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• The Crash Moderns - Pimp My Life
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There is a loud snap as the lid of the pocket watch opens, speaks its purpose and then slams closed. There is satisfaction in that sound, knowing that one small goal is over. At least the watch generates sound then, proving through clapping thunder that it exists. This goal is a rather trivial and pointless goal, but an accomplished goal nonetheless.

The pocket watch has no purpose, thought, or feelings. Its ability to prove it exists is irrelevant. If the walking dead have no purpose, thought, or feelings, why do they need to prove that they exist? The walking dead do have feelings, even if those feelings make them resemble a doormat more than a mammal. Those feelings make them thunderous to prove that they exist. They need to scream to feel alive. That would explain why the walking dead are often so loud, boorish, and arrogant. That would explain the thought process of a weekend warrior. They find me disturbingly quiet and reserved. How little they know about how disturbed I actually am.

What about the goal from earlier? That goal is to know for sure that there is so much night left and tomorrow is so far away. If I had a checklist of all the things I have accomplished, yet never needed to do, it would stretch for miles. I place a chalk mark on the ground signifying the first of five pointless accomplishments tonight. When I am complete, I will mentally connect the dots and draw a circle around them before lighting a piece of blank paper in the center. Keep in mind that tonight will span over a month at the rate these minutes tick by.

Does it matter the time, since there is nowhere to be except right here and right now? Why must we always preoccupy ourselves with the future at the expense of the present? If only you are able to accomplish this and that, then tomorrow will be better. My hand still hurts from the last time I pondered on tomorrow. Yesterday I slept on an air mattress, while today I sleep on a bamboo mat.

Tomorrow, I will remove the Katana from the wall, and do so many things that I will never accomplish in the near future. Perhaps I left the house to find a better place to sleep. Was that the goal? I thought the goal was to eat Pizza? There I go again, confusing causality with effect. The goal is to turn the walking dead. A cause of that effect is eating Pizza.

When you have an idea, if you procrastinate, that idea is dead. Habitual routine takes over and the feeling of content will keep you from your aim or purpose. At least with a pirate flag held high above my bamboo mat, the experience still resembles that of a raft. The gentle hum of an electronic fan resembles the roar of the ocean. The goal is to turn the walking dead. A cause of that effect is restful slumber giving me excess energy.

Occasionally, a brief poorly structured scribbling of text flashes across the LCD screen. Even then, it is usually from someone less than 100 feet away that does not want to scream across a crowded room. People find me disturbingly quiet, and they themselves speak to each other in scribbled text in a crowded room? Perhaps, I am not as disturbed as I thought.

How long ago did I start walking to find his crossroad of regret and despair? The streets are already starting to fill up with weekend warriors attempting to hit up “happy” hour specials before 22:00, and perhaps sneak in past a cover charge or two. Their badges of honor become wristbands much like a decorated solider flashes their ribbons or medals on the home front.

Walking in the shadows almost invisible to the naked eye, I travel undecorated and at will. I do not concern myself with badges of honor or trophies. One pointless accomplishment completed, and four more to go. With a handshake, sardonic smirk, and a sarcastic remark, I enter the den where regret meets despair.

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• Local ProMo DownUnder

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• sPout - Nothin’ in Common
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ON THIS DAY BEFORE YOU WERE BORN:

American World Heavyweight Boxing Champion Jack Dempsey was born on this date in 1895. One of the men who made boxing a popular sport in the US, Dempsey won the heavyweight title from Jess Willard on July 4, 1919. Earlier in the year, he had won five fights in a row, each time knocking out his opponent in the first round. Dempsey’s bout against Georges Carpentier was the first one to boast a $1 million prize. Dempsey won that match and continued his winning streak until 1926, when he lost his title to Gene Tunney.

The term “flying saucer” was coined on this date in 1947 when an American pilot reported seeing strange objects near Mt. Rainier, WA, describing them as “saucers skipping across the water.” Fifty years later, also on this date, the U.S. Air Force released its report on the Roswell Incident, stating that the UFO’s and aliens that were reportedly seen near Roswell, NM, in 1947, were actually life-sized dummies.

1964 - Topic of the Day: Cigarette smoking is dangerous to one’s health — the Federal Trade Commission required that a message be placed on all cigarette packages warning consumers of the dangers of smoking, forty years ago today.

Anthony Hopkins, the Olsen twins, Halle Berry, Britney Spears, Kevin Costner, Glenn Close, Patty Duke, Brooke Shields, director John Singleton and composer Hans Zimmer will be receiving stars on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame in 2004.

1374 - A sudden outbreak of St. John’s Dance causes people in the streets of Aachen, Germany, to experience hallucinations and begin to jump and twitch uncontrollably until they collapse from exhaustion.

1664 - The colony of New Jersey is founded.

Go Now, and win Trivial Pursuit with this information.

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That would explain how the aroma made its way this far from the shop. The alley is desolate, and the perfect place to emerge from the shadows into the mainstream just long enough to strike and dart back into hiding. Of all the things to twirl between his right fingers, a stick of chalk would be the least expected, but the most needed for tonight’s adventures. Checking his pocket, he did remember to bring his lighter as well. The other material components such as intoxicants, stimulants, and test subjects are just around the corner.

Pizza is on sale this time of night, before the hordes of weekend warriors run amuck until the wee hours of the dawn before retreating into a state of sullen regret. Pizza is on sale this time of night, because the only people about are those that will cater to the weekend warriors in less than 2 hours time. Pizza is on sale this time of night, because those people who cater to the weekend warrior have grown tired of Pizza, and do not covet it.

The sale is the only way to draw them inside to partake in warm sticky gooey bread. If the price is low enough, perhaps the store will see a demand. Pizza is only on sale this time of night, because no one wants to eat Pizza. The ironic tale of supply and demand told in such a cruel fashion on a night such as this. How sad is the world when one does not covet Pizza? Pizza might be called the world’s most perfect food to those that are aware of the impact Pizza has on group dynamics. It is all in the tells, all in the tells.

The open-faced sandwich, meant for your traveling party to share, topped with a mixture of the essential food groups combine your clique into one common unit. Tear from the central pot of nutrients and share your tales of bravery and woe. Tear from the edges in unison and enjoy the company of your comrades. Fold and stuff it quickly into your mouth if you do not want to enjoy it, or take small precious bites to savor the moment.

There is so much to learn about a group of people by simply watching them eat communal food. You can see who the Alphas are, as they take first, fold in half, and then sit back boasting. You can see who the pleasers are as they take last, and also fold in half to be able to sit back and make sure everyone else’s needs are met. You can see who the outsiders are as they wearily take with a lack of confidence, and will follow the movements of the Alpha not folding to keep themselves occupied with eating. Those just under the Alphas, the lieutenants, will take before the outsiders and they will not fold out of defiance. This all happens without anyone realizing it. Given enough time these lieutenants will stand up to the Alpha, just give it time.

Watch carefully next time, and see how the Alpha, or lieutenants treats his significant other in this case. Does he take her for granted? If so, he will take for himself and let her, fend for herself. He does not care about her needs, and she is miserable for it. Does the lieutenant take before the Alpha’s significant other? If so you can be sure that the Alpha not only takes her for granted, but also does not even want her present. Does the Alpha mock the lieutenant for being kind to his significant other? How does the lieutenant respond? That response will show you his true level of defiance.

This group as described is the easiest to cripple. Simply start by talking to the one who takes last, and then pull away with those that lack confidence. Odds are they lack confidence and stick around because they are interested in the Alpha or the Alpha’s significant other. Give them something else to chase and a better chance for success. They will be yours to command. You merely present them with an out.

At least one dozen, possibly more, weekend warriors will fight ferociously against their own inner demons and lose. These fallen warriors will lose more than their tomorrow, but their dignity and their will to carry forward retreating into the inner recesses of their habitual droning. The harder one fights against one self the more one will end up losing when they fall. Run from yourself and smash into your own wall you spent years building. It exists to trap you inside more so than to keep others out.

A slight drizzle causes the droplets of water to bounce off his cap as he pushes hit hat back onto his head using his left hand. The water stings ever so slightly. The water makes its way inside the bandage touching the last of the open wounds from punching the mirror so many weeks ago. Glancing down at his pocket watch, I notice the time on the LCD screen says 19:47. Time to set up camp where despair meets regret and go on a recruiting mission. I think I might be in the mood to pretend to eat Pizza later this evening.

sincelery,
Leo

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The cover song you picked for your set = better than the entire rest of your set.

Putting out the same album for 20 years does not make you “true,” “dedicated,” or “loyal,” it makes you really really really boring. On the flip side to that, if people are actually buying every single one of your albums despite it being a complete recycling of your last (read: every single AC/DC album after Back in Black), you’re running one hell of a good business.

You really sounded terrible when you tried to play while hammered. Get the hell off the stage.

No one is impressed by the directionless, pointless, randomly-placed sloppy byproduct of bad technique you call a guitar solo…. except for virginal dudes with scraggly mutton chops and puffy 1988 mullets who sit wide-eyed as they listen to their Nitro CDs while jacking off into their own mouths.

And if the best part of your song is the guitar solo, you need to learn to WRITE A FUCKING SONG.

Bass solos are cool if the bass player is absolutely amazing. Like Victor Wooten amazing, not “hey look, I’m banging out nursery rhymes on the strings and acting like that alone is worth me wasting 10 minutes of a set that could have been used for actually playing songs.”

Drum solos should never last more than 2 minutes unless the dude starts playing with his cock AND balls. While the drums are moving. Doesn’t matter how good the guy is, you’re banging on shit. ‘Nuff said.

The Beatles came up with great music when they were on acid. You… not at all.

Your “exciting blend of metalcore, hardcore, and thrash metal” sounds exactly like every band of five dudes that has ever been on MTV2, as well as every band you ever play with in your hometown. There is absolutely nothing original about your sound, no matter how much you whine about how “it all sounds the same nowadays” and talk your band up like it’s the “next [insert influential metal band here].” In fact, if you’re characterizing your band as the next ANY BAND you’re automatically revealing your astounding lack of originality.

Guitar Hero is not helping your playing. At all. It’s a VIDEO GAME. You’re pressing buttons in time with the little dots on screen. It’s like DDR except you’ll stay fat. And you still won’t be able to play a real instrument.

Lastly, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: There’s always some 12-year-old little punk in Methlab, Arkansas who can play faster than you can, sing higher than you can, scream louder than you can… who can make their breakdowns more brutal, their songs more emotional, their melodies catchier than you can… who can play more instruments, can write more songs, has more contacts than you… who has a bigger dick than you, more money than you, and gets a HELL of a lot more pussy than you… who can make whatever they touch more jaw-dropping, more awe-inspiring, more dumbfounding than you’ll ever be able to… So be who you are and shut the fuck up.

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• Dead Child - Sweet Chariot
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The place where one starts to fear me by the scars I bear on the inside. The place where one stares straight into the abyss. The abyss comes to cradle you. It will rock you gently into oblivion. The place where those scars run so deep that they bear marks on the surface as well. The surface of the wall. These scars of torment, and the absolution comes with unabated wrath towards the only animal on this planet worth despising…. humans. Those that are “green” already know that the planet is better off without humans.

They hold themselves in such high regard, when they are nothing more than shallow yet hollow husks. The larger the ego the less depth they possess. The best defence is a good offence, and nothing offends more than a mirthful tongue. Clever wit becomes a shield, and Sarcasm becomes a tool to use on those who lack confidence. Continue to twinge in discomfort and read on while gently rubbing the back of your neck. Good. Though, your eyes are wide, and you cannot turn away as these words cascade strewn across the page. That tense stress pressing on your neck now is causing you to have a slight pain. Do you lack strength of will? Sharp the pain is, perhaps sitting up in your chair will help? Is the color draining from your face? Can your feet touch the floor at this height?

That pain stretches down from your neck into your shoulder. Good. Perhaps you should stop rubbing your neck, and start rubbing your shoulder instead. Alas, that will do you no good as your foot starts to tingle from a lack of blood flow. Good. You probably have never felt more uncomfortable than right now reading this passage. Good. Get used to this feeling, this feeling will help build your psyche. Now think of at least two instances in the past week that you regret. Why do you regret them? Did you belittle yourself in the process? The internal pain will take your mind of the physical pain you now feel. Good. Focus on that internal pain, always focus on the internal pain and not the physical pain.

I am not projecting, just stating a fact, a fact that comes with years of study, observation, and conclusion. Such is the tool of a necromancer, a mirthful tongue. I promised you blight and decay. I will be your salvation through the components of these spells. Why do you keep reading? You like the torment. I already know. I have always known.

Do you doubt your pathetic existence yet? Can you walk in the dark, or do you continue to allow the light to blind you. The human eye can adjust and see in the dark. It cannot see in sharp light. The end result of starting into the light long enough is blindness. How long have you been blind? The darkness will envelop you in warmth if you give it a chance. Turn away. Come walk a bit with me in darkness, and then become your own guide. If you are truly gifted you will have death sight, and see this apparent world for what it really is.

A fact that is the truth, and so much a truth that you do not want to believe it so. Have I ever lied to you? Not today, not yesterday, and I am not going to start tomorrow. Nothing can ever truly be known or communicated though, and I fear already you have started to misunderstand me. Fear is the wrong word here, perhaps hope. Hope is a much better word, like maybe. Are you scratching your arm now? Maybe and hope go hand and hand. When one says maybe, the recipient garners hope. Do not carry forward with false hope. Stop scratching your arm, because your leg is starting to itch. You are not focusing internally enough. Maybe means no, and one should never have hope in the non-committed. They lack integrity, and you cannot trust anyone who lacks integrity. Organized codes of ethics lack integrity, and so do universal truths and normalcies. Attack their proponents too.

I do not lack integrity though. Even at the expense of day walkers despising me. Since one does one so moral fall into the category of the unethical? Who’s ethics are you trying to force upon me now? I will not bend and subdue myself to your slave morality where the weak are helped at the expense of the strong? When was there ever an outcry for balance in society? Keep them all medicated and numb to force balance.

The awakened imbued are so far and few between, and even they lack the insight of understanding. They have to lack insight and understanding because they too are human. Are we not just effects of our own causes? While a couple debates free will and fate the pragmatist knows that fate is nothing more than combined outcome of former experiences. The only free will is that one will become habitual in the long run. When does the droning start? What penance do I continue to pay to practice my dark craft? I stare across the room with demented eyes trying to pierce the walls of those around me.

Is that fear I now smell? Can I taste that fear too, it smells delicious? Do you feel a chilling tingling sensation all over your body? If so, then welcome to my world.

sincelery,
Leo

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• John Hartman - I Made a Promise  
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It is not as if I could simply trade this world for another physically or metaphysically.

Instead, I could sit and continue to gaze at the stars while anthropomorphically personifying some elaborate concept transcending levels of spirituality. There would be a great debate on cause and effect due to the mind grappling with reason and conscience. It is a virtuous internal debate on immorality and ethics.

I continue to drift on the raft now with my left hand, almost healed, lapping waves. The last port, albeit brief did nothing to satisfy my needs, wants, or desires. Perhaps I should concentrate more on assembling a party of skeletal warriors for the upcoming battle. The game of smoke and mirrors only requires one or two key lieutenants capable of preprogrammed thought when the dark battles the light. Animate, recreate, and decimate.

Just get caught up in the wake of my raft and you will see what I mean. My strongest passion lies within the kiss of death. I speak this phrase in an utterance with a glib sincerity, “Let’s just be friends.” Is that fear I now smell? Can I taste that fear too, it smells delicious?

There is still a sense of unease that a conflict brews close on the horizon. Conflict always brews on the horizon, because for one party to prove that they are right, another party must be proved wrong. The conflict strengthens their own resolve, because they themselves lack security in their ethics. The less secure they are with themselves the more likely they are to lash out at others. Does fighting back mean that one is also insecure in their beliefs? In this case fighting back is an attempt to earn the respect of onlookers who undoubtedly feel that they have choices in life. That ploy for respect is the animate.

The dictionary defines how to apply the process of applying anthropomorphism, but not in the reverse. This piece is the recreate.

Perhaps, the dictionary’s ego runs unchecked denying an animalistic nature to the common human. Common human? Any human would be more fitting. It is all in tells, all in tells. Here is an experiment played out in reverse anthropomorphism, where humans take on characteristics of rodents. Not just any rodent though. Let us use the simplest of rodents, the common inbred pet mouse.

These truths of our animalistic nature are all buried within tells that humans subtly do to each other. If you understand tells, you can start to see and predict how humans will interact with each other. Those days of mouse wrangling did me good on predicting how humans will forage for sales in bargain bins much as the mice hunted the fresh cup of food for the sunflower seeds. They fought for dominance on who was first to the food bowl. They were weary of outsiders, and only felt comfortable when their closest surroundings remained undisturbed. Confused on the “they” yet between man and mouse?

The mice, slept made bedding from cotton, and slept under paper much as humans also make their bed. If the mice did not have this bedding, the stress became palatable, and they act anxious. The mice would also have a pecking order in who received the most comfortable place in the nest, much like parents dictate where their young sleep in the house. A female mouse also is prone to eat her first litter. There is one area where humans and mice are different, or are they. People often hurt those closest to them. This piece is the decimate.

sincelery,
Leo

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• Bruiser - Wreck
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• Irbisss - 24 Millions
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• The Radio Fix - Curse Me When You Leave
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It is standard practice for a necromancer to not only communicate with the dead but to command the dead to act according to his own will. I vowed a long time ago to never exchange passion with the dead, but like most resolutions, it was broken even before I could finish the sentence. The dead are so easily to animate with the lie you can give them life. Even if you give them life for a moment, they become dead again once you leave often times before you head out the door. Perhaps to be alive, truly alive for one moment is worth an eternity of living death. Why fight one’s nature with a conflicting demeanor? These demented eyes have seen too much, have experienced too much to keep from sharing torment with those around me. The trail of blight and decay long stretches behind me with creaking embers glowing in the distance of shattered bridges. Who burned those bridges? Not I, it was always them.

The mirror in the bathroom pales in comparison to the shattered bridges of my past. The bandage on my left hand will become a warning flag to all those around me.

People often ask each other a relatively harmless question, “So, what are you thinking?” However, the answer to such a question if spoken by one capable of thought is neither refreshing, rewarding, nor requested. It is always better to lie in this case, and state what the other person wants to hear. Never let someone know what you are truly thinking, because if you do, then they will have either an advantage over you, or they will succumb to the fear of knowing the truth. Nothing is more harmful and malicious than the truth, so comfortably lie to them. Comfortably lie to them if you want to feign the truth and prolong the agony. Speak the truth and end your own suffering. There is a better answer though. Simply state that, “You really don’t want to know.”

Leave yourself in a comfortably numb state. A state where you know you lie to protect them. Protect the dead from ever having to experience true pain and suffering. A state where you know the protection comes at your own expense. This protection comes at your expense and suffering. How much longer must there be give and no take? How long will you help others at your own expense? For me, the answer is no more, or not since a while ago is more accurate. Tonight, I might regret that decision looking at the result of my actions.

Tonight’s encounter was a bit different than most. The embrace involved something that felt quite natural at the time, but never had I experienced or practiced it before. Tonight’s action was second nature, and yet there was never a guide, spell book, or instance where
I stumbled across a self-help or how to. I was not even aware that this was a skill that a necromancer or a Psion could possess. Spiking and flaring are dangerous arts though. The motion was simply to breathe in deeply during the embrace. If there is an airtight seal of both lips and essences, then the outcome if a bit different than standard fare. The motion of breathing in deeply to suck all the oxygen out of her lungs as opposed to just exchanging saliva felt invigorating. Since it was my first time, perhaps I went a bit overboard. That could explain what happened next.

She now lay twitching on the ground subdued to any sort of stimuli in the world around her. Here I thought I was merely going through the motions. Who knew that the motions held power such as this? I am done with this one. I seek other victims in the land of the walking dead. They are all walking dead, and I do not seek to find another living being in this lifetime. The dead comfort me in their emptiness.

Through my death sight, I have become a necromancer. Follow in my footsteps, and walk with me in blight and decay. I promise you a world where the grass is browner, and if you are lucky enough, you will get to attend the funerals of all of your friends before your children can attend yours. This end, I promise you. I promise you if you are able to possess such luck. If not, let my wrath provide you a glimmer of sanctuary. I continue to hate this world with every ounce of my being, and will one day find a way to….

Sincelery,
Leo

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• Riverbend - Bent

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• Sara Vonderhaar - Are You Listening - Chicago, IL
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Cupping the water gently up to my lips, the water tastes of despair. Despair tastes very bitter. Bitter is one of the tastes the tongue can specifically differentiate when tasting food such as salts, sours, and sweets. Bitter supposedly triggers a response in the brain that one should not eat the food since it is poisonous.

Yet, here I drift on my raft tasting and consuming the bitter water. Ironically, I consume this water knowing it cannot quench my thirst. Knowing that that the water is poisonous to me. The bitterer the water tastes, the more I am sure that I travel on the right path. Such is the penance a necromancer pays to practice his craft. At least this path is kept warm by the black trench coat I wear with the regal deep purple liner. I must remember to practice my spells, and memorize those arcane movements with speech patterns to protect me from the self-righteous and good. They are out, and close. I can sense their presence.

The water might as well be coffee, alcohol, tea, lemon, ginger, horseradish, or any number of bitter foods that we consume on a regular basis to challenge our minds to eat poison. Stupidity is its own reward at this point. Is this a case of stupidity, or of one on a Stoic path of conviction? Is conviction itself a rationalization of stupidity and following tradition? Can one see the sea from the height of the crested wave, or only the next pier that one is about to crash into?

Is this another case of drinking too much, or not enough? Since the bitter water cannot quench my thirst, the answer to that question is irrelevant. Many irrelevant questions lately. Many answers without the proper questions. Since the answers do not match the questions, the journey to find questions for the answers propels me forward. A self-destructive thought briefly passes through my mind that if I were to just punch the raft with my Katana this all can end. This all can end so quickly, but then the journey will be over. This journey has just begun, or has just begun to continue. This journey will end, and yet the answers will never have questions. A multiple choice where there are no wrong decisions, because the question was never made clear. I have answers, probably not to your questions, but I have answers nonetheless. Let me pull from my pre-written note cards and hand you an answer to the question I think you are about to ask.

Not that puncturing the raft would have any profound effect either. I would simply drift wet and float, as opposed to being able to lay comfortably and take in the surroundings. I would exchange warmth for coldness, and be no better off than I was before. When I arrived at the next wall, I would salvage planks and build a new raft, only losing energy and time in the process. The self-destructive thought passes.

Wait a second. I do not even remember departing the mound. I do not even remember abandoning my post where I so vigilantly watched the damned burn in an eternal pyre of misery. Where am I? Why have I left my place of comfort to drift along these poisonous seas?

Since when was leaving the sanctity of the inner psyche a good place to venture forth? Is this how a necromancer becomes a lich wizard? Did I ever want to be a necromancer in the first place? Might as well finish the task at hand though. Stoic conviction propels me forward, and there is a new target on the horizon. The stronger the water becomes, the closer I am to that next port.

Sincelery,
Leo

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Venue Owner: Whats up guys! Thanks for playing last night! That was a great show! Hey do you think you could play here again September 24th? I’m trying to set up a good show for then and you guys would be great for it.
Band: Hell yeah, we’re all down for that. Mark us down!
Owner: Awesome, looking forward to it! And remember to keep bringing alcoholics! We can’t make any money off of Red Bull and Coke. Especially with the economy the way it is and everything.
Band: Yeah yeah yeah, we know, we know.

A few weeks pass…

[Band member at a local show:]
Band member: Larry! The fuck are you doing here? I haven’t seen your dumbass out at a show in forever!
Friend: Yeah I know man. I’ve been busy with the baby and everything. The babysitter was coming onto me hardcore so I had to fire her. She was hot but there’s that whole age of consent law and everything and I’m not trying to get locked up… again. My asshole is exit-only, know what I mean? And my psycho bitch of an ex-wife is too busy getting shit-faced and fucking random guys to take care of the kid that she helped make. Shit, she’s the one who told me she was still on the pill.
Band member. Uh… damn. That sucks.
Friend: Yeah man. Hey when’s you guys’ next show?
Band member: Oh it’s on the 24th at the Rusty Trombone.
Friend: You guys are playing at the Rusty again? Fuck yeah! I’ll definitely find a way to come!
Band member: Sweet! Bring some friends too!
Friend: Bro, I’ll bring a car full of people.
Band member: Fuckin’ right, man! Can’t wait!
Friend: Who else is playing?
Band member: Not sure yet, but as soon as I find out I’ll let you know.
Friend: Cool man. Hey Bartender! Get this crazy motherfucker a Heineken!

[Band member at work:]
Boss: Goddammit, you burnt the fries again! Screw it, we’ll just set these aside and have some nice food for later. But get your act together and stop dicking around or else I’m going to start taking these out of your paycheck.
Band member: Okay, okay. It won’t happen again.
Boss: It better not. Take some goddamn pride in your job. And go get that guy his triple bacon cheeseburger and onion rings, he’s been waiting for half an hour already.
Band member: I’ll do it right now.
Boss: Good. Hey, can you work the night of the 24th?  I’m taking off then to just chill, unwind, and get retardedly drunk. Having two jobs is kicking my ass.
Band member: Sorry, I can’t, I have a show that night. You should come out. Great music, great people, and the bartender is GORGEOUS. I hear if you get her drunk enough she’ll show you her tits. Allan told me all about it.
Boss: Really? Wow, yeah I think I’ll have to make that happen…. I mean, yeah I’ll definitely try to make your show.

[Band puts out a myspace bulletin:]
Mark you’re calendars! We’re playing at the Rusty Trombone on September 24th! That’s only three weeks away! And you’ll also be pleased to know that the bartender has some real nice boobage…
Anyway, we aren’t sure what other bands are on the show yet, but we’ll find out in the next couple days and make a flier for it that we’ll throw on all your pages, just to cover all the bases.
Hope to see you there!

[Band checks the calendar on the venue web site to see the lineup for the show:]
September 24th:
1. Tuesday Autumn Whisper
2. Eat My Feet
3. Spike of Xerxes
4. A Black Grave of Sorrow
5. Today We Will Tear Apart That Which Is A Product of You and Him or I
6. Aeortesimalitinessosity

Doors at 8, Show at 9:30
Ladies drink half off!

[Band calls venue owner:]
Owner: Hello?
Band member: Hey man, it’s Jay from Eight Auto Fire.
Owner: Oh hey, what’s going on?
Band member: I looked at the calendar on the Rusty web site to see what other bands were on the show on the 24th and I saw that we weren’t listed on there. We’re still on the show, aren’t we?
Owner: Uh, you guys were never on that show.
Band member: What? Yeah we were! We definitely told you to confirm us after the last show we played there.
Owner: I don’t remember that at all. Are you sure it was the 24th?
Band member: I’m completely sure.
Owner: Well look man, since I like you guys I can squeeze you into the opening slot on a show three weeks after that on October 15th if you want to jump on that.
Band member: Dude, no, we promoted the hell out of this show! 
Owner: Well I’m sorry, but—
[Band member hangs up the phone]

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• Mystic Rage - Who’s Your Daddy
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• Solid - Porn
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Your construction of that wall will give more away to the trained eye than what you are trying to protect. As you build this wall, you reveal yourself through the artistic slant placed in the foundation. The flaws become the building blocks of your towering heap of rubble. The older you get, the weaker your foundation becomes until you collapse your own wall and drown in your own misery.

These Ramparts you built fight off invasion from the Vikings and Pirates of the high seas. Those marauders will pillage, rape, and desecrate your core being if given a chance. They will always leave unsatisfied since that being is empty. Other lesser barbarians chip away slowly at your precious wall though. These lesser barbarians come constantly and inconspicuously while they chip away quietly in the night. They will cause your foundation to collapse, because you do not protect yourself from them.

The waves of dissonance and discord smash into the barrier reefs of reality. As each wave crests into the pier, it takes with it a plank of wood, and a barnacle or other sea creature that made its refuge against the shoring. The cresting waves each take, and continue to take back to the sea what once was whole. The cresting waves in return give the shattered remains of what once was living in the form of shell, sand, and seaweed. This attrition makes it easier for the marauders to claim what is left.

Push away all others, and build your wall higher as the water starts to rise. Spend your entire life protecting yourself from the outside world, and never look inside to see there is nothing to protect but the opposite side of the wall. Your hollow existence you call hallow, living in fear is your only reward. I congratulate you for that, and I will contemplate shedding a tear at your funeral someday. Perhaps I will say something to someone who will shed a tear for me at your funeral.

I will talk to you later, I will see you around, and I will call you in the future all become funeral hymns to me. I am a witness to walking death, and leave behind blight and plague in my wake. I might as well wish them a good life at the end of the night and send them packing. I am bard who sings dirges into the early hours of the morning. I knew them only briefly and gained nothing but torment for the occurrence. Perhaps I gave them something to contemplate to chip away at their walls in return.

Once you are gone, there will be a sea of others to take your place. I hear waves crashing, so my idle raft must be coming over the horizon to shatter someone’s reality as I stare at them with the demented eyes. Am I smiling, or baring his fangs in aggression? Am I laughing with you, at you, or at the situation in general?

I place my hand into the ocean and I feel despair. This despair will never quench my thirst, but just infect the world and those around me with pain, sorrow, and agony. However, it is the only way to see past the barrier and know if there is anything behind it. The only way is to follow the course of the waves, tasting the water to gage progress.

Sincelery,
Leo

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Envisioned by Dan.

Jason and Kristina both heard the door slam shut behind them, to Jason it sounded like finality, he knew the trap had sprung and he cursed himself for knowingly walking into it. All lights and sounds had extinguished the moment they had crossed the threshold but despite that Jason could sense that there were a fair amount of people in front of them. None of them made a sound, none of them moved a muscle.

Without thinking, without even knowing what he was doing, Jason cupped both of his hands together and blew into them, as he did he felt a kind of burning force leave his mouth and enter his hands. Whatever the force was became too much for him to handle so he opened his hands and pushed the force out and away, as he did, two separate balls of light flew from his outstretched hands, one landed on a bulb in a string of lights, the other landed on a lantern hanging from a tree, bringing both to life. From there a chain reaction ensued, from each source tiny balls of light sprang up and jumped to light another bulb or flame, hundreds of tiny lights flew through the air and before long the whole carnival was alive with brightness once again.

The crowd of undead standing before them scattered making weird, screeching, pig-like sounds, it seemed that they were just as surprised as Jason was at his trick he had just pulled. As they scattered, attempting to hide behind rides and food stands, only one stood his ground.

The body that had once belonged to a very sensitive young man named Larry Vannay was now almost unrecognizable. While Larry had been a respectable 6 foot 2 inches, he was now a little closer to 7 feet tall, his bones and muscles had also grown considerably leaving the former tenants skin ripped and mutilated. Ceraphin grinned at Jason with what had once been Larry’s mouth.

“Well, well, well, I wasn’t expecting any of those dip shit towns people to show up for at least another hour, but it seems our trap has netted us an even bigger prize! A wizard! Your soul will look wonderful in hell!!”

“Who are you? And where is Drussellia?” Jason asked. “I heard her laughing when I entered.”

For a second Jason saw a look of curious uncertainty cross Ceraphins face before it quickly reverted back to the grin. “Ah, but it must have been a trick of the mind, this little carnival of mine is designed to trick and confuse, I see it has worked quite well.”

Jason could tell Ceraphin was sizing him up and despite the grin, Jason could still detect a question in his unnatural eyes.

“Your not a demon, and your sure as hell not a god, so tell me human, how do you know of the queen? I have my doubts that you have met her, that always ends in a very horrible death. Are you by any chance one of her followers?”

“Yeah, something like that.” Jason responded “I heard her army’s were building and wanted to join.”

He had no idea what he was talking about but he also knew that whatever this thing was, it had no idea who he was. Also, he seemed not to have noticed Kristina standing in the shadows behind him, if only she could get that door back open they could get the fuck out of there. He could hear her quietly rattling the handle.

Ceraphins smile faltered and Jason saw the look of confusion come forward again. It was clear he couldn’t decide what to do with his visitor.

“You heard? But how did you hear? Nevermind! Her army will be made up completely of my hordes, I didn’t approve anything about humans fighting with us!”

Jason decided that as formidable as this being seemed, it wasn’t very smart, pretty soon it would revert to what it clearly knew best, destruction. And despite doing that light trick, he had no faith in any kind of defensive powers manifesting themselves anytime soon. All he could do was wait and hope Kristina got the door open in time.
“Come on,” he heard Kristina whisper “I’ve got it open.”

“Well then,” Jason said with as much of a smile as he could muster, “I guess I’ll be running along now, I must have heard the good news wrong.”

Ceraphins smile returned with more than just a small bit of malice and by this time all of his “soldiers” had regained their courage. With shovels, baseball bats and various other crude weapons raised they all crept out of their hiding places and shadows.

“Follower or not, you will in some shape or form join my army, what I don’t use now will be used again later when I return to hell.” Ceraphin screamed at Jason. And to his soldiers he yelled. “Don’t worry about his powers you cowardly motherfuckers, destroy him!!”

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I think we can all agree that the average music listener is a fucking idiot.

Okay, now if you managed to get this far we’re on the same page here.
Any idiot will shell out $85 (plus $20 Ticketmaster charges) to go to the Bon Jovi show “coming to a stadium near you” just because the local Clear Channel payola-driven media machine – I mean, “radio station” – promoted the hell out of it. But it takes special kinds of people to frequent local shows.

First we have the most common local show fan: the dive bar regular. There are thousands of tiny little dive bars tucked away all around you, but these particular people happen to spend a large portion of their lives at one that doubles as a venue. They might be full-blown alcoholics but when they like a band they’ll talk them up. Many of these people arrive at the bar when it opens and stay after hours, so their tastes in music are often very discriminating based on the sheer number of band shows they view weekly from their shaky bar stools. The regulars who happen to be well-established professional musicians are often indistinguishable from the just plain drunks, but they’ll all support just the same.

There are two types of local band girlfriends. The most common is the circumstantial fan. Her logic is that his Richard is burrowing in her Susan, so therefore she must love his music, attend every one of his shows, and pretty much just be the perfect fan, if only just for him. This girl will often be the girl that everyone in the venue with a penis between the ages of 18 and 80 wants to bang. Badly. This girl will run the merch booth every chance she gets, and she’ll know every word to every one of the band’s songs, no matter how shitty their lyrics are and no matter how god-awful the singing or even just the music in general is. Despite her devotion, she’s likely to end up cheating on this guy with someone in a bigger, more established band, usually one that landed a couple lucky gigs opening for a washed-up national act.
Another type of local band girlfriend is the one who is well aware of the lack of talent on her boyfriend’s part but figures that if she goes to a show of his every now and then when she’s not “busy” she won’t hurt his feelings. This girl can often be seen at the bar, in the bathroom doing her hair (or doing coke off the top of the empty paper towel holder), talking to her friends at the back of the place, text messaging her friends about how bored she is, or pretty much anywhere except in front or near the stage.

Next there is the little brother type. The little brother type sees in a certain local band (it’s usually only one particular local band) everything that he himself wishes he could be but that he isn’t and doesn’t think enough of himself to even strive to be. This guy is usually far from the most good-looking, and has the tendency to be that annoying guy with crooked glasses and a slight lisp who tells you with PBR breath through the gap in his teeth about how amazing this band is and that they’re gonna be world famous someday and how he’s gonna be their roadie because they told him he could and he’s gonna take pictures of them playing and send all of them to their MySpace page and goddamn they’re so incredible and he’s known all of them since high school when they were all in band and sports and popular and banging the hottest chicks in school while he was doing the pole polish to Maxim because he wasn’t old enough to buy porn and didn’t really have any friends except for these guys even though they were always too busy with what they were doing to pay much attention to him and holy shit they’re going on in five minutes and SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY!!!

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If people are a consumable and renewable resource, what good can they be for? Let us start with the basics and elaborate on possible ways to consume thy neighbor. Some say people find the utmost peace by the water while others say the ocean is a frightful place of the unknown. Did we come from the water? The answer is yes, as we gestate in embryonic fluid. Did we evolve from fish? Do we have gills? That is irrelevant to this discussion, since we evolved from the womb. Perhaps people’s opinion of the water is a reflection of how they see their mother. They project their feelings of submerging in the fluid with their very childhood and their first years of life.

The embryonic fluid supposedly is saline in nature, and a kin to salt water. Might as well be salt water then, only vitamin enriched. Can they gestate the children of dead mothers in a salt-water fish tank? I have seen close resemblances in movies involving cloning. Has anyone tried to save a second trimester baby in such a fashion? What would they hook the umbilical chord to? This vaguely sounds like an IV connected to bag of liquid food. Sadly, adults cannot drink this fluid and receive sustenance from it. This disconnect must be a safety mechanism for society.

If they could drink it, they would. Not only would they, certain cultures would brag about it. I would sure hate to wake up one morning and go to the store to find cans or bottles of embryonic fluid energy drinks on the shelf. The marketing for it would great though: “Drink Life Deeply,” “Feel Alive,” or “Harness the Power of Youth.”

With marketing you can convince the herd to do almost anything though. People eat and drink what is not healthy for them all the time. What could not be healthy about drinking the very substance, which sustains young life?

A pregnant woman’s water would no longer break; doctors would carefully drain the fluid when the time was right before a cesarean section. Eat your new son’s slightly grilled placenta and wash it down with mother’s water. You should not eat meat and milk in the same sitting, so that option is gone.

The craze would be endless, and people would have embryonic bombs with shots of Yager dropped into the fluid for the ultimate human buzz. Which do you prefer with your Yager? Bull Testicle Hormone, or Human Embryonic Fluid? Use Tequila instead and skip the salt phase. Just do the shot, and eat the lime since the salt is already there. Patron and Mother’s Water is very smooth, very very smooth. You will have to trust me on this one.

I would only hate to wake up one morning and see these cans or bottles in the store of Mother’s Water, because I thought of the idea publicly more recently. Someone else merely beat me to production. This water would be synthetic, since it would take too long to harvest naturally in the field. You would not really be drinking human embryonic fluid, just cloned fluid. I mean artificial fluid with artificial flavors.

The natural stuff would then fetch a very high price on the black market. That is where I would make my money. Trafficking the real thing to Ivory Tower young professionals caught up in the wave of implants and plastic surgery. I could even see more marketing spin in the form of, “Mother’s Water from a Virgin.” That would be spectacular, and probably in a pink or sky blue label.

Would you rather have your Ivory Tower young professionals snorting cocaine, or drinking Mother’s Water to get ahead and crash into their glass ceiling? That is the real question here: What do they want to use to crash?

sincelery,
Leo

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