"ugly things" and the trajectory of my life

reading the new ugly things, feeling strangely alienated from all the rekkid collector froth therein (altho awed as always by the level o' scholarship, which in my own "career" i've only approached twice), i'm nonetheless quite taken by the lengthy rant "no more jubilees: punk before punk" by johan kugelberg, who spent punk's formative yrs in sweden, of all places, and here picks up the rock-rant torch lit by meltzer's aesthetics of rock and carried by st. lester and the didactic carducci to try and connect the dots between (among other things) brit pub rockers kilburn & the high roads (ian dury's 'riginal outfit) and dr. feelgood (as big of an influence as the ny dolls, johan opines); parisian marc zermati's seminal skydog label; '70s scandis the hurriganes (including an explanation of raggare -- scandinavian greasers -- which gave me a new understanding of why turbonegro would have a song called "raggare is a bunch of motherfuckers"); the intarweb as a source of metaphorical "constipation, indigestion, and flatulence" for ocd rekkid-collector scum; '70s danes the kalemaris (who looked kinda like a proto-turbonegro); the dictators; '70s cleveland bands; the flamin' groovies; lobby lloyde's coloured balls; the dickens, a side project of members/roadies from nrbq (which august outfit is still touring the rawk dumps 30+ yrs after their inception, i was surprised to discover when i saw their name on a flyer at a spot i played with nathan brown in charleston, 2003); '60s garage punk comps and too much more.

all of which caused me to contemplate the realization (which first hit while viewing the excellent joe strummer biopic the future is unwritten) that punk really was an extension of hipi after disillusionment set in (as my sweetie likes to point out, there's no one more truly cynical than a disappointed idealist). also, the trajectory of my own life and how i've been kinda like the guy with one shoe nailed to the floor, plowing the same furrow over 'n' over again, from teen brat getting goofed on by the older guys at the hipi rekkid store for digging stooges/mc5/velvets/nuggets while writing earnest letters to greg shaw asking what kind of drugs he took to fuel his writing (note to self: must read suzy shaw 'n' farren's new tome bomp!: saving the world one record at a time this year); to hermetic obsessive, writing 10,000-word screeds on obscuro detroit bands as therapy from my soul-destroying corporate gig around the turn of the century; to the healthier (more cathartic) outlet of playing in the stoogeband. and how rocket redux is prolly my fave release in the genre since funhouse. and how i'd just as soon listen to "state of girl" by bindle as any/all of the above (except funhouse, of course). whew!