Listening To Under Pressure In The Car And I Said "sing It Queen" When Freddie Mercury Hit That One High

if I could bring back john lennon for a day and spend a few hours explaining what the internet is and what tumblr is and what rpf is and then tell him him and paul are beating jesus and judas at a who's gayer competition I think he'd find it the funniest fucking thing on earth especially given that he literally was killed over the jesus thing. which is why they have to obliterate jesus. for him.

i want one.

No fucking way I found my little rubber fetus

Really think John Deacon was onto something when he started aggressively telling me to follow my dreams in song form

It's fun when you can tell things about people by what colours they like to surround themselves with. Someone who likes wearing and decorating all their stuff with green is usually a calm, chill, down to earth kind of a person. They don't usually even notice how much of all their things are green, they just see a green thing and think "oh, pretty" and don't even put together just how much of their stuff ends up unintentionally being green.

Someone whose clothes and stuff are predominantly purple is something else, that's a Distinct Kind Of Personality who enjoys having a distinct colour scheme and goes out of their way to get it. Purple is too unusual of a colour to just accumulate unintentionally. A person whose belongings are mainly purple enjoys knowing that the people who know them probably first think "oh, That Person would probably like that" whenever they see something purple.

But someone who specifically enjoys the combination of purple and green? Yeah that's a harder than average herb wizard.

what is it they put in the hardware store to make it smell so good

would you wear matching nail polish with me like brian and freddie 😔

I don't feel like adding this onto someone else's post, but:

Sometimes I think about how Freddie actually did use the band for Mr. Bad Guy, but just hired other musicians to sound like them for the final cut of those songs, and this upset Brian for decades, if a post on his old Soapbox blog is anything to go by

At the grand opening of Zilch in NYC, October 20, 1967.

“Peter is the warmest, most caring, concerned and loving person I have ever known in my life. If the whole world were made up of Peter Torks, it would be like a peaceful and serene heaven.” - Sally Field, 16 Magazine, September 1968 “Mike wandered over to the empty chair next to me, and flopped himself down, muttering, ‘Hello,’ and tapping the top of my head with a friendly pat. I judged by the quiet, contented look on his face he wasn’t in a talkative mood, so I simply whispered ‘Hello’ back. We sat in silence for five minutes, and watch the activity of the crew preparing for the next scene. Sally Field, the young star of another Screen-Gem TV series, ‘Flying Nun,’ suddenly came cycling on the set dressed in her white nun’s habit. Parking her cycle, she sneaked up behind Peter and gave him an enormous bear hug. Peter, in turn, gathered her up in his arms, and ran off, yelling, ‘Have nun… will travel,’ and singing ‘You’re getting to be a habit with me…’ Mike simply shook his head and laughed.” - article by Jane Marshall, NME, September 23, 1967

the funniest part of the monkees has got to be davy's completely inaccurate tambourine playing. that thing is just going absolutely WHEREVER it wants

Reposting this photo I shared yesterday because I think I finally put together what Micky and Peter were actually doing. Micky “shot” Peter and Peter had to “die” so Micky could photograph his dramatic demise.

In They Made a Monkee Out of Me, Davy Jones explains a Monkee game called Killer.

We defused a lot of the tension with humour, naturally. On the set, and on the road, we had a game we used to play called Killer. Jim Frawley invented it. The idea was each person was allowed three shots per day. You could shoot whoever you liked—you just mimed your hand as a gun, like kids do, y’know—tssshhh! And whoever was shot had to die. But you couldn’t just fall down, nice and simple—it had to be a spectacular death. You had to moan and kick and fall over furniture and people and take about three-quarters of an hour to do it—like they used to in all of the best Westerns. And if you didn’t die loud enough, or long enough, or imaginatively enough, or if say you just didn’t die at all, because you were being introduced to the Queen Mother at the time, then you lost a life. And if you lost three lives—you were out of the game. Forever. No second chances. That was as good as being really dead. So, of course, we’d look for the best moments to shoot each other—when it would cause the most commotion. Not everyone was included. It was a clique of about eight. Sometimes we’d have a different director—we used to have a guest director to do one or two shows. They’d be in the middle of a scene and somebody would get shot and the whole scene would be ruined because this was very serious business—you couldn’t lose a life. The game produced no end of possibilities for going right over the top. In the middle of a love scene once—I had the stars coming out of my eyes, the whole bit—I’m walking over to the girl with my arms outstretched and she says, “Oh, Davy!” We’re just about to kiss when … Tssshhh!—Peter shoots me. I have to go into an epileptic seizure routine for about five minutes—knocking lamps over, fall over a drum kit, out the door, roll around the parking lot, up the stairs, across the president’s desk—“Oh my God, are you all right, David?”—“Aaargh! Shot, sir!” Back out the door, down the stairs, onto the set, collapse in a heap at her feet. Wild applause. One time in Australia, in front of about five million fans at the airport, Micky got shot and he fell all the way down this gigantic escalator. People were stunned. They thought he’d been assassinated. It was very rarely someone wouldn’t die—not even a token head slump. One time was the Emmy Awards. I think it was Bert Schneider stepped up to receive the award for “Best New Comedy Show.” We shot him, but the moment was too special for him to spoil it. He won an Emmy and lost a life. Towards the end of the second year—to show you how badly things were going—even Frawley couldn’t be persuaded to die anymore. Everyone had been up all night, as usual. We were on the set—first diet pill of the day—started fooling around, messing up takes as always. But somehow it wasn’t the same. Nobody was laughing. Frawley was so mad. The only thing we could do was shoot him. Dolenz shot him—he didn’t die. Mike shot him—still standing. I shot him—nothing. What a bummer. All the feeling was gone. The beginning of the end.