#1 august

[allthesepurplelights]

the iconic bop that is Dragostea Din Tei is 20 years old today!

[dama-the-drama]

You can reblog this only today

[newyorkthegoldenage]

The Fifth Bombing Squadron of the U.S. Army flies over Manhattan on August 1, 1939, on its way to the air display at Dayton, Ohio.

Photo: Associated Press

[wiiildflowerrr]

After night 2 at The Fonda, Michael wore this cute Cupid's Love Arrow t-shirt by Aelfric Eden (€34.95).

[greendayauthority]

Auburn, WA, 1 August 2017

[ursulakats]

[image source]

Happy Swiss National Day 🎇

[dracula-dictionary]

Dracula Dictionary, August 1st - Addendum

"It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel; that's what it be, an' nowt else. These bans an' wafts an' boh-ghosts an' barguests an' bogles an' all anent them is only fit to set bairns an' dizzy women a-belderin'. They be nowt but air-blebs. They, an' all grims an' signs an' warnin's, be all invented by parsons an' illsome beuk-bodies an' railway touters to skeer an' scunner hafflin's, an' to get folks to do somethin' that they don't other incline to. It makes me ireful to think o' them. Why, it's them that, not content with printin' lies on paper an' preachin' them out of pulpits, does want to be cuttin' them on the tombstones. Look here all around you in what airt ye will; all them steans, holdin' up their heads as well as they can out of their pride, is acant—simply tumblin' down with the weight o' the lies wrote on them, 'Here lies the body' or 'Sacred to the memory' wrote on all of them, an' yet in nigh half of them there bean't no bodies at all; an' the memories of them bean't cared a pinch of snuff about, much less sacred. Lies all of them, nothin' but lies of one kind or another! My gog, but it'll be a quare scowderment at the Day of Judgment when they come tumblin' up in their death-sarks, all jouped together an' tryin' to drag their tombsteans with them to prove how good they was; some of them trimmlin' and ditherin', with their hands that dozzened an' slippy from lyin' in the sea that they can't even keep their grup o' them.":

It's nonsense, all of it; that's what it is and nothing else. These curses and spirits and ghosts and bogie-men and the the like are only fit to make children and dizzy women cry. They're nothing but illusions. They, and all the scary signs and warnings were invented by priests, and mean-spirited academics, and highwaymen to scare and confuse halfwits, and to get people to do things that they otherwise wouldn't have. It makes me angry to think about them. They're the ones who aren't happy just printing lies on paper and preaching them from their altars, so they have to cut them into tombstones as well. Look in whatever direction you want; all these stones trying to hold their heads up out of pride - they should all be falling over under the weight of the lies that are written on them. "Here lies the body" or "Sacred to the memory" written on all of them, even though half of them don't even have a body under them; and their memory is worth about as much a pinch of snuff, it's certainly not sacred to anyone. All of it is lies, nothing but lies one way or another! My god, it’ll be a strange pushing and shoving at the Day of Judgment when they come tumbling up here in their shrouds, all jumbled together and trying to drag their tombstones with them to prove how good they were in life; some of them will be trembling and frail, with their hands so numb and slippery from lying in the sea that they can't even keep their grip on them.

"Yabblins! There may be a poorish few not wrong, savin' where they make out the people too good; for there be folk that do think a balm-bowl be like the sea, if only it be their own. The whole thing be only lies. Now look you here; you come here a stranger, an' you see this kirk-garth." I nodded, for I thought it better to assent, though I did not quite understand his dialect. I knew it had something to do with the church. He went on: "And you consate that all these steans be aboon folk that be happed here, snod an' snog?" I assented again. "Then that be just where the lie comes in. Why, there be scores of these lay-beds that be toom as old Dun's 'bacca-box on Friday night." He nudged one of his companions, and they all laughed. "And my gog! how could they be otherwise? Look at that one, the aftest abaft the bier-bank: read it!":

Perhaps! A few of them might not be wrong, except for those parts where people are being praised too much; because there are people who mistake a chamber-pot for the sea, as long as it's their own. Now look here, you came here as a stranger and you see this churchyard. Do you believe that all these stones are standing above people that are burried here? That is where the lies start. Many of these graves are as empty as old Dun's tobacco box on a friday night. And my god, how else could it be? Look at that one, the first one behind the bench: read it!"

"Who brought him home, I wonder, to hap him here? Murdered off the coast of Andres! an' you consated his body lay under! Why, I could name ye a dozen whose bones lie in the Greenland seas above"—he pointed northwards—"or where the currents may have drifted them. There be the steans around ye. Ye can, with your young eyes, read the small-print of the lies from here. This Braithwaite Lowrey—I knew his father, lost in the Lively off Greenland in '20; or Andrew Woodhouse, drowned in the same seas in 1777; or John Paxton, drowned off Cape Farewell a year later; or old John Rawlings, whose grandfather sailed with me, drowned in the Gulf of Finland in '50. Do ye think that all these men will have to make a rush to Whitby when the trumpet sounds? I have me antherums aboot it! I tell ye that when they got here they'd be jommlin' an' jostlin' one another that way that it 'ud be like a fight up on the ice in the old days, when we'd be at one another from daylight to dark, an' tryin' to tie up our cuts by the light of the aurora borealis.":

Who brought him back home to burry him here, I wonder? Murdered off the coast of Andres! And you really believe his body is buried here! I could name a dozen people whose bones lie in the sea of Greenland up north, or wherever the currents have taken them. Theirs are the headstones around us. With your young eyes you can read the lies from here. This Braithwaite Lowrey - I knew his father, used to serve on the Lively, lost off the coast of Greenland in 1820; or Andrew Woodhouse, drowned in the same seas in 1777; or John Paxton, drowned by Cape Farewell a year later; or old John Rawlings, whose grandfather sailed with me, drowned in the Gulf of Finland in 1850. Do you think all of them will be rushing back to Whitby when the trumpet sounds for Judgement Day? I have my doubts about it! If they did all come here they would pushing and shoving each other in such a way that it would look like one of the fights on the ice back in the old days, when we were at each other's throats from dawn to dusk, and trying to bandage our wound by the light of the aurora borealis.

"Well, what else be they tombstones for? Answer me that, miss! How will it pleasure their relatives to know that lies is wrote over them, and that everybody in the place knows that they be lies?" He pointed to a stone at our feet which had been laid down as a slab, on which the seat was rested, close to the edge of the cliff. "Read the lies on that thruff-stean":

Well, what else would the tombstones be for? Answer me that, miss! How would it please their relatives to know that there are lies written about them, and that everybody here knows that they're lies? Read the lies on that gravestone.

"Ye don't see aught funny! Ha! ha! But that's because ye don't gawm the sorrowin' mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he was acrewk'd—a regular lamiter he was—an' he hated her so that he committed suicide in order that she mightn't get an insurance she put on his life. He blew nigh the top of his head off with an old musket that they had for scarin' the crows with. 'Twarn't for crows then, for it brought the clegs and the dowps to him. That's the way he fell off the rocks. And, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection, I've often heard him say masel' that he hoped he'd go to hell, for his mother was so pious that she'd be sure to go to heaven, an' he didn't want to addle where she was. Now isn't that stean at any rate"—he hammered it with his stick as he spoke—"a pack of lies? and won't it make Gabriel keckle when Geordie comes pantin' up the grees with the tombstean balanced on his hump, and asks it to be took as evidence!":

You don't see anything funny! Ha ha! But that's because you don't know that the sorrowing mother was a malicious woman with a fierce temper who hated him because he was a cripple, and he hated her so he commited suicide so she wouldn't get any of his life insurance. He blew off the top of his head with an old musket they had for scaring off the crows. It didn't scare the crows off then, because it brought the flies and the crows to him. That's how he fell off the rocks. And as far as the hopes of a glorious resurrection go, I often heard him say myself that he hoped he'd go to hell, because his mother was so devout that she would definitely go to heaven, and he didn't want to end up where she was. Now isn't this gravestone a pack of lies? And won't it make the archangel Gabriel cackle when George comes hobbling up the stairway to heaven with the tombstone on his back and asks it to be taken as evidence!

"That won't harm ye, my pretty; an' it may make poor Geordie gladsome to have so trim a lass sittin' on his lap. That won't hurt ye. Why, I've sat here off an' on for nigh twenty years past, an' it hasn't done me no harm. Don't ye fash about them as lies under ye, or that doesn' lie there either! It'll be time for ye to be getting scart when ye see the tombsteans all run away with, and the place as bare as a stubble-field. There's the clock, an' I must gang. My service to ye, ladies!":

That won't harm you, my pretty; and it might make poor George happy to have such a fine girl sitting on his lap. That won't hurt you. I've been sitting here occasionally for almost the last twenty years, and it hasn't done me any harm. Don't worry about who lies under you, or who doesn't lie there! It will be time for you to get scared when you see all the gravestones run away and this place is as empty as a field after the harvest. That was the clock ringing, and I must be going. Nice talking to you, ladies!

[dateinthelife]

1 August 1967

On this date, George Harrison waits tiredly for Derek Taylor to find his way through the fog to his rented house on Blue Jay Way.