - I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For - 1987
The Beastie Boys - Fight for Your Right (to Party) - 1987
George Michael - Faith - 1987
Guns N' Roses - Sweet Child o' Mine - 1988
Bobby McFerrin - Don't Worry Be Happy - 1988
Tracy Chapman - Fast Car - 1988
The B-52's - Love Shack - 1989
Bette Midler - The Wind Beneath My Wings - 1989
Tom Petty - Free Fallin' - 1989
Public Enemy - Fight the Power - 1989

Enjoy!

Rhys: No, thank you. It's joyful to be here.

Local D.J: Can you explain to our listeners what foraging is, exactly.

It's nothing to do with George Michael, is it?

[Laughing all round.]

Rhys: No, Suzie. In simple terms, it's searching for food in the wild.

But at a much deeper level it's about feeding the soul and listening to what nature is trying to tell us.

Local D.J: Ooh, crikey! What's it saying then?

Rhys: If you pick a ripe mopi berry towards the beginning of Spring, for example, it has a gentle licorice flavour. But if you leave it a few weeks it will become really quite bitter.

It stops singing and feels dead in your mouth.

Local D.J: Passed its sell-by-date, haha?

Rhys: It's very tempting to filter our senses through the parlance of contemporary food economics but if you live of the earth, by the earth, you develop a very different relationship with it.

Local D.J: My fella mostly has a relationship with kebabs but there you go!

Have you foraged anything rank before?

Rhys: If you're asking if I've made mistakes, by all means, I've lost my way from time to time.

Memorably, I was hiking from Wibbley Hole to Lower Frankton's Belly on the East Coast of Scotland last Winter and I had dropped my copper wristband and lucky neckerchief.

The wind blew in from the South and I needed to bed down in a bog and nourish myself to harness energy for the new challenges facing me.

The light was low and I picked an Ameranthus pigcimilus, thinking it was an Ameranthus pigcimili, because they both smell like deep-fried Mars Bars and have frilly bits around the stem.

I had barely sucked the juice from the prickle of its lower branches when I knew Ancient Wisdom was not smiling on me.

Local D.J: Was it coming out both ends?

Rhys: Ferociously.

Local D.J: Eew! How did you even get into foraging?

Rhys: I inherited the knowledge from my parents. They were hunter-gatherers too.

Local D.J: Didn't you say earlier your Dad worked for the Leccy Board?

Rhys: During the week, yes.

But if anyone asked him what he did for a living he would say, 'I breathe.' He loved saying that.

He met my mother at a Druid festival. She made him a necklace from wormwort and two weeks later moved into his goat-hide tee-pee.

Local D.J: Sounds well hippy, mate.

Tell us what inspires you.

Rhys: Hin Yun Tan wrote an incredible book, 'Journey into tomorrow: Understanding how your navel relates to the Woodland outreaches of Alaska' and in it he talks about the connection between time's evanescence and the funghi on the yew trees of the Himalayas.

I found that profoundly influential.

Local DJ: And what is the connection?

Rhys: A very strong one. They're connected together in lots of connected ways.

We're connected with everything. Organically.

Local DJ: Right on, OK.

What's the coolest thing you've foraged then?

Rhys: That would have to be the rare Lillandipot leaf I stumbled across when I was washing my waistcoat in a Guernsey estuary at dawn, last Summer.

I could barely believe my luck when I saw it waving at me between the bedrock and alluvium.

It's the forager's golden ticket and to think I nearly wiped my bottom with it.

Local D.J: Maybe you should have!

Now, I hope you don't mind my pointing this out but it's difficult for our radio listeners.

Rhys: What's that?

Local D.J: Well, you're different to most foragers. Is that fair to say?

Rhys: I have to agree that I'm on a particular spiritual path.

Local D.J: Yeah and they're whippets mostly, aren't they? But you're...

Rhys: Sixteen stone, Suzie? Yes, I am.

You see, this is a common misconception- that foragers don't eat much.

And I'm happy to dispel it.

There are enormous reserves of leaves and berries in the Bristol area. Nuts are especially calorific.

And I'm very fortunate with roadkill in the area around the M5.

Local D.J: Are you saying you forage in supermarkets?

Rhys: Ocassionally.

Local D.J: You go for it, Wild Man!

Before you ramble off, leave us with a recipe, will you?

Rhys: Take a good handful of Rinculum Hiberniclaw and roll it in your hands to release the citrus scent.

Poach it in some spring water overnight, with some chestnuts and a pinch of shredded basil- not too much, to keep the flavours fresh.

Mix it with some edible weeds, bundle it into a bay leaf and dip the whole wrap into the milk of a shrub.

Then eat it just as it is, with a small handful of oven chips.

George Michael - Outside

There's nothing here, but flesh and bone
There's nothing more, nothing more
There's nothing more
Let's go outside

Aposto que o George teria sido de grande ajuda nesses assuntos banheirísticos:

Sydney Skeptics in the Pub for October - Richard Saunders & Dr Rachael Dunlop
with "Dave the Happy Singer" and a room full of Skeptics.

Richard introduces the show - a short episode taped during their recent 'Skeptics in the Pub', in Sydney. The Meetup group for the Sydney Skeptics is here!

What's so good about being a skeptic? What's the worst? Group discussion on issues with the label 'cynic', 'meanie' and how discussing the stereotype with friends can be hard work sometimes! 'Any jackass can call themselves a skeptic'.

Should there be a new term instead of 'skeptic'? How the word skeptic has been adopted by people to excuse their new-founded beliefs since 'they used to be a skeptic!'

Have they ever changed their minds on an issue? Richard talks about the approach of "is there something to disclaim?' and being open-minded.

Rachael discusses her blogging experience for Episode One - after writing about the Lithgow Panther, how the research indicated a lot of eye-witness testimony and whether pareidolia had a part to play in people's belief.

How one angry response to the blog was badly spelt and composed and whether this is a common factor amongst many critics of skeptics - still, we encourage sending in evidence of claims to the NSW Premier about the 'panther!' A funny story about a real mountain-lion turning up in the USA after a call about a 'kitty cat problem'!

The benefits of Youtube - shows you how to do spoonbending rather than fall for Geller's old trick. Phil 'The Bad Astronomer' Plait's contribution and the Mythbusters. The Mythbusters don't say they are skeptics - but if you haven't heard Michael McRae's All in The Mind on ABC's Radio National yet, you'll find there's some great insights as to their approach and reasoning.

Can we say 'Bullshit' on Skeptic Zone? Well, Penn and Teller may be gratuitous, but they certainly have plenty of fans.

The moon-hoax is raised as an example of an 'unsinkable rubber duck' - check out Apollo Image Archive for an example of what difference a clear resolution can make when people claim they're fake! Question - are images being used in a deceitful fashion or are people genuinely fooled? Cryptozoology, UFOs and ghost images are raised as examples of how poor-quality footage can lead one to false conclusions.

A great episode of The Goodies is raised - the Loch Ness Monster episode (called 'Scotland') where it was demonstrated how easy it was to sell fake 'Nessie' gear.

Why are there no ghostly George Michael fans haunting places? Wearing the gear that they loved back in the fluro days? Maybe they're the grateful dead... This is premium content, notice!

Go and visit www.davethehappysinger.com/ to enjoy more tunes and fun!

Für echte Cineasten gilt die goldene Regel, dass selbst der misslungenste Film noch etwas Gutes zu bieten hat, und sei es auch nur die Tatsache, dass sich am negativen Beispiel einiges lernen lässt. Ein derartiges Credo führt in Einzelfällen gar dazu, dass sich mancher gänzlich den Ausschussprodukten der Industrie unterwirft (Beispiel Quentin Tarantino) und dort bisweilen mehr wahrhaftige Kinokultur zu finden vermeint als anderswo. So weit muss man es zwar nicht treiben, will man Wim Wenders aktuellen Versuch, seinen einstmals guten Ruf als Filmemacher nachhaltig zu demontieren, angemessen würdigen, ist jedoch gut beraten, für den Fall der Fälle die Trash-Brille bereitzuhalten – sie könnte hilfreich sein. Bedeutungsschwangere Dialoge, Charaktere vom Reißbrett, ein völlig überforderter Hauptdarsteller, plakativste Symbolsprache und Dennis Hopper als personifizierter Tod mit weißgepuderter Gesichtsmaske – ideale Komponenten also für schnell abgespultes Schundkino, das sich selber bestenfalls nicht allzu ernst nimmt. Zurecht entspricht dieser Haltung dann auch eine gleichlautende Lebensweisheit, die Udo Samel als Schafe hütender Bankier (Anzug und Regencape inklusive) der Hauptfigur mit auf den Weg gibt. Das Problem ist nur, dass der Film selber diesen Vorschlag mit ziemlicher Nichtachtung straft und stattdessen lieber bis zur vollständigen Ermüdung die großen Wenders-Themen von Sinnsuche, Liebe und Tod umkreist, ohne dabei jedoch über gefällige Platitüdenreiterei hinaus zu gelangen. Damit könnte eigentlich schon alles gesagt sein über „Palermo Shooting“, einen Film, der in jeder Einstellung, jedem Wort und jeder Geste darum ringt, Großes zu wollen, und gerade daran umso gründlicher scheitert. Wäre es nicht ausgerechnet Wenders, der einmal echte Heldentaten für das deutsche Kino vollbracht hat, es bliebe nichts mehr hinzuzufügen. So jedoch ist die Perspektive eine andere, und immerhin sieht Milla Jovovich in ihren wenigen Auftritten gänzlich anbetungswürdig aus. Es ist also noch nicht alles verloren.

Dass sich in der eigenen, oberflächlich prächtig verlaufenden Biographie dringend etwas ändern muss, wenn einem entgegen aller Wahrscheinlichkeit urplötzlich und visionsartig ein prominenter Musiker erscheint, ist seit Eli Stones schicksalhafter Begegnung mit George Michael keine Neuigkeit mehr. Im Gegensatz zu dem moralisch geläuterten Anwalt aus San Francisco jedoch hat es der gefeierte Starfotograf Finn vermutlich weniger mit einem Hirn-Aneurysma zu tun als mit dem zunehmenden Märchencharakter der an symbollastigen Traumsequenzen reichen Geschichte, deren somnambule Hauptfigur er ist. Plötzlich steht da also Lou Reed vor ihm als halbtransparente Geistergestalt und fragt ihn, ob der Tod denn dasjenige sei, was er am meisten fürchtet. „Let us do what you fear most“ heißt es nämlich in „Some kinda love“ von The Velvet Underground, und diesen Song hat Finn gerade erst in die Jukebox geladen. Überhaupt kommuniziert er mit sich selbst vor allem über die Musik, mit der er sich bei jeder Gelegenheit von aller äußeren Realität abschottet. So wie er der visuellen Welt nämlich seinen Stempel aufdrückt, wenn er ihre Abbilder manipuliert (in Zeiten der digitalen Fotografie gehört das zu seinem Tagesgeschäft), so überlagert er sie auch mit seinem eigenen Soundtrack. Überhaupt ist sein Bezug zur Außenwelt von so vielen Filtern gebrochen, dass er nur noch Oberflächen wahrnimmt, hinter denen sich nichts verbirgt. Finn, auf dem Zenit seiner Karriere angekommen, überall gern gesehen und finanziell unabhängig, ist selber nur noch Schablone. Äußerst knapp entkommt er einem massiven Auffahrunfall, aber von Glück und Erleichterung über seine Unversehrtheit, von seinem Überleben ganz zu schweigen, spürt er nichts. Was also soll er der halluzinierten Version von Lou Reed da schon antworten?

Erst ein Fotoshooting mit der hochschwangeren Milla Jovovich setzt ihn seltsam in Gang. Persönlichere Aufnahmen wolle sie von ihrem Babybauch, intimere, denn eigentlich hätte sie sich erhofft, dass er mehr sei als bloße Form. Werdendes Leben zu fotografieren als Substanz unter der Oberfläche, das ist neu für Finn, und so beordert er sein Team kurzerhand nach Palermo, den „großen Hafen“ (in dem alles zusammenläuft) oder „die Blume“, wie die Phönizier die Stadt der fruchtbaren Landschaft wegen einst getauft hatten. Ganz in diesem Sinne legen die Bilder, die er von der Schwangeren macht, Zeugnis ab für die Fruchtbarkeit des Lebens, an dessen Anfang die Geburt steht und an dessen Ende der Tod. Auch von diesem, und zwar dem leibhaftigen, wird Finn Fotos schießen (während er selber beschossen wird) und am Ende begreifen, dass beides nur Stationen sind, die ohne einander nicht existieren können.

Sein persönlichster Film seit langem sei „Palermo Shooting“. Umso mehr muss man sich fragen, was das heißen soll, will man Wenders beim Wort nehmen. Natürlich, nach 15 Jahren ist dies der erste Langfilm, den er wieder in Deutschland dreht („Ode to Cologne / Viel passiert“ also nicht mitgerechnet), und sogar der erste, der in seiner Heimatstadt spielt. Doch damit kann es nicht getan sein, zumal die Sprache des Films über weite Strecken Englisch ist (mit einer katastrophal schlechten, ständig sichtbaren Synchronisation), und der größte Teil dann doch in Italien stattfindet. Mag sich der Filmemacher im gut situierten Kunstfotografen auf Sinnsuche wiederfinden, so wirkt er dessen Ausgangsproblem, der Reduktion auf leere Oberfläche, mit einer dichten Collage aus Symbolismen und ziellos umherstreunendem Philosophieren über dies und das zumindest quantitativ entgegen. Das ist zu Beginn durchaus reizvoll, zumal Wenders und sein Kameramann Franz Lustig in ihrer dritten Zusammenarbeit erlesene, kontemplative, manchmal gar hypnotisch schöne Bilder finden, die sogar die ausdruckslosen Off-Monologe für eine Weile neutralisieren können. Doch bekanntlich nimmt Wenders selber die Goutierung seiner visuellen Stärken mit eher gemischten Gefühlen entgegen, befürchtet er dabei doch immer den versteckten Vorwurf des Kunstgewerblichen. Da mag er sich fühlen wie seine Hauptfigur Finn, dessen Bilder auf einhellige Begeisterung treffen, ohne dass sie Tiefe besitzen.

Eine solche aber zu forcieren, und damit den Film letztlich zu überladen, ist auch keine Lösung. Von der stillen Annäherung an seine Figuren, die in seinen besten Arbeiten einen sehr spezifischen Stil prägen, ist hier wenig zu spüren. Ganz im Gegenteil muss alles Gezeigte auch noch einmal gesagt werden, jedes Symbol noch eine Variante seiner selbst beigestellt bekommen, ganz so, als habe der Zuschauer dringend eine Anleitung zum Verständnis nötig. Wenn sich Finn etwa auf dem PC-Bildschirm ein Foto ansieht, das jenen weißgesichtigen Fremden zeigt, von dem man lange vor der Hauptfigur weiß, dass es sich um den personifizierten Tod handelt, muss links davon auch noch ein echter Totenkopf auf einem Regal stehen und rechts ein Plattencover mit dem Titel „Spiritual“. Das ist im Grunde gymnasiale Oberstufe und ein Zeichen, dass der Autor seiner eigenen Sprache nicht sonderlich vertraut. Der Film ist voll mit Beispielen dafür, und ihr zugrundeliegendes Prinzip wird jedes Mal aufs Äußerste ausgereizt und durchdekliniert.

Finn, der Fotograf mit dem seltsamen Namen, lässt das Publikum seiner Monologe frühzeitig wissen, dass er nie gelernt hat zu schwimmen. Seine Mutter habe schon Angst vor dem Wasser gehabt, und so sei das Gefühl einfach auf ihn übergegangen. Natürlich wird er später in Palermo ins Hafenbecken stürzen, seinen Tod vor Augen sehen, in Wahrheit aber gerettet und auf seine Weise wiedergeboren werden. - Wasser als Element des Lebens, hier aber auch Zeichen des Wagnisses, die eigene Angst zu überwinden und vergangene Versäumnisse abzustreifen, dagegen die verstorbene Mutter, die Finn als Last mit sich herumträgt (in einem seiner Träume auch ganz wörtlich), und schließlich das Fotoshooting mit der schwangeren Milla Jovovich, Trägerin neuen Lebens und kurz vor der Entbindung, mit Modeaufnahmen, die wiederum in einem anderen Hafenbecken stattfinden, auf dem Wasser gar –  Wenders Motivkarussell dreht sich unaufhörlich. Die Frage ist allerdings, ob Gedanken damit verdichtet werden oder sich schlicht verflüssigen.

Mit dem Fest- und Anhalten der Zeit etwa hat Finn ein sehr spezifisches Problem an der Hand, das seine deutlichste Manifestation in der Fotografie selber findet. Das Fixieren, dann aber auch Manipulieren von Momenten im Bild ist nicht nur sein Beruf, sondern auch sein größter Stolperstein, denn von Vergangenem, von Spuren festgehaltener Zeit, wird er fest umklammert, ohne dass er entkommen könnte. So wie er sich einmal in einem seiner Träume an einer Uhr festhält (und umgekehrt seine tote Mutter an ihm) so umklammert er in der Realität einen alten Baum, den er schon seit seinem fünften Lebensjahr kennt. Aber als würde das nicht schon ausreichen, schleppt er auch noch eine alte Kamera mit sich herum, und der Wagen, mit dem er fährt, hat selbstverständlich eine H-Nummer. Finn ist nie erwachsen geworden, den Zwängen seiner Herkunft nie entkommen (daher seine Angst vor dem Wasser). So engen ihn Räume entweder ein, wenn er schläft (und alpträumt), oder er fühlt sich in ihnen verloren. Dazu zeigen die selber digital manipulierten Bilder des Films mal einen viel zu großen Finn in einem viel zu kleinen Bett, mal das genaue Gegenteil. Also schläft er lieber draußen unter freiem Himmel (und zwar erst dem über Düsseldorf, und dann dem über Palermo), und Cabrio fährt er sowieso.

Dann begegnet ihm der Tod, zunächst in Gestalt eines halluzinierten Autounfalls, dem er in letzter Sekunde entkommen kann. Den entgegenkommenden Wagen fährt die geisterhafte weiße Gestalt, deren zweifelhafte Realität aus seinen Träumen nach und nach auf sein Leben übergreifen wird. In Palermo sieht er sie erneut, und sie zielt mit Pfeil und Bogen auf ihn. Später wird ihn der Pfeil gar treffen, ihm die Kamera aus der Hand schießen und dort ein Einschussloch hinterlassen (und das gibt es sonst bekanntlich ja nur in der Elm Street). Und selbstverständlich ist es auch wiederum der personifizierte Tod, der ihn ins Hafenbecken stürzen lässt und so neu erweckt. Gleichzeitig tritt die Liebe in sein Leben in Gestalt der Italienerin Flavia (Giovanna Mezzogiorno), und wie der ermahnende Pfeil des Todes trifft ihn zugleich auch derjenige Amors. Es dauert allerdings eine ganze Weile, bis dieses Bild dann auch verbalisiert wird (und dann ist es selbstverständlich nicht mehr nötig, denn nur der Zuschauer, der mittlerweile eingeschlafen ist, kann die arg offensichtliche Motivspiegelung verpasst haben).

Flavia sieht Finn zum ersten Mal, wenn er aus einem seiner Träume aufwacht, draußen schlafend und kopfüber (ja genau, die Welt steht Kopf). Sie malt ihn, und schon lässt sich der Gedanke dahinter erahnen: Nur wer selber gesehen wird, existiert auch wirklich. Finn, der gewohnt ist, andere mit der Kamera festzuhalten, wechselt plötzlich unbemerkt die Seiten. Doch Flavia ist eigentlich Restauratorin, selber also jemand, der Dinge vor den Folgen der Zeit bewahrt, und damit eine Seelenverwandte des Fotografen, jedoch ohne seine manipulative Tendenz. Ganz im Gegenteil verändert sie die Dinge nicht, sondern erhält sie genauso wie sie sind, um die Erinnerung nicht verlöschen zu lassen (ganz ähnlich einer alten Frau, ebenfalls Fotografin, die an anderer Stelle davon erzählt, dass sie die Toten abbildet, um ihre Erinnerung zu wahren). Wer also sonst sollte Finns Leben retten können? „Il Trionfo della Morte / Der Triumph des Todes“ heißt dann auch das Fresko, an dem sie arbeitet, und es zeigt den Tod, wie er die Menschen mit Pfeil und Bogen erschießt, und wie sich die Überlebenden nach Erlösung vom Elend ihres Daseins sehnen. Das Schicksal geht eben seltsame Wege.

„Es gibt keinen Ausgang aus dem Ausgang“, wird der Tod Finn hinterher rufen, als dieser ihm schließlich Auge in Auge begegnet, freilich nicht, ohne vorher darauf hingewiesen zu haben, dass er selber, der Tod, der Ausgang aller Ausgänge sei. Wer sich angesichts derartiger küchenphilosophischer Banalweisheiten, von denen der Film randvoll ist, bereits auf dem Höhepunkt von Wenders grüblerischer Lebens- und Todesfantasterei glaubt, sollte erst einmal den folgenden finalen Dialog abwarten, an dessen Ende man sich zumindest kurz einmal fragen sollte, ob das wirklich alles ernst gemeint sein kann. Und vermutlich wird man die Frage bejahen müssen.

Etwa eine Viertelstunde kürzer ist die Fassung, die es letztlich ins Kino geschafft hat. Nach der Uraufführung in Cannes sei Wenders zum dem Schluss gekommen, „Palermo Shooting“ sei trotz minutenlanger Applausschübe einfach noch nicht fertig (damalige Unmutsbekundung lässt er in seinem Statement einmal außen vor). Man kann froh sein über seine Entscheidung, denn auch die jetzige Fassung hat ausgesprochene Längen. Schlimmstes Manko allerdings ist der Hauptdarsteller, und es lässt sich auch beim besten Willen nicht nachvollziehen, wo Wenders hier echtes schauspielerisches Talent gesehen haben mag. Für einen Videoclip ist Campinos unbestreitbar ausdrucksstarkes Gesicht durchaus charismatisch, die Länge eines Spielfilms trägt es allerdings nicht. Das ist weniger die Schuld des Musikers, der als Schauspieler völlig überfordert ist und vor allem in direkter Konfrontation mit einem gutgelaunten Dennis Hopper fürchterlich alt aussieht. Es ist vielmehr die Schuld Wenders, ihm einen ganzen Film auf die Schultern zu laden, in dem er allerhöchstens als Nebenfigur funktioniert hätte. Ein anderer Schauspieler hätte vielleicht über einiges hinwegtäuschen können, Campinos bemühtes, aber letztlich zwischen Chargieren und Nichtstun pendelndes Auftreten dagegen verstärkt manche Schwierigkeiten des Films nur noch.

Vielleicht findet einer der Off-Monologe die treffendste Charakterisierung von „Palermo Shooting“. Als Finn nämlich wieder einmal aufwacht und auf seinem Handy die Meldung von 23 Anrufen in Abwesenheit liest, sinniert er einen Moment über die Bedeutung von Abwesenheit und fragt sich dann selbstkritisch: „Wann war ich das letzte Mal eigentlich anwesend?“ - Wenders selber war es in diesem Film jedenfalls wahrscheinlich nur bedingt.

Artikel © 2008 Thomas Lenz. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.
Filmplakat: Senator Entertainment AG

Tudo começou quando em 1981, dois garotos americanos, George Michael e Andrew Ridgeley, decidiram formar a dupla.Quando entraram em cena, já causaram furor entre as meninas abusando do laquê nos cabelos e calças pra lá de justas.

Não há ninguém que não reconheça a música, só pela famosa introdução de saxofones. Michael conta que nesta parte ele havia escrito alguns versos para serem cantados, mas desistiu por achá-los pobres demais para a melodia, muito melhor assim né. 

Desde de seu lançamento até hoje , a canção ganhou ínumeras regravações. Vale a pena dar uma ouvida na versão dos norte-americanos "The Gossip" que além de diferente, ficou bem dançante.

Curiosidade :  Careless Whisper ficou em primeiro lugar em vinte e cinco países, vendendo cerca de seis milhões de cópias no mundo todo e Michael a regravou em seu primeiro álbum solo, após a separação do duo.

E tinha gente que duvidava...

I know, I'm the last person to judge - or should judge - but c'mon people! Mr. Michael has yet AGAIN been caught in a bathroom - this time it's drugs. Ok - when I had a brush with the law, I was 27 and stupid. What's his excuse? He's like in his 50s right? This is just insane and it's sad that for every person like Lance Bass or Neil Patrick Harris out there in the open world of a gay celebrity, there is a bad egg. I just wish George would get his act together - but he probably likes drama too much. In that case, I'd suggest to him to get AMC at home and stay there and watch it - he'd get into less trouble that way! Yep, I know I'm getting too judgmental, so I'll stop. It's just that I expect more from society I guess and when your shown an actual person along with the problem - it gets to me. I hope that in the future generations to come, being gay will not be considered so wrong.

Obviously, there's a reason for lying in dark bathrooms waiting for sex and drugs that will always be in some gay mens mind due to communities they have lived in, how open they are to themselves and how society has thought about the gay lifestyle. Many men my age and older, have always thought that was they way to feel and get to know another man - in the shadows. Life may always be like that for most - I'm not saying that is how George Michael is, I cannot know what he is going through - I just hope that he either gets help or starts to date me. Flippy would be jealous!

*whew*

OK, with that said, I really looking forward to the debate tomorrow with Biden and Palin - I think every time Palin says 'RUSSIA' I'm gonna take a shot of tequila. Any other suggestions, let me know!

when i first heard "adam and steve" on megapuss's myspace, a familiar saxophone riff caught my attention (as if i wasn't already listening intently). after some phone calls and piecing together words as they came to mind sporadically, i identified the sample as (i don't think you're ready for this) the song where george michael says he never wants to dance again!! for real! and that's when i learned, not decided, that megapuss is the most amazing band in the u.s. right now.

i like almost every song on the album, but a few really dug into my brainsoil (huh?).

"crop circle jerk '94": the title confused me...and then i learned what circle jerk is.

"duck people duck man": aziz ansari is on this track...talking about duck people stereotypes (some of which might be TRUE or might be not true)

"a gun on his hip and a rose on his chest": damn. just listen to it. it's funny...but they're not kidding. (by the way, have you seen the photo of devendra wearing his new belt?

-believe in the food. sadatay

*Retailers: Wal-mart is the exclusive seller of AC/DC's Rock Band videogame and AC/DC's album. As noted previously, Best Buy seems to have secured exclusive rights to Guns N' Roses' "Chinese Democracy." How long until Wal-mart has a label? Or Best Buy? Or Target? Or Old Country Buffet?

*Cartography: Does Lou Reed want to have a New York street named after him?

*Tours: The Hold Steady cancels its European tour because bassist Tad Kubler has pancreatitis. I'm bald and you don't see me canceling world tours, do you? Ok. (My pancreas is fine, though - thanks for asking.)

*Fashion: Everyone probably knows this by now, but Rihanna is working on a fashion line. My bet is that it will have heels and sunglasses. And possibly quasi-bondage gear.

*Thinslice this: Judgeby lets you, using Amazon user reviews, judge books by their covers. Kind of like Facestat for literature, I guess. [largehearted boy]

*Crack: And then Wham! George Michael was all of a sudden arrested in a London bathroom for crack possession. [loophole]

*The Internet: Alec Baldwin gets the Chuck Norris treatment. And by that I do NOT mean a roundhouse kick to the head. Or a full daily chest wax. [hinto]

When I saw local classic rock covers bands Blue Fuses and, later, Foulplay playing gigs at pubs in Egham and Staines on a Saturday night I started to realise that ‘looking like a hardnut’ helps a workaday rock muso, in their daily grind, to get
through the concert without mishap. For example, once you ‘come off stage’ gasping for a pint and maybe a smoke and you will need to stroll through an often hostile audience, whose temperament may not be awfully well disposed to you, to get to the bar for a little drink. In these circumstances, it pays if you don’t flounce through the bar-room wearing a one-piece pink shrug and nylon leotard looking like Darkness singer/guitarist Justin Hawkins. It also helps if you look a bit more authentic  (auf-fentik) wearing, maybe, a sombre pair of dirty jeans and a plain T shirt, a bit of 24 hour old fungus on yer chops and a swagger that says, “do you want some, mate?” Obviously, if there are ladies at the venue, you are likely to get a drink from one of these admirers...but this will also invoke ill-feeling from the other alpha males in the room who will, naturally, suppose you are “out to get their birds” and give you ‘a good seeing to’. All of these complications are far more exaggerated if you are playing a working man’s club or a drinkers boozer and all the punters at the establishment have an-inbuilt and overwhelming desire to “give you a good kicking” because you are a fairy, you are a nonce and you are a general neer-do-well.

So I have come up with a strategy for all you budding rockers out there who hope to get through  to ‘last orders’ without having the contents of your nose splattered all over the flock wallpaper.  I hope it helps you to enjoy your concert safe in the knowledge and belief that you will be able to go out into the crowd for half-time drinks and puffs without fear of a bottle being cracked over your head or, at the very least, being ‘accidently’ tripped-up (ha! ha!) as you head back from the bar with a tray load of drinks for your bandmates.

Before I begin on Rock Hard 101, I do  need to define ‘hardness’. To the average British geezer a person who is ‘rock hard’ is anyone who can give a slap, if required, to a recalcitrant yob who jogs his arm ‘accidently’ as he passes. Or who can wink at a lay-dee but who has the good grace to nod understandingly to the lay-dee’s bloke when he notices. Who can drink 2-3 pints in an interval. Who swaggers to the bog like a cross between John Wayne and Dr Dre and, upon entering said shite-house, swings the door of the bog so violently that it almost tears it off of its hinges. Who rolls his own. Who buys his own pints (and never drinks bottles of ‘poof’ drinks like juice.) Who wears a few livid battle scars on his face and/or arms. Who looks like he can ‘handle himself’ in a bundle. Who talks the talk and, far more importantly, walks the walk.

[The Kinks- dirty student scroungers!]

Lesson 1 - hair

It is best by starting out on this lesson by saying that long hair is a no-no. I know you like it and you need it long so that you can headbang - but most of the gents in the quintessential British boozer either have NO HAIR or have No. 1 cuts.

Their attitude is that any man who has long hair is a hippy and is gay. They also have firm opinions about the cleanliness of long hair... so Bob Marley would not be welcome (notwithstanding his general ‘hardness’) because of his long, dirty,
dreads. Neither would Who vocalist Roger Daltrey during  his ‘Tommy’ days because of his frothy head of golden bubbles.  Although, Roger would be more welcome nowadays because he has almost gone bald.

[Who- Frothy head of bubbles not welcome!]

Lesson 2 - clothes

The Kinks circa 1970 would not be considered rock hard because of their long hippy hair. [See above.] But, worse, their clothes scream-out ‘dirty student scrounger’ and so they would not be welcomed. Neither do you want your clothes to mark you out as some kind of intellectual ‘arty-farty’ prat. So Booker T. & the M.G.’s would not be welcome in any Middlesex public bar and neither would Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention. Your choice of clothes should either be a) understated and similar to the clientele’s own George at Asda-type choice or b) way over the top and military in attitude. The circa 1966 Yardbirds would be very welcome because their style is understated (their hair could do with a wash and a cut though) as long as they left Eric Clapton at home- he often looked like a bit of a hippy. Nowadays Eric looks too ‘posh’ and so would be given a few smacks just for being ‘a rich city banker’ or words to that effect. In the early 1970’s the band Slade looked the part. In those days, before glam, glitter, top hats and stupid heels, this band looked like what they were... a bunch of brummie hard-nuts with a grudge to settle. In those days you would offer to buy them a drink if they strolled into your bar, not just because you wanted to get ‘in’ with the lads but because you feared for your own safety if you did not.

[Slade- buy them a drink- or else!]

Lesson 3 - T shirt

Noel Jones (lead singer with Blue Fuses) wore a sensible Black Pudding T-shirt to his recent Staines Working Mans club gig the other month. Last Saturday, at the Crown Egham, Noel chose to wear a footie shirt.  Another good choice. It is what I call a ‘camoflage’ choice. If all the punters and punteresses in the pub are football fans you need to blend in. Obviously, a good knowledge of soccer is required  in this case or you could make an almighty blunder. However, I have also seen Noel wearing a Cradle of Filth T-shirt in the past and this kind of shirt would be strictly a no-no in the saloon bar at The Crown. Not only has this type of T-shirt got witchcraft connotations, it also says ‘I am a weird beard and I need my head to be kicked in’ to all the regular drinkers.  So here are a few simple rules about your choice of shirt. a) never wear pink (too poofy); b) never wear sleeveless shirts unless you are a hip-hop star or a rapper (too poofy); c) never wear a ‘funny’T shirt (they won’t like the joke).

[Yardbirds- leave Eric at home!]

Lesson 4 - build

Fat bastards, on the whole, look mean and aggressive ...but...all the geezers in the pub know that they can ‘take you’ easily because you are out of condition. They like to quote Michael Caine in Get Carter ‘You are a big boy, I know, but you’re out of condition, one hit and you’re down’.  Plus, the downside of being ‘of comfortable build’ is that you are less attractive to the lay-dees. So, although Meat Loaf is one big tough slab of meat, he would not be welcome in my pub on the corner because he is a fat git with long hair and stupid ill-fitting pink-hemmed suit. However, Buster Bloodvessel aka Doug Trendle is just a normal beer-drinking fat bloke who wears sensible clothes and has got a ‘boiled head’ (i.e. a boiled egg in the place of a head of hair.) So it is how you make your build work for you that counts. Mama Cass Elliot would also have been very welcome in The Wheatsheaf & Pigeon any time because she is just a normal fat bird with everyday jumble-sale clothes and a big appetite.

Lesson 5- facial hair

Neither Billy Gibbons nor Dusty Hill would be welcome in my local because they both look like Santa Claus on a night off. Your choice of facial hair should not be too gay (Freddie) or too outrageous (Frank Zappa). Frank may well have looked like a
mean sonofabitch back in the day but your eyes would keep being drawn back to the dead hamsters beneath his beady eyes. In the end you would just have to ‘give him a good kicking’ because of his ‘stupid poncy tash’. It is best to keep your choice of facial hair to a minimum. Stubble is great (remember how masculine everyone thought George Michael was back in his Wham! days with his stubble?) Full-on face covering, beards (like The Beach Boys in 15 Big Ones ) make you look scary and killer-like (Charles Manson) or, worse, may make you look like Rolf Harris.

[Beach Boys- killer beards?]

Lesson 6- swagger

Your swagger as you cross the bar is more important than anything else. If you sway across the room in a pink dress teetering on vertiginous high-heels and you look like that fairy Rob Davis out of Mud you will probably get your face kicked in. But you can pull it off if you look like David Daniel “Dee” Snider (Twisted Sister) because, although you are wearing a frock and make-up, you swagger up to the bar looking like a Polish scaffolder on his night off... as if you mean business.

[Dee Sinder- fairy with swagger?]

Conclusion

Lemmy (out of motorhead) is a man’s man. Warts, Nazi clothing, grizzled features, swagger, worn out thin build and a F*** You attitude.

He is the personification of Rock Hard.

© Neil_Mach
Sep 2008

--------------------------------------------------------------
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Long-suffering Kenny Goss issued the stark ultimatum after the Wake Me Up star was nicked, yet again, in a public loo—this time with the killer form of cocaine.

Long-suffering? If it was that bad, he could have packed his bags years ago. Nobody put a gun to his head, at any given time, and there's no marriage license. This is the thing in any relationship: If you don't like it and don't wanna be there - leave.

And I'm sorry, but I don't buy that he's on cocaine. The killer form or not. He may well like 'living on the edge' but I don't think he's that stupid. We've learned by now that if George has tried something, he'll talk about it - and all he's said about cocaine is that he'd never do it. I'd sooner believe he had Ecstacy.

What I don't get in all this is... If he had possessed cocaine, or in fact any class-A drug, would he have been let off with a warning? Possession of a class-A drug is up to seven years in prison or an unlimited fine - or both. What, the police were just in a good mood this particular weekend and thought it was cute that he had more than just cannabis this time round?

Now George is heading to rehab in an effort to tackle his love for narcotics once and for all— and to win back his fella.

Right... George in rehab... That would be admitting he has a problem, which he wouldn't. We've all heard him say he doesn't have a problem with addiction (except for sex-addiction, obviously...)(and sleeping pills...), so unless this is some recent admittance, then I can't see him going to rehab to please anyone. Unless, of course, he's come to some grand realisation that it's time.

My source reveals: “It was the final straw for Kenny. They’ve been together 12 years but enough is enough and he’s given George an ultimatum: the drugs or him. Falling in love with crack cocaine is something Kenny will not tolerate.”

I would have applauded him for this ultimatum if I thought this article was actually based on facts.

Maybe it is only the drugs that Michael is apologising for. But maybe he, and some other gay men, ought to start thinking again about the way in which they conduct their sexual lives also. Until recently, there were good reasons why men met in the dark, in sheltered public spaces, in secret, to have illegal encounters, and many people felt sympathy with what was rightly seen as a desperate plight.

Why? Why should some gay men be told how to conduct their sex lives? I'm not supporting or attacking cottaging, but I'm curious why Ms Orr thinks gay men having sex outdoors or in public spaces was ever a result of social disapproval of gay relationships. Does she understand there is a full spectrum of sexual behaviour common to both sexual orientations, and that straight people also have anonymous sex outdoors and in toilet cubicles, and that that hasn't been a result of social disapproval of straight relationships? For that matter what is the problem with anyone having sexual relations in the dark or in secluded public places? If I remember rightly George was arrested in this cottage in the middle of the night - whose morals or safety could he possibly have offended (or indeed had he offended)?

Now, after years of fighting for gay equality, men and women can marry others of their own gender and live happily ever after. They can pay, if they wish to, to go to clubs or spas where they know that not very discreet sex is on the agenda. They can advertise in the papers, in magazines, or on the internet. They are free to indulge in what Father Ted Crilly once called "the rough and tumble of homosexual life". But there appears to be no decline in clandestine activity.

Ms Orr needs to realise that sex and marriage are not an exclusive arrangement for either sexual orientation, nor should they be. There appears to be no decline in 'clandestine activity' eh? By what measure, and causing what damage? If two (or more) gay men were having sexual relations in a shopping centre cubicle in the middle of the day I can see how this would offend - it's illegal, and at the very least inconvenient and inconsiderate. That's not what George did (on either occasion) however.

And what is so wrong about having sex out of doors for that matter? Is she just not aware that straight people do it as much as gay people, and that for example the 'gay area' of Hampstead Heath became that historically for the sake of safety (through its seclusion) and discretion rather than selfishness?

In Stoke Newington cemetery, earlier this summer, a dance company, Nonsuch, gave a free performance at the foot of a little ruined castle. Families had gathered in the sunshine to listen to the singing and join in the dancing. The festivities flushed out another group, and a gang of sweaty, mostly leather-clad, young men stumbled out from the undergrowth to see what was going on. Two of them came over and took some pictures on their mobiles, talking loudly, so that they could be heard above the live opera.

Why should one example of rudeness taint 'some' (ie. all) gay men? This isn't actually what most of us get up to, but even so why think ill of people who behave discreetly and lead happy lives, because of the actions of an even tinier minority? I just don't get it.

"Look at this!" one exclaimed, in a thick foreign accent. "Only in Britain!"

I'm afraid we all felt somewhat chagrined to be considered eccentric objects of bemused pity by people who spent their Saturday afternoons monopolising graveyards so that they could have sex in them. Green space is a precious commodity in London, and it's annoying that there are so many places where one can't go. When I moaned about this to a friend, she snorted. She'd found herself rinsing human excrement out of her dog's beard, after she'd been foolish enough to walk him near the spot on Clapham Common that is the unofficial dogging zone for gay humans.

Now we're getting into excess and hysteria. So many places one can't go eh? Where exactly? And when? Missed out on a deckchair in St James' Park? Couldn't walk the dog in Hampstead Heath? What about Russell Square, which got rid of its cruising ground?

I also can't believe that she's accusing a gay man who may have been cruising on Clapham Common of taking a shit (not your standard behaviour when out looking for sex with other men) on the grass. How does she know it was human? How does she know it was done by a gay man who was out cruising? How does she even know the story is true? I really don't understand. This is homophobic dross, plain and simple, by someone who takes sex very seriously indeed. Fortunately not everyone does. I'll be the first to stand up and condemn gay men who frequent cruising grounds and who just discard used condoms on the ground, but that's a case of the rudeness of a few selfish individuals, and doesn't define a whole community.

One does begin to wonder why gay men are quite so keen to retain their special status, as people who have a weird dispensation to have sex al fresco in places requisitioned as suitable for the purpose. If heterosexuals began carving up common land in every town so that they could shag each other with no strings attached, no one would consider it a great idea.

See what I meant earlier? The argument has moved from 'some' gay men to an implied 'all', and attributed a particular arrogance to all of us which hasn't even been articulated. Having sex outdoors requires a 'weird dispensation' eh? Has Ms Orr perhaps considered that, I repeat, a minority of gay men continue to attend historical cruising grounds to be discreet, and to provide safety in numbers for an activity which both sexual orientations engage in, yet only one has historically been beaten up for? Straight people don't create their own 'dogging' grounds because they don't need to - they're not going to get beaten up for it wherever they go for a shag, and in terms of sheer numbers there are far more of them doing it than us anyway. So why the article?

I'm all for equality, but perplexed as to why there's so little sign that it might cut both ways. Maybe old habits die hard. But maybe, some members of the gay community have obsessed about their own rights for so long now that they've forgotten that anyone else's might be deserving of respect as well.

'I'm all for equality...but...' says it all really. She's created a new, imaginary right for herself, not to have to encounter the subject of gay men having sex in public. What is this right? Is she aware that the 2003 Sexual Offences Act allows outdoor sex as long as it's discreet? Maybe it doesn't matter to her, because she's conflating cruising and cottaging (which is now formally illegal), in her blinkered belief that everyone should conduct their sex lives as conventionally and stereotypically as each other. Gay people however are for the most part far more able than our straight counterparts to discuss our sex lives openly, and make sense of them in a far more flexible and honest way. Deborah Orr could do with learning about and from our example.

lunch: sauteed bean sprouts, chinese chive, fish sausages, and natto (fermented soybeans) with hiyamugi (noodles). i wanted to have some natto somehow so just threw it in there. it's good, but i wouldn't let others eat it.
冷や麦チャンプルーに納豆もぶち込む

dinner: cheese and crackers & pineapple juice
残業で遅くなったので何も作る気なし

I just realized I've been chewing gum a little too much to the point where my jaw hurts. I tend to go crazy with gum, popping a new piece every 5 minutes or so without really thinking about it whenever I'm stressed out. Ahhh, this dull ache around my jaw line!!!

The happy moment of the day came when I found George Michael: Twenty Five album at work (Yep, I was working today, Saturday.) and popped it into the CD player. All the Wham! hits and everything "George" really brought back fond memories. I would borrow "cassette" copies of Wham! records from a cute boy a couple of years older than me at school and listen to them, not really knowing what I was listening to but loving George's gorgeous voice.

And it was kind of pathetic of me trying to tell a girl who's much younger than me and working late with me tonight just how many great songs George Michael has created in his career, and her kind of going, "Huh?"

George, please please pull yourself together, dude.

Here are more funny-looking dudes.

This was just sent to me from my sister. He's my adorable nephew.  He's growing up so fast.

Somewhere inside that fat, sleazy, bloated old geezer is the George Michael I used to know. Somewhere inside that middle-aged man caught with crack in a public toilet is the fresh-faced boy who I first met nearly 25 years ago.

Fat, sleazy, bloated old geezer? He clearly didn't see that picture of George with his shirt off the other day. I did. Fat and bloated? Hardly. Tony should be so lucky to be that trim at 45. And when it comes to that boy he met 25 years ago - and screwed over for three interviews in The Mirror some years later - I don't think George cares too much what the sleazy, old geezer (that's Tony, btw) puts in print about him.

That kid was smart, funny and he had a heart of gold (...) We haven't been close for years, but he doesn't look as though he laughs quite as much these days.

He's not that stupid, dull and stone-hearted now, really, is he? I haven't met him for years either, but he seemed perfectly lovely when I did. More than lovely, in fact. He didn't have to be nice, funny, charming, welcoming, huggy and all smiles. He really didn't have to. But he was, and it didn't seem like that much of a stretch for him either. We had some good laughs, mostly over him being self-ironic. A man that knows self-irony, especially someone like George, will probably laugh quite a bit.

Even in the fog of the puff he loves so much, George Michael is still smart enough to know how it looks.

So now he IS still smart, then? Interesting, cause above I kind of read his statement as 'he used to be so smart, but now...' I think there are a few things the guy is in denial about. That's George I'm talking about - primarily. He's made statements like, "I know smoking cannabis may work as a depressant for other people but not for me" - which doesn't show that great an insight, to be honest. He also said something about it creating paranoia for other people but again, not for him. This comes from the guy that thought he was under surveillance, is on antidepressants and has seen the same shrink for nearly 2 decades... Sure he's not depressed and somewhat paranoid and it's obviously got nothing to do with the smokin'.

Having said that, he could have been depressed before he started all that - but I think we can agree that it certainly doesn't help.

It can't go on for ever because Parkinson has retired and that apology about boring us made me smile. If only because I sensed the young George behind it and how much he would have despised the sad man he has become.

I somehow don't think George views himself as sad. Maybe except for when he's in his bedroom crying - as we all do sometimes. But sad in the sense Tony is referring to? I'd like to think his ego blocks the view of the supposedly sad act. He keeps saying he's not embarrassed, and jokes that he went and did it again, but I think he is a little embarrassed (but only cause it makes him look stupid) - I also think he keeps doing this for a reason. Look at how he talks about the toilet-arrest (the first one) now: It was a cry for help, basically, to get him out of a certain state of mind. It certainly did that. What is he trying to get away from this time?

It could be as easy as boredom. He's been on tour for 2 years and is now stuck in his huge-ass house in a lovely neighbourhood with a man he doesn't even sleep on the same floor as. For someone like George - who clearly bores quite easily - the thought of being monogamous and cuddling up with Kenny (or any man) every night must bore him out of his skull. He blames his sexual desires for getting (probably) all his action outside the master bedroom. (Well, he might get it in the master bedroom, but Kenny will most likely not be there...)

It could also be a case of fuck the system - maybe he felt his protests in a couple of Wham! songs were too lame (and now out-dated), and now he wants to see what he can and can't get away with. Again I think I'd put it down to boredom. He's been the biggest artist in the world, millions have seen him live in the last 2 years alone, he's earned hundreds of millions of pounds - most of which he invests in obscure art by obscure artists so the taxman won't take it all. He's sold an insane amount of records. For a while, everything he released charged up the charts. He's duetted with pretty much all his idols (except for Lauryn Hill that kept getting knocked up to get out of it).

Maybe he's just achieved everything he set out to achieve and is now wondering what the fuck to aim for next?

George Michael fans are giving up on him.

Who's giving up? Anyone? Sure, people will have their say and roll their eyes - but I don't think any of those that say "what an idiot" will not run out tomorrow if he released another album or did another gig.

The young George Michael was just such a lovely guy. He could sing, he could write great songs and he could even dance (a little bit). In private he was always, always great company - kind and generous, warm and funny. The boy he was once is still in there, buried under all the middle-aged sleaze and disappointment.

"A little bit." lol. Moving on. Words like "sleaze and disappointment" is a bit rich coming from a guy that screwed over a friend to publish three very personal interviews in a sleazy publication like the Mirror ten years ago. I admit, I loved those intervews, because it gave a real insight into who George is and where he was at that point in his life. If you think his interviews in recent years have been honest... I don't think they have been. I mean, sure, he's told the truth about certain events - but he's not offered an insight into who he is. Not really. People might think he has; by revealing all the - to use Tony's word - sleazy stuff he's done and all the outrageous things he's been up to. If I'm being honest with you, I think he's made up quite a bit of it to just see what happens.

To me, all that is just a front, really. The shadows of a kid that didn't get any for quite a while, and likes to brag that he can make up for it now by doing anyone with a pulse. Anywhere. All the while he's - shock horror - in a relationship already. And - eek - smoking cannabis and taking sleeping pills. Wow, I'm so shocked. It's been clear - for quite a few years, actually - that he'll say anything to make people gawk. I think it amuses him, a lot, to see the aftermath of what he's said and how it evolves into something completely ridiculous and out of proportion. The press is using him, so he's using them - who gets the last laugh, really?

So he went cruising in a toilet ten years ago. How sensational. So he did it again - big fucking deal. Who says we're here to learn from our mistakes? I don't think George views those things as a mistake at all - I think he probably views them as him living on the edge. Some people jump out of parachutes, others go out at night trying to avoid getting arrested. Each to their own.

Can we go back to waiting for that new song now?

PS For your information; Tony Parsehole - age 55 - is past his middle-age. So for him to make middle-aged-sleaze quips is a bit rich... if you ask me, which I know you didn't ;)

Does this look fat and bloated to you?

*** George Michael - I Can't Make You Love Me ***

Lyrics

Turn down the light
Turn down the bed
Turn down these voices inside my head
Lay down with me
Tell me no lies
Just hold me close
Don't patronize
Don't patronize

'Cause I can't make you love me if you don't
You can't make your heart feel something that it won't
Here in the dark in these final hours
I will lay down my heart
And i feel the power
But you won't, no you won't

'Cause I can't make you love me if you don't
I'll close my eyes, then i won't see
The love you don't feel when you're holding me
Mornin' will come and I'll do what's right
Just give me till then to give up this fight
And i will give up this fight

'Cause I can't make you love me if you don't
You can't make your heart feel something that it won't
Here in the dark in these final hours
I will lay down my heart
And i feel the power
But you won't, no you won't
'Cause i can't make you love me if you don't

Tal como se había previsto, llega un bajón de potencia, pero no de buen ritmo. Jorge Miguel nos presenta ahora un tema muy cachondo, muy sensual para nuestro camino. La presente versión es extraída de su recopilación de éxitos, y que aunque mantiene la esencia de su original, ésta es mucho más rítmica en las percusiones y deja un poco de lado la inconfundible guitarra de fondo. Disfruten el camino, todavía nos queda un largo trecho.

Avedrio

Brother, Can You Bail-out my Bank, lyrics by Ronan Lyons, music by Jay Gorney (1931)

Once I built a hedge fund, I made it fly, made it rise all the time.
Once I built a hedge fund; now it's gone. Trichet, can you bail-out my bank?
Once I bought a bank share, at the top, lent a mortgage, sub-prime;
Once I bought a bank share, watched it tank. Paulson, can you bail-out my bank?

Once in red braces, gee we looked swell,
Full of that Ghekko Doodly Dum,
Half a trillion bills went slogging through, Hell,
And I hit the NYSE gong!

Say, don't you remember, they called it wrong; it was to go up all the time.
Why don't you remember, before it sank? Darling, can you bail-out my bank?

Once in red braces, gee we looked swell,
Full of that Ghekko Doodly Dum,
Half a trillion bills went slogging through by the bell,
And I was the kid with the gong!

Say, don't you remember, they called it wrong; it was to go up all the time.
Why don't you remember, before it sank? Sucker, can you bail-out my bank?

(Next stop a recording studio!)

George Michael......Freedom..... adoro esse vídeo com as models... sexy...

A base de sleeveface.

Hop.

Et hop.

Ben, quoi, y'a pas de mal à s'inspirer d'un buzz qui marche, non ?

Tu peux même gagner une Mini Cooper si tu fais ton propre sleeveface et qu'il gagne le gros lot, ici.

Tiens, comme le film sur Coluche sort bientôt, voilà un sleeveface fait par un auditeur.

J'ai ressorti mes vyniles pour vous faire la mienne comme convenu, mais je n'ai pas encore été très inspiré.

Allez, ça va venir...

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