<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7885575395250384205</id><updated>2011-04-21T17:13:42.578-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Uncomfortable Sundays</title><subtitle type='html'>Ramblings of your average media junkie</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://uncomfortablesundays.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7885575395250384205/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://uncomfortablesundays.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Hark</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06153995417370638791</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>3</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7885575395250384205.post-1693147197196120494</id><published>2008-12-15T18:25:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-12-15T18:53:25.912-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Lyrical Lundi</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hg1uc_zIyIA/SUcV1gX8xyI/AAAAAAAAAAw/ThuMqVuCydY/s1600-h/The+First+Three+Years.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 239px; height: 222px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hg1uc_zIyIA/SUcV1gX8xyI/AAAAAAAAAAw/ThuMqVuCydY/s320/The+First+Three+Years.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280213097082832674" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Frank Turner is an English singer-songwriter that I first listened to last year. A friend sent me his 2007 release "Sleep Is For The Week" and while there were definitely a few standout tracks (Vital Signs, Once We Were Anarchists, and The Ballad of Me and My Friends) it quickly found itself off my ipod and into the abyss that is my external hard drive. Recently someone began pimping his work on locals and I ended up checking out his two 2008 releases, "Love, Ire, and Song" and ""The First Three Years", and I've been blown away by Turner's storytelling ever since.&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;While a lot of his lyrics tend to find that perfect blend of insight and snark the third single from "Love, Ire, and Song", "Long Live The Queen", completely floored me when I first heard it.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I was sipping on a Whiskey when I got the call&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Yeah my friend Lex was lying in the hospital&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;She'd been pretty sick for about half a year&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;But it seems liked this time the end was drawing near&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;So dropped my plans and jumped the next London train&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I found her laid up and in a lot of pain&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; Her eyes met mine and then I understood&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; That her weather forecast wasn't looking too good&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; So I sat and spun her stories for a little while&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; Tried to raise her mood and tried to raise a smile&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; But she silenced all my rambling with a shake of her head&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; Drew me close and listen this is what she said now&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; "You'll live to dance another day, it's just now you'll have to dance, for the two of us, so stop looking so damn depressed and sing with all your heart that the Queen is dead"&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; Yeah she told me she was sick of all the hospital food&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; And of doctors, distant relatives, draining her blood&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; She said "I know I'm dying, but I'm not finished just yet, I am dying for a drink and for a cigarette"&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; So we hatched a plan to book ourselves a cheap hotel&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; In the center of the City and to raise some Hell&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; Lay waste to all the clubs and then when everyone else is long asleep&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; We know we're good and done&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; "You'll live to dance another day, it's just now you'll have to dance, for the two of us, so stop looking so damn depressed and sing with all your heart that the Queen is dead"&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; And South London's not the same anymore&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; The Queen is dead, and the last of the greats has finally gone to bed&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; Well I was working on some words when Sarah called me up&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; She said that Lex had gone asleep and wasn't waking up&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; And even though I knew that there was nothing to be done&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; I felt bad for not being there and now, well, she was gone&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; So I tried to think what Lex would want me to do&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; At times like this when I was feeling blue&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; So I gathered up some friends to spread the sad sad news&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; And we headed to the City for a drink or two&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; And we sang&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; "We live to dance another day, it's just now we have to dance for one more of us, so stop looking so damn depressed, and sing with all our hearts, long live the Queen"&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Check out "Long Live The Queen" and a ton of other killer tracks at his &lt;a href="http://www.myspace.com/frankturner"&gt;myspace&lt;/a&gt;.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7885575395250384205-1693147197196120494?l=uncomfortablesundays.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://uncomfortablesundays.blogspot.com/feeds/1693147197196120494/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7885575395250384205&amp;postID=1693147197196120494' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7885575395250384205/posts/default/1693147197196120494'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7885575395250384205/posts/default/1693147197196120494'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://uncomfortablesundays.blogspot.com/2008/12/lyrical-lundi.html' title='Lyrical Lundi'/><author><name>Hark</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06153995417370638791</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hg1uc_zIyIA/SUcV1gX8xyI/AAAAAAAAAAw/ThuMqVuCydY/s72-c/The+First+Three+Years.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7885575395250384205.post-4134621328422407387</id><published>2008-11-04T20:33:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-11-04T20:52:05.922-08:00</updated><title type='text'>History.</title><content type='html'>I've always said that I'm more interested in the people surrounding the US presidential candidates than the actual candidates themselves. Watching the men and women who were prepared to celebrate the victory of John McCain I can't help but feel as though I'm seeing what Fitzgerald described when he spoke of Gatsby's grand parties. An endless sea of rich white Americans in poorly tailored Brooks Brothers knockoffs grasping at the little that is left of what they perceive to be the American dream.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Meanwhile at the Obama rallies I see the actual American dream. A mosaic of men and women from all walks of life. Rich or poor. Black or white. Christian or Muslim. Gay or straight. It's a sliver of humanity and unity in a world that seems to preach division at every turn. The news today is not that a black man was elected president of the United States of America. The news is that a president was chosen by those who have been overlooked for so long.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;"I'd like to say that people.... people can change anything they want to.... and that means everything in the world. Show me any country and there'll be people in it. It's time to take the humanity back into the center of the ring and follow that for a time. You know, think on that. Without people, you're nothing."&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;- Joe Strummer&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7885575395250384205-4134621328422407387?l=uncomfortablesundays.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://uncomfortablesundays.blogspot.com/feeds/4134621328422407387/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7885575395250384205&amp;postID=4134621328422407387' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7885575395250384205/posts/default/4134621328422407387'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7885575395250384205/posts/default/4134621328422407387'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://uncomfortablesundays.blogspot.com/2008/11/history.html' title='History.'/><author><name>Hark</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06153995417370638791</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7885575395250384205.post-4013753161699377785</id><published>2008-11-04T20:21:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-11-04T20:23:52.442-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Thank you.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i389.photobucket.com/albums/oo340/TheHuntingClub/3e8e75d9f5efd044936fe99135f0e6ab861.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 480px; height: 382px;" src="http://i389.photobucket.com/albums/oo340/TheHuntingClub/3e8e75d9f5efd044936fe99135f0e6ab861.jpg" alt="" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://img148.imageshack.us/img148/9337/president3081104xwidebc3.jpg"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7885575395250384205-4013753161699377785?l=uncomfortablesundays.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://uncomfortablesundays.blogspot.com/feeds/4013753161699377785/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7885575395250384205&amp;postID=4013753161699377785' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7885575395250384205/posts/default/4013753161699377785'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7885575395250384205/posts/default/4013753161699377785'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://uncomfortablesundays.blogspot.com/2008/11/thank-you.html' title='Thank you.'/><author><name>Hark</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06153995417370638791</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
