Laurel St Family Business Conglomerate

This blog no longer has as much of a focus anymore. What started as a health and fitness chronicle has been badly derailed by life. There is less a focus on my daily regime and more on things I find interesting, a lot of which is health related.

When I do get into fitness, I'm a subscriber of the primal/paleo health and fitness lifestyle and I enjoy lifting heavy shit.

I love music and goofy shit and really sublime artwork. If you like history, dick jokes, boxing, and Amelie, you'll dig me


Ask me anything  
Reblogged from mykicks

mykicks:

This guy in that Ron Paul video is talking about how, when Ron Paul wins the election, some people will say that he won’t be able to accomplish anything because no one will work with him, and the guy said that once Paul is in power he and his supporters will use the “power of light” to “identify and expose those that would stand against progress” and the whole thing sounds a lot like the Reign of Terror in the French Revolution.

Reblogged from christopherlindstrom
Reblogged from whydoihaveablog
whydoihaveablog:


Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber, who is serving life in prison for sending deadly mail bombs, won’t be able to attend his 50th reunion festivities at Harvard College. But he did contribute a bizarre entry to the alumni report for the class of 1962.
While many of his classmates sent in lengthy updates on their lives for the 2 ½-inch-thick “red book,” the entry for “Theodore John Kaczynski” only contains nine lines.
The listing says his occupation is “Prisoner,” and his home address is “No. 04475-046, US Penitentiary—Max, P.O. Box 8500, Florence, CO 8126-8500.”
Under the awards section, the listing says, “Eight life sentences, issued by the United States District Court for the Eastern District of California, 1998.”


Boston.com

whydoihaveablog:

Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber, who is serving life in prison for sending deadly mail bombs, won’t be able to attend his 50th reunion festivities at Harvard College. But he did contribute a bizarre entry to the alumni report for the class of 1962.

While many of his classmates sent in lengthy updates on their lives for the 2 ½-inch-thick “red book,” the entry for “Theodore John Kaczynski” only contains nine lines.

The listing says his occupation is “Prisoner,” and his home address is “No. 04475-046, US Penitentiary—Max, P.O. Box 8500, Florence, CO 8126-8500.”

Under the awards section, the listing says, “Eight life sentences, issued by the United States District Court for the Eastern District of California, 1998.”


Boston.com

Reblogged from lindsaydamnit

lindsaydamnit:

The awesomely insane Heaven and Hell nightclubs of 1890s Paris.

In modern times, you can find a stray cabaret or goth club in most modern metropolitan areas. But back in the late 19th century, your options were limited, albeit merrily deranged. Paris of the 1890s had several supernatural nightlife options, each of them with marvelously outlandish gimmicks.

At this gothic nightspot, visitors pondered their own mortality as they drank on coffins and were served libations (named after diseases) by monks and funeral attendees. Recalls Morrow:

Large, heavy, wooden coffins, resting on biers, were ranged about the room in an order suggesting the recent happening of a frightful catastrophe. The walls were decorated with skulls and bones, skeletons in grotesque attitudes, battle-pictures, and guillotines in action. Death, carnage, assassination were the dominant note, set in black hangings and illuminated with mottoes on death Bishop said that he would be pleased with a lowly bock. Mr. Thompkins chose cherries a l’eau-de-vie, and I, une menthe. One microbe of Asiatic cholera from the last corpse, one leg of a lively cancer, and one sample of our consumption germ!” moaned the creature toward a black hole at the farther end of the room. Some women among the visitors tittered, others shuddered, and Mr. Thompkins broke out in a cold sweat on his brow, while a curious accompaniment of anger shone in his eyes. Our sleepy pallbearer soon loomed through the darkness with our deadly microbes, and waked the echoes in the “Drink, Macchabees!” he wailed: “drink these noxious potions, which contain thvilest and deadliest poisons!”

But Cabaret du Néant wasn’t the only creepy nightspot in Paris. Later in Bohemian Paris of To-day, Morrow described his evening at the Cabaret de l’Enfer (“The Cabaret of the Inferno”), a Satanically themed nightclub in Montmartre that abutted another cabaret. And according to the author’s account, it was perhaps the trippiest hangout of La Belle Époque:

“”Enter and be damned, the Evil One awaits you!” growled a chorus of rough voices as we hesitated before the scene confronting us. Near us was suspended a caldron over a fire, and hopping within it were half a dozen devil musicians, male and female, playing a selection from “Faust” on stringed instruments, while red imps stood by, prodding with red-hot irons those who lagged in their performance. Crevices in the walls of this room ran with streams of molten gold and silver, and here and there were caverns lit up by smouldering fires from which thick smoke issued, and vapors emitting the odors of a volcano. Flames would suddenly burst from clefts in the rocks, and thunder rolled through the caverns. Red imps were everywhere, darting about noiselessly, some carrying beverages for the thirsty lost souls, others stirring the fires or turning somersaults. Everything was in a high state of motion.”

And right next door to the Cabaret de l’Enfer was Cabaret du Ciel (“The Cabaret of the Sky”), a divinely themed bar where Dante and Father Time greeted visitors and comely ladies dressed as angels pranced around teasing patrons. As Morrow recalled, the evening’s entertainment was presided over by St. Peter himself, who anointed the boozy crowd:

“Flitting about the room were many more angels, all in white robes and with sandals on their feet, and all wearing gauzy wings swaying from their shoulder-blades and brass halos above their yellow wigs. These were the waiters, the garcons of heaven, ready to take orders for drinks. One of these, with the face of a heavy villain in a melodrama and a beard a week old, roared unmelodiously, “The greetings of heaven to thee, brothers! Eternal bliss and happiness are for thee. Mayst thou never swerve from its golden paths! Breathe thou its sacred purity and renovating exaltation. Prepare to meet thy great Creator and don’t forget the garcon!”[Later], without the slightest warning, the head of St. Peter, whiskers and all, appeared in a hole in the sky, and presently all of him emerged, even to his ponderous keys clanging at his girdle. He gazed solemnly down upon the crowd at the tables and thoughtfully scratched his left wing. From behind a dark cloud he brought forth a vessel of white crockery (which was not a wash-bowl) containing (ostensibly) holy water. After several mysterious signs and passes with his bony hands he generously sprinkled the sinners below with a brush dipped in the water; and then, with a parting blessing, he slowly faded into mist.”


more at http://io9.com/5910963/the-awesomely-insane-heaven-and-hell-nightclubs-of-1800s-paris

(via fuckyeahvictorians)

Reblogged from newkidssonmycock
yeahiwasintheshit:

jesus, i dont like magenta tights either, but…

I don’t know which is funnier, Mr Dungerees around yo knees throwing a straight right at Macy Gray or that Blackie Chan’s front kick to the cooter moves her head enough at just the right time to be spared the punch. Not sure if she comes out ahead in that but I Try to imagine her pain. I’m thinking he just wiffed on the punch and she took a snatchshot for nothing. Don’t mess with the Hood.

yeahiwasintheshit:

jesus, i dont like magenta tights either, but…

I don’t know which is funnier, Mr Dungerees around yo knees throwing a straight right at Macy Gray or that Blackie Chan’s front kick to the cooter moves her head enough at just the right time to be spared the punch. Not sure if she comes out ahead in that but I Try to imagine her pain. I’m thinking he just wiffed on the punch and she took a snatchshot for nothing. Don’t mess with the Hood.

(Source: newkidssonmycock)

Reblogged from yeahiwasintheshit
yeahiwasintheshit:

back in my day…

yeahiwasintheshit:

back in my day…

Reblogged from nprmusic
nprmusic:

Regina Spektor’s first new studio album in three years, What We Saw From the Cheap Seats finds her scattering in several directions without losing sight of the sweet melodies that make her so accessible.
Stream What We Saw From the Cheap Seats now.

nprmusic:

Regina Spektor’s first new studio album in three years, What We Saw From the Cheap Seats finds her scattering in several directions without losing sight of the sweet melodies that make her so accessible.

Stream What We Saw From the Cheap Seats now.

(via mountainstage)

Reblogged from notbiz
oldtimefamilybaseball:

This is important. 

oldtimefamilybaseball:

This is important. 

(Source: notbiz)

Reblogged from theoddmentemporium
theoddmentemporium:

Robert McGee, scalped as a child by Sioux Chief Little Turtle in 1864. Photograph 1890.
Robert was the son of emigrants. In 1864, Robert and his family decided to migrate west, as was the custom of many emigrants of the day, to seek a better life. The family joined a wagon train heading to Leavenworth, Kansas. Somewhere on the trail, Robert’s parents died, and he was left an orphan. Others on the wagon train cared for Robert on the trail. Once they reached Leavenworth, Robert, a mere child, was left to fend for himself. Desperate for work, Robert took a job with a freight company to take supplies to Fort Union in New Mexico. In July of 1864 the freight company had a wagon train leave Fort Leavenworth bound for Fort Union, and Robert was one of the teamsters working on this wagon train. At about 5 in the afternoon, [their] camp was attacked by 150 Sioux under the command of the chief Little Turtle. The men were caught completely off guard, and the group was slaughtered. Robert was the sole survivor of the slaughter, and he remembered the details of the ordeal. Robert had been dragged by some of the Indians to Chief Little Turtle. The chief first knocked him down with a lance, and then shot him with a revolver. The chief then shot him through with two arrows, to pin him to the ground, and then scalped him. As each of the Indians passed him, they beat and stabbed him, and then he was left for dead. He lived, even though he no longer had a scalp. He is the only person [known to have] survived the horrific experience of being scalped.

theoddmentemporium:

Robert McGee, scalped as a child by Sioux Chief Little Turtle in 1864. Photograph 1890.

Robert was the son of emigrants. In 1864, Robert and his family decided to migrate west, as was the custom of many emigrants of the day, to seek a better life. The family joined a wagon train heading to Leavenworth, Kansas. Somewhere on the trail, Robert’s parents died, and he was left an orphan. Others on the wagon train cared for Robert on the trail. Once they reached Leavenworth, Robert, a mere child, was left to fend for himself. Desperate for work, Robert took a job with a freight company to take supplies to Fort Union in New Mexico. In July of 1864 the freight company had a wagon train leave Fort Leavenworth bound for Fort Union, and Robert was one of the teamsters working on this wagon train. At about 5 in the afternoon, [their] camp was attacked by 150 Sioux under the command of the chief Little Turtle. The men were caught completely off guard, and the group was slaughtered. Robert was the sole survivor of the slaughter, and he remembered the details of the ordeal. Robert had been dragged by some of the Indians to Chief Little Turtle. The chief first knocked him down with a lance, and then shot him with a revolver. The chief then shot him through with two arrows, to pin him to the ground, and then scalped him. As each of the Indians passed him, they beat and stabbed him, and then he was left for dead. He lived, even though he no longer had a scalp. He is the only person [known to have] survived the horrific experience of being scalped.

(via fuckyeahvictorians)

Reblogged from fyeah-history
fyeah-history:

Photograph of an Old Hawaiian woman by Danish amateur photographer Christian Hedemann, 1883.

fyeah-history:

Photograph of an Old Hawaiian woman by Danish amateur photographer Christian Hedemann, 1883.

(via fuckyeahvictorians)