unexplained-events:

In Seattle, Washington, an aged and allegedly “haunted” coke machine has been in the same spot for over fifteen years, but despite its outward appearance the machine is fully functional. In fact, the machine has always worked. Some of the drinks it dispenses are normal Coke products, but some are products that are no longer on the market and don’t exist any more. Some of the buttons are labeled as a “mystery” and give a random product when pushed. The business closest to it, a locksmith, state that they have never witnessed anyone restocking the machine at any time, No one ever has, and the mystery of it has attracted tons of people to test out the machine for themselves. It’s also pretty interesting to note that the prices for the sodas have risen over time, recently being from 55 cents to 75. I guess ghost machines have to pay the bills somehow.

(via wizzardblizzard)

Meg White

"This is a Polaroid I took of my sister Meg White with an SX70 Polaroid camera from the 1970s. We couldn’t use it for anything we needed to release from our band The White Stripes because she was wearing leopard skin. I think she was just getting settled in before we did some other photos in our rehearsal room, but what a beauty. Sometimes I wonder if Meg is or was real; maybe I made her up and all that happened with us in our band and our travels was in my head. Perhaps it was just me on stage by myself the whole time with a six-foot rabbit named Meg. That would only explain some things, though. What a wonderful drummer to play with, so loud and simple. But looks can be deceiving. Who could tell from this picture that she’d murdered hundreds of people? She didn’t, but if she had, you couldn’t tell from this picture. Anyhow, I was going through some old boxes recently and I came across this photo so I took it out and put it on my refrigerator. I haven’t had a girl on my refrigerator since last Halloween, but that’s a different story." -Jack White

mol-bay:

Jack White with lightning-struck tree

"I can’t remember who took this Polaroid of me and this rather stationary tree, but I do remember why we took it. I saw lightning strike this tree in my front yard the night before. It was incredible and terrifying. I was on my front porch just trying to watch the rain but stay out of harm’s way when lightning struck that tree right in front of me about fifty yards away. It’s hard to move when you see something like that. It’s probably the harshest warning you could receive, maybe harsher than someone firing a gun in the air because you might have a chance of talking your way out of that. But lightning? It dug the ground up a bit in front of the tree for about ten feet, which you can’t see in this picture. But damn I was well dressed that next morning, huh? Must’ve been scared straight, trying to get my act together. Oh, also, lightning has struck my front yard two OTHER times that I know about, and I have seen—and heard—the damage from indoors, not like that first time where I was naive enough to think I could sit on my porch like Grandpa Jones and whittle while the rain fell all around me and not worry about miniscule things like fate, and heavenly retribution, and so forth. Also, as a side note; what does “thunderstruck” mean? Knocked over by sound? Hmmm… "- Jack White

dunwichwitch:

SOVIET-ERA BOOTLEG RECORDINGS OF BANNED WESTERN MUSIC PRESSED ON DISCARDED X-RAY PLATES

Before the availability of the tape recorder and during the 1950s, when vinyl was scarce, people in the Soviet Union began making records of banned Western music on discarded x-rays. With the help of a special device, banned bootlegged jazz and rock ‘n’ roll records were “pressed” on thick radiographs salvaged from hospital waste bins and then cut into discs of 23-25 centimeters in diameter. “They would cut the X-ray into a crude circle with manicure scissors and use a cigarette to burn a hole,” says author Anya von Bremzen. “You’d have Elvis on the lungs, Duke Ellington on Aunt Masha’s brain scan — forbidden Western music captured on the interiors of Soviet citizens.”

(via eatfuck)

Title: Aluminum Artist: The White Stripes 275 plays

clarabeau:

Are we positive this song is from an album in 2001 and not some grainy recording of a séance like two hundred years from now?

You know, the old medium, the worried young couple who own the Nashville plantation, the skeptical scientist, the slightly nervous teenager, born on July 9th, dressed in black jeans and a leather jacket. A tethered goat, a dish of salt, burning sticks of incense. The medium is deep in a trance. She’s almost shaking with effort.

Suddenly, all the candles go out. There’s a shift in the air. It smells like peppermint and cigarettes. The kid is holding himself differently. His black hair curtains his face. Everyone’s breath is fogging.

Assistants busily hang a vintage Gretsch around the kid’s shoulders, plug the EVP recorder into an amp.

“Jack,” the medium says. The kid tilts his head. “Play a song about how it feels to be dead.”

I would like to reblog this and add that I decided to start collecting White Stripes vinyls last night and alternately, this song is all the sounds I’m making looking at starting prices on Amazon right now.

Let me tell you guys, I suffered a lot last night.

As Arnold points out, there is an otherwise inexplicable shift in direction in the Piccadilly line passing east out of South Kensington. “In fact,” she writes, “the tunnel curves between Knightsbridge and South Kensington stations because it was impossible to drill through the mass of skeletal remains buried in Hyde Park.” I will admit that I think she means “between Knightsbridge and Hyde Park Corner”—although there is apparently a “small plague pit dating from around 1664” beneath Knightsbridge Green—but I will defer to Arnold’s research.

But to put that another way, the ground was so solidly packed with the interlocked skeletons of 17th-century victims of the Great Plague that the Tube’s 19th-century excavation teams couldn’t even hack their way through them all. The Tube thus had to swerve to the side along a subterranean detour in order to avoid this huge congested knot of skulls, ribs, legs, and arms tangled in the soil—an artificial geology made of people, caught in the throat of greater London.

London and Its Dead

i read shit like this and think what could my imagination possibly have to add

like how do i write something about london that’s weirder than london already is?

(via weunderstandthelights)

(via like--saltedearth)

If someone asked me my biggest frustration or insecurity with my body I guess my answer would probably be that my vocal cords are physically incapable of imitating the “outraged yakuza boss” voice.

Chiburui (血振るい), also called chiburi, is the process by which one symbolically removes blood from a sword blade. The term chiburui can thus be translated as “shaking off the blood.”