Mike Nesmith’s Demo Version Of “don’t Call On Me,” Which Would Later Be Recorded By The Monkees

this is my favorite commentary on the who that i have ever seen. this guy left twitter so i will immortalize this here. happy belated roger day etc

Did anyone else see the daydream believers reference on the finale of The Floor last night ??

The category was boy bands and every other picture was of the real band.. so what happened…

the early 70s are just called Brian May because this was HIS era oml

✨TIMELINE CLEANSE✨

I made a supercut of Brian's affectionate, mischievous, and nostalgic comments through his stereoscopic photos of Freddie, Roger, and John in Queen in 3D 🥰

I'm sure nobody sat through 90 mins of this when I posted the first time lol, so I tried to paste together the sweetest little bits. Many are cut out of context tho and the full video has so much more content, so I encourage you to watch that as well!

I love that you can clearly tell how much Brian loves the boys like they're his own family, and if anyone else tries to convince you of the opposite(!), I hope this video is enough proof of how ridiculously untrue that kind of claim would be.

Enjoy!

*smashes you over the head with a potion bottle but it was a healing potion and it heals you for the exact amount of damage i dealt you* oh… uh. hm. do you think you could just lay on the floor and pretend to be unconscious

as a phrase, “she [x] on my [x] til’ i [x]” only is funny if on either side of a spectrum. either the phrase ends so specific to a sexual action it’s a smart joke (for example, “she strogan me off til i beef” uses the word “beef stroganoff’ but also makes a “stroking off” joke, making it clever wordplay.) or it makes so little sense that it ends up funny from the absurdity of deciphering what type of sexual action could even be taking place. (example: when my roomate the other night asked to hand them a sanpelligrino and then said “she san on my pelli til’ i grino” which begs the question of what ‘sanning’ is, what a ‘pelli’ repersents in terms of human genitalia and what ‘grinoing’ could possibly be.)

thinking about how paul mccartney spent the year 1969 putting the five stages of grief to music and no one even did a welfare check

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

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.