FOR ANTLERS! screamed
the homemade cardboard sign at the side of the winding mountain road.
I slowed my car down to stare at it, immediately drawn in by
the curious sight and enthusiastic words.
As a freelance photojournalist hoping to make it big with my
portraits of the still-wild western United States, I was always on the lookout
for all things strange, quirky and quaint. I’d soon discovered the remote
mountain villages of New Mexico to be a goldmine for off-the-wall and
In search of the perfect stories, I’d wandered among the
blood-colored bluffs and cliffs, gathered sweet-scented sagebrush alongside
wild horses, and scrambled across craggy lava flows that had buried the bones
of ancient dinosaurs. I’d been blessed by medicine women and slept in haunted
hotels. I’d even crawled into the dark hollows of allegedly haunted mine shafts
in search of long-lost Spanish gold.
Even still, it was never good enough. After returning home,
I’d often feel restless and unfulfilled, my blood hemorrhaging from some unseen
cavern in my body. I’d dream of being taller than a mountain, burying my
enormous hands into every cranny and every canyon, trailing my fingertips
through the pallid white sand dunes, dipping my toes in the cold snowmelt
streams. From above, my eyes would survey the landscape, its hills and arroyos
as textured as the back of a horned lizard, and my dreamer’s heart would thrum
and throb with love for my homeland, strange as it was.
But I’d never seen anything like this sign, a sudden flicker
of civilization in the remote and untamed Jemez Mountains.
Such a fervent prayer for the severed, bony protrusions of
hoofed mammals. I heard the prayer repeating, repeating, in the hidden folds of
What in the world would anyone want with antlers?
I parked my car in the gravel turnout, and slung my camera
over my shoulder. I got out of the car and walked closer.
“Hey there,” came a voice from behind a parked pickup truck
I hadn’t noticed until that moment. A man stood up from his canvas lawn chair
he’d placed in the truck’s shade. “Have you got something to sell?”
“Ah,” I said. “No. I was just curious about the sign.”
“Curious?” the man said, slowly plucking pistachios and
pinyons from a plastic bag. He cracked the nuts with his thumb, their dry
shells plinking in the gravel like clipped fingernails.
“Why do you buy antlers?” I asked. “What sorts of antlers?”
“All kinds,” he said, simply, breezily, with the casual
grace of an experienced salesman.
“I’m sorry to be rude or nosy,” I apologized. “I’m a
journalist and photographer, and I’ve never seen anything like this. If I may
ask, what do you do after you buy them?”
resell them, mostly,” he answered. “Tourists and locals like them for
decoration. Some of them I carve into knife handles. I’ll take anything you’ve
got. Deer, elk, bighorn sheep, pronghorn, chamacorn. You know.
“Wait. What?” I said. “What was that last one?”
“What?” he said. “Anything. I said I’ll take anything.”
He stared at me.
I looked back towards my car, and considered just walking
away. But oh! I desperately wanted that photograph. Or at least, I wanted some
sort of souvenir. Something to plug the hole in the bleeding depths of my
The man beckoned to me.
“Come on up to the shed,” he said. “I’m sure I’ve got what
you’re looking for.”
Not only did I fall hard for Orlando Higginbottom’s flamboyant headdresses and irresistible dance music back in 2010, but I also fell in love with his production moniker, Totally Enormous Extinct Dinosaurs. I mean, how do you even come up with a name as epic as that, and one involving dinosaurs, which I happen to have been obsessed with as a young girl? Household Goods will always be one of my favorite dance tracks. The moment those familiar chords hit, I just break out in a smile. Oh where, oh where have you gone lately, T-E-E-D? I can only pray that Orlando is fast at work with some brilliant new tunes. In the meantime, Canadian producer UNBLOOM affords us a wonderful return to Household Goods by giving it a celestial sparkling remix. This future flickering take on classic T-E-E-D is sheer bliss and a generous end of year gift to help us transition into the new year. UNBLOOM promises big things to come in 2017. We look forward with great anticipation.
how about none of them is short, how about ralph is tall gorgeous blonde standing at 6 feet tall, but jack is freakishly tall, he’d be like 6 feet 4 inches a huge fucking tree and he’d scare 90 percent of the population around, they’d be the dinosaur boyfriends ok
Draw Dinovember is upon us once again. I’ll be posting a dinosaur a
day all month long. I have a tentative list of prehistoric beasties I’d
like to paint this year but I’m always open to suggestions. If anyone
has any cool ideas for dinosaurs they’d like to see go ahead and leave a
I’d also like to encourage others to join in
on the fun. Dinosaurs are the focus but all other forms of prehistoric
life are options too. I myself will be incorporating a few pterosaurs
and marine reptiles to the lineup this year.
To start everything off here’s Draw Dinovember Day 1 Gorgosaurus.
*Komodo crawls toward Curran while the latter is sleeping* Taylor: *jumps in front of the Komodo with only a knife in his hand ’cause he’s supposed to be badass, I guess* *screams* Komodo: *screams back* Taylor: Bastard! Komodo: *starts screaming again* Taylor:*screams back some more* *picks up a burning piece of wood and waves it between himself and the Komodo (fun fact: a couple of shots are shown twice)* Beat it. Get out of here, you coward! Komodo: (x)
— The best scene from Proof according to this poll
we’re getting into something just a bit more obscure than your average
dinosaur. For one thing, although it’s
categorized that way in the Tome of Horrors 4, Euparkeria isn’t a
dinosaur, it’s an offshoot of the Archosauriforms,
theorized to be branching off before the last common ancestor of crocodilians
and dinosaurs. That doesn’t mean they’re
not interesting, though! With hindlimbs
slightly longer than their forelimbs, they may be able to stand on their back
feet, a capability the Tome of Horrors gives them when running or
fighting. At up to about half a meter
long (including the tail), these critters make interesting low-level carnivores
for a game more diverse than coyotes and foxes or an excellent critter to mix
in to a trip to the middle Triassic, when dinosaurs were still getting
themselves sorted out and hadn’t yet come to dominate the Mesozoic. Better yet, these reptiles are simple enough
to run to make them viable as pack encounters and at CR ½, they’re not
challenging enough to overwhelm parties.
The Tome of Horrors variety is larger than the real Euparkeria
was but that just makes things more fun!
After a forced landing on a world with a single dry
mega-continent in the process of breaking up, near the margin of the
world-ocean, an ethership crew has been roughing it for weeks. The small dog-sized hunting lizards common
near their landing site have proven an irritant, dragging away the ship’s goat
in the night and trying to prey on anything the crew captures. They show a special fondness for the beaked
herbivores being ranched, stealing eggs and going after any the crew might try
Anyone attempting to reach the legendary Haarain
Wellspring must cross the Armakahn Desert, a desolate region dominated by
the troglodyte tribes who survive on underground water sources fed by the
Wellspring. Many of the tribes have
taken to cultivating the semi-bipedal Armakahn runners as scent-hounds,
acclimating the reptiles’ sensitive snouts to the tribe’s smell and favoring
them over larger cave lizards for their hardiness in the dry weather and
reduced need for water.
Found on the newly discovered continent of Surlemos,
the brightly colored small lizards brought back have become all the rage in
wealthy circles. The demand for eggs to
feed the exotic pet trade is driving explorers out into the jungles and
threatens both the fragile peace between the trade enclaves and the native
tengu city-states and the population of the local lizards.
Historical revisionism and the endless stream of tired imitators that followed in his wake sometimes makes it difficult to appreciate what a radical listening experience the music of Jimi Hendrix was and still is. Yet for those with the ears to hear, his influence is everywhere in contemporary rock.
In the Stone Roses and their guitarist John Squire’s polychromatic action-painting style of playing. In My Bloody Valentine, a group which has worked with Roger Mayer, the guy who invented effects boxes and distortion pedals for Hendrix. In Loop’s noise symphonies. In Sonic Youth, whose unusual tunings would not have been possible without Hendrix’s reinvention of the guitar. (Drummer Buddy Miles, who played with Hendrix, recorded an album called Expressway to Your Skull in 1968. Nineteen years later Sonic Youth recorded a song with the same name.)
In the wah-wah heaven of Dinosaur Jr. In the raga free-form folkadelic blitz of Husker Du’s “Recurring Dreams” on Zen Arcade. In the wigged out, apocalyptic, nouveau acid rock of the Butthole Surfers. (Think of their “Jimi” as a fin de siecle version of Hendrix’s “Third Stone From the Sun.”) In the oceanic rock of A.R. Kane. In the black rock of Living Colour and 24-7 Spyz. In the thrashing metal-funk of the Red Hot Chili Peppers (who covered Hendrix’s “Fire” and inherited his febrile hypersexuality and imitated his bad-ass virility). Not to mention obvious examples like Prince and George Clinton.
And then there’s heavy metal as a genre. If Hendrix paved the way for this music, it was because he showed that the blues could be blown up from a porch-side lament into a mountain range. Hendrix invented the “air guitar,” not in the sense of an imaginary instrument played by hair farmers in front of their bedroom mirrors, but rather in the sense of a guitar that refused to be bound solely by earthly roots, a sound that grew wings and took flight. An aerial guitar, if you will.
The Hendrix influence on rap is also profound, and not just in the way that boho homeboys like De la Soul and A Tribe Called Quest dress. Hendrix samples on rap records include Digital Underground’s “Who Knows?” the Beastie Boys’ “B-Boy Bouillabaisse,” A Tribe Called Quest’s “Go Ahead in the Rain,” and Monie Love’s “Just Don’t Give a Damn.” Moreover, every rap use of rock comes via Hendrix, from Run-DMC to Schoolly D. Rap’s dissonance is Hendrix’s guitar still reverberating and feeding back.
As SPIN colleague Nathaniel Wice puts it: “He dominates both Yol MTV Raps and Headbanger’s Ball. He fathered both, dominating everything that music has become. Not only won’t he die, but it’s impossible to imagine how to kill him off.”
There’s even a case to be made that Hendrix is responsible for that hideous mutant jazz-rock. But we’ll pass discreetly over that, except to mention Hendrix’s profound influence on Miles Davis’s brilliant late-‘60s and early-'70s work.
Jim Morrison may be the subject of Hollywood mythmaking, but Hendrix is not a corpse to be resurrected. Hendrix is the living, breathing soul of today’s rock'n'roll.
Initially framed within traditional white ideas of what black music meant (black as incarnation of the id, un-repression, instinct, the body, soul, et cetera), Jimi Hendrix was nicknamed the “Wild Man of Pop” and compared to a Borneo savage. As critic Steven Perry has pointed out, such noble savage stereotypes have been used historically to undermine the aesthetic achievements of blacks. Hendrix is interesting because of the damage he did to such racial stereotypes. He wanted to transcend the borders and barriers between races, male and female, and even (at his most mystic) to transcend the human condition all together to become star child, to become male mermaid (as on “1983/A Merman I Should Turn to Be”). Indeed his whole career can be seen as an attempt to reconcile and/or explode such standard oppositions as black versus white, male versus female, the dandy versus the savage, voodoo (the blues) versus Christian salvation (soul), roots versus rootlessness, earthy versus cosmic, tradition versus avant-garde, bohemian art rock versus funk/soul razzmatazz.
Setting himself against the narrow conceptual biases of what constituted “real” black music, Hendrix transformed and transcended the limits of what a black musician could and should be. Among the first, if not the first, African-Americans in pop to lay claim to the status of artist rather than entertainer, he did his apprenticeship in soul review bands (most notably the Isley Brothers, Little Richard, and Curtis Knight and the Squires) on the “chitlin circuit,” but chafed at the strictures, discipline, and show-biz protocols that were expected of him. Hendrix opened up the possibility for black musicians to be — imagewise and soundwise — messy and self-indulgent. In this he was the polar opposite of James Brown, disciplinarian band leader and the professional servant of a popular audience. In contrast, Hendrix was an aural aristocrat with musical laws unto himself — a solar flare with solo flair, a quality that got him kicked out of many soul bands before his eventual success in the U.K. For his efforts, he was branded a psychedelic Uncle Tom. A more unjust accusation in the history of rock criticism is difficult to imagine.
Yet many of his more fervent supporters seem to add fuel to this charge. Alvin Lee from Ten Years After once said, “Hendrix wasn’t black or white. Hendrix was Hendrix.” Hendrix was Hendrix, but Hendrix was black. In his excellent biography of Hendrix, 'Scuse Me While I Kiss the Sky, David Henderson, an award-winning African-American poet, does a convincing job of debunking the misperception that Hendrix was an Uncle Tom who played exclusively to white audiences. Recalling a meeting between a group of blacks and Hendrix at TTG Studios in Hollywood, Henderson tells how the guitarist expressed concern about the lack of any black support for his music. Not so, said his fellow black musicians. Blacks did buy his records and go to his concerts, but they were rendered virtually invisible by the overwhelming popularity of Hendrix among the mass white audience.
What was true was that black radio did not play his records. Since so much of black radio was white-controlled at that time, that’s hardly Hendrix’s fault. Moreover, when he jettisoned his all-white band, the Experience, for the all-black Band of Gypsys, it was met with much resistance from his management. But the suspicion still lingers that Hendrix was a disgrace to the race, especially in his refusal to become too closely aligned with black revolutionary movements. Hendrix was a pacifist who refused to give the Black Panthers the explicit gesture of support that they expected from him and got from other entertainers. But as Robert Wyatt, ex-drummer and vocalist with Soft Machine, says, Hendrix didn’t “have to go around making political statements. … he was living a political life of great importance.”
Hendrix didn’t need to comment on the issues of the times, racial or not, because the times were in his music. For instance, Hendrix was the soundtrack to Vietnam, for soldiers and for civilians alike. Both “Machine Gun” and his version of “The Star-Spangled Banner” are among the most profound works of American art ever made about the war. Vernon Reid once admitted to having mistakenly thought that Hendrix had served in Vietnam. And for the movie version of the real thing (Apocalypse Now), Francis Ford Coppola employed Randy Hansen, a Hendrix impersonator, for the soundtrack.
In 'Scuse Me While I Kiss the Sky, Henderson tells of the time in 1969 that Hendrix played a Harlem street fair. Hosted by a popular local radio DJ Eddie O-Jay (ironically another black DJ who didn’t play Hendrix’s records), Jimi performed “Voodoo Chile,” among other songs, which he referred to onstage as “Harlem’s national anthem.” And of course in a way Hendrix was right. With its explicit evocation and celebration of the supernatural powers and magical transformations at the heart of African religion, “Voodoo Chile” is at least as “black” (if such distinctions are important to you) as James Brown’s “Say It Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud.” So much for Uncle Tom.
After Hendrix finished his show, he was approached by a black nationalist who said, “Hey brother, you better come home.” Hendrix replied, “You gotta do what you gotta do, and I gotta do what I gotta do now.”
hey science side of tumblr; would we be able to view the past if a satellite, far in space was pointed to earth?
I remember reading something a while back about how if one were viewing earth from million of light years away they’d see dinosaurs or something. Can someone explain this phenomenon? How far do you actually need to be away from Earth to actually start viewing the past?
Last movie you saw? Rogue One!! Last song you listened to? Rihanna - Same Ol’ Mistakes Last show you watched? um……i think the season finale of adventure time? either that or san junipero Last book you read? The Stroke: Theory of Writing by Gerrit Noordzij (it’s a boring typography book) Last thing you ate?milk ice cream Where would you time travel? hmmmmmm if it’s into the past, i’d wanna see a dinosaur irl / if it’s into the future the 23rd century What would you do with the money you won from the lottery? buy my mom some nice presents, go on a trip to northern europe and save up the rest What fictional character would you spend the whole day with? Spock and ask him about the Enterprise and how Kirk is in bed lol i don’t know how i’d get that info out of him though