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While you were asleep: Pence meets Korea, Rage turns 30, Rhianna wears clothes

Pence

Approx Reading Time-11The first day back at work. Oh, dear. As for what you’ve missed: Pence vowed NK to pay price, Rage aged well and artistic demigod Rhianna wowed Coachella. Sarcasm abounds.

 

 

 

Mike Pence sets foot in DMZ, forgets lessons of history.

Planting his heel in the Korean peninsula with much braggadocio was Trump’s merkin, Mike Pence, announcing as far as his voice would carry him (which, as it turns out was all the way to my melted cheese sandwich) that the “era of strategic patience is over”. Given the temperature of the geopolitical brows in Pyongyang and Washington, it seems odd that the solution would be bringing the sound of a rattled sabre ever closer.

Commies, come out to play-ay.

But, sadly, this seems to be how Pence sees it. “My father served in the Korean war with the US army, and on the way here we actually saw some of the terrain my father fought alongside Korean forces to help earn your freedom.” For those of you who missed the lessons of the Korean War, it was a bloody stalemate made all the bloodier by China’s involvement, entering the war only because the US ignored warnings of traipsing ever closer to her border. Long story short, the Americans were driven back and eventually the two forces met to draw the line across the country – nothing was won…well, except for one thing.

In 1947, the US military budget was $52B. By the time the Korean War ended in 1953, it was $442B. That number would hover around that mark for the remainder of the 1960s until the Vietnam War. Churchill put it best, that Korea was pointless but it lead to the rearmament of the US. So…freedom, not so much. Establishing the war economy, you betcha.

But back to 2017. “World War III” is the most Googled term in the world – above even the loose morals of stepmothers – so yes, Pence getting his dagger out and drawing a liquid line across the shale of the DMZ is disconcerting, as is the proxy conflicts between the US and Russia, as is my explanation of how war is good for business.

But, WW3?

I don’t believe so.

There’s a horrible term called “Mutually Assured Destruction” which, ironically, allows me to sleep calmly at night. That and this other thing I found. With each failed launch or each hyperbolic headline, I gaze upon this, and I feel alright.

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Rage turns 30, nation totals number of hangovers eased during span.

Jebus. Thirty years of yelling “rage” at varying times of the night whilst gazing at the horrors of a Portishead clip that was washed in the bluest of angst as we sat in abject shock, after our quiet mate promised us that “this was a good one” which we found to be anything but, camped in the bunk beds of a budget motel in Kings Cross, trying to force ourselves to sleep after a night out. True story.

The beauty of Rage, other than the superb production values, is that we all have our own subjective, and therefore entirely inaccessible, Rage moment. Feel free to share your own amongst yourselves. Memories.

Without an ounce of hyperbole, the show is indeed an institution, the soundtrack to a thousand failed emotional conquests, ally to the returning drunk who required sustenance to go with their kebab, and I suppose all the independent musicians they helped too. But, on a personal note, it gave me Ben Folds Five, and the longterm goal of guest programming it, despite lacking musical talent.

One can dream.

Happy dirty 30th my Saturday night, Sunday morning beau.

 

Rhianna goes to Coachella, wears outfit, crests wave of human enterprise.

For the youth amongst us (no ill will to you), and the kidults who share our birthday (plenty of ill will to you), Rhianna and her cabal represent a high range of genius. Not just in her music, but in the artwork of her mundane, everyday tasks. Like standing in a crowd. Recently, she did this, but dressed in a matter that was like, suh, unexpected.

Now, in the interest of objective journalism, I scoped the reaction of, and wished I didn’t.

How does she do “it”? She turns something that was previously designed solely for the catwalk, into clothes to wear to a music festival. After all, clothes aren’t clothes, yeah? I can’t believe she did that. Wearing those clothes at this place. Move over Richard Feynman, Father of Nanotechnology, your work is invalid. We have Rhianna now. All hail. Please take me in your gold-plated, gold mineshaft of artist gold. I am not worthy of retweet; comment and elevate are beyond the capacity of my tiny insect brain.

That’s enough.

 

The top five Tweets from overnight (from North Korea)

The veil was thrown back so far that it took most of the bride’s scalp with it. But, a collective of foreign journalists show what they saw (and presumably what they were allowed to share). Enjoy.

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