#mishka shubaly

[kydtyk]

I haven't bought a t-shirt in forever but I had to splurge while buying work clothes on-line.

[hushtimeladyholes]

"I gotta get outta bed

Get over it

Because I'm still alive or what passes for it"

- Mishka Shubaly

[citricpoison]

So i read that eltingville comic.

I'm more of a Josh girlie but this song reminds me of Bill so i did what i always do (self insert)

[altared--state]

Mishka Shubaly - Your Plus One At My Funeral I know you'll be looking so beautiful, in a long black dress, at my funeral But who's gonna be your plus one, have you hanging on his arm, when I'm lying there so cold Who's gonna walk you home when I'm rottin' down below Who's gonna walk you home when I'm rottin' down below

[sincretense]

Hoy he roto las reglas. Mis reglas. O al menos, aquellas que de algún lado han caído sobre mi, y yo honroso las he respetado y seguido a raja tabla.

Por lo que hoy, al romperlas, he salido del lugar con algo roto. No es el alma, o algún cosa sentimental. Me ha tocado la situación fibras en lo más profundo, que me siento descorazonado. Perfecta palabra. Me he sacado de encima tremenda tiranía de la ley, para transgredir, y salir con algo perdido dentro mío.

Cantan los coros ambivalentes, que he sido Prometeo fundando un nuevo ser, y también que la ira de los dioses caerá sobre mi por ser un traidor. Y ahora, más que nunca, puedo entender quién se oculta detrás del espejo entrecerrando los ojos, mirándome con decepción...

Luego de rota la regla, uno descubre por que ella estaba.

Realmente no me atrae ni me provoca nada lo ocurrido. Mi cerebro nublado ha visto espejismos de algo que realmente no se hallaba ahí. Y buscando, uno se entera porque nunca fue por esos lados.

Uno no puede sentirse feliz en presencia de humanos tan llenos de vacío.

Simplemente el cuerpo, el alma, se retrae y se niega a todo. Perdón a cualquiera que me pida explicaciones, pero no es mi culpa que el mundo ya no me sea útil.

Problemático yo no, es el mundo el que me ha quedado pequeño. Es la gente la que ya no me hace sonreír, ya no me genera emoción ni amor. Las lindas caras se esconden, y cuerpos macabros toman lugar. Realmente no puedo amar ni sentir si no conecto con algo en lo interno. Venido a mal desde nacimiento o por una crianza de mierda. Pero simplemente cada mañana, cada rostro, cada sonrisa o frase protocolar me genera repudio, y sepultan mis ganas de ir hacia afuera, por las venas abiertas de la humeante ciudad.

He tomado llaves y cerrado la puerta, para morir dentro de un departamento que pienso infestar de música y alcohol. Porque ya no hay nada afuera, nada que pueda amar, nada que me atraiga, nada que me genere felicidad. Solo un pequeño placebo del momento.

He testeado, por fin, distintas formas de enfrentar el vacío. Y he logrado entender porque siempre he actuado así. Definitivamente dormir borracho rodeado de muertas botellas es mi destino, y lo que yo deseo encontrar. No deseo a nadie, no me importa que me deseen. Porque el deseo ha quedado en el umbral del pasillo, y a esta altura ya nada vale. Ya los cuerpos no valen. Menos, cuando lo que se busca es unión.

Y que horror, recurrir a las camas fáciles para sentir, cuando en realidad no se siente nada y se vuelve a casa más vacío.

Ayer fue por accidente. Hoy realmente lo entiendo.

Estoy maldito. Tal vez desde el embrión. Tal vez desde la tierna infancia, cuando mamá me dijo por vez primera mi nombre, y me puso mi primer adjetivo. Condenado por los genes. Condenado por la derrota. Condenado por la sangre pútrida, por la gente desalmada, por el tiempo que me queda pequeño y me obliga a usar otras ropas. Condenado por todas las coordenadas humanas descriptas. Condenado por el ruido, por la pérdida, por el amor roto, por rostros que sonríen pero me dan miedo. Por las lágrimas que me recorren, del iris al pecho. Porque me difumino con los días, y mi voluntad se hace más débil.

Quiero enterrarme a mi y a mi pena en lo más eterno y profundo de la tierra. Se ha decidido mi destino antes de ser. Mi nombre primero ha sido una idea entre las cienes de mi madre, y soy esa pena suya impresa en carne. Soy carne corrupta y perdida, sin nombres ni destinatario. Cansado de que nada me genere placer. Cansado de que el rostro del espejo este simple y llanamente vacío.

He recurrido a los métodos. A los bajos. He decidido descender, pensando que mis ideales me han fallado. Y he emergido entendiendo de que los ideales le quedan grande a un mundo con un rostro verde de papel. Donde nada vale la pena, pero si un precio en cifras redondas.

Yo no tengo ceros que respalden ninguna cifra mía, por ningun lado. Debo tatuarme en los ojos que este mundo no es más que vanalidad hecha cemento y piedra y carne sucia y rostros vacíos...

Aun así, amo mi tierra y mi hogar. Amo este planeta asqueroso que merece ser abrazado. No aquello que lo ha corrompido. Amo esta tierra negra metiéndose por mis uñas, por mis ojos, por los espacios entre mis dientes...

Hace rato que el sentido me abandonó. Y que solo estoy dando tumbos mientra canto canciones que nadie escucha por sordos y perdidos. Yo sé que me extravié, pero logré sacarme la careta para verlo. En cambio el mundo que gira es algo oscuro, una máquina atroz, algo que no puede amar, algo que no me genera nada porque ni siquiera me mira. Pero cuando lo hace, realmente es una máscaras de payaso simulándo felicidad, detrás arde el infierno.

En efecto, mundo querido, este es el infierno ardiente y todos andan quemados de los pies andando en brazas, con máscaras sientiendo la gloria. Mientras yo veo el fuego, y la condena, y las caras ajadas, y los vientos gélidos, y las noches eternas, los días agotados, las lágrimas vueltas excusas...

Me cae la horrible sensación, que de ahora en más algo debera acompañarme. Líquidos depresores, humos de niebla, que congelen mis angustias enteras existenciales, y me permitan salir a la calle hasta mi destino predefinido, sin sentir que el próximo paso debería ser rumbo al río o a mi cama.

Enterrarse, como yo te enterré. Como yo te perdí, mientras me dejé la mano al aire y me perdía también a mi. Perdido todo, condenado por siempre.

Como buen Prometeo, de traer el fuego he pasado a ser condenado a buscar, a vagar sin hombro cercano. Ojalá mis ideas sean solo penas del momento. Ojalá lo que digo sea solo una pesadilla pasajera. Porque sino estoy condenado a la vida del Prometeo caído y sin calor.

La pena del momento no tiene porque ser la pena perpetua. No tengo porque estar sufriendo a cada paso, aunque un texto pueda darlo a entender. Ni siquiera debería justificar algo que debería entenderse como normal.

En un mundo así, cualquiera con medio dedo de frente sentiría al menos una vez en su vida los ánimos de desaparecer. Por lo pútrido del allá afuera.

Cualquiera que sepa, que sienta, que vea, podrá entender lo que se siente. Podrá entender que mañana uno se levanta radiante o mejor, que no se llora la semana entera. Pero el mundo sigue ahí, corrupto, y la angustia dando vueltas dentro de uno. Nada cambió, solo la tormenta amainó un poco. El cielo escampó.

Lo que no quitá que mañana los vientos se crucen, y vuelva a llover. Y vuelvan a entrar las ganas de enterrarse, y de enterrarte, y de enterrar todo hasta que nada quede y el fin se perpetúe...

The only one drinking tonight - Mishka Shubaly

[krispyweiss]

Book Review: “Sing Backwards and Weep: A Memoir” by Mark Lanegan

Mark Lanegan’s harrowing new memoir, “Sing Backward and Weep” begins, like so many books, with a flashback.

In it, Lanegan has just copped heroin and coke and gets popped by Seattle’s finest. Turns out they were looking for an auto-theft suspect and Lanegan, who has no ID but gives his real name, is mercifully and miraculously sent on his way.

“Didn’t you used to be a singer?” the cop says.

Lanegan is at one of his many low points here. But this opening tale, like others in his book - a weird party for four with a guy who may or may not have been Anthony Kiedis’ father, for instance - is never revisited and doesn’t seem to have a point.

But “Sing Backward and Weep,” which follows Lanegan from childhood in Ellensburg, Wash., to his ringside seat to the burgeoning Seattle scene as singer for Screaming Trees to the deaths of friends both famous - Kurt Cobain, Kristen Pfaff - and not - a fellow crackhead named Shadow, a victim of a serial killer - to his own successful rehab with big assists from Courtney Love and Duff McKagen, certainly does. That is, it’s never too late to get your shit together, even if you’ve thrown away everything multiple times in pursuit of alcohol, crack and smack.

Writing the book also inspired a new, companion LP, Straight Songs of Sorrow.

Lanegan’s nonstop tales of blackout drunkenness, stupor-inducing heroin usage, days-on-end crack binges, sex and masturbation - why do musicians always write about jacking off? - would quickly grow tiresome some of not for his obvious self-awareness and strong writing with the help of editor Mishka Shubaly. The long-sober Lanegan isn’t spouting 12-step platitudes; he’s writing as a man who knew at the depth of his lows - and knows now - every nook and cranny of his inner darkness and weakness. This is the insight that makes “Sing Backwards” such an engrossing - and validating - read at a generous 352 pages.

Toward the end of the book, when scoring heroin is all that matters in a never-ending quest to stave off dopesickness, Lanegan has an epiphany as he savagely pummels a would-be dealer in Amsterdam who tries a late-night ripoff.

“As I persisted in the unrelenting beating, I became aware of a dull, cemetery-dead emptiness inside,” he writes.

���I had stopped feeling anything at all. No rage, sadness, fear, nothing. I had finally crossed the line and ceased to give a damn about life, death or any other meaningless thing in between.”

Although he’s hardest on himself, Lanegan is also pretty nasty to the Trees’ Conner brothers - guitarist Lee and bassist Van - to the point of making the reader think enough already. But his rap on Liam Gallagher is hilarious; his friendships with Cobain and Layne Staley - whose 2002 death closes the book - are heartwarming; and his salvation is hopeful.

Ending as it does so long ago, “Sing Backwards and Weep” all but ignores Lanegan’s solo career, save for his first two solo LPs - the Winding Sheet and Whiskey for the Holy Ghost - and doesn’t explore his path to prolonged sobriety and productivity.

This is a huge disappointment for fans of his post-Trees work. But what’s there is entertaining, engaging and eye-opening.

And despite its bleak subject matter, “Sing Backwards and Weep” is ultimately, and unbelievably, a glimmer of hope in a world ravaged by opiates.

Grade card: “Sing Backwards and Weep: A Memoir” by Mark Lanegan - B+

5/21/20

[sophsweet]

Here’s an update on press releases in local newspapers for Cornwall based artists, comedians and events.

Here are a few of the latest ones:

Old School Bar and Kitchen – Falmouth Packet 3 March 2017

Comedy Jam at Toast – Falmouth Packet 16 October 2016

Comedy Jam at Toast – Falmouth Packet 27 February 2017

Mishka Shubaly at Toast – Falmouth Packet 7 November 2016

    Recent press releases from Sweet Sound PR Here's an update on press releases in local newspapers for Cornwall based artists, comedians and events.

[invisiblehandsmusic-blog]

Vinyl..... Five for £30

22 June 2017

Check in the shop for a brand new offer providing FIVE ihm collection vinyl’s for just £30 in three separate packs!  Offer coming soon.  Click here for further information.  

[kydtyk]

It’s drinking time.

[kidcongopowers]

By the time I got to Phoenix Lydia Lunch was rising.. great night at @valleybarphx with @lydia.lunch.official and grand set by @mishkashubaly Mishka Shubaly . I played records. Thanks Amy and Tom for setting it all up... #lydialunch #mishkashubaly #kidcongopowers (at Valley Bar) https://www.instagram.com/p/B09ESP4gRqW/?igshid=c11jl6irlswl

[therealmattnappo]

Talking Creative Process with Mishka Shubaly #podcast #author #comedian #musician #songwriter #recordingartist #musician @MishkaShubaly 

[saintmal]

A book of short fiction called BRUTES written by Bill Whitten of St. Johnny, Grand Mal & William Carlos Whitten is out now on Too Big to Fail Press

Manuel Marrero (founder of Expat Press/author) extols BRUTES: "Bill Whitten's sentences enter you with painful clarity before you've realized what hit you. These are stories that were waiting to be written and eventually read. Whitten is a writer transcribing gravity. He lets you freefall to meet the moment on dyadic terms, that of the story's and the reader's emotional infrastructure. BRUTES is a cudgel working the midsection, a slow burner that incandesces effulgently and often, never letting you forget that you're on fire, where other books never let you forget you're reading them.

"Mishka Shubaly calls BRUTES: “Savage and tender, elegant and depraved, caustic and yearning, Whitten’s prose is a bloody straight razor wrapped in a silk pocket square.”

Pick it up HERE and HERE....  

from BRUTES: There was a pay-phone on W. 23rd Street. His friends told him about it, they all used it. You dropped a quarter in the slot, it fell through the machine and landed in the coin-return. Yet, miraculously the phone registered a credit. With one quarter - dropping again and again through the apparatus - a person was able to call anywhere in the world for free. Whenever such a pay-phone was discovered, its location was guarded with scrupulous care (like a secret imparted from father to son) and discreetly transmitted to select dishwashers, porters, janitors, grad-students, furniture movers, bike messengers. Often there would be a line of people waiting to use one of those singular telephones. The devices were proof that there was no uncultivated ground in the universe; nothing was truly barren or dead. It was at the pay-phone on W. 23rd that Arnal last spoke to his grandmother in Zakynthos. The quarter must have fallen through the machine two hundred times. As his giagiá repeated the legend that a likeness of Christ had first been rendered by Pilate, her voice warped into arias of dense telephonic distortion. It had been an evening like so many others, pushed and pulled at by errant ripples of time. He’d been too poor to buy a plane ticket to attend her funeral. Since he’d been run over and remade into the person he was meant to be, he could, at last, afford to pay his respects to her. But there was no hurry. The past and future were connected in the same way ‘here’ was to ‘there’.  

#stjohnny

#grandmal

A book of short fiction called BRUTES written by Bill Whitten of St. Johnny, Grand Mal & William Carlos Whitten is out now on Too Big to Fail Press

Pick it up HERE and HERE

[axcerws454]

 EPUB|PDF|KINDLE This Van Could Be Your Life ONLINE BOOK DOWNLOAD FOR FREE by Mishka Shubaly 

This Van Could Be Your Life by Mishka Shubaly

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This Van Could Be Your Life Free Online Books Download From the bestselling author of The Long Run comes an emotional and adventurously funny true story of a man, a van, and a family on an epic journey of rediscovering what matters most. It?s been a rough time for Mishka Shubaly and the women in his family. In a failed quest for something stable, they?ve all arrived at a crossroads. Divorce, unemployment, eviction, addiction, sobriety, an abusive marriage, grief, homelessness, breakups, and abandonment. Can Mishka, still single, self-doubting, and on the lost side of forty, help? Maybe. He?s got the idiotic idea of a pilgrimage from Southern California to northern Saskatchewan for a family reunion. Eight troupers in all. And so sisters, nieces, nephews, and mom (armed with a bulletproof positive attitude) pile into Mishka?s 1976 shag-carpeted Chevy van. It?s a little wounded itself but raring to go.With four thousand miles of road ahead of them, Mishka steers headlong on a journey toward a better understanding of what defines a  This Van Could Be Your Life Download Free Epub Books Online-Download Books Online This Van Could Be Your Life-Download Free This Van Could Be Your Life Books Online Pdf-Read Books This Van Could Be Your Life Online Free No Download-Free Audio Books This Van Could Be Your Life Online Download-Book Online This Van Could Be Your Life Free Pdf Download-Book Online This Van Could Be Your Life Free Download-Buy Online This Van Could Be Your Life Books Download-Online Books This Van Could Be Your Life Free Download- This Van Could Be Your Life Books Online Download-Online Book This Van Could Be Your Life Free Download-Books This Van Could Be Your Life Online Download-Online Book This Van Could Be Your Life Pdf Download-Book Online This Van Could Be Your Life Free Download-Download Book This Van Could Be Your Life From Google Books Free Online-Download Free This Van Could Be Your Life Romance Epub Books Online-Free Download This Van Could Be Your Life Read Books Online-Free Kindle This Van Could Be Your Life Books Online Download -Books Online DownloadThis Van Could Be Your Life-Free Online Inspirational Books Download This Van Could Be Your Life-How Can I Download This Van Could Be Your Life Books For Free Online-How Can I Download This Van Could Be Your Life Free Books Online-This Van Could Be Your Life Online Booking App Download-This Van Could Be Your Life Book Online Free DownloadReading Download Pdf Epub read