Olivia
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Genosuke
@Leotheboss2
Joined August 2012
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27 Followers
527 Posts
Only a few months after releasing their debut album, Rage Against The Machine arrived at Pinkpop in 1993 with a song that was already becoming impossible to ignore. “Killing in the Name” combined Tom Morello’s innovative guitar work with Zack de la Rocha’s uncompromising lyrics, turning political anger into one of the most explosive tracks of the decade.
In 1958, scientist John Calhoun created a mouse paradise known as Universe 25: unlimited food, comfortable shelter, and no predators. Starting with just four males and four females, the population exploded to 2,200 before social behaviors collapsed, reproduction ceased, and by day 600 the entire colony had died out.
The Jacksons perform "Blame It On The Boogie" live in Germany, 1979. Pure joy captured on camera. 🕺🏾
The song: Released in 1978, "Blame It On The Boogie" became one of the classic songs of the Jackson family's disco era – a reminder that before Thriller, Michael Jackson was the king of the dance floor.
Musikladen: Germany's most iconic music television show at the time. If you performed on Musikladen, you were at the top of the world. The Jacksons deserved to be there.
See Michael's energy in this clip. 20 years old. No one on the planet could match him. Not even come close. 🖤
Dünyada yapılmış en güzel şarkılardan biri olabilir…
Tek kelime anlamasak bile açınca tekrar tekrar dinlemekten kendimizi alamıyoruz.
Imagine walking out in front of 72,000 people, with millions watching around the world, then sitting at the piano and performing one of the greatest songs ever written with pure confidence and passion.
Freddie Mercury truly was the ultimate rock star ❤️🎹
It was during this 1990 appearance on the BBC’s ‘Wogan’ to promote his film "Wild at Heart", that we learned every ounce of cocaine may also contain traces of Nicolas Cage.
Blame It On The Boogie - The Jacksons [1978]
Mike Tyson was 20 years old here 😳
The most ferocious 20 year old male in the history of mankind 🥶 Absolutely crazy genetics!
Kevin O'Leary says most people waste $15,000 a year on stupid stuff like $5 coffees
"Stop buying coffee for five dollars and fifty cents"
"You go to work and you spend $15 bucks on a sandwich, what are you an idiot. It costs you 99 cents to make a sandwich at home and bring it with you"
"Bring your own water, your own drink or your own coffee mug. You start to add that up every day it's a ton of money"
"Most people starting on their job making their first $60,000 piss away about $15,000 a year"
Jermaine was originally the lead singer of The Jackson 5 until Katherine and Joe Jackson discovered Michael's vocal talent.
@DanBilzerian Good job on quitting weed. What about blow?
#MichaelJackson’s 1995 MTV Video Music Awards performance is widely considered one of the most legendary live medleys in pop music history. On September 7, 1995, at Radio City Music Hall in New York City, Jackson took over the stage for a 15-minute solo showcase that seamlessly blended his biggest classic hits with tracks from his newly released album, HIStory: Past, Present and Future, Book I. To honor his monumental impact on the network, MTV even temporarily rebranded itself as "MJTV" for the day.
Mike Tyson says he asked his doctor for help quitting coke and the doctor asked for some
"On my children's life, I'm trying to get help. I'm talking to the doctor I got a problem and he's like, 'You got some on you? Can I have some?'"
"Then I go to rehab. I gave the staff guy my last bit of coke, I wanted to be a good person. Then I saw him later acting funny. The motherf*cker took my coke"
A young Michael Jackson and The Jackson 5 returned to The Ed Sullivan Show in 1970 and delivered unforgettable performances of “I Want You Back,” “ABC,” and “The Love You Save” 🎤✨
Lmao, who made this??
IN PRAISE OF FRANCESCA ALBANESE
There is a question that visits me in the small hours, when sleep will not come and the mind turns over old stones. The question is this: “What would I have done in the 1930s, on the morning after Kristallnacht?"
Not what I say I would have done. Not what I hope I would have done. But what would I actually have done—when the trains began to run, when the neighbours grew quiet, when the cost of decency became the loss of everything?
Most of us, I think, would have done little. Not from malice. From fear. From the soft, creeping conviction that someone else will speak, that the situation is complex, that we must be 'reasonable'. Lest we forget, the ordinary is the extraordinary's alibi. And how we have clung to that alibi! How we still cling to it!
And then, every once in a terrible while, someone appears who does not cling. Someone who steps forward when others step back. Someone who speaks the name of the thing when everyone else is busy naming something else.
Francesca Albanese is that someone.
She stands before the world—alone, unarmed, armed only with law and language and a rare courage—and she says what the centrists will not say, what the foreign ministries will not say, what the editorial boards will not say. She says: "This is a genocide. And we are watching it happen."
Do not tell me that is hyperbole. Do not tell me the term is contested. She has not used it lightly. She has used it as a physician arrives scientifically at a diagnosis—not to wound, but to warn. Not to inflame, but to name.
And for that, they have come for her. Oh, how they have come for her. Smears. Investigations. Vicious editorials. Frozen bank accounts. Dispossession of the only apartment she had ever owned. The machinery of the respectable turned to crush her. Because the respectable cannot abide what she represents: a mirror held up to their complicity.
Let us, once again, travel back to the 1930s. Back to the few who stood up when the trains began to run laden with Jewish people.
There was Aristides de Sousa Mendes, a Portuguese consul in Bordeaux. He defied his own government. He signed thousands of visas, by hand, for hours, until his fingers bled. He saved more lives than Schindler. And he died penniless, disgraced, erased.
There was a German officer in Warsaw named Wilm Hosenfeld. He hid a Jewish pianist in the rubble. He did not save thousands. He saved one. But that one—Władysław Szpilman—carried the memory. And memory is "the only haven from which we cannot be expelled."
There was Raoul Wallenberg. There were the villagers of Le Chambon. There were the anonymous, the quiet, the furious few who said: “Not on my watch.”
Francesca Albanese is their heir. Not because she carries a gun. Not because she hides refugees in her basement. But because she does something equally dangerous in a world that has perfected the art of not seeing. She sees. And she speaks.
She does not speak as a diplomat. Thank Goodness she doesn't! Diplomats have given us the language of "there are arguments on both sides" and "restraint" and "proportionality." Diplomatic language is the perfumed grave of moral clarity. No, she speaks as a jurist. As a human being. As a woman who has looked into the abyss and refused to call it a "complex geopolitical landscape".
Edna O'Brien once described a character who "had the recklessness of those who have already lost everything worth losing." Francesca Albanese has not lost everything. She has her dignity, her office, her voice, her family. But she has calculated the cost of speaking truth to power. And she has decided that that cost is infinitely less than the cost of silence.
What is that cost? Let us name it. She has been called antisemitic—she, who stands on the ground of international law forged in the ashes of Auschwitz and the fires of Nuremberg. She has been called a conspiracy theorist—she, who cites every source, every footnote, every UN resolution. She has been called naive—she, who understands better than most the machinery of realpolitik.
These accusations are not arguments. They are the spittle of the threatened. Because Francesca Albanese threatens something very precious to the powerful: the right to commit atrocity without being named.
Friends, the 1930s did not arrive with jackboots and pogroms on day one. They arrived in small increments. With "reasonable" restrictions. With "proportional" measures. With the silence of the respectable.
We tell ourselves that we would have been different. That we would have been Sousa Mendes. That we would have been Wallenberg. But most of us, I fear, would have been the neighbours who later said, "I didn't know."
Francesca Albanese knows. And she refuses to pretend otherwise.
So let us praise her. Not with statues or awards she does not seek. But with something harder: with our own refusal to look away. With our own voices, raised in places that are safe for us but dangerous for her. With our own bodies, if it comes to that.
A brave woman, who was injured while demonstrating outside a US nuclear military base in 1982, the infamous Greenham Common, had told me that "the heart is a hunter for what it cannot have." But I say the heart is a hunter for what it will not lose. And what we will not lose is the memory of those who stood up when standing up cost everything.
Francesca Albanese is standing up now. In our time. In our name. Under our indifferent sky.
Let us stand with her.
Not tomorrow. Not when it is safe. Now.
[Extract from a speech in Athens on Sunday 3rd May 2026]
![yanisvaroufakis's tweet photo. IN PRAISE OF FRANCESCA ALBANESE
There is a question that visits me in the small hours, when sleep will not come and the mind turns over old stones. The question is this: “What would I have done in the 1930s, on the morning after Kristallnacht?"
Not what I say I would have done. Not what I hope I would have done. But what would I actually have done—when the trains began to run, when the neighbours grew quiet, when the cost of decency became the loss of everything?
Most of us, I think, would have done little. Not from malice. From fear. From the soft, creeping conviction that someone else will speak, that the situation is complex, that we must be 'reasonable'. Lest we forget, the ordinary is the extraordinary's alibi. And how we have clung to that alibi! How we still cling to it!
And then, every once in a terrible while, someone appears who does not cling. Someone who steps forward when others step back. Someone who speaks the name of the thing when everyone else is busy naming something else.
Francesca Albanese is that someone.
She stands before the world—alone, unarmed, armed only with law and language and a rare courage—and she says what the centrists will not say, what the foreign ministries will not say, what the editorial boards will not say. She says: "This is a genocide. And we are watching it happen."
Do not tell me that is hyperbole. Do not tell me the term is contested. She has not used it lightly. She has used it as a physician arrives scientifically at a diagnosis—not to wound, but to warn. Not to inflame, but to name.
And for that, they have come for her. Oh, how they have come for her. Smears. Investigations. Vicious editorials. Frozen bank accounts. Dispossession of the only apartment she had ever owned. The machinery of the respectable turned to crush her. Because the respectable cannot abide what she represents: a mirror held up to their complicity.
Let us, once again, travel back to the 1930s. Back to the few who stood up when the trains began to run laden with Jewish people.
There was Aristides de Sousa Mendes, a Portuguese consul in Bordeaux. He defied his own government. He signed thousands of visas, by hand, for hours, until his fingers bled. He saved more lives than Schindler. And he died penniless, disgraced, erased.
There was a German officer in Warsaw named Wilm Hosenfeld. He hid a Jewish pianist in the rubble. He did not save thousands. He saved one. But that one—Władysław Szpilman—carried the memory. And memory is "the only haven from which we cannot be expelled."
There was Raoul Wallenberg. There were the villagers of Le Chambon. There were the anonymous, the quiet, the furious few who said: “Not on my watch.”
Francesca Albanese is their heir. Not because she carries a gun. Not because she hides refugees in her basement. But because she does something equally dangerous in a world that has perfected the art of not seeing. She sees. And she speaks.
She does not speak as a diplomat. Thank Goodness she doesn't! Diplomats have given us the language of "there are arguments on both sides" and "restraint" and "proportionality." Diplomatic language is the perfumed grave of moral clarity. No, she speaks as a jurist. As a human being. As a woman who has looked into the abyss and refused to call it a "complex geopolitical landscape".
Edna O'Brien once described a character who "had the recklessness of those who have already lost everything worth losing." Francesca Albanese has not lost everything. She has her dignity, her office, her voice, her family. But she has calculated the cost of speaking truth to power. And she has decided that that cost is infinitely less than the cost of silence.
What is that cost? Let us name it. She has been called antisemitic—she, who stands on the ground of international law forged in the ashes of Auschwitz and the fires of Nuremberg. She has been called a conspiracy theorist—she, who cites every source, every footnote, every UN resolution. She has been called naive—she, who understands better than most the machinery of realpolitik.
These accusations are not arguments. They are the spittle of the threatened. Because Francesca Albanese threatens something very precious to the powerful: the right to commit atrocity without being named.
Friends, the 1930s did not arrive with jackboots and pogroms on day one. They arrived in small increments. With "reasonable" restrictions. With "proportional" measures. With the silence of the respectable.
We tell ourselves that we would have been different. That we would have been Sousa Mendes. That we would have been Wallenberg. But most of us, I fear, would have been the neighbours who later said, "I didn't know."
Francesca Albanese knows. And she refuses to pretend otherwise.
So let us praise her. Not with statues or awards she does not seek. But with something harder: with our own refusal to look away. With our own voices, raised in places that are safe for us but dangerous for her. With our own bodies, if it comes to that.
A brave woman, who was injured while demonstrating outside a US nuclear military base in 1982, the infamous Greenham Common, had told me that "the heart is a hunter for what it cannot have." But I say the heart is a hunter for what it will not lose. And what we will not lose is the memory of those who stood up when standing up cost everything.
Francesca Albanese is standing up now. In our time. In our name. Under our indifferent sky.
Let us stand with her.
Not tomorrow. Not when it is safe. Now.
[Extract from a speech in Athens on Sunday 3rd May 2026]](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/HHsnlr9WIAEr4Cw.jpg)
Jesush Cwisht..
Fun fact: These were the main original voices from the Soviet-Russian cartoon Well, Just You Wait! (Ну, погоди!). The cartoon was very popular in Poland as well.
Anatoli Papanov was the original voice of the Wolf, and Klara Rumyanova originally voiced the Hare:
Snoop Dogg turned the C-Walk into a global icon. He dances it so naturally, completely effortless — pure West Coast LBC spirit.👟
If no one had pointed it out, I wouldn't have realized this was Tom Cruise.
Tom Cruise improvised the character's dance moves during an audition. Ben Stiller found it hilarious and incorporated it into the script.
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