Notes From The Apocalypse

Opinion.

2012-01-21T02:56:00.001-08:00

Dearest Bemidji,
News was made recently when video footage surfaced of Marines urinating on the corpses of their foes. They have rightly been vilified by everyone who cherishes the sanctity of live and of death. It is a marvel to me, then, that for decades we have allowed a retail store to reside on the graves of our areas indigenous inhabitants. There are an untold number of bodies buried beneath Pamida, and this is fact. An inconvenient fact that has been ignored and subverted over the years. How the building was allowed to move forward is beyond me, but that does not mean things cannot be improved.
The Bemidji City council should give Pamida fair market value for the building, raze it to the ground, conduct a comprehensive and inclusive archeological study of the area, build a riverside park, and in it place the new statue of Shay-Now-Ish –Kung AKA Chief Bemidji. There he may look over the waters that nourished his family long before any of us were born. To spend time and energy destroying The Carnegie Library for no good reason when such a tragic and prejudicial social and spiritual injustice looms over the history of Bemidji is nothing short of insanity. Short-sighted, ignorant, racist, atheist, hypocrite insanity. I would never allow anyone to build anything on the graves of my forbearers. To allow it to continue now is nothing less than urinating on corpses. Over and over again. Please harass your city council representative about this craven injustice until they relent on their tireless course of taxing you to death for parks you can’t enjoy and entertainment you can’t afford. Tell them to stop viciously tearing down every nice thing, creating divisiveness and anger, and instead get to work building new and wonderful things, that unite us with hope and diversity.
Yours,
Q

Welcome To The One True Ring.

2011-10-30T22:48:00.000-07:00

Welcome To The One True Ring.

Jeremiah Liend

10-28/29-2011

Out of The Hat V Production.

Location: Middle Earth

Object: Old Phonograph

First Line: This place is scary.

Players: 3 Men 1 Woman

Cast of Characters:

Isildur: Second King of Gondor.

Sauren: Powerful Sorceress.

Bobo Baggins: Hobbit cook.

Trogdor: Ork fighter.

Props: My Ma. Old Phonograph. Record. Marker. Ring. Lucky penny. 4 chairs. Rope.

SFX: 1 Voice recording.

Scene:. Interior of The One Ring of Power. There should be four chairs in which are tied our heroes. They should be facing the audience. In front of them, on a stand, is an old phonograph.

Trogdor. This place is scary.

Bobo. It certainly is.

Isildur. Who is that? Identify yourselves at once!

Trogdor. Don’t yell! It only scarier when you yell!!!

Isildur. I’ll slay you where you stand, where are you? Why can I not move?

Sauren. Calm yourself, king. You are trapped within The One Ring of Power.

Isildur. Who are you? What is that? Where are we?

Sauren. Calm yourself, king, and I will answer your questions, for I am Sauren. Most powerful magician in all of middle earth.

Isildur. I am Isildur son of Elendil of the Dúnedain of the Númenor, Lord Exile and Second King of Gondor.

Bobo. That’s so many things to be!

Isildur. And who are you my child?

Bobo. Though I be a mere 70 years of age, I resent being referred to as a child. I am Bobo Baggins. Iron Chef of Bemidjishire.

Isildur. I know not of this Bemidjishire.

Bobo. It remains not within the borders of Gondor, but much farther north. So impossibly north that people rarely visit.

Isildur. I care not for what you say.

Sauren. You are wise to ignore the hobbit, for he is undoubtedly inconsequential to the plot of our dread story.

Isildur. Speak on Sauren, I like your pluck.

Sauren. Is that a derogatory statement?

Isildur. I should say not.

Sauren. Very well. Then I will tell you what I know, and nothing more.

Trogdor. I smash pretty lady. Right in the face.

Isildur. Speak not terrible monster! Or I will smite you with my blades! Where are my blades?

Bobo. And my delicious meat sandwiches!

Trogdor. Trogdor no have his little mouse.

Bobo. A little mouse!?

Trogdor. Trogdor like to pet it soft fur and dream of better life.

Isildur. Who are these idiots and why am I trapped here with them?

Sauren. I will assume that this question is directed at me, and so I shall answer as best I can.

Isildur. Expose! With haste!

Sauren. I am Sauren the Maia, and what I speak to you is the truth. We have all been trapped within the confines of an infinite prison. The One Ring of Power is a tool designed to enslave the minds of the wearer by channeling and enhancing the powers of those unfortunate spirits bound within it. I know all this because I assisted Celebrimbor and Sauron in the design of this ring.

Isildur. Sauron?

Sauren. My husband. [Long pause.] Ex-husband.

Trogdor. FOR REALS!?

Sauren. It can be no more real.

Isildur. How can we escape?

Sauren. There is no escape. We are trapped in an infinite loop. How unfortunate not in separate loops, where we could spend eternity alone.

Bobo. Was that addressed to me?

Sauren. It was addressed to all of you. All you alls. This is not how I planned things.

Isildur. There are things still I do not understand.

Sauren. Ask your dumb questions.

Isildur. We are all of us thralled to this one ring of power?

Sauren. Yes.

Isildur. Why?

Sauren. Because it can direct and amplify the power of the trapped to the bearer of the ring. Each of us has particular things to contribute to Sauron’s power. I, for instance, was the most powerful magician in Middle Earth.

Bobo. You mentioned that earlier, but I see that you are also trapped in a magical ring.

Sauren. No need for the sass mouth little hobbit. Sass isn’t going to make this journey any shorter.

Isildur. Sauren, what you say makes no sense, and I am vexed my intellect cannot seem to digest it. We are trapped in a ring, so that our powers can be used by the wearer of the ring?

Sauren. Yes.

Isildur. So, if someone puts on this ring, they can gain my prowess with the sword or cudgel?

Sauren. For certain.

Isildur. Excellent. And also they could command your magics?

Sauren. My most powerful spells lay at the beck and call of one who but knows the words of conjuring.

Isildur. And even in the orks case, the wearer of the ring-

Sauren. Would have idiot strength. The strength of ten strong idiots.

Isildur. With such ability it would seem unnecessary to bring the hobbit.

Bobo. Your words hurt me.

Trogdor. Even Trogdor only mildly demeaned by previous statements. Little man got taken out to lunch!

Bobo. Second lunch! I’m so hungry!!!

[Suddenly there is splendid light.]

Sauren. He did it! Sauron put on the ring!

Isildur. Look at that fantastic helmet!

Sauren. I BOUGHT him that helmet!

Bobo. Why is he looking at himself in the mirror?

Sauren. It is to ensure that he looks cool. Sauron has many issues, but of them all, he lacks self confidence that he hides in idle vanity. This will of course make infinite slavery seem all that much longer.

Isildur. Now he’s making a delicious sandwich.

Bobo. WHAT SORT OF HELL IS THIS!? TO SEE A DELICIOUS SANDWICH AND BE UNABLE TO EAT IT!!

Trogdor. Trogdor beg for a death that will never come!

Isildur. We’re doomed!

Sauren. DOOMED!

Trogdor. Doomed!!! YAYYY!!!

Isildur. Also, and maybe just between you and me, why the ork? Surely there were fair and intelligent Gondorian shot-putters who could rival the beast in strength? Why then the ork?

Sauren. It is the most cunning of all the traps planned to continue the rings existence.

Isildur. And that is?

Sauren. Wearing the ring makes you super dumb.

Isildur. Dumb?

Sauren. Intelligence scores below zero. A more crippling mental state than any drug or transfusion could provide. Feels amazing. Particularly for those who worry a great deal about frivolous things. Like how good someone looks in a helmet. Using an axe or whatever.

Isildur. So the ork is why Sauron is enjoying this amazing sandwich so very much?

Bobo. Look at it! Four types of cheese! Including both soft and aged varieties. Fresh cut lettuce and tomato. Where are we? Where is this that you can get such fresh produce?

Sauren. Mordor’s kitchens are vast.

Isildur. He brought the hobbit along so he could chef things up?

Sauren. Exactly.

Isildur. How strange.

Sauren. Not really. If you’re going to live for ever you need a solid diet. Sometimes the prospect of a good meal is all anyone really has to look forward to.

Bobo. Thank you, Sauren. I see you get it after all.

Isildur. LOOK! Sauron’s fighting my men! That’s my base! That’s my heir! Can you believe that? Well this will be great! They will get the ring and then they will find a means of getting us out!

Sauren. You fool! There is no way out!

Trogdor. Smash! Smash!

Isildur. WOW! Gods! What a hit! Why is his mace glowing?

Sauren. It’s magic you ninny!

Trogdor. Smash! Smash!

Isildur. Stop smashing my men, man!

Bobo. This is terrible! This is almost as bad as the not eating the sandwich!

Isildur. Look! It’s the King of Gondor! We’re saved! Uh oh. Oh crumbs. Oh! Yay! OK. Sauron’s defeated.

[The phonograph kicks on and a voice can be heard to say:]

V: Welcome to The One True Ring, Sauron. Your pleasure phylactery is right this way.

Isildur. Pleasure phylactery?

Sauren. I can’t believe he had that installed. I can’t believe him. He really broke my heart. What a complete douche nozzle.

Bobo. Look! The king has the ring! Awesome!

Sauren. He’s getting dumb.

Isildur. How can you tell?

Trogdor. SHOOT! SHOOT ARROWS!

Isildur. Oh! Oh no! Oh crumbs!

Trogdor. We in river! Trogdor only bathe once a year whether he need it or no and this makes twice in year. Trogdor unhappy with life.

Sauren. These are hundreds and thousands of years going by.

Isildur. I did notice several numbers after that king’s name.

Sauren. We were probably in a box for a couple hundred years.

Trogdor. River. Stuck in river.

Isildur. Is this normal?

Bobo. What’s normal?

Sauren. He’s in here somewhere.

Bobo. Hey! Hey, wait! Look! A hobbit! We’re saved!

Isildur. I doubt that very much. If the king of Gondor didn’t save us I think we lost our opportunity.

Trogdor. He introduce himself as Sméagol in third person.

Isildur. Really?

Sauren. Weird.

Bobo. No, watch! He’s gonna come through! Oh! Oh no! Oh. He just murdered that guy.

Trogdor. He fed him lots water sandwich without bread.

Bobo. Oh dear. Are we in a cave?

Trogdor. Love caves! Dad used to take to caves! Stalagmite and stalactite you moron! I kill dad with spear. Now I have no dad...

Isildur. You poor creature. We are in a cave.

Sauren. Oh he lost us.

Isildur. How do you lose something like us?

Sauren. And why do I keep making him invisible. HEY! Hey it’s a different hobbit!

Isildur. Is this one a lunatic?

Sauren. Who knows? Let’s make him invisible?

Isildur. We can do that?

Sauren. It’s a feature of the ring we can control I guess, since Sauron wasn’t invisible.

Isildur. Huh. Now we’re living with some boring hobbit.

Bobo. This is a relative of mine.

Isildur. He knows a wizard! Surely he will recognize us!

Bobo. They are far too high. They will never notice us at this rate.

Sauren. NO! No look! He figured it out! Finally!

Isildur. Thank heavens! Wait!? Who is this guy?

Bobo. Who is this Frodo dweeb? I could totally take this guy.

Trogdor. Wait... wait.

Isildur. Look! A council! No. Wait. They are giving it to the hobbit.

Trogdor. Wait. Wait....

Sauren. They really did give it to the hobbit.

Trogdor. Wait... wait.

Sauren. USE YOUR WORDS TROGDOR! USE YOUR MAN-WORDS!

Trogdor. There a racial bias to all these decisions. Orks no represented except for slave community.

Isildur. Oh dear. My great-great-great-great-great-grandson just took out dozens of orks. Just dozens.

Trogdor. I weep for those orks and their fambily.

Bobo. The hobbits are setting out alone! Great!

Sauren. Why didn’t they fly?

Isildur. Oh crumbs! Sméagol’s back!

Trogdor. Me holding out for Sméagol!

Sauren. No way!

Bobo. Oh!!! Wait for it!!!

Trogdor. FALLING!

Isildur. YES! YES!!!!

[All of the characters escape their bonds and rise from their seats.]

Sauren. Well. I guess in the end, infinity wasn’t so long.

Isildur. I am sorry about your ex-husband’s pleasure phylactery.

Sauren. It’s OK. There are a lot of non-physical dimensions.

Trogdor. That deep.

Isildur. Where will you go ork?

Trogdor. I go to ork heaven where there big rock candy mountain and milk straight from teet of God.

Bobo. Good luck, ork.

Trogdor. Trogdor try to no forget, but Trogdor no so good with names and faces.

[Trogdor flees.]

Bobo. Where do hobbits go when they die?

Sauren. Hell, for they are not baptized.

Bobo. I am forlorn!

Sauren. Just kidding, Bobo! I don’t know where you go. Here, take this ring that will lead you to the sandwich kingdom or whatever.

Bobo. Thank you. Will it really lead me to a kingdom of sandwiches?

Sauren. Maybe? It’s a weird world out there. Take off little one.

[Bobo leaves on a grand adventure.]

Isildur. Did you dismiss the hobbit that you might mount me and bewitch me alone?

Sauren. No. I’m trying to get rid of you as well.

Isildur. I see.

[Isildor is deflated and begins to leave.]

Sauren. Oh, Gods. Here!

[Sauren gives Isildor a coin.]

Sauren. It’s my magic penny. Don’t lose it. Keep it secret. Keep it safe. If you can. I think the last several years have proved that to be more difficult for some.

Isildor. It was never about the nations. It was about the love.

Sauren. Go now, gentle king, to join your ancestors.

[Isildor exits. Sauren goes to the record player and takes off the LP. She writes on it.]

Sauren. “Lord Of The Rings” I am going to make so much money. So very much interdimensionally insured money.

[Sauren leaves to call Peter Jackson.]

THE END.

Of Mice and Dudes.

2011-08-10T13:55:00.000-07:00

For the last year I lived with my Grandma Mary. She is an amazing woman who had either a mice problem or a poltergeist problem. I tended to believe in the mice, as I have trapped a few, and Sawdust, the ancient cat, would also catch a mouse now and again. I joked, at the poor animal’s expense, that his “dying cat” act was just a ruse for the rodents. “That damned cat is on the tail end of his 9^th life. He couldn't catch a cold at a dead run.” Snap. Now you just got ate by Sawdust. Later we put Sawdust to sleep and he has become the ghost cat at last. But this is about the mice.

I would hear the mice in the walls, and the hearing it would drive me near insane. There was a time, many years ago, during an expansion of my family’s home, that my sleeping loft lay open to the elements. As such, the acute and tall wedge of the loft became inundated with moths. Giant, powdery, fluttering moths. I learned to sleep under the blankets that summer. It wasn’t that I was afraid of the moths, it was that I was afraid of them landing on my face, or in my mouth. And I could hear them. Fluttering. Their powdered wings mere inches above my worried brow and tightly clenched eyes.

The mice were like this, but worse. A mere quarter inch of plywood between my headboard and their skittering claws. I would imagine their routes through the insulation and dog/cat food they would undoubtedly store. I wondered what the insulation to food ratio was, and also wondered if they had the small things I can never find. Meltagun. Alien claw. Models, you see. I would use this wonderment as a distraction from the skittering of not just one, but several mice, hauling ass through the walls, as dawn approached second by second.

As I said, the cat and I did the best we could to keep them down. Sometimes they were brazen and would come out to watch TV with me. Looking at me, defiant and proud, before leaping into the entertainment center to devour an album of treasured memories and poop on Grandma’s nice things. Sometimes I would trap them. I put a trap near my desk and was pleased to trap two with peanut butter bait. The next time I saw the trap it had been sprung, the peanut butter eaten, and a dollop of poop tastefully left on the trap itself. It was then I realized they had won.

I was moving my things out of Grandma’s place recently. She sold the place, which is great in a soured modern Grapes of Wrath age where they kick you off your farm with binding and confusing paperwork. Better by far that she has the cash to spend on nice things than falling down those treacherous stairs. I had arrived home, good old Peace Lane, with the remainder of my nice things, when we discovered something unfortunate. During the winter I had purchased some fantastic whole bean coffee that I never got around to grinding. When I went to grind some beans it turns out the mice had gotten into it. I threw away the coffee and cursed the mice.

It was very soon after this that I realized that the reason those mice where running around the walls all night was the same reason I never went to bed until shortly before dawn. They had been eating the good coffee and were going to be up all night, checking to make sure there was enough dog food and whistles to sustain them through the next year. I understood that their struggle to survive against the very real and deadly powers around them must be a terrible war.

Gods who provided them with delicious and succulent treats only to sticky trap them later. For I have crushed mice my Grandma has sticky trapped, and I am not proud of what I have done. For we are all of us just mice and dudes, breeding and pooping in the Gods kingdoms.

2011-07-11T13:33:00.001-07:00

This is a test of the instant droid blogload system. Had this been a real post, you would have been amused.

Timelord Easter Apocrypha.

2011-04-24T18:29:00.000-07:00

Timelord Easter Apocrypha.

By
Jeremiah TS Liend
4-23-11
Written for; Out of the Hat 4, KG Productions.

Rights Reserved Tower Hill Productions Inc.

Cast of Characters:
Jesus: Of Nazareth. Proclaimed son of God and messiah to the world.
Kevin Cease: Funeral director. Aliased agent of the Bemidji Swashbucklers Guild.
Michelle Bachman: Tea Party President of the United States of America.
Setting:
The closed tomb of Jesus.
Time:
10 or so minutes before angels of heaven remove the stone blocking the tomb.
Properties:
Jesus: Shroud of Turin. Vaseline [Mir]. 7 wounds.
Kevin: NIV Bible. Smart Phone. Lava Lamp. Candy.
Michelle: Small pair of scissors. Purse full of candy. Easter Basket full of candy. Golden Cross [easy clasp].
Authors Note:
The following is a comedic tangent and not intended as a religious work.
a·poc·ry·pha /[uh-pok-ruh-fuh] –noun ( often used with a singular verb )
1. a group of 14 books, not considered canonical, included in the Septuagint and the Vulgate as part of the Old Testament, but usually omitted from Protestant editions of the Bible.
2. various religious writings of uncertain origin regarded by some as inspired, but rejected by most authorities.
3. writings, statements, etc., of doubtful authorship or authenticity.

[The piece opens when there is no light. Eventually the dim light of a bobbing lava lamp can be seen illuminating 3 figures; Kevin, a lively man in a black suit, Michelle, an attractive woman in a power suit, and finally Jesus, dressed in the Shroud of Turin. It is very dark, and Kevin begins making scary ghost noises.]
Michelle. Shut up, Kevin!
Kevin. Sorry, Mrs. President. I make ghost noises when I’m scared.
Jesus. Who is that? Who’s there? Let there be light!
[The lights glare down unto the players at 110%.]
Jesus. Let there be slightly less light!
[The lights dim to a comfortable level.]
Jesus. Who are you?
Michelle. I told you he’d speak American.
Kevin. Yes you did. You were right.
Jesus. Who are you!?
Kevin. I’m sorry, lord. There’s very little time. I apologize for bothering you… we… appear to be a little late.
[Kevin consults his phone.]
Kevin. Yes. We missed the crucifixion. Sorry, lord. My name is Kevin Cease. I am a follower of yours, a funeral director, and a member of the Bemidji Swashbucklers Guild.
Michelle. And I am Michelle Bachman, President of the United States of America.
Jesus. And I am Jesus. Neither of you have your heads covered.
Kevin. No. No, hats don’t go through the portal well. You see, lord, we have been sent back through time and space to rescue you.
Michelle. But we’re late. But that’s fine! You look great!
[Michelle uses a small pair of scissors to remove a piece of the Shroud of Turin.]
Kevin. That’s tacky, Michelle.
Michelle. We need proof that it works.
Jesus. Please forgive me, I’ve been dead. I don’t understand.
Kevin. Of course, lord, of course. I apologize for the confusion. This is not where or when we had planned on talking to you.
Michelle. We were going to save you!
Jesus. What is that?
[Jesus points at the lava lamp.]
Kevin. That is a reservoir of dark matter immersed in liquid argon.
Michelle. It looks like a lava lamp though, I think.
Kevin. Yes. Yes, Michelle and I agree that it looks… an awful lot like a lava lamp.
Jesus. You came to save me?
Kevin. Yes. Sorry we’re late.
Michelle. But you look great!
Kevin. We have very little time; angels of heaven are coming to move the stone.
Jesus. Yes?
Kevin. Maybe, so there are a number of things we have to tell you about.
Jesus. What can you tell me?
Kevin. Well, here’s this. It’s an NIV Bible. It’s a collection of the Old Testament and then all of your adventures as well.
Jesus. Matthew has been writing things down.
Kevin. Yes, and it is all in there, lord. Also a few other books by Mark, Luke, and John.
Jesus. John is illiterate.
Kevin. Not John the apostle, John the evangelist.
[Jesus skips to the end.]
Jesus. These maps are great…
Kevin. Yes, it’s a very comprehensive Bible, but there are some things we need to clear up so we can stop killing one another in the future.
Jesus. Killing one another?
Kevin. Yes, lord. We are all hating and killing one another. On the streets and in the YMCAs.
Jesus. What are all these red letters?
Michelle. The red letters are all the things you said.
Kevin. You don’t recognize your words?
Jesus. I don’t know who Luke is.
Kevin. No, these other gospels are second hand. Your apostles are going to spread your gospel throughout the world.
Jesus. Great!
Kevin. Yes, it is great.
Jesus. And they will all do well for themselves?
Kevin. No.
Jesus. No?
Kevin. No. No, they all die painfully except for one.
Jesus. What?! How painfully?
Kevin. It’s all pretty unpleasant. Here, I have some Wikipedia links for you.
Michelle. Don’t show him the Wikipedia.
Kevin. They have an excellent apostle portal. Here you are, lord, this is my phone. It has an archived internet. There. I beg your pardon, but can’t you see into the future?
[Jesus looks at the phone.]
Jesus. I don’t like looking. There’s too much going on. Makes me sad. Oh dear.
Kevin. Like Superman trying to keep a day job.
Michelle. Nerd.
Jesus. Oh my…
Kevin. Yes.
Jesus. They saw Simon in half?
Kevin. Yes. Well… probably. It’s all apocryphal.
Michelle. Can two people of the same sex get married?
Jesus. What?
Kevin. Don’t start the questions yet! We need to get it recorded.
Michelle. There’s no time!
Jesus. Who did you say you are?
Michelle. I am the President of The United States of America. My vice president, Sarah Palin, couldn’t be here. I can’t tell you where she is.
Jesus. What is America?
Kevin. You’re going to visit there in a little bit. You have to get the Mormons off the ground. It was actually Atlantis, but instead of everyone drowning as antiquity believed, the land bridge merely sank.
Michelle. That is entirely fiction. Can two men get married?
Kevin. Don’t ask him yet!
Jesus. What are you talking about?
Kevin. I’m sorry, lord, it seems silly, but your followers have some fundamental disagreements that have led to some roadblocks in furthering your work. One of these is regarding the uh… homosexuals and their place in the whole order of thing.
Jesus. Homosexuals?
Kevin. Yes. Two people of the same sex who love one another.
Jesus. And what is the issue?
Kevin. Sodomy.
Jesus. Not between the thighs?
Michelle. I beg your pardon?
Kevin. It’s Greek.
Jesus. Who can’t agree?
Kevin. Well… for instance, there are these Baptists. Here, let me send you a link.
[Kevin inputs a link and the Westborough Baptist Church is seen proclaiming that God Hates Fags.]
Jesus. Oh dear. What is this word?
Kevin. It’s a slur, lord. These followers of yours believe that your heavenly father is punishing America for tolerating homosexuality by killing soldiers.
Jesus. God doesn’t hate anyone. He made everyone. How could you hate something you put so much time and love and energy into? If he didn’t love you he would strike you down. This is all just you killing you. Is this really an issue in the future? How many people follow my teachings in the future?
Kevin. About 2.2 billion from our time.
Jesus. How many?
Kevin. 2.2 billion.
Michelle. It’s a bunch of different types though. You leave Peter in charge and they have popes, but then power corrupts things and then there was Martin Luther and Calvinists and Hobbes.
Kevin. There’s no time!
Jesus. Show me the number.
[Kevin shows Jesus on his phone.]
Jesus. This is fantastic. Why is there war?
Kevin. I beg your pardon?
Jesus. There are wars? I thought it was fairly clear that killing people is an affront to God. I did mention about him loving all his creations? Are there still 10 commandments?
Kevin. Sure. They are all over the place. 20 foot tall ones as you come into town. There is a concept of Just War?
Jesus. There is no such thing as just or holy war. But there should be no hungry? Technology would surely solve the problems of hunger in its infancy.
Kevin. Mrs. President, would you field this one?
Michelle. America tries to provide the third world with support, but there are a lot of people.
Jesus. How many hungry people then?
[Kevin consults his phone.]
Kevin. About 36 million people die a year from starvation.
Jesus. I see.
Michelle. There are a lot more people. There are 7 billion of us. So that 36 million is really just a flash in the pan.
Jesus. There are millions dying from starvation and, if I answer these questions will you find a means of feeding them? These people hating and killing one another, will they stop that as well?
[Kevin and Michelle share a look.]
Kevin. It would help if we could frame it as a blockbuster musical.
Michelle. Is abortion murder?
Jesus. What is abortion?
[Kevin shows Jesus his phone again.]
Jesus. Oh dear. Oh my. This is… terrible.
Michelle. So, is it murder? Many think its murder.
Jesus. Why would someone do this?
Kevin. There are many reasons. They may be too poor to afford a child. Or they live in a nation where you can only have one.
Michelle. They are mostly sexually irresponsible.
Kevin. We are all pretty sexually irresponsible. No one likes abortion, but we made it illegal again and things got much worse.
Jesus. Why can’t these children be born and then taken care of by others?
Michelle. That’s one solution.
Kevin. Adoption services are… yes. But there are not people lining up for it. We have these plans for massive space orphanages and even just firing the zygotes at distant stars, but these are all just bad solutions. The bigger question is when life starts.
Jesus. Sometimes life does not start at all. Sometimes things happen and people die for no good reason before they can ever take their first breath. That is just what happens in a world of possibility and free will.
[Jesus finds something disturbing on Kevin’s phone.]
Jesus. The Crusades?
Kevin. Yes. How did you get there?
Jesus. Wikipedia. This is terrible!
Kevin. I know, lord, we’re really struggling. If you could clear some of this up, it would really help our situation out.
Jesus. Why did they send you?
Kevin. No reason really. Foolishly checked Chrononaught in a field of my Guild Character Sheet. They believed my experience and familiarity with Christian literature would assist finding you. I entombed people for some years.
Michelle. American research and development paid for this experiment, so I demanded to come with.
Kevin. Yes. We spent several trillion dollars and many lives and in the end only two people could go back to one place. There were debates, but in general people agreed that if there was one place we could go and one thing we could learn it was to come here and get it straight from the source.
Michelle. It gets confusing! There is a lot of contradiction in that book.
Jesus. If I answer these questions, this will help your world?
Kevin. In theory.
Jesus. Very well.
[The Angry Birds music starts.]
Jesus. What is this?
[Kevin tries to take back his phone, but Jesus resists.]
Kevin. Oh, that’s nothing.
Jesus. Angry Birds?
Michelle. Will I go to heaven?
Kevin. There is very little time, lord.
Jesus. I once said to consider the birds of the air and lilies of the field… I never thought the birds would be angry. What are they angry about?
Kevin. Pigs.
Jesus. Pigs?
Kevin. Yes, they stole the bird’s eggs.
Jesus. I once banished a legion of demons into a herd of pigs.
Kevin. Yes.
Jesus. And I just. Wow! Three stars, what does that mean?
Kevin. Lord. Listen. This time portal will only stay open for a little while longer.
Jesus. How many different levels are there?
Michelle. AM I GOING TO HEAVEN!?
Jesus. Be at peace, my child.
Kevin. Michelle! We’re running on fumes here. Stick to the big ones.
Jesus. This is amazing!
[Kevin snatches his phone back.]
Jesus. Hey!
[Kevin takes a deep breath.]
Kevin. I’m sorry, lord, I would love to let you play that, but we really need to come back with some answers. If we don’t put some of this to bed we are going to be in some real trouble. Now I’ve got this device set to record. Could we please get your word on these issues?
Jesus. Love your neighbor as yourself, judge not lest you be judged, as you treat the least of me so treat you me, let the children in, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Michelle. And?
Jesus. You are probably going to heaven, Michelle. We can probably hang out if you can get this world hunger thing under control.
Kevin. There are no direct responses to our questions, lord.
Jesus. That’s what I’ve got. I have seven wounds in me and I’m going to fly into space in 40 days.
Kevin. We were wondering if you could not do that? Maybe help out the rebuilding efforts? Or come back with us?
Jesus. Sorry, Kevin, I’ve got to travel to the center of the universe and explain things to my Dad.
Kevin. Sure.
Jesus. Because if I don’t explain things, and he sees what you guys are doing, he is not going to be happy.
Michelle. Sure.
Jesus. It is going to take about 1,000 years to get there, and about 1,000 to get back.
Kevin. That makes sense. You should arrive a little after Q.
Jesus. I don’t know who that is. If I get back, and there are still people killing each other, things are not going to go well. The kingdom is supposed to go here. This is supposed to be it. Heaven is a place on Earth. Who is Q?
Kevin. Q is for Quetzoquaddle. He’s riding back with you.
Michelle. This is all nonsense, Jesus.
Jesus. This is an American God?
Kevin. Indeed it is. I am a member of The Church of Q. Unidenominationalism conflicts with nothing.
Jesus. Good. Because that would be a commandment issue. Michelle, why can’t you feed the children?
Michelle. I don’t know. I’m sorry.
Kevin. We are kind of bad people, but we are good as well, and smart as all get out. Our phones are smarter than anything. I have a Droid XV. It can send notes back in time.
Jesus. I covet your phone. What is that? What are you wearing?
Michelle. It’s my cross, Jesus.
Jesus. Can I look at that?
Michelle. You can have it if you want?
[Michelle removes her cross and gives it to Jesus.]
Jesus. This is me. This Friday. You worship this?
Kevin. People are morbid. There’s a picture book.
[Kevin opens to the grizzliest picture of Crucifixion.]
Jesus. They really do saw Simon in half?
Kevin. Yes.
Jesus. Across the stomach?
Kevin. Down the groin.
Jesus. Why? Why would anyone do that to another being?
Kevin. I can’t answer that. We were hoping you could answer some of our questions?
Michelle. Anger. Ignorance. Fear.
Jesus. There must be a lot of ignorant people with very smart phones where you come from.
Kevin. It is convenient to be able to coordinate your place in space and time and to record and communicate the things that we see and do for the purposes of an uncluttered and transparent history.
Jesus. I don’t understand. I am in a space race with another God?
Kevin. Quetsoquaddle. It’s all in The Book of Q. Can you help us?
Jesus. I am at a loss as to what to tell you to do. Though I have defeated death with the aid of my father in heaven, I have seen that my actions will lead to the suffering, death, and oppression of a whole world’s population. I have a question now, and I demand and answer; would you tell Simon about these things? What should I tell the apostles?
Kevin. Tell them nothing. Have a good time. Leave in 40 days and fly over to America. There are people there who have traced the movement of the planets and days for thousands of years. They have built the largest pyramid in the world. I can show you on my Google earth.
Michelle. The lava lamp, Kevin! It’s getting funky!
Kevin. We’re going to have to transubstantiate through that wall before the angels come. If the angels see us messing with time we’re going to get in so much trouble!
Michelle. We will sell this little piece of your shroud and buy food for all the children! Oh! The children! I almost forgot! I brought this for you Jesus!
[Michelle removes an Easter basket from her purse and offers it to Jesus.]
Jesus. What is this?
Michelle. It’s an Easter basket! It’s full of chocolate and jellybeans! That’s the Easter bunny! It’s a mythical creature that leaves baskets full of chocolate and jelly beans. He also hides eggs in the yard for our children to find.
Jesus. Rabbits lay eggs where you come from!?
Michelle. Happy Easter!
[Michelle kisses Jesus.]
Jesus. Why can’t you feed the world’s hungry with rabbit eggs!?
Kevin. Jesus, I would like to hug you, but I’m not going to. Because you look sticky.
Jesus. It’s myrrh. Hey, who put up for this tomb?
Kevin. Nicodemus.
Jesus. What a great guy.
Kevin. He’s a saint.
Jesus. You know what is great?
Kevin. What’s that?
Jesus. Being alive.
[They all laugh.]
Jesus. Let the dead bury the dead… but let The Ceases help.
Kevin. Thank You, Jesus. Sorry to lay this all on you. I know you had a really lousy weekend.
Jesus. Yeah. Do people still remember?
Kevin. They call it Good Friday.
Jesus. Dad is such a comedian.
Michelle. I love you, Jesus.
Jesus. I love you too, Michelle. Be good.
[Kevin takes the lava lamp and he and Michelle transubstantiate. Jesus eats a Cadbury egg.]
Jesus. THAT IS AMAZING!
[Jesus throws the remainder of the candy into the audience as the lights come up. The trumpet of Gabriel can be heard.]
Jesus. Angels, let us away! There are women coming and I’m all sticky and all I have is this itchy shroud!
[Jesus leaves the tomb. Happy Easter Jesus!]
[Epilogue. Jesus did not tell the apostles about all of the terrible things he saw, because he wanted to leave on top. He flew first to ancient America and consulted with their people before shooting his physical form towards the center of the galaxy where the great designer commands the clockwork of the universe. Q beat him, but only just.]
[The End.]

Q Report; Q Explodes Charlie Sheen.

2011-03-09T00:21:00.000-08:00

10-3-25 18:40 Airborne Over The Pacific –

[Report Follows.]

Jesus Christ on the wooden cross I just exploded Charlie Sheen all sorts of dead and it feels so good I could shit. And I will. Why not when you’re in a pressurized suit wearing a diaper? I should really be sitting down at a typewriter to transcribe this classic prose, but we’re going to let fly over the in-flight data recorder and straight pipe it to the future-phone while I get high off of pure O2. Hold on. Have to change the mixture.

[Sound of clicking.]

There. As I speak to you I am currently piloting a QF-16B somewhere over The Pacific. The QF-16B is really just a classic F-16 Fighting Falcon trainer variant that permanently sacrifices weapons systems for fuel pods. It has the benefit of being made after the perfection of carbon fiber which means its maximum speed has been increased to Mach 3 while its range has increased to everything. The Guild RD that built it for me claims that it can reach Mach 4, but I would have to be breathing liquid. Has two seats. If I wanted to I could get another person in here, but most everyone I know is dead. Otherwise I could take someone for a ride at Mach 3. 4 if they are into breathing oxygenated nutrient liquid with me. Basically my only armament is my Vulcan Cannon which I keep loaded with explosive uranium shells wrapped around a white phosphorus inner layer wrapped around a plastique core. It fires at a rate of 200 rounds per second and can atomize a church in about two.

With this amazing piece of aeronautical engineering I just blew Charlie Sheen all over Gods damned kingdom. This is a good day. I thought that man was going to live forever. He is as close to a nemesis as a swashbuckler can have. Made all the right moves over the course of the late eighties and early nineties only to revolt against the system and go ape-shit early in the 21st. Of course everything was so close to the global collapse at that point that it was big news when he snapped. As if an actor had never been fired before. Made a Guinness world record for most twitter fans. Celebrated with his drug dealers until the big collapse. In the in-between he managed to create a ragtag militia of fans and got his hands on some pretty neat equipment. Managed to stay underground for long enough that the tech caught up with the destruction and here we are. Me in my QF-16B. Charlie Sheen and the corpse of Denise Richards in his XR-71 Deathbird.

I just have to take a minute and see how much Charlie Sheen I’ve really seen. My memory fades because I am fast approaching 45, I take a bevy of memory erasing drugs to function, and I am super high on an O2 concentrate while cruising towards the sunset at Mach 3 and Charlie Sheen is finally dead. So… uh… The Chase. I don’t even know why I remember that movie first. Him in a stolen car driving with a hot blonde. Three Musketeers. Will admit I loved it, if not for the stain of disney. Hot Shots parts one and deux. Classic Sheen right there. Taps. Never seen it? Join the club. Tattoos the backs of his hands though. But not for reals. Was he in Wall Street? Probably not. Uh. Two and a Half Men. What a bad show. My folks watched it I guess. I thought it was a painful atrocity of a situational comedy. That kid [presumably the half] went on to kill so very many nice people.

As I think of it now… I probably didn’t hate him as much as he deserved. I guess the initial resentment came when he left that terrible show in a terrible way. Because I used to act, and it was still considered a profession when I did it. Threw away the last of his class to appear as the next Gonzo. But Charlie Sheen has never been Gonzo. Once you take disney money you can never go Gonzo. It’s fun doing drugs, but it helps if you actually create something or better something while doing them. People used to do them every day in an insane society where a person with enough money could take a pill to make them happy but the poor were thrown in jail for doing the same thing on the cheap. And maybe that’s what drove Charlie Sheen to the madness. Maybe he echoed it. I tried smoking Charlie Sheen once. But only that once. If Denise Richards had my babies I would treat her right. I would not FUBAR everything I cherished to go on a binge of self-indulgent and meaningless ranting. I would not plasticize her corpse and use it as a masturbation tool. You are no warlock sir. I know warlocks. I have worked with them. I have fought warlocks and you sir, are no warlock.

I suppose I should explain the actual battle. I think I’ve filed at least three other reports regarding Charlie Sheen and his Hot Shots. I think Charlie Sheen was the last one left. I pinged him on the radar about… oh WTF time is it now? 18:42? Oh the gun camera will have a time stamp. I don’t know. Probably about five minutes from initial radar contact to engagement. I know that his plane was faster and better armed than mine. The XR-71 is just a carbonized SR-71 with lasers. Lasers are… awesome. I will admit that I was a bit intimidated when the serial scan came back that Charlie Sheen was in the Deathbird. I know that he keeps Denise in it. He only takes that jet out when he wants to kill many things. Lasers… you in the past probably never saw what lasers can do. Back then it was all prisms and telemetry guidance and laser pointers. But actual lasers with actual power are… really terrifying. Superheating atoms with focused light is all fun and games until you can counter-explode ordinance or start entire villages on fire. Then it becomes a profession.

So once it was established that it was the plane I hailed him. We both changed to direct vectors and… oh man. I remember math problems like this. Agent Q piloting a QF-16 and traveling at Mach 3 leaves Hawaii at 19:00 PST and Charlie Sheen, piloting a XR-71 traveling at Mach 3.5 leaves Wyoming at 21:00 MST. If every clock on the planet is broken and everyone is dead, why would you ever need to know when they can fire guns at one another? So I hailed him about the time it was obvious we were going to have to dog fight to the death and I think I can do a direct patch of the dialogue from the flight recorder. Here we go. There you go Charlie, sent your last words back through the future phone. Speak kindly of me in hell. Uh. The computer system was built by a damned puritan so it might be edited for content. Sorry.

[Sounds of Clicking.]

[Flight Recorder T/R 18:35]
Q: Charlie Sheen! You Crazy f*****! I’ll kill you!
CS: Not if I kill you first Q. Your mother sucks cocks in hell!
Q: Donna is a saint in heaven you sad has-been! You sound old!
CS: You sound scared. You know I’m in the Deathbird.
Q: I’m not scared of you, old man. Maybe you should look at your radar.
CS: Oh ho! Not running away?
Q: You’re going down this time Sheen.
CS: After I fry you in your cockpit like a microwave burrito I’m going to start Bemidji on fire.
Q: Bemidji is still on fire you dolt.
CS: Talk to me Denise.
Q: Oh Jesus. You really do drive around with her in the back seat?
CS: Don’t talk about Denise like she’s not here.
Q: She’s dead you sick fiend! She’s been dead for two decades!
CS: I’m a warlock you idiot! I commune with the dead!
Q: You plasticized her you sick, sick fiend!
CS: She was mostly plastic to begin with, I just finished the job.
Q: You know what I’d like to talk about Sheen?
CS: Don’t. Let’s keep this above the belt.
Q: Is that you?
[Sounds of klaxons.]
Q: Yup… OOOooooooooffff.
CS: Wow! How many G’s did you just pull there?
Q: Oh… it was a lot. You know the record right?
[Sounds of cannon fire.]
CS: OH F***! What the F**** are you shooting at me!?
Q: Explosive uranium! Answer the question!!!
CS: What ques----
[Sounds of static followed by explosion.]
Q: The record! For most amount of Gs!?
CS: Yeah! Yeah!
[Sounds of screaming.]
Q: Lasers!!!
CS: EAT LASER AND F****** DIE!!!
Q: The record!
CS: Hold on! Wikipedia is taking a while…
Q: Wikipedia is wrong.
CS: Impossible.
Q: They claim it’s a French race car driver that impacted a wall at 75 KMP and survived.
CS: So it is.
Q: Wikipedia archived in ‘12.
CS: So?
Q: Check the Book of Q. YES! YES AIRPLANE! I KNOW I’M IN COMBAT! TURN OFF ALARM! ALARM OFF! I am trying to kill Charlie Sheen… for the love of... can you stop firing at me so I can turn that alarm off?
CS: Sure! Yes! God! I can’t even wikipedia, search The Book of Q, engage in a dog fight, and snort quality blow off of the dash with that entire racket. Curse you!
[Sound of a single beep. Klaxon ends.]
CS: So… according to your book… the one you wrote about your fictional adventures through time… you actually pulled 100 Gs while reentering the Earths atmosphere in a casket?
Q: True.
CS: But the story also claims that you died.
Q: Also true.
CS: Can we continue this over the ocean?
Q: Sure.
[Sounds of clicking.]
CS: Q, as soon as we see The Pacific its back on.
Q: Sure. Sure.
CS: Q?
Q: Yeah Sheen?
CS: Why didn’t you ever invite me into The Guild?
Q: Sorry Sheen. I don’t like you.
CS: And that’s it? You just have the final say?
Q: No, anyone can have a say and you aren’t in.
CS: Like blackballing?
Q: Yeah! Organization is only as weak as its weakest member. Any one person has a problem with you, you have a problem.
CS: I got blackballs tattooed on the back of my hands for a movie once.
Q: Sure. Taps. I saw it.
CS: Cadence.
Q: What?
CS: The movie was called Cadence. My dad directed me in it.
Q: Well… the history books shall say otherwise. I believe that’s the ocean.
CS: Yeah.
Q: Well… I’ll see you in hell.
CS: Sure.
Q: Have at you.
CS: Q?
Q: What?
CS: I am going to level Bemidji.
Q: We’ll see Chuck. Two and a Half Men sucked.
[Sound of inhumane rage filled scream. Cannon fire. More screams. Explosion. Cannon fire. Explosion. Static.]
CS: Remember me-
[Flight Recorder End 18:40]

So. That wraps that up. Man. Good thing he was over 51% cyborg. This was a good day. Looking back on it, I wish that I had been able to talk to him back then. Tell him that winning was more than just sticking your dick in the big bowl of cheerios. Because you have to earn respect with great deeds. Locking working girls in closets, even if they steal your wallet, can rarely be considered great. Robert Downey Jr. did that shit for a living for a couple years. But then he became Iron Man. Now you’re just a dead cyborg at the bottom of The Pacific. At rest now with the Hollywood that slid into the sea. You and Denise both I guess. Mission is still a go.

[End Report.]

Dearest Everyone 3-2-11

2011-03-02T03:00:00.000-08:00

Dearest Everyone,
I have been meaning to write to you for some time. So very long. It’s amazing, because I have found that even communicating on the internet inspires feelings of dread and terror. I am experiencing uniphobia. The fear of everything. It’s exhilarating in many ways. Did you know that we are all existing, in a galactic sense, in a perpetual freefall? Gravity may ground us, but we are all hurtling and sinking and expanding at dimensions and speeds that baffle and defy. That you’re even reading this is miracle enough to cut to the core of me. But I have things that need telling and there has to be an archive of events. We are pioneering into the bright new tomorrow armed with computers a trillion^3 fold more complex than anything our forefathers ever hoped to discover. Damn it.

I tried recapping 2010. I did. It was never published because I think it all became too much to relate. I will search for the attempt and return to this train of thought. Yes. I have found it. I will transcribe it verbatim for your benefit;

[Begin Dearest Everyone 2010]

Dearest Everyone,
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. Everyone treasures and fears the holidays for a number of reasons. For me, more than celebration, the Christmas season is a reminder that the year is almost done and what the hell did I do with it? Coupled with the crippling shame of being too financially irresponsible to contend with gift giving, it is a time of the year I stopped enjoying around the same time I started working at The Wal. One thing that helps the entire process, particularly the question of what I did with the year, is to write a letter that explains many of the things that have happened the previous year. Try to find the principal lessons learned from them and then post it on the internet for posterity. For those of you who continue to cyber-stalk me.
But mostly Merry Christmas. Everything is kind of terrible out there, but I think it’s going to be getting better. When I say things are terrible, I mean that the world is terrible. There is terrible stuff going on. The terrible things make more of the news than the amazing stuff, probably because there is a lot more terrible going on. The thing is, people can do amazing, or terrible things, and I think there’s a pretty even split. Doctor transplants face to mutilated burn victim, lone gunman kills five before turning the gun on himself. What pushes us into the terrible is that nature can suddenly do things. Like ruin cities. Kill thousands. It’s tough to work against nature, and nature never does something awesome. Rather, nature does consistently amazing and baffling things every day, but we have taken them for granted long enough not to put it on the news. Fantastic sunset grips the very soul of teenager considering suicide and returns him to hope. Will not be on the news. Just the ones who kill themselves.
The news isn’t helping anyone is what I’m saying. This has little to do with my year in that I have only influenced the news mildly on a primarily local, with occasional state-wide press. Another year flying a burning para-sail under the radar. It’s just that I read and watch and hear about so much news, and it’s really making me pretty depressed over the whole thing. Infotainment sucks. Where’s Dan Rather? Where’s Connie Chung? I liked the news better when it gave me information and news without the propaganda and fear. I think Rupert Murdoch thinks fear sells news, but the thing is we’re not scared about most of the things they want us to fear. I get most of my relevant news from Facebook. The people I know find the information worth knowing. I know many intelligent good looking people. There’s a little something for you stalkers.
But the year. Yes. Grandma died at the beginning of the year. It was devastating. Just devastating. I still think about her everyday and wonder about the job that I did both taking care of her at the end and being a grandson in general. I am going to write a play about her life that goes into the details about that and maybe that will help. This holiday season was rough without her. I don’t know what happened in January. Ruth and I had our anniversary. Grandma died and we had her service and then Ruth’s Grandmother died and we went to her service. That was January.
February was Valentines and Con of the North. March I was rehearsing Man of La Mancha and Wait Until Dark when I wrote Bagged Lunch. If you know what any of this means then you know that I was working very hard to try and do something amazing. I am really proud of these projects. Particularly Bagged Lunch, which I think is one of the better plays I’ve written, and was masterfully performed. I really enjoyed Man of La Mancha as well. It was a really great show and Patrick creates fantastic work. Shortly thereafter I changed my advisor to him and we’ve been trying to get me a degree with varying degree ever since. I also won something that will allow me to audition for the Irene Ryan Scholarship. I recently found out that Irene Ryan is granny from Beverley Hillbillies. So. Imagine that.
I’m not sure what happened in April. I may have been attempting to summon a world ending storm. Still no luck on that one. Church of Q stuff. I’ve been working on developing a cult for a while now. I’m at the research and courting Gods portion of the process. I plan on completing The Book of Q this next year, and it will be a work of fiction, but none of this stopped Hubbard from getting a really great cult off the ground. Unidenominational Future-Church to Save the World. I think it’s a more compelling argument for a religion than Battlefield Earth, and the line between cult and faith is all a matter of followers. Everyone needs a hobby and a faith.
Likewise May eludes me.
[End Dearest Everyone 2010]

And that was just where I had to end. I wrote that in December. Still not entirely sure where May went. June I turned 30. July we went to Folk Fest. August I produced Grimaldi’s Chicken for the Fringe Festival. September I moved in with Grandma Mary and began work with the cast and crew of Footloose. October I believe Janet and John and I flew in a plane while I leaned out the open door with a camera. Thanks to Kirk and Saarens we were able to realize the dream of Friday Night Swordfights. November Footloose did great and then I went underground. December is a point in my life I started writing this first failed attempt at gathering it all together. Christmas was strange.

But that is not all of what happened. That is not even a fraction. That’s just the things I consider worth mentioning. There were other things. Romantic things. Nerdy things. Dangerous things. Sad things. Hilarious things. But I can’t remember all of them. No one will. They are gone and the future looms delicious. So, to bring us up to speed, I did not get the Hillbilly money. I went to Ames, Iowa, and was cut in the first round. EB/AB and JL/JT did us proud at semi-finals, and the real reward was returning home to be told that theater is over at BSU. There was a protest. We protested that shit. And Garrison Keillor mentioned it when he was in town.

Today we got $300,000 in insurance so we can take over the basement of Brigid’s Cross to turn it into a studio. There have been a lot of roadblocks and trials and tribulations and negotiations and contractual bargaining and all manner of board resolution and here is where the rubber meets the road and we start pioneering into the digital future. Begin to assemble the archive. Because in the end history is all just an archive, and we now have the power to be a part of our shared history. We can create a digital culture together and it will be like none other before it. You can have a program that could be watched by millions. You could create a program that could be viewed by your ancestors. Not great grandchildren or even great great grandchildren, but their great great great grandchildren. You could address them with your thoughts, or hopes, or recipes, or batting tips, or dating advice. Or you could just show them the things you enjoy, like fishing, or sports, or games, or hobbies.

We need so much help. So very much help. I get a lot of people asking me if they can help, and I just want you to know that I am calling, through space and time, for your help. We need powerful people whose ideas are as strong as their wills. We need pioneers. To the pioneers and the braves I send this fervent plea; UpStream TV needs you. Because things are only going to keep getting weirder, and I want to get it all on the record. Up front and personal. We don’t need the news networks anymore. I can tell you the news every night, if that is something you want. I can promise to talk you down every night after telling you the worst and the best of what humanity is doing to one another. Dennis Wieman does a great job, but the Republicans are out to end Lakeland. This is our Lakeland. We are the guardians of the sacred waters.

This is the year we have to start winning it back. This is the time and this is the place for men and women of intelligence to take a stand against fear and divisiveness and create the town on the hill. I challenge you to challenge yourself. Because if we let the cynics, the critics, the hypocrites, and the bureaucrats tell us it can’t be done, then it won’t, and our world will only be as good as the worst of us believe it can be. That part of your character must be subdued and your inner warrior summoned. The Digital Revolution will be televised, and it needs your support.

Beyond this the goals continue to be The World Renewal Initiative, Global Peace and Prosperity, and Freedom and Justice for All. Gods Bless.

Regards,

Jeremiah

USAS Victorious Mark 1 Broadcast Solar Dirigible

2011-02-14T12:24:00.000-08:00

Letter to President Hanson

2011-01-30T15:19:00.000-08:00

President Hanson,

My name is Jeremiah Liend and I am one of the organizers of the protest against the arts cuts. I have been a Theater major and French minor at BSU for the last 13 years, so it should come as no surprise that I am upset over the proposed cuts. I am writing to you with hope, as you said at the student forum that you would be willing to work with groups to come up with solutions. Before I get to these solutions I would like to give you a little history of the theater program, as I have known it for the last decade.

I am a very poor student, but I am a fairly talented performer. As such I have been involved with BSU theater since my first semester in 1998. I was given the supreme honor of playing the title role in The Mikado, as directed by then department head Bob Scriba. I worked with a fabulously talented cast and I would like to talk about them as examples of how the theater department works. Jeff Sampson, for instance, went on to direct locally before moving west to Portland. Tyler Olson, who played Koko, recently produced a show at the MN Fringe festival with his company Raw Red Meat. Molly Zupon, who played Katisha, continues to teach violin lessons to youth in the Twin Cities.

Over the next several years I would share the stage with some of the most talented performers Bemidji has known. In 2003 I returned to Bemidji from working in NYC and was once again blessed with the title role in The Foreigner, directed by my proffessor, friend, and mentor Kay Robinson. The cast has gone on to great success in theater. Samantha Veldhouse has worked with The Brave New Workshop for years now and has performed in numerous shows. Robert Thomas is managing a company out of The Theater Garage. Andrew Browers will be gracing the stage in The Guthrie this season. Jesse Whiting continues to write and perform locally while working as a substitute teacher. These are only a few examples of how the BSU Theater Department has graduated students who continue to excel. There is the claim that cuts were brokered against the success of a program, but this is obviously either a lie or entrenched in ignorance of actual success.

Joe Lafrinere, a classmate and chorus member in The Mikado, recently died. Joe and I didn’t always get along, but I write this letter for him as much as anyone, because cutting the theater department doesn’t only affect those who live, but those who have passed. Bemidji State has always had theater. Since the very beginning, when it was a teachers college, the curriculum has always included theater. There is a history, a culture, and a legacy to consider. When a student stands on the stage in Bangsberg they share it with the spirits of those who have come before them. They share in the legacy. It is why we keep a ghost light on that stage. That they should not rest in darkness.

I have named the protest Monday after one of BSU’s great presidents, Harry F. Bangsberg. I don’t know what most people have to do to get a building named after them, but Bangsberg had to die on a mountain in Vietnam. It is something that has always impressed me, and when I look at his portrait in the lobby of the hall named for him I remember the lengths to which some have gone to educate. The prices that some have paid to make the world a better place. I am mindful of these sacrifices and I hope that what I create and what I perform reflects that memory.
I am discouraged and angered by all of the cuts at BSU for a number of reasons. I would also like to mention that I am aware of the difficult position you have been put in. The prior president spent his time and energy investing in a facility that benefits only one department and while he did so the infrastructure of the school fell around him, and you were called in to reassemble the pieces. I understand that difficult decisions must be made, and that not every faculty or program can be saved. My anger is directed not only at you, but at the administration as a whole. Those who have allowed the culture and legacy of our university to come in peril due to their inaction.
My anger is not limited as a student, but as a resident of Bemidji, my hometown. Though I am three years or so away from a degree, Bemidji will always be my home. The benefits that the fine arts bring to the community are immeasurable. We are a town of only 12,000, but we have a professional theater, at least three art galleries I am aware of, a history center, and all manner of culture that has survived and thrived in the light of BSU. The proposed cuts seek to diminish this light. To betray the culture that hundreds of artists have fought to preserve for so very many years.

I wish I had a solution for every department on the block, but I am ignorant of a great many things. What I do know is theater. You claim that these cuts represent a restructuring, but this is a fallacy. When you restructure something you don’t eliminate it. If a church is too cold for the congregation you don’t level the building and start over. You find where the leaks are and fix it. What you claim to be restructuring is merely destruction, and I resent the lie inherent to your term. Likewise recalibration is a term used in engineering, but I see no effort on your part to repair anything.

The theater department can be repaired. Theaters across the world, and here at home, have survived since the times of Homer. They do so while locked in contest against the most titular and fantastic amusements devised by the most brilliant and creative minds because theater evolves with our age. I would request an opportunity to work with you, your department, and representatives of the theater department to investigate and retool the budget to make it sustainable. Currently students do not pay to see theater performances while hockey games are $5. The community pays nearly $30 a seat, every year, to sell out audiences to see the Madrigal Dinners. Even a $1 student price could go a long way towards closing the gap, in particular if performances were to run for more than a weekend.

There are grant opportunities available through both Region 2 Arts Council and its parent The McKnight Foundation. Students from regional high schools could be bused in for performances at a reduced cost. Local theater organizations could work with the department to produce their performances for a reasonable cost. These are but a few solutions to the problem of funding, and I am sure that there are many more that can be forwarded by staff and the community. Actual restructuring can occur to the benefit of the students and community as opposed to cuts which benefit no one.

My most recent performance at BSU was that of Don Quixote in Man of La Mancha. In it I encourage those in the direst of situations by explaining that the power of the imagination and creativity destroys the boundaries that keep us captive. I explain that the world does not belong to the hypocrites and bureaucrats, but to those who dare to dream. I dedicated my performance to my Grandmother Beulah, who had passed only a month previous. She joins the spirits of Bangsberg whose support and love have nurtured the arts since the beginning. Please help me in keeping the dream alive in the heart of Bemidji State University. Thank you.

Regards,

Jeremiah

Memorial Protest.

2011-01-27T14:50:00.000-08:00

Dearest Everyone,

Jeremiah Liend here. I hate having to address you all like this. Seems like a chain letter or a n automated congratulations at work. Digital signature printed in poor DPI. But this is not how you should look at this. You should look at this as something pretty miraculous. That I can contact everyone I know, and they can then inform everyone they know and so on and so forth until everybody knows. It’s like that Leonard Cohen song. I just need to get the word out, because things are going sour at the headwaters, and what happens here can only trickle down.

I will give you the brief and brutal skinny as I know it. BSU hired an axe man named Hanson to save them from overinvesting in hockey futures. This was after John Q Private brokered the deal and then jumped ship to live on an island somewhere. But a name I want you to remember is Harry F. Bangsberg. He was president at BSU during the troubled times of the Vietnam War, and crashed into a mountain in Vietnam with 8 others. I have been performing theater in the building named in his honor for 13 years now. Maybe the luck caught up with me and I will never get a Theater degree and French minor. But I believe that Bangsberg is looking out for me too. He's in my corner in this little altercation.

We can’t let this stand. Hanson claims that he is restructuring, but really he is just cutting down. I call him an axe man because a hatchet man would have left at least the Art History major to keep the basement of the Education building naked. But it was all the Fine Arts. The arts that make us human. The arts that teach us to create art and thereby join in the great communion of souls. To replay the works of great artists past and pioneer new works as gifts to our posterity. Mass Communication gets more money, but what the devil are we supposed to say to one another? I am Mass Communicating to everyone I can, and I am asking them to help us save these arts from the axe mans block.

Because you don’t restructure something by tearing it down. You repair it so it can work. Theater, like all art, has its roots in finance. The potters wheel still spins for those who desire to sell quality pottery. The painter sells their work at any number of galleries available to them. The artists market is the only free market left. One where only quality counts. Theaters can make money. They did not just spend 50 million dollars on Spiderman; The Musical because theaters can not make money. Thespians are said to work in the second oldest profession. So when you say “Restructure” and mean “cut” I take great umbrage.

You can restructure a theater to be profitable. You can align it with a business program and make it something it has never been before. Able to arm the performance students of tomorrow with all the skills and powers of the 21st century. You can rent the performance space to the community. You used to do that, and there were never complaints about the budget. You can make money by creating theater, is has to be so. Because if theater dies then no one is going to be able to perform. The arts that have been handed down since the time of Homer will atrophy and die. Because the axe man cometh.

In closing I would invite you to attend Harry F. Bangsberg Memorial Protest. Wear black and say a prayer for the presidents past. We will stand beneath the arch and surround Deputy Hall with our art. Bring your music and your art and prepare to mourn the death of our culture and tradition. From noon till seven I will provide my Jeremiads against the craven injustice of it all, and how we all stand on the precipice of a terrible abyss. Dress warm. Gods Bless Bemidji State University, and save us from the Axe.

Yours,

Jeremiah

Dearest Saint Nicholas,

2010-12-19T15:53:00.000-08:00

Saint Nicholas
Basilica di San Nicola
Strada Vanese, 1, 70122
Bari, Italy

Dearest Saint Nicholas,

Jeremiah Liend here. Merry Christmas to you! Before we get to the thrust of this letter, I just want to clear some things up. First off, I am writing to you as the saint, not the fictional and commercial Santa Claus that lives in the North Pole with elves and what not. That guy is fake, but you were a real guy, operating 1,000 years ago to bring charity and good will to the impoverished and downtrodden. I would also like to say that this is the first such letter I have written to you, or the fake Santa, for any reason whatsoever. I would also like to mention that, though I have not met you, I know several people named Nicholas and they are all men of high character and generosity.

Christmas is a magical time, despite all the evil and unrest it causes. I have always considered it magical, because it is a time that those I love give me things that I don’t even ask for. Sweaters and socks and money and all manner of things that I do not expect, but appreciate a great deal. I have always endeavored to buy things for my loved ones, but more often than not I fail owing to my poverty and sloth. Despite the fact that they know I cannot afford to return their gifts in kind, my family and even some friends give me things, and this is miraculous to me. I think you should be encouraged about these things you have created by your good works.

Of course most of Christmas is an evil and vile glut of self indulgent materialism amid global poverty and famine. Though the point of Christmas is to inspire peace and generosity to all under the canopy of heaven, it has instead become a time when a nation of consumers is unleashed from the boundaries of self respect and are able to indulge their every desire to buy things. More often than not for other people, but not nearly often enough for those who really need things like clothes and food and homes and medical care.

I really want to thank you, and the whole host of saints, for the continued good health of myself and family. I know many people this holiday season encountering catastrophic illness and I would like to ask that you and any other saint you may be in congress with, aid and assist these poor families in their time of need. More important than any video game or sweater or socket set or miniature my most important wish this holiday is that those with less than I be given a chance at health, wealth, and happiness this season and beyond.

In addition, if you happen to have a volume of miracles at your disposal, I would request one other thing of you. Keeping in mind that I have never requested, in writing or prayer, anything of you heretofore, I have considered the thing I would as of you. There are many things, and many ways I could use them to the advantage of my community and the world. But of all the things I desire, the material thing I desire the most is a theater. In it I hope to create and inspire, and if there is any financial benefit to it, I would give these proceeds to widows and orphans. I understand that you are dead and that these requests come very late in the season, but hope that you give them due consideration. Say hello to God and Jesus and everyone. Hope Bari is nice this time of year.

Warmest Christmas Adoration and Regards,

Jeremiah TS Liend

I Survived MN Snowpocalypse 2010, and I All I Got Was This Lousy Hernia.

2010-12-12T14:17:00.000-08:00

12/12/10 – Minneapolis, MN

It seems whenever I travel south, there is only calamity and chaos that follows me. It makes me want to keep driving and send this misfortune to Rio. Those lucky tan people live on a beach for most of their existence. Meanwhile, we in the TC are surrounded by tons of snow. There is nowhere to put it. I can’t imagine it’s gone. Too cold for it to melt, to be sure. The city probably just pushed it out on Lake Calhoun. That’s what I would do I guess. Try to make the streets passable. I imagine that most are impassible at this point. There have to be thousands of cars buried under tons of snow.

Laser plows. That’s all I’m saying. Just laser the snow and ice, vacuum it into a tank in the rear, and then use that water to make ice castles. Or drinks. But all we’re doing at this point is moving it down the street. It’s fun, because I am deeply and profoundly in love with a climatologist. And she let me know about this well in advance. I am prepared for her snow fall patterns. I am prepared for her species loss. I am prepared for her feedback loops. We are all dust mites living off the most majestic system of life perhaps ever created. Sometimes this system wrecks your things. Just to let you know who is boss.

HHH collapsed. Which is encouraging. HST would be proud. I wonder if MOA even wants it if it is just going to collapse and kill people. Or at least get them very wet and cold. It is good that the storm had the good sense to start and end as it did. Rather than allow the teams to arrive and gather a massive crowd. I have imagined the fantastic chaos of the audience at the HHH driven to madness. It is neither an encouraging picture, nor an example of humanity at its finest. Brett Favre would probably catch the roof and fly it back into place. All I see is Jared Alan being consumed by a 2 ton snowfall. Merry Christmas Giants. Too bad the dome crushed your team…

What is encouraging about the whole event is that, while trying to keep a PT Cruiser moving through the unplowed streets in order to avoid being towed, random groups of strangers would come from nowhere to assist you. Myself and Dudley, still reeling from being accosted by an evangelist, saw an SUV whip a Dukes of Hazard U-turn only to swamp in the middle of the road. Dudley and I watched on for a few moments to see if they could get out, found it obvious they could not, and then went over to assist them in their efforts. Dudley was the first to go, but it is good to help people. It was a little Christmas Miracle to see people, not screaming or cursing, but working together to combat the elements.

I have been without a computer you see. For a time it was because I had no money, and then it was because I was cheap, but my lady has given me universal power, and this comp is red hot underneath me. And it’s nice. It’s like an electric blanket that can also connect me with the planet. Or a case of enriched uranium gently warming my lap even as it offers me the boundless opportunity of connection with anyone. It is a hand-me-up HP Pavilion ze2000, but it has been running since 2004. Few computers can perform so admirably amidst software that has rapidly and exponentially outpaced it. The keyboard is just the right size though. None of that netbook nonsense…

So I plan on writing some things in the next few decades. I have not had this machine since before Footloose opened, and that means I have gone nearly a month without writing anything of quality or quantity. And that will never do. Not when we are amid the Snowpocalypse. All Hail Quetzoquaddle. Stay safe out there.

Tyler Durden Is Dead.

2010-10-12T22:45:00.000-07:00

In my youth I was given a vision of a man. A lunatic hero who pulled a fraternity from the ashes of failed consumerism and offered them an opportunity to rage against the machine that milked them. The machine that robbed them of their will and placed in their mouths the pacifying pistol of digital escape and super-materialism. There was a brief shout of anarchy. So brief and brilliant a hummingbird could not catch it. And then the machine won. And here we are.

Tyler Durden stands toe to toe with his literary predecessors. Quixote. Cyrano. d’Artagnan. Men of fiction summoned as avatars against the conventions and powers that seek to destroy vision, creation, and heroism. The battle is as old as time and I believe I have seen in my days the final rout. The final apathetic shrug of the shoulders that heralds the beginning of the end. The time when heroes are no longer something we strive to be, but an accident that occurs in the middle of a career among danger. All else is paychecks and checking out.

My heart is filled with sorrow for so great a loss. That there are so few to stand against mediocrity and oppression. That we have become a sheparded flock of genderless automatons. Every cog made to fit into the grand design of rich and evil men who have at last won. Remove your hood even as the noose tightens and bear dread witness to the horror of it all. The utter despair that we have learned only enough to destroy everything while poverty and disease thin the herd in preparation of the system failure.

I will be prepared when the time of reckoning comes. I am preparing my body, mind, and spirit for the collapse. When interviewed, 100% of those who perform acts of heroism claim they didn’t do anything anyone else would not have done in their place. But we know this for a lie, for humility is the clichéd hallmark of not knowing how it happened. But the difference between those who run into burning buildings and those who simply watch in awe, the difference between those who would attack the gunman rather than be lain to slaughter, the difference between those who would leap into the frozen water to save the drowning is that they were prepared when the time came.

We are saved from the jaws of certain death not by miracle or serendipity but by the actions of those who are prepared. Those who have both the strength of body and the faith of spirit to step before the crowd and defy fate. And where the former is lacking the latter perseveres, and through the act of defying chaos heroes are made. For what are we all placed on this Earth for if not to defy nature? To refuse the entropy and darkness its prize. To rage against our inevitable demise with great acts. For if we surrender to the chaos then we are little more than servitors of failure and if we succumb to the darkness then all we have achieved is lost.

Where are the fighters? Not the Olympian competitors who fight for fortune. Not the tireless soldiers who wage war without will. Not the belligerent brawler with something to prove and nothing to lose. Not the well-meaning and consigned laborer prostituting their talents for currency. Where are the fighters who still raise arms when all is lost? Where are the fighters with passion in their breast? Where are the fighters who would stand for honor while the world calls them fools?

There are no heroes unless happenstance makes them so. There are no fighters left to stand. A person can fight for love or money, but never both. There is no passion left to us, the civilian survivors. There is only life borrowed from celebrity. There is only the bravery at the bottom of the bottle. There is no tireless hero but fiction creates. We are an adventureless lot of sloths and cowards. We are a consumer driven generation of mind-slaves chasing a mirage of mobility. We are a lamed nation of bigots and hypocrites. And the richest rule all with a velvet fist.

How I long to see the end of these days and see either the collapse or ascension. For just as sure as I am that heroes are all gossamer, I am as sure that within all lies dormant Gods. The sorrow I feel is not that there are no fighters and no heroes, but that the world has convinced us otherwise. I weep to see my brothers made ill with the lies of the machine. I weep to see my sisters fettered by the lies of media. I weep to see an entire nation of heroes convinced they are merely cogs. Merely consumers. Merely citizens of Rome Mark 2.

For they will come for you when you least expect it. They will come with the cruel certainty of fanatics and they will be armed to the teeth. They will not care to reason and when they come they will come to purge the histories of what we almost achieved. They will not be an exotic warrior from foreign lands, but the neighbor you never took the time to meet. They will align themselves with lunatic agendas and they will put to the sword all who defy them. They who will break down your door will make the inquisition seem a child’s game. They will come and they will take everything you have built and burn it to the ground. They will take every word you wrote and erase it to nothing. And there will be nothing you can do. Because you were not prepared.

When the last bullet has been fired from its weathered rifle and the last bomb has fallen from its fuelless craft I will be waiting. When the munitions are all spent and the shelters plundered to the scrap I will endure. When the machines have no power and the buildings no comfort I will not mind. When the statues have all tumbled and the leaders all forgotten I will remain. For I have prepared for the end of days by training with the few men of action who yet remain. I have invested myself in the nightmare even as I dream of revolution. I have placed my will in my sword and my hope in my words and all else is lost already. Tyler Durden is dead with only an echo to mark his passing.

The Short Bus to Stillwater.

2010-10-09T23:13:00.000-07:00

The Short Bus to Stillwater.
By Jeremiah Liend
October 1st, 2010.

Cast of Characters:

Markus “Brick” Shithouse. Brick is a drug dealer who has killed more men than anyone ever. He began his life being in orphanages before doing crimes in churches before getting kicked out of schools. He buries his hatred of all things good and holy in criminal acts of superviolence. Nothing quells the screaming of all of his victims like consuming vast quantities of quality drugs. He has existed inside the prison system since the age of 14 and in prison he has done things so shameful and depraved that no sane and well meaning person would relate these things to people they respect.

Chance “Ace” Adams. Ace is a drug dealer and a gun for hire. He has killed more men than Brick, but he does not tell Brick this because that would make him angry. Ace grew up in an orphanage before attending church before going to high school before getting a degree in English that offered him nothing. He has a moral code that includes castrating and then crucifying those who harm the things he loves. He once ate an entire Cobra after killing it with his bare hands by dashing it against a large rock. He has allowed his capture after his partner, Spade, sold him out to a Chechnyan death squad.

Sheriff Marshal Quentin “The Quartermaster” Pillsbury. The Sheriff is a dictator hero. He once leapt 40 feet from a bridge into freezing river water to save the life of an infant in a stroller whose jogging mother accidentally threw. Why she was running in October and how it was that The Sheriff had been there at exactly the right time flies in the face of the absolute truth; God has sent Marshal Pillsbury to save the world. It’s a 15 minute drive to Stillwater maximum security prison. There the most depraved and insane are kept sedated and safe. Locked away from the thousands of victims that would suffer and die if released back into population.

Time: 2050

The Scene: The interior of a state owned 2030 Honda Mini-Bus. There is a cage between the Sheriff and the convicts.

Writers Note: This script utilizes Text Curse. It is meant to be performed to the letter. When someone says “What the F?” that is what they say. No swears. Cept the ones I spell. Thanks.

[Ace and Brick are secured on the bus by The Sheriff. Their uniforms are degrading and The Sheriff has a wide brimmed hat.]

Brick. And I’ve got a confession too, that’s not a story, that’s a fantasy.

Sheriff. You’re a sick man convict. But we’ve got a state of the art facility in Stillwater son. And we’re gonna take darn good care of you. Feed you and clothe you and delouse you. Maybe get you some books.

Brick. I don’t read so good.

Ace. I have a degree in English.

Sheriff. How’s that working out for you convict?

Ace. Not so well. I keep getting arrested by high schoolers.

Brick. Could you… teach me to read? While we’re in prison for life? We could make a movie about it and call MTV 10 and see if we can get a show?

Ace. I don’t think so Brick. I think I’m going to get out of here just as soon as they hijack this bus, kill this man in the hat, and set us both free to be you and me.

Brick. I’m never going to read well!

Ace. That’s not necessarily true. Do you read a lot?

Brick. I never find the time.

Ace. Wait. Didn’t you tell me you’d been in prison since the age of 14?

Brick. Yes. But I work out.

Ace. What? Like Tae Bo or something?

Brick. Nah man, nah. It’s a work out not getting raped man. When was the last time you were on the inside?

Ace. Uh… 2030?

Brick. Oh man.

Sheriff. You don’t look that old. When did you say those boys were going to be attacking the bus? Because I got this arsenal, you see, and I want to know if I brought enough ammunition, or whether or not we’re going to need the helicopter too.

Ace. Why don’t you call the reserves, get us an M-2000 Liend and Johnson tank, and see if that keeps you alive. Because what you’re going to get hit with will offer you nothing more than a variety of ways to kill yourself.

Sheriff. Do you mind if we listen to oldies?

Ace. Everything is oldies. Could we listen to classical? A man should die to classical.

Sheriff. OK. I’ll do it. But not because you say so.

Brick. You’re an OK guy. I’m really sorry that this man’s friends are going to kill you. But not really, because I hate you for being what you are and keeping me in a cage for all of my days because of your stringent and inherently flawed moral codes.

Sheriff. You want me to pull up your record?

Brick. I would. I would like you to pull up my record.

[The Sheriff gets his phone out. Both men yell.]

Ace. Don’t do that when you drive man!

Brick. WTFH man!?

Ace. Don’t do that when you drive!!

Sheriff. I could shoot this here rocket launcher with one hand and still drive this reinforced and counter-measure equipped 2030 Honda Mini-Bus at upwards of 200 Kilometers per hour, so if I want to look at my GDed phone while I drive you… convict, I D well will! Don’t speak text at me with that foul language young man.

Brick. Are you calling me young? I feel very old.

Sheriff. Wow. You are what we deem in the law profession… criminally insane… wow. HOLY LORD IN HEAVEN! DID YOU REALLY DO THAT TO THAY GUY!!??

[The Sheriff turns around and shows his phone to the convicts, who yell because the Sheriff is turning around.]

Ace. Please just drive the bus man!

Brick. I don’t want to die in a prison transfer! I wan to die in prison! Sweet, sweet comfortable prison!!!

Sheriff. I had no idea a fork could be used in that way.

Brick. You should see what I can do with this!

[Brick pulls out a Ladies Bic Razor.]

Ace. Can I use that to shave?

Brick. Don’t cut yourself…

Ace. You’re probably right. The way this swine is driving we’re never going to make it.

Sheriff. Did you just call me a swine?

Ace. I did. Squeal swine. Squeal and I might let you live.

Sheriff. Would you like to see my arsenal? The vast majority is in the trunk. If they make me stop they get the missile launcher, but honestly, I once zip tied a meth head who was eating his family. I wanted to kill him, but that is for the state to decide. And so I restrained him with a zip tie. And this is justice. Call me a swine will you!?!?!

[The Sheriff turns it to The Game.]

Ace. You’re a hard man Marshal Sheriff. I respect hard men. Maybe you’d like to join us? You with your missile launcher and me with my gas. We’ll make a charge on Fort Knox with as much ammunition as your dollars allow and then make for the sea! I’ve chartered a rather expensive boat to get us out of here.

Sheriff. You really think that any of us are going to survive if you are only half bluffing? I have grenades and a grenade launcher. Gas? I have knock-out flash bangs that can put entire schools to sleep.

Ace. Hey! Was that story true?

Brick. Mine?

Sheriff. Mine?

Ace. You! What is your name swine?

Sheriff. You can call me Sheriff Marshal Q, convict. And I know where everyone you ever knew lives, and this mini-bus is solar electric. I can outrun a Lamborghini. I have. Twice. Once in Italy and another time in New York City. I was chasing Osama Bin Laden 2 both times.

Ace. Osama Bin Laden died in 2010!

Sheriff. That’s what they want you to believe.

Brick. Whose Osama Bin Laden?

Sheriff. You ignorant lunatic.

Ace. The SCHOOL you Fing swine!

Sheriff. You kiss your Mama with those letters? You’re the reason we burn those curse word sex books they used to sell.

Ace. This is why a degree in English is worth about as much as a bucket of cold piss in winter.
Sheriff. The school?

Ace. Yes! Did you really put an entire school to sleep?

Sheriff. Yes I did.

Ace. I remember hearing about that. That was really amazing man.

Brick. What did he do?

Sheriff. Yeah. Tell us what I supposedly did.

Ace. He took a grenade launcher full of knock-out flash bangs at a school and put them all to sleep before a disease caused their vomit and spit to kill everyone in an hour. Saved an entire elementary from certain doom.

Brick. That’s impossible!

Sheriff. Anything’s possible! God Lives! All Hail The Church of Q and the New World Revolution!

Brick. Oh man. You’re ignorant. God is dead man. I saw the corpse. I’m with the Progressive Atheists man. We’re all just dancing food. Nothing we ever do matters. Straight up. Why would you believe something like that?

Sheriff. Because Q changed my life.

Ace. I met Q once.

Sheriff. You LIE!

Ace. In Tokyo.

Sheriff. You’ve never been to Tokyo.

Ace. Pull up my record.

Sheriff. Only if he puts down the razor. It’s threatening me… for whatever reason.

Ace. Yeah. It’s threatening me too.

Brick. I brought it for you, man. Listen, what’s your name again? Because I use a variety of memory altering drugs and I can’t remember if you’ve told me.

Ace. Call me Ace.

Sheriff. You’re Ace?

[The Sheriff looks at his phone.]

Sheriff. Wow. I’ve seen your work. You’re a sick… sick man. And we are going to take care of you in prison.

Brick. [Gleefully.] PRISON!!!!! OK! OK! I’ll put this Pink Bic Razor away, but only because I don’t want to threaten Ace here. You ARE Ace. I’m Brick. And this is Sheriff Marshal Q… and we are traveling to Stillwater Maximum Security Prison in a Mini-Bus!

Ace. Yes. That about sums it up I think. I can’t remember myself, I too take a number of memory altering drugs.

Sheriff. It makes me sad that college failed you young man.

Ace. Why are you calling us young!?

Sheriff. Because you’re convicts! And I feel old. Are there really guys coming?

Ace. Look. There will be about a dozen of them that roll up on us. And they will be Chechnyan. And they will want to kill me, but they won’t, they will simply take me by aircraft to Jamaica, and then… my men will meet us there… and we will go where we want. In the boat.

Sheriff. A boat? For real?

Ace. No lie! I chartered it.

Sheriff. Where are you going? What would we do on this boat… this ship?

Ace. We would adventure man!

Sheriff. What is the alternative?

Ace. Well, the Chechnyans kill us. And probably just take my head back. I would much rather surrender. Or that you surrender and then they take me. But maybe that’s not a good plan. All I know is that I have a strike team in Jamaica. And a boat. A huge beautiful boat. What is so great about your life that it’s not worth sailing away?

Sheriff. I have a wife convict! I have a beautiful wife that cooks me things I like to eat and pleasures me sexually on a regular basis! We have children! They are why I do these ridiculously dangerous things! I serve as the thin blue line between chaos and law. You are Ace. I have heard of you. You have killed a lot. And I have seen your work. But to what end? What is it you want?

Ace. You know what? I've got a wife too. A beautiful wife named Michelle. We were married in the Fall during an enchanting September among the woods. You know what else? I want to consume drugs on a ship with her and then see beautiful things on the beaches belonging to million different people. And do on those beaches. I want to see if there is still clean water somewhere. There has to be. We can chart these waters in the boat I have. Do you really have a rocket launcher man?

Brick. I like it better when you call him man, but I wish you aren’t bluffing. Are you bluffing?

Sheriff. He’s probably bluffing.

Ace. I’m probably bluffing.

Sheriff. You are Ace though? The Ace? Of Ace and Spade?

Ace. That’s the one.

Sheriff. And this boat… you think it can take us up the rivers? Is there room for my family? Can I fit my family on that boat? Or my friends? Can I fit the friends who come together… every night… to read The Book of Q and laugh… and sing… and drink root beer… and dance? Can We Dance!?!! Can we dance on this boat of yours?

Brick. This man is really a lunatic man.

Ace. You have problems man.

Sheriff. I am The Man!

Ace. No. No, you are just a man. And there is no Q. I made that up. There never was a Q. The footage was all fake. No one can do that. There is no space pyramid. There are no solar dirigibles. There is no guild, and there are no swords.

Sheriff. I’ve got a MFin sword.

Ace. No way!

Sheriff. Check it out!

[The Sheriff shows the convicts his sword.]

Ace. Ah man. That’s awesome. I would really like to kill a few people with that.

Sheriff. Never have.

Ace. Ah. You a master?

Sheriff. I am a novice. But I have taken hands.

Ace. Where did all the robot hands go?

Sheriff. Yeah. And hey, why aren’t we flying?

Brick. The future is lame. Everything is falling apart.

Ace. Cept my boat.

Sheriff. How good are these Chechnyans?

Ace. Pros. Real Pros.

Sheriff. When they going to hit us?

Ace. Soon.

Sheriff. And our choices are surrender and possibly live or fight and possibly die?

Brick. Neither of those sounds good.

Ace. Well, life is less than ideal. I play the hands as their dealt. My choice was whether or not to
use the system to get me out of a situation.

Sheriff. I would prefer if no one die.

Ace. How many knock-out flashbangs you have?

Sheriff. Do you mean how many knock-out flashbangs do you have? Degree in English? For real? WTFH man?

Ace. You’re pretty cool for swine.

Sheriff. And you’re pretty ugly for a convict.

Brick. I think you’re beautiful.

Ace. Thanks Brick.

Brick. You said my name!

Ace. I did.

Brick. Thanks man.

Ace. No problem man. How about you? You want to ride on the boat?

Brick. YES! Of course!!! Please!!! Or Prison. Prison is fine too. I would much prefer the boat though.

Ace. Sure. Sure. We can do our drugs and use our guns and look at beautiful things together. But I should let you know, I’m not looking for a relationship.

[Brick is crushed.]

Brick. That’s OK.

Sheriff. I don’t want to be late for diner. I wish this electric vehicle would go a little faster.

Ace. How fast are we going?

Sheriff. Never you mind.

[Ace looks at the dashboard.]

Ace. You’re going 20.

Brick. K?

Ace. Miles.

Brick. What are miles?

Ace. Per hour. It’s Old Math. Sorry. My Grandmother was a veteran… and she drove at least 65 on the open road.

Sheriff. Deer were a lot smaller when your Grandmother was fighting those wars. We’re going to get there on time. How am I supposed to see a helicopter full of armed men if I’m going too fast?

Ace. Hey. We could NOT go to Stillwater.

Sheriff. Huh. That would make the most sense.

Ace. We could go to a Family Restaurant and eat waffles on the state’s dime.

Brick. Really?

Sheriff. I could eat so many waffles with my dollars.

Brick. What’s a waffle?

Sheriff. Now come on. You’ve never eaten a waffle?

Brick. Do they serve it in prison?

Sheriff. Oh… probably not. Didn’t your mother ever make you a waffle?

Brick. I was an orphan.

Sheriff. That’s too bad. I wish the conservatives would have built better orphanages before they outlawed abortion.

Ace. Society is doomed! Let’s get waffles!

Sheriff. We can turn around then? We’ll double back. Fortify ourselves with coffee and waffles and then I can… I don’t know… let you out into the woods.

Ace. You could not let us out into the woods. That would be irresponsible.

Brick. What were you saying about the deer?

Sheriff. The deer are getting bigger.

Ace. That may be a myth though.

Sheriff. The deer are getting much, much bigger. It was prophesied in the Book of Q.

Ace. Thus the Myth.

Sheriff. Well, I’m going to buy you guys waffles…

[And then there is a terrible explosion. And everyone is thrown around. There is the sound of a helicopter and wind blows.]

Sheriff. Sweet LORD QUETSOCOATLE IN HEAVEN! LOOK AT THE SIZE OF THAT HELICOPTER!

Brick. Please don’t yell!

Ace. THAT IS A CHECHNIAN HELICOPTER!

Brick. Please don’t yell! I don’t want to die watching you two bicker.

Ace. Sorry. Sorry. It’s OK. We’re OK. They missed.

Sheriff. Was that a warning shot?

Ace. Oh dear. It looks like two helicopters fused into one.

Sheriff. It’s counter rotation. I don’t think I’m going to stop. How many missiles do they have?

Brick. I can’t count that high.

Ace. Oh dear. Oh dear. You should stop.

Sheriff. I don’t think I should stop. I think they want to kill us. And I did not bring a large enough arsenal.

Ace. Is there really a rocket launcher? A stinger? Laser guided?

Sheriff. It’s… it’s just the tube. I shot the missile on the Fourth of July.

Ace. You wild A.

Sheriff. Sorry son. I was terribly wasted on memory erasing drugs.

Ace. You’re a user too, huh?

Sheriff. I drink a pack of beer every night.

Ace. You poor man.

Brick. What of your children?

Sheriff. They don’t drink a pack a night.

Brick. No, I mean what sort of Father does that make you?

Sheriff. THERE IT IS! SAINT CLOUD! SAINT CLOUD BE PRAISED WE’RE ALMOST TO STILLWATER!

Brick. SWEET PRISON!

Ace. Oh…. Oh I don’t like prison anymore.

Brick. Nah man, it will be OK. They have food and books and work out equipment and, in the nicer places, Jeopardy.

Ace. I’m really good on Jeopardy.

Sheriff. Good at Jeopardy you ignorant convict! Forget your boat. We’re 3 minutes from heaven!

[There is another terrible explosion and everyone is thrown around. It gets very dark. Only the glow of the console can be seen.]

Ace. Did you turn out the lights?

Sheriff. Just turned them down a lot.

Ace. So what? So we can die out here after driving into one of these abandoned cars? You can’t drive without seeing where you’re going.

Sheriff. Anything’s possible!

Brick. Maybe we can get on the radio and ask them if they want a waffle… whatever that is?

Ace. That’s not a half bad idea. Why don’t you let me work that radio Sheriff Marshal Q. Maybe you should open this up and let me at that radio while you try this.

Sheriff. Ace, I think that some of the things you do are commendable. You know the letter of the law and can avoid doing something so reprehensible as to warrant containment. But I have a job, you see. What I do is, I don’t kill people for fun, and I don’t give up until I save everyone. We are going to save you Ace. Listen to Brick here. He can help you.

Brick. Prison is just like the outside, but without the anxiety of having to worry about what’s going on. What video games are people playing?

Ace. I don’t play video games. Nerd.

Brick. I’m not angry at you for saying that.

Sheriff. Nerd!!!

Brick. Do they still play X-Box 4?

Sheriff. You are sad. You make me sad, the way the system has failed you. But Stillwater is different. You boys are going to be OK in there. There! You see! The helicopter is turning around!

Ace. Huh. Well. That’s worrisome.

Brick. [Relieved] Prison. Oh man. What’s on the menu tonight Sheriff?

Sheriff. Sandwich.

Brick. Really!? What’s that?

Ace. How many memory wiping drugs do you do Brick, and how do you get them in prison?

Brick. I take a daily dose. You get them by telling them you are sad.

Ace. Isn’t that just sugar?

Sheriff. Probably Vitamin D.

Ace. Sure.

Brick. What’s vitamin D?

Ace. You get it from the sun, but you wouldn’t get very much in prison.

Brick. You have not been in prison in 10 years?

Ace. And you do not remember what a sandwich is?

Brick. Is it the thick, hot liquid?

Ace. No.

Sheriff. That is soup.

Brick. Soup! Do they have soup at Stillwater!?

Sheriff. They sure do son. They sure do.

Brick. Thank you for protecting us and society from us.

Sheriff. Think nothing of it citizen.

Brick. What’s that?

Ace. A citizen? It’s a native or naturalized member of a state or nation who owes allegiance to its government and is entitled to its protection.

Brick. Wait! I was born here!

Sheriff. You sure were…

Ace. But we are not citizens. He was only being nice.

Brick. Oh. Well we should say something nice to him as well then.

Ace. Like what?

Brick. Like thank you?

Ace. I’m not going to thank this man for protecting me. It is his job.

Sheriff. He’s right.

Brick. But you do it so well!

Sheriff. You’re ok in my book Brick.

Brick. Oh! He said my name!

Ace. My name is Chance Adams.

Brick. Really?

Ace. Crazy right? I don’t tell many people.

Brick. This was a very nice drive to prison. Thank you all for being such cool dudes. I’m so glad that we did not get exploded by that helicopter.

Ace. What kind of sandwiches they got at Stillwater?

Sheriff. Probably ketchup.

Ace. Really? Gross. You have a candy bar on you or something?

Sheriff. I ate my last sugar in 2040 when I embraced Quetsoquaddle.

Ace. It’s probably good that we did not get waffles. They have pie in your cult?

Sheriff. In my father’s house there are many rooms with many pies. Good luck on the inside boys. It’s going to get rough in there. But you just serve your life sentences like the fine lunatics you are… and I’ll see you on the outside.

Ace. I’ll be out in a week because you didn’t stop for the helicopter. Things would have been easier if you would have stopped.

Sheriff. It was just a huey with some bottle rockets wasn’t it?

Ace. Yeah. Buddy I knew owed me a favor. I’m going to have to pay for his gas.
Sheriff. Been a pleasure protecting you. Some day, when you die… we’ll sort through just who was right about not believing in everything.

[The Sheriff slows, stops and removes the prisoners.]

Sheriff. Now. What about that louse?

[Ace stabs a shank into The Sheriff’s liver.]

Ace. Don’t pull that out.

Sheriff. You… got me.

Ace. That looks like it hurts.

Sheriff. I’ve had worse. Thank you for this. The surviving the helicopter would have meant nothing if not for this almost certainly mortal injury.

Brick. I want to shave his eyes out.

Ace. No Brick. Let this one live. He does his job well.

Sheriff. I remand you into the custody of Stillwater Maximum Security Correctional Facility.

[Sheriff removes the blade from his liver and immediately puts it into Aces.]

Ace. OOOOooooo that hurts. OOo. Oh. Oh my. That is something else.

Sheriff. Aren’t you glad they have replacement organs at Stillwater?

Ace. OOoooo. Thanks for that. The hospital is nice?

Sheriff. Not as nice as mine.

Brick. OOOoo OOOOo! Send me to the hospital!

Ace. Do it yourself!

[Brick removes his Bic and shaves his eyelids off. Blood is everywhere.]

Ace. Way to go Brick! To the hospital!!!

Sheriff. You boys take care now. I’m going to get a helicopter out of here.

[There is the sound of a helicopter as the three men exit in different directions.]

Epilogue:

Brick went on to get new eyes and they were much prettier than the ones he had before.

Ace survived his injuries and went on to escape to his boat. But that… is another story.

Sheriff Q recuperated with his family in his cabin in Minnesota. They ice fished and ate iced
cream for several weeks on Beautiful Lake Bemidji.

The Chechnyans were actually just Ace’s friend John in a huey helicopter to which there were strapped several fireworks purchased at Generous Jeremiah’s Discount Missile Firework
Emporium.

America continues to provide prisons for our lunatics and fiends.

The End

Jeremiad From The Source.

2010-09-30T00:11:00.000-07:00

Time to vent some bile and get it into the datastream. Inform the people. Prepare the masses. Share with you the pathos that vexes and condemns me. Because we are in the apocalypse. Until such a time as we see an end to the destruction and disease, our upward momentum is just grasping at sand in the landslide. Fooling ourselves into believing our phones will save us from the famine. The world is ending a little everyday. When you drive to work. When you buy your food. When you drink your alcohol. We are one day closer to the end of it all. The collapse of all things known. Ignorance and fear are rampant and fierce in this doomed nation, and when the hammer drops red vs. blue is going to make the civil war seem just that.

I thought about writing to you about my dreams. It would be set in the distant but foreseeable future. It would go a little something like this;

Jeremiah gazed out the window of his state room in the USAS Victorious at the North Pole. Once the largest aircraft in the world, The Victorious had been commissioned as the first solar dirigible by President Obama. Approved unanimously by congress, the craft was built both to unseat the nazis as the builders of the largest aircraft, and to bolster and unify American spirit at a time when they needed it most. Beyond that it was a prototype for the Green Revolution. What started as a goodwill offering to the environment turned into a Second Industrial Revolution. Solar dirigible factories cropped up all across America, serving as both a means of constructing the craft and providing jobs to tens of thousands of desperate and unemployed citizens.

Jeremiah marveled at just how difficult it had been to sell people on the idea of clean flight. He had attempted to contact Al Franken regarding the USAS Wellstone, a much more conservative solar dirigible meant to fly as a living, flying memorial to the great senator Paul Wellstone. It would be the first Green Air Bus, and would ferry passengers to and fro Minnesota in comfort and warmth. Far below the rolling fields and sprawling forests would pass in the Land of 10,000 Lakes. Al Franken never got back to him though. No one ever got back to him in those early years, when he was regarded as merely a lunatic and not an entrepreneur.

Poor people make poor entrepreneurs, but fantastic dreamers. Poverty breeds escape my necessity. The Lottery Religion had created a class of working poor. Their possessions and health were owned and controlled by myriad banks bartering interest rates with the government. The sick were left to suffer and die in those dark times. Homes were taken by banks who claimed to be American. America itself was divided as to how to solve the problem, or even if the problem existed at all. America had been poisoned by 9/11. Divided against itself as a house doomed to fall. But from these dark times arose the dream of a single man. To take the reigns away from the cynics and the fanatics and drive into the bright new tomorrow. That man was Jeremiah Liend, and his plan was to save the planet from destruction.

End dream. It is good to dream. To be aloft it all in the Victorious. It is a simple dream, really. Nothing beyond our ability. America could turn everything around if it wanted to. Actually drive business by saving ourselves. But it is not in the cards, I fear. Everything I see in the future points to the collapse. To crash in the Largest Aircraft ever built would be a fine dream as well. The media was just starting out when the Hindenburg went down. Not a live broadcast, but the chaos was brought to the people in motion pictures. Narrated by a witness to the catastrophe. And that is what we strive for. Where we are headed. Riding it all into the ground.

I was told today that the poet laureate was paid $60,000 to visit my home. I didn’t get to see him because I am busy moving out of the home that is about to be foreclosed on. My initial desire was for him to see if he enjoyed one of my poems. Because that’s what poets do. Maybe? An interview with him mentioned that, as an art form, it can’t take itself too seriously. And I agree with that. I enjoy nothing more than writing bad poetry. That I could one day be paid $60,000 to go to a town and talk about my poems is as surreal a dream as any. I did not make that much working three years at The Wal. What the hell does it all mean?

I am trying to build a 1,000 swordsman army. It’s difficult, because our nation has been turned into cowards. Law mostly. Culture as well. The idea that physical confrontation is a last resort. That we live in a civilized society where fisticuffs are a thing of the past, or reserved for the deathsports of MMA. Everyone howls for blood, but is unwilling to shed any of their own. I would gladly shed it all to build just one hero. To fight with one person who would stand and fight in the face of tyranny and chaos. To fight one person who would stand as my brother or sister amid these forces and protect those they love from those who seek to harm. How I long to save the world with such an army of warrior monks.

The Equinox Duello is upon us. Soon I shall dance the dance of death for those who care to see how adventurers act. For you see, I am the Last Swashbuckler. Compelled by my previous lives to resurrect the duel before the entire works collapses. Compelled by Jesus to arm my fraternity in preparation for persecution. How I long to show the world that in my home there are still those who would adventure for the sake of adventure. Without pretense or fear. How I long to complete my great work in the 12 Apocryphal Disciplines of Pacifist Aggression. How I long to duel while there is still fire in my veins and a smattering of hope in my heart. Before age and cowardice rob me of my panache.

And then there is Footloose and the hope for Kevin Bacon. Surely Kevin Bacon would come to Bemidji for a sum lesser than $60,000? He strikes me as a man who gets out of bed for less than $60,000. Not because he has to, but because it’s who he is. A straight shooting cultural phenomena to whom all celebrities are judged in degrees from. We all long to be 0 degrees from Kevin Bacon. But will he come at the request of one lunatic? When the students are too busy with so very many things to come to rehearsal. Save me Kevin Bacon, from the apathy of Generation Z. Show them that Hollywood still cares about the poor and downtrodden. Let me bring home the Bacon just this once, and I will leave you alone knowing I am 1 degree from greatness.

And then there is UpStream TV. Public access television would seem something of a red herring in the age of the internet. What can we put on public access that we can’t put on Youtube? It is a legitimate question, but belies both the ignorance and apathy that has left our community and globe in shambles. Why not build a community around sharing our stories? Why not place into the hands of the people the tools with which to create art? Why is it so hard for beaurocrats to free the finance to provide their people with such an opportunity? Why can’t we just have the Digital Revolution and then televise it?

And then there is Hamlet. And then there is Warhamlet. And then there is English Nonsense. And then there is Elysium. And then there is 30 Minutes. And then there is VCI. And then there is Family. And then there is Friends. And then there is figuring out how to keep gas in the tank to get to the places. How to keep anger and sadness at bay and shove the hand of creation into the blender of society? How to keep a level head in this, the craziest of all possible worlds? How to win the game and save the princess and pay the bills and get the education and get the job and get the agent and get the swords and get the armor and get the cameras and get the footage and get the attention and get the plan and get it all or maybe just a little of it before we are too old and jaded.

Before the urge to leap from the plane is curbed by the hope of recognition. Before the urge to lay down the sword and pick up the gun becomes too strong to resist. Before the data is corrupted by age and virus and every story you’ve ever told vanishes from the datastream. Before it’s all for naught because the whole system collapses under your feet like it did that day so long ago. Before those we love and who love us in return die. Before you break a limb between insurance and have to beg from the government. Before the final denial letter convinces us that the creation is not worth the rejection and special is something we’re taught in grade school to keep us memorizing. Before someone else pirates it all and makes a billion dollars before being killed and eaten by some lunatic swashbuckler from the sticks.

This is not all of the bile. This is not all of the Jeremiad. This is just enough to take the edge off. Something for posterity. Something so that I can remember. Past the years and the fears and the failure and the denial I hope to look back at it and laugh. Laugh for ever thinking it would not come together. Laugh at how the grand design played out like the Greatest Story Ever Told. Laugh at the people who said it couldn’t be done. Laugh at the lunacy of the commonplace and the apathy of small-minded plebeians. This is not all the bile, but it is enough that I can begin dismantling my life in this borrowed home. Enough that I can rest tonight knowing someone may care enough to hear the tale and believe in The Dream. Knowing that I can stand amidst the collapse and defy the entropy for one more night as a chronicler of our doomed generation.

Q Report; Vikings Versus Saints Riot Hailed “Worst Sports Disaster In History”.

2010-08-22T22:46:00.000-07:00

CC: All.

[9-10-10] New Orleans, Louisiana.

Over 100,000 people are dead and at least twice that number hospitalized or missing after tragedy struck the Superdome during the final quarter of the NFL season opener between the Minnesota Vikings and New Orleans Saints. Accounts of the game are difficult to obtain without the express written consent of the NFL. The NFL has instantly suppressed the footage, deeming it “too grim for humanity to bear witnessing a second time.". Distributors of various cable companies have deleted DVR recordings of the game and only Direct TV subscribers who fled their homes hold any uncontaminated footage of the event. Information of the tragedy is scattered and confused due to thousands of conflicting digital streams being fed to YouTube and Twitter.

What can be confirmed is that no sports disaster in history can come near the staggering numbers of fatalities and victims that are no doubt entrenched and armed in and around New Orleans. Steven Seagal, a local law official and Hollywood star, has taken out a blood oath against anyone knowingly harboring or abeiting anyone who attended the game statting for the Associated Press:

"What happened inside of that dome needs to be contained and then eliminated. Those responsible for this tragedy deserve nothing less than eternal torture and then damnation. I vow to apprehend, and then beat the tar out of, anyone who attended, performed in, or assistited with this game and the resulting bloodshed. If you surrender now, I can offer you my word that I will petition for only as much torture a day as is reasonable."

I had been assigned the game as a finalle to a piece I’ve been collaborating with Bret Farve called; “The Silver Fox; Brett Farve Takes All III”. It is a tell-all videography of the life of The Viking King Brett Farve. Obviously the New Orleans game would be a fitting finale and the whole of the footage could be sold to a conglomerate to be edited into a swashbuckling epic of Norse proportions. It would herald TVK Farve as The Greatest Player ever. The film demanded his own trophy be minted in a solid gold 1/6 replica of TVK Farve vanquishing a host of saints into an unholy abyss. It would be called "The Viking King Brett Farve Ass Kicking Award" and would go to the player who was The Best.

The preliminary designs about the trophy were disseminated to a number of underground fundamentalists I like to get a rise out of late at night. It’s a funny thing about fundamentalists; they don’t find anything funny. Not even replicas of stylized warfare between Sport Gods.
Jeremiah Wright, Pat Roberstson, and The Ghost of Billy Graham Jr. immediately disapproved with the force of a billion zealots and swiftly mounted an invasion force for the Superdome. They would come dressed as every venerated saint in the NIV approved martyrology. They would come armed with the weapons they were martyred by. Saint James the Less with his club. Saint Simon with his saw. Saint Jude with his axe. The list adds up fast when you have a whole host at your disposal. The saints were in the game, but what they had not bargained for was the counterpart.

The footage was also leaked to the Minnesotan Vampyres, Witches, and Pagans Party. Spearheaded by Jonathon 'The Impaler' Sharkey, an agent since the late 80’s, the group had garnered some real momentum with the trends of young girls and old nerds towards throwing away the real world for made up creatures. More importantly they were being funded by Bill Gate’s Black-Ops department, which meant they had both the time and resource to armor and outfit a ridiculously cool looking Vampire-Viking Horde for the express purpose of defending the Viking King from faux-apostle violence.

The NFL, NSA, and TNT were kept in the dark about the real event, and I would say this alone was the main contributing factor to the failing of the plan. The real intention was to ferret out the weak and crazy, feed them vast quantities of mood-altering drugs, and create social change through watching a game. What actually transpired can only be called absolute horror. This is not what I bargained for when I signed the Adventurers Contract and got my blade. This is savagery parading as hilarity. Which is not to say that watching Pat Robertson getting his hand chopped off by a 16 year old vampire girl was not something else. He was poorly playing Saint Gabriel and had a trumpet that concealed a shotgun. Of course the saints had to bring guns and ruin it all.

The tailgating was like something they put on postage stamps in Gary Larson’s hell. Bible Belts and Black Belts all playing Conway Twitty and AFI at maxed out volumes. A cacophony of screams and vulgarities. Catharsis unknown till now. So many hot dogs. So very many drugs. The CIA brought the drugs, and those men know how to experiment. Ever since they learned what acid can do they have been tainting water supplies across the globe to find if their actions can in any way alter the course of events for US. The concoction they were selling for $10 or naked flesh was a bioluminescent hallucinogenic algae/fungi that could live off itself inside of you. When history hands you Glenn Beck dressed as Saint Michael you have to raise the bar.

I tried some of it in the locker room as Brett Farve girded his loins and ate sunflower seeds. The Silver Fox was looking weak and scared. He was taking massive pulls from a nutrient shake and then vomiting it into a bucket regularly emptied by his trainers. He knew that all eyes would rest on him, and how he performed before a crowd of drug crazed lunatics armed to the teeth with medieval weaponry and the righteous zeal of the entirely delusional. He knew that the show needed a climax though. Something that The Superbowl could no longer offer him. Something so absurdly awesome that time would remember him, if not as the Greatest Football Player Ever, then at least as the Greatest Viking King Ever. It’s easy to be the greatest of something when you make it up. It is how I have remained The Greatest Swordsman Alive for so long. Here is the best of the locker room transcript.

[Begin Transcript]

[Sounds of vomiting.]

Q: It went in green, but it’s coming out red.
BF: Don’t you think I see that?
Q: Would you like a Tums?
BF: Of course I would!
Q: Here, here. Take my last 10.

[Sounds of loud crunching.]

BF: Oh that’s like… [chew] that’s like chalk man… it’s like eating just a lot of fruit flavored [spit] chalk.
Q: Yeah. Yeah, but it will settle your stomach.

[Sounds of vomiting]

Q: Or you’ll just do that.
BF: It LOOKS like a lot of fruit flavored chalk.
Q: You’re right. Let me take a picture here. Gonna make that my wallpaper.
BF: We’re going to die tonight, aren’t we?
Q: Nah!! No. Nah. No, we’re going to make history tonight. We’re going to finish the film.
BF: For reals?
Q: Oh yes. Just this last footage of you beating The Saints and then you yelling; “I’m going back to Wisconsin where I’m loved!”
BF: I don’t even like Wisconsin!
Q: Don’t say that Brett. It worries me when you talk like that.
BF: It smells like cow! All of it smells like cow! Cow shit, oh balls, oh I’m going to die!
Q: Why did we bother training you then? Why did we bother making the statue? Why did we bother recording you killing that elk with the spear?
BF: That was Jared you burn-out!
Q: Hey, Jared, come over here.

[Sounds of Jared Allen spanking Brett Farve hard.]

BF: OOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWW! That hurt!JA: You love it.
Q: Go easy on him, Jared, he’s vomiting red.
JA: Is that why it smells like puke over here?
BF: And fruit. I also smell fruit.
Q: Did YOU kill an elk with a spear?
JA: F yes I did. Weren’t you there?
Q: Gods. I must have been. It was, perhaps, one of my time clones.
BF: There aren’t time clones!!
JA: I’ve got to go have myself rubbed. B.F.F.F.V. you sexy man. I’m talking to you Brett.
BF: You go on.
Q: Are you blushing?
BF: Yes.
Q: So you’ve never killed an elk with a spear?
BF: I’ve only killed the people you told me to Q.
Q: And that footage is NOT going in the movie, if we can just get this footage.
BF: You promise?
Q: I promise.
BF: Do you think this is going to be a good movie?
Q: I bet Rotten Tomatoes will give us 85%.
BF: That’s good!
Q: I know kitten. I know.
[End Transcript.]

Everyone got past security and seated through a simple process of giving the security the day off to watch the game. The tailgating had resulted in everyone getting either hammered with light beer, or tripping balls off of experimental government funded future-drugs. On a triple blind level, I hoped that the satellite images would be enough to stand for what I hoped to accomplish as a member of society. I hoped that it would be everything The Guild Council agreed it should be; a summer blockbuster that could fund an escape in self sustained pleasure submarines. Everyone got passed security and they sat down and watched the game. That, I think more than anything, was the weird part.

Groupthink took over for a long while there and everyone, Viking and Saint, Pagan and Christian, Lunatic and Fanatic, all sat down together and ate hot dogs while the Vikings played the Saints for the first time since their playoff game. The Saints began roughing up Farve, as they had before, but after the first couple he was retired to the bench while Peterson tried his best. It was a good game before the gun fight. The score was, by quarter Q1: S:10 V:7, Q2: S:13 V:10, Q3: V:22 S:20.

By the fourth quarter it looked like the Vikings could hold it together to pull off a victory. It was such amazing football that no one wanted to interrupt it with a blood bath. Not even Ozzy Osbornes [Agent OO 00] “Crazy Train”, expected to elicit some sort of violence, merely united the factions in getting their respective faces rocked off. It seemed like Pat Robertson had fallen into the trap, and understanding and hope would reign for a century as the power players and their progeny worked together to unite and equalized cultural values in a bloodless coup of reason, tolerance, and personal freedom.

Brett Farve ruined everything by getting into the game in the fourth. The Saints had scored. [2:00 warning = S:27 V:22] This was the time, and the place. His time was now, and donning his horned helmet and smiling to the crowd, The Viking King Brett Farve took the field. He strode to the huddle, a pack of the best and brightest athletes ever to combat for money and power. They took formation and, as the world watched, Brett Farve took the snap. He faded back, The Saints leaping and tearing at the line with the force of unrighteous martyrs possessed. A single Saint broke through the line and Brett Farve threw over his shoulder. The pass was immediately intercepted. Brett Farve was struck in the chest with the force of a cannon ball. His head popped off like a daisy. Everyone went crazy.

Cries of horror united with screams of dismay. Cheers of righteous victory were a disjointed chorus played in syncopation with the feral howling of mad animals set free. Saw and Axe and Sword and Bow and Needle and Horn were raised to lips and hands and hearts and everyone set to swinging. Then the gunshots rang out, loud and terrible under the dome. Terror turned to chaos turned to light and sound, broken and fragmented by a thousand lives aligning against a thousand more underneath a home that had known too much tragedy already. Broken and scattered footage is all that remains. Suppressed and denied it serves as a grim testament to the utter savagery of it all. I submit the account in hopes that Brett Farve will not be traded, knowing full well that it will be. Such is the terrible clockwork of destiny.

The Viking King is Dead, All Hail The Viking King.

Willfuly Submitted,

Q.P. Quaddle
[BSG K00] DDS

The Dead Fox.

2010-08-20T13:32:00.000-07:00

Driving to Bagley is often strange. In the winter it is like driving in space. Carless expanse of highway. Lonely and cold. In the summer you are on the lookout for deer, eager to leap in front of your car for fun and excitement. For the past several months, there was always a fox on the way home. Patrolling the ditches. Maybe looking for road kill. Maybe looking for me. I had almost stopped a week ago. Was just going to pull over and try talking to the fox. I knew it would not talk back [I am not crazy] but that is not to say that it would not have listened. I thought maybe they were the foxes that had dwelled in the family field. Perhaps the cows scared them away. It seemed like a messenger. Cynics would have you believe the fox was an opportunist. Looking for road kill to devour. A spiritual person knows better.

On the way home last night I saw a pair of flashing eyes in the ditch before headlights illuminated a dead fox on the highway. There was a brief conversation between myself and Ruth. I didn’t want to be called crazy or careless, but I could not brook the poor animal being left in the road. Ground into the tar until what was once beautiful and alive became unrecognizable trash. After a cremation was turned down [I want to free the spirit, but the ghost cat should have taught me better] we turned around and went back in order to remove it from the road. I wanted to know what the flashing eyes in the ditch were.

It was just past the turn for Leonard when the headlights washed over the accident. Indeed, there was a living fox in the ditch. They were looking at their dead friend (child? mother?). Ruth mentioned the video of the dog pulling the wounded dog off of the busy highway. Later I would be hit with the link and watch it. I don’t think humanity has the market cornered on humanity anymore. In fact, looking at how we treat on another, I would rather throw my lot in with nature and know that, if I were murdered, I would at least be consumed. I picked up the dead fox, broken in a million pieces. It couldn’t have suffered. I carried it away and lobbed it into the ditch. Once a companion that let me know I was nearly home, now lifeless, broken and cold in the ditch.

I did it for the friend to mourn. To come to terms with the terrible finality of it all. To be able to commune with the dead without the constant fear of the headlights. The roar of trucks on the highway. A cynic would lead you to believe he was waiting around to eat the slain friend. A spiritual person knows better. A spiritual person knows that the fox is cunning because nature didn’t give them camouflage or size. Just some brains. And a family. It will return to nature, by and by. Become crow and grass. I wish I could have done more for the creature. I hope that they will forgive our trespass. I hope that when they meet with the Great Spirit that the fox speaks well of me.

Production Report; Grimaldi’s Chicken.

2010-08-15T18:44:00.000-07:00

Minneapolis, 8-15-10

Well. That’s done with then. The Twin Cities did not burn down. I am not rich or famous. Steve Martin did not come. Still, the show is over and the players have entertained Minneapolis. At the very least our friends and family in and around the Minneapolis area. It was a fine show. One I can be proud to put my name on. A good experience. If not chaotic and strange. Birthed from grim circumstances to rise and stand, on its own two feet, amidst the theater of our modern age. Take that MN Fringe festival. Take that to the bank and cash it.

The first fringe I ever submitted to was back in 2004. My piece; An Interview With Guy ManCock; Rock God, had themes of rock and roll and school shootings. It preempted the Red Lake shooting by 2 months, but the NYC Fringe would have none of it. Shelved that show. Still has yet to be performed. I submitted to them again in 2007 with English Nonsense Chapter 1; Turkish Delight, another of my works that has yet to be produced. This was also submitted to the MN Fringe. It was then that I found out that the MN Fringe does not choose their pieces based on merit or quality. It’s all random. Lottery. Neither randomness nor a juried panel would touch the piece.

I don’t know how to feel about a lottery to determine shows. I think that it’s a system that lends itself to exploitation and mediocrity. You see, many companies don’t even bother writing a show until they find out they are selected. Only when they have secured a slot do they invest their energies into actually creating a show. This strikes me as terribly backwards. For my part I think that you should create a piece of quality that you then want to share with an audience. Of course, this theory has yet to get me into the NYC Fringe. Which is probably just as well. Some audience member would no doubt have ended up with a sword in their face.

I submitted to the 2010 MN Fringe through a program called “First Steps”. It’s a program reserved for those who never produced or only produced once for the MN Fringe. It pairs inexperienced producers with “Next Steps” participants; companies that have produces three or more shows at the MN Fringe. Not as much interested in receiving mentorship, I got into it for two reasons; 1. You don’t have to come up with the full $450 to participate in the MN Fringe, only half of that up front [the remainder comes out of the box office before payout], and 2. There is a smaller lottery from which companies are drawn. How to win the lottery? An inane but relevant question indeed. It worked. I watched the lottery drawing online. I was drawn third. The show; Grimaldi’s Chicken.

I wrote Grimaldi’s Chicken in September of 2009 for KG Entertainment’s “Out of The Hat” production. Greg Gasman, the producer, first saw this method in Duluth. The idea is that you produce a show in 24 hours from concept to performance. Actors, writers, techs, and directors gather on a Friday night at 7 PM. Every participant writes on a piece of paper, an object, a location, and a first line. At 8 PM writers draw, at random, these things, as well as the number of males and females in their script. They then have 12 hours to write a comedy piece that integrates these elements. At 8 AM, actors, techs, and performers gather. Directors receive their scripts and casts at random. They have 12 hours to rehearse, memorize, and stage a performance. At 8 PM it hits the stage.

For the first go my object was “a rubber chicken” [ha ha], my location was “a 1950’s diner”, and my first line was “I want a divorce… again.”. 2 men, 2 women. At the time I wrote it I was taking care of my terminally ill grandmother. Between writing I would check on her. Adjusting pillows. Fetching water. That dear, poor woman. At the time I was miserable. I would like to say that it was an easy job, but it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It’s funny that, after she passed, I just wished I could have had her here longer. Would have been more than willing to adjust her and clean her and help her if only she was around. But she is in a better place now. I only mention it to provide a context. I needed escape, and a script is the best way to free yourself of the real world. I hammered the script out in three hours. Did a quick copy edit and called it a night.

There are really two schools of thought when it comes to “Out of The Hat”. One is that you take the elements and take liberties with them, cramming in the necessary components where they fit. The second school, the one I subscribe to, is truly letting the elements define the show. So, where-as putting a rubber chicken in a 50’s diner could be as simple as having a gag in the piece involving the freshness of their food is an easy out, I decided instead to write a piece with the rubber chicken as a central character. Rough and tumble research showed that there is no one person attributed with inventing the rubber chicken. Yet it is everywhere. Iconic. Ridiculous. Who did invent it? What sort of person were they? What sort of life did they lead?

Humans are curious by nature. As a question to the brain that it can’t answer and it will work on it until it gets a result. For my part I just plugged in the components, named the characters, and let them talk to one another. I just transcribed. The story was done quickly. Writing it down took some time. The amazing thing is that, after I wrote it, I knew that the performers and crew would then work a solid 12 hours on it. That’s something you never get. Ever. That was what really drew me to the idea. Originallity? Yes. A group of performers working on something for 12 hours? Impossible. I’ve worked on shows with a month production schedule where you don’t get 12 hours of rehearsal. Or, if you do, people are late, or gone, or sick, or stupid. But you have to be spot on when you know there is going to be an audience watching you. It’s great.

I had my guy on the inside tell me who was in the cast, and I felt good about it. Everyone involved in “OOTH” was quality. The northwood breeds a hardy and hilarious people. Used to improvisation by necessity and not training. Able to work without accoutrement or furnishing. These are not equity actors. These are renegade performers. Able to do Equus in a barn, or King Lear in a garage. Without props or set. Costumes or lights. Theater Guerillas of the Northwood Unite! I rested comfortably and came to the show in the evening.

Grimaldi’s Chicken went up first. It was a bit nerve wracking. Never having been done in Bemidji, if my script shit the bed we were all going to have to lay in it. Set the bar too low and it was going to be a long, unpleasant performance. It was great. The performers nailed it. There were some problems, to be sure, but nothing they could not handle. Particularly considering my piece was twice as long as everyone else’s. Now, I had been told that my time frame was between 15 and 20 minutes, and at 15 pages I thought it would fit in there nicely. As it turns out I use a much smaller font than most. 35 minutes was the first run time. It was good. I showed the video to my Grandma, but it was poor quality and hard to understand. But she heard the laughter. It would be the last show of mine she would see. The first thing I’d ever written staged. I will be eternally thankful to Greg and everyone involved for that.

“From the way people were laughing, people sure seemed to enjoy it.” She said.

It was good. Good enough to make me submit it to the MN Fringe. I did it. I was drawn. I immediately offered the roles to the performers who originated them. Bemidji has a habit of importing their talent from the cities, and I wanted to show the cities that our actors could go toe to toe with any of them big city players. This was putting my money where my mouth was. I got the guys, but the ladies had other commitments in August. I recast with a couple of ladies [Beaver Alumni] who were fabulously talented. Everything between the drawing and rehearsal is a blur. Then it was July and rehearsals were behind. Then it was a nightmare.

The problem with being a pauper-producer is not having any money. Originally the plan was to secure funds through advertising in our program, but that plan became less and less feasible as we drew closer and closer to performances. What at first was going to be the seed finance for a show instead turned into last minute rubber chicken hunts and negotiating for tiny chickens for thanks in the home printed programs. It’s all a nightmare. The nightmare is made less terrifying by the competence of my performers, and my family, who always steps into the fray when I need them most.

It went well. Ma did the costumes. They were great. The men were put in my Grandfather’s old suits. He would have thought it was crazy. The ladies had tailored dresses that looked great. The set pieces, portable and light weight, were constructed by my Dad, who amazes me with his ability to make things out of nothing. My brother Jared stage managed. Some would consider a stage manager without a drivers license to be a detriment, but they don’t know Jared Liend. He has the professionalism and ability of someone beyond his years.

I don’t know how it came together. I never do. I try to never take it for granted. People always say that when you find yourself in your most desperate and unfortunate nightmare;

“Don’t worry. It will all come together.”

And it does. But I don’t take it for granted. Because it’s a kind of magic, and magic is elusive. You don’t want to bank on it. For as great as I think the performances went, they were under attended. I don’t know if it’s the venue. It’s probably a lack of publicity. I can not afford print ads. The interweb is fickle and unreliable. People say they will come, but people live busy lives. It isn’t so much about the money as it is about providing my performers with an audience, and providing that audience with laughter. I wish I could figure out how to get paid to make people laugh. It’s a rough business out there. People are jaded and cruel. It’s tough to tell a love story about The American Dream and sell it. People want naked yoga and experimental rape theater.
I am proud of the show. I really think people enjoyed it. It was a real learning experience. I am proud of my cast and my crew, and consider myself blessed to have them both. I am going to try to do it again. Because past the nightmare, somewhere out there, is a dream. Waiting for me. Waiting for us.

Grimaldi’s Chicken was first performed at the Paul Bunyan Playhouse in Bemidji, Minnesota. Produced by KG Entertainment and directed by Mary Knox-Johnson

Cast:
Stanley Grimaldi – Eric Nelson
Veronica Grimaldi – Bridget Stomberg
PennyBarclay – Mackenzie Lindahl
John Loftus – Joel Ward

2010 MN Fringe Production;

CAST
Stanley Grimaldi – Eric Nelson
Veronica Grimaldi – Bretanne Ostberg
John Loftus – Joel Ward
Penny Barclay – Mallory McKay

CREW
Stage Manager – Jared Liend
Costuming – Donna Liend
Set Construction – Terry Liend
Production Assistant – Vicki Stenerson

THANKS
Bad Cat Creations, Bemidji, Greg Gasman, Ruth Baker, Dorothy Broste, Bethel Lutheran Church, Laurie Swenson, Vita.mn, Amy Rummenie, Grandma, Ma, Gods.

“The world is a dark, cruel place where people are afraid of one another and of the world around them. But in the darkness we can all huddle around the warming light of a joke… and we can laugh together. And it doesn’t matter who you are, or where you came from, or where you’re going. It doesn’t matter if you’re rich or poor or anything. When you look into the face of all the chaos and terror you just want to scream. But you can’t scream. So you laugh. You laugh and the world laughs with you.” – Stanley Grimaldi

Q Report; Folk Fest 2012.

2010-07-29T16:12:00.000-07:00

10-10-25 [Location Unknown]

Personal Journal
Agent K00 [Q].

I remember very little, but in vivid detail, the first Winnipeg Folk Festival I attended. 2010. It was more folk than some folk can handle. It was the last sane year before things got out of control. It was the folly pursuit to commune with Gods. It was the breath before the collapse. The calm before the storm.

Travelling under an assumed name I has snuck over the border with Americans set on defecting. Their plan was to find good looking wealthy Canadian masseurs in need of marriage. There is a transient population of 15,000 in attendance of the WFF, and so the odds of success were high, and spirits higher as we gathered the tools necessary for our dual works. Mine was a fact finding mission for the guild. Theirs marriage and leisure.

The Winnipeg Folk Festival is what Woodstock could still be, if not for the tragic extinguishing of goodwill and peace that it lit, brilliant and bold, for one magical summer in ’69. Any attempt to revive it since has met with ruin, murder, and despair. That brilliant flame birthed at Woodstock flew on western winds and embers settled just outside of Winnipeg. Every year, people of every age, creed, gender and nation come together. They consume vast quantities of food, music, and drugs. No one gets stabbed. No one freaks out. The sun shines bright and bold in Canada. The festival claimed to be organized by a non-profit board of directors, but Guild intelligence indicated otherwise.

The Guild sent me in ’10 to find out who was at the top. It was the year of the pyramid. The year of QuetzoQuaddle. The season of the witch. The strike team was a multi-cellular Agent list consisting of myself and several initiate press gangs that were branded with Guild insignia and dropped out of a bus after several hours with bags over their heads. Superiors in the Pentagon have disagreed with the morality of the technique, but cannot deny its efficacy. Only when you feed men to wolves can they find the necessity for a pack. The press gangs were to act as a cover, capturing as much Digital Archive as possible. The hope; to provide at least a terabyte of pirate material. If captured without documentation, Canadian officials could render swift judgment by means of uncomfortable deportation. It was also not uncommon to see summary life-expulsion from the festival, considered tantamount to eternal suffering for those who have attended for enough years.

Capture is not an option for a properly trained and prepared Guild Agent. Handcuffs are silly devices when compared to explosives and video games. Thumbs can be dislocated. Keys hidden. Agents with a sense of humor often ferret away a note in their but with whimsical sayings, simply to vex the authorities. Party favorites;
“You are a rapist.”
“Happy Birthday!”
“Sorry! Your princess is in another crack-hole.”

There was some crazy shit that went down in ’10. There was a zero gravity lightsaber duel for the title of Pirate King. I won. Obviously. A cover is never as effective as making a power play for control of a situation. James Bond subscribes to this tactic time and time again. Truth is stranger than fiction. When time is an issue, you have to buck authority and challenge convention to get a subversive element to expose itself. Light the fire and expose the head. It worked. Security escorted the master puppeteer to the zero gravity circus and we began our friendship.

At it turned out the entire festival was being controlled by Bob Dylan. This was not as shocking to people as some had projected. Bob was planning on defecting for some time, having reserved a list of rich masseurs he could call on for support. And after all, an investment in folk was an investment in the future. Bob probably owned more than half of Winnipeg through retail investments and business ventures. He was planning a retirement community for cool celebrities. A sort of Walden commune where they could all make art until they died. Then there was the space pyramid.

The Space Pyramid Scheme was a Prime Guild Initiative that failed only because of the globe collapsing. Bob was on board after a brief conversation about our mutual plans. The transcript went Level 3 Viral about the time money stopped working. Such is the intangible nature of existence. The following excerpt, provided through the future phone for personal edification, are some of the final quotes from Bob Dylan, and serve as a firm stony backdrop to the gelatinous havoc of FF 2012. It begins just after entering festival camping from Trail 1. The smell of fried deliciousness and sweet Canadian cannabis intermingled with the hanging smoke of pine camp fires nestled in the center of the camps. Bob himself was high on peyote and Herba-Matte-Poppymilk. I was surprisingly sober for having consumed a bag of mushrooms the size of a fist. Talking with Bob Dylan is like amusing the Devil. As we walked, Bob would spit blood and ash while chain smoking Lucky Strikes.

[Begin Transcript]

Q: So… can I call you Bobby Z?

BZ: Yeah. What do I call you again?

Q: I am QuetzoQuaddle. I am The Dragon Reborn. I am the Frog King of the Mississippi. I am Old King Creole, Last King of the Mayans!

BZ: Right. Right, you said that, but I can’t call you that.

Q: Call me Q.

BZ: OK. You can call me Bobby Z I guess.

Q: Thank you.

BZ: This is our pyramid.

Q: So it is.

BZ: Well… we didn’t have much time.

Q: Sure. I see a sphinx.

BZ: Yeah, it’s a trading post.

Q: What can you trade there?

BZ: Anything. If it’s from the soul.

Q: Is the laser real?

BZ: I wonder that myself.

Q: Look! They are breeding glow in the dark plants! What glorious fauna!

BZ: What?

Q: Nothing. Nothing at all. Pope’s Hill is that way?

BZ: Yeah.

Q: And it is called that because the Pope blessed it once?

BZ: Yeah. He may also be buried under it.

Q: What are all those lights?

BZ: People.

Q: There’s thousands of them.

BZ: Several thousands.

Q: Sweet Jesus, everyone has a lightsaber!

BZ: I saw your duel on something.

Q: Something digital?

BZ: Yeah. Zero-Gravity lightsaber battle. That’s something you don’t see every day.

Q: Those people are on fire.

BZ: No, they are manipulating fire.

Q: Whoah. Wow. They are quite good.

[Sounds of coughing.]

Q: Bobby Z! What the hell is that!?

BZ: Uh… [cough]… it’s an invention… [cough]. Guy who won the Nobel Prize built it for me… forget his name… [cough]. Allows me to instantly condense and inhale anything… [cough].

Q: Anything?

BZ: Anything.

[Sounds of spitting.]

Q: What have you tried smoking?

BZ: Not tried Q, did. Everything man. I’ve smoked almost everything.

Q: What was that you just toked on?

BZ: The Good Stuff.

Q: The Good Stuff?

BZ: Jim Morrison.

Q: The Lizard King?

BZ: That’s the one.

Q: You are smoking him?

BZ: His remains, yes. Hair is best.

Q: Was this by your request, or his?

BZ: Life is strange.

Q: People are strange.

BZ: Look at that!

Q: Flame whip!

BZ: How does that work!?

Q: Bobby Z, could I smoke some Jim?

BZ: How could I refuse the Lizard King to the Frog King?

Q: How do I operate this contraption?

BZ: You push this button, suck on this end, and pray.

Q: All Hail QuetzoQuaddle and the New World Revolution. I regret nothing.

[Sounds of coughing and laughter.]

Q: Wowie.

BZ: Doors of Perception.

Q: My mouth tastes like long dead burning hair, and for the first time in my life I feel truly alive.

BZ: Embrace it brother! Embrace ME brother!

[Sounds of laughter/coughing/gagging.]

BZ: Are you really the Greatest Swordsman in the World?

Q: Until someone beats me.

[End Transcript.]

The Space Pyramid Scheme had the green light and seemed unstoppable. Powered by the positive energy of folk enthusiasts and backed by their King, how would anyone stop the endgame? The Exit Strategy? Why the Guild succeeded was because they sent emissaries and thieves instead of assassins and soldiers.

In ’10 we only suffered a 50% casualty rate. The Guild cells did their jobs and accomplished their mission. The Pirate Data hit broadband from off shore and things seemed to be well. As a result of the data explosion the WFF ’11 line up was unstoppable. Neil Young, Pete Seiger, Arlo Guthrie, Xavier Wainwright III, and the ultimate reveal of Bob Dylan World. In WFF ’11, we had a 90% casualty rate.

What was once a wholesome folk affair had been exposed wholesale to Conglomerated World Media. Under the cock withering firestorm of national media blitzes the WFF was blighted by no less than 2,000 attendees being murdered, raped, or eaten by lunatic strangers. WFF ’12 moved ahead, undaunted by the bloodbath, as Dylan prepared to launch his air coliseum over the festival. Tethered by a water/power umbilical 5’ thick, the festival main stage would float 10,000 feet into the air. The Rolling Stones were playing their Absolute Final Performance, though they didn’t know it at the time. Through broadcast rights and ticket sales the 150 cubic mile of land would be purchased for the construction of the space pyramid. It seemed like an end to a means. Bringing rock to folk. How could we have known?

Looking back, I remember enjoying the stories the best. Old timers passing the pipe and talking about the lunacy of festivals past with whimsy and fondness. I enjoyed that the most and it is what I will try to remember that instead of the nightmare of WFF ’12. The coliseum was filled to bursting. 50,000 embarked on that fantastic and doomed lighter than air stadium. There were obvious concerns. From scientists mostly. Clergy. Even Guild Agents, despite the closeness of one of our prime objectives. Mostly concern for the children. There were other worries after Keith Richard’s threat of blowing everyone sky high. Guy ManCock claimed he was misquoted during a mescaline binge.

The Devil is n the details. The Rolling Stones were not folk. They were rock. Luckily, most of the true folk had been driven back into the woods. The tents replaced with RV’s. The fires replaced with flat panel TVs. The folk returned to nature in ’12, and laughed at the heavens for the fools who dared to try taming her.

The real festival was, and had always been a shared communion. King and generous people from all over the world uniting in fellowship and music. Around stages and fires they shared their lives. A family affair where children could play without fear. Of course Bobby Z didn’t mean to kill all those people, he was just misguided by the promise of global escape. The Guild is not blameless in its part. The means to the end was too great. The betrayal to final.

The launch occurred, and the coliseum rose. Rock thundered at 10,000 feet above the Earth. Engineers had designed the vessel to the last rivet. Calculated to the exact pound. But acoustic tests had not accounted for the rock. All of their tests were measured by folk of years past. The rock was too much. The vibrations too much to handle. The Rolling Stones brought down the house with their driving beats and fissures formed in tanks. Carbon fiber supports buckled and bent. The footage from within the stadium was immediately repressed by every responsible nation, but the Guild maintains footage of the fall in its vaults.

Halfway into their second set the main ballasts lost integrity and the entire coliseum began to plummet. 50,000 drug crazed people in freefall. The band playing on as to Earth the heavens fell. Terminal velocity attained before impact and all the while The Stones rocking on. An Icarus swan dive into oblivion. I have seen the footage, and it is as grizzly as it is fantastic. Terrifying as the cold oblivion of the Titanic married to the horror of Altamont.

All killed on impact. The worst unnatural disaster ever. Bobby Z is still at large. The mass murdering promoter who betrayed his people as the deposed Folk King. It was the precursor to the end. The harbinger of the global collapse. The second day the music died. Learn you well those who remain; Only the real folk survive to tell the stories. Rock at risk of your eternal damnation.

Willfully Submitted,

Q.P. Quaddle
BSG Agent K00

Jeremiah Turns 30 Wish List.

2010-06-20T18:33:00.000-07:00

Happy Birthday To ME!!! Oh man. It’s close now. I’m going to divine some serious fortune on this one. Gonna burn the solstice up. It hits a little after 6 AM. There is so little darkness any longer. So. I get a lot of people asking me; Jeremiah, what do you want for your birthday? But actually that is not true. Because I don’t talk to many people any more. It’s a strange question. Like? “What would I like?” It’s more about what a person needs. And the things someone needs and the things people want are very different in nature. This is where the wish comes in. Everyone gets 1 birthday wish, but I’m still not flying, rich, or expelling diamonds as sweat. Instead I have other things that are quite nice. My fine Lady Ruth E. Baker. So many friends and family. Have to be about a 1,000 people out there I’m met. Some I know. Most I love. I have a roof over my head, and people offering their roofs to me. I have food. And warmth. We’re already climbing Maslow’s Pyramid like mountaineers. But what would I WISH for?

World Peace.
Brakes.
Oil Change.
Teraflop Digital Storage Device.
Powerful Digital Camera.
500 Swords and Knives. [100 each of Katana, Rapier, Broadsword, Dagger, Zweihander]
A Master Plan.
Unlosable Shruiken.
Chocolate Pudding Hot Tub.
Megawatt Turbines.
Kilowatt Solar Panels.
3,000,000^3 Helium.
Everyone’s Old Yard Signs.
Paint.
[40] 40’ x 8’ x 40’ Cargo Containers.
Acetylene torch with long hose.
Several Barges.
The Most Powerful Phone In the World.
All Derelict Oil Tankers.
A College Education.
The Space Pyramid.
5,270,000 “Mightier Than The Sword” Pens.
A Raven.
A Crane [Equipment, not bird.].
Small Castle.
12 Unlosable Arrows.
The Cure for All Diseases.
An Ice Cream Machine in Every Room on The Planet.
An Engineer.
Several Engineers.
Everyone Wins The Lottery.

OK. That’s a good list I think. Just gonna toss this into the universe and see what happens.

The Birth of Guy ManCock.

2010-06-09T16:22:00.000-07:00

Guy Mancock was not born a rock God. He was forced into the profession after a series of tragedies which, more or less, forced the microphone into his hand. Guy was born in Brisbane. The tenth generation of penal colonists, Guy’s father was a chartered public accountant and his mother owned a Laundromat. Guy was raised in the modern manner of the upwardly mobile plebes. He was encouraged to get a four year degree right out of school, and most important, to get the hell out of Brisbane. He graduated in the upper 10th percentile for Queensland. Armed with a suitcase full of books and fistfuls of Australian dollars, Guy moved to NYC with his eye on America and all the fantastic stardom it could offer.

NYC was everything Guy had imagined it. Millions of people from every nation and creed living together in relative peace, if not harmony. Grand spires of concrete and glass defying the heavens with their towering heights. Everywhere lights and windows and the smell of exotic foods and still a tree or two. Guy was attending Columbia University for a degree in business. He maintained an apartment in the heights with his friends. Guy walked 200 blocks a day. Guy was taking Aikido and testing for the Black Belt. Guy was hitting the library and ignoring the bars and still writing a letter a day to his grandma. Guy was making the grade and bending the ear of the dean and constructing a Business Plan to Save the World. Things were looking up for Guy… and then she came along.

Guy was tickling the belly of 20 when she came along. And she ruined everything. Guy will forget her name, through much effort, decades later. What can be pieced together from second hand accounts and some very pointed first hand interviews, paints a picture of madness. She was a beautiful lunatic that leapt from the concrete jungle, sunk her fangs into Guy, and declared him her meal. Guy lost his friends first. She made him leave them. Then Guy lost his money, buying her ridiculous but pretty things including, but not limited to, an engagement ring “Just In Case”. The cost of the ring made finishing the last year of college impossible. Then Guy lost his will to live. He got a job as an intern downtown. Assisting an assistants assitant by doing all of the shitty and stupid things people need done by someone willing to get paid as a slave to do it.

Then she left him for “Dude”. That was all she would refer to him as. “Some Dude”. “Just Some Dude I Met”. “This DUDE! What?!”. And then Guy lost his shit. Other men, in his position, would do any number of violent and unpleasant things to maintain some sense of control. Destroy something just to see that they still have the power to manifest the deadly intangible into something obtainable. Smashing the dinette set you spent $2,000 with a $20 sledge, for instance. Still other men would have killed her with a handgun. Guy was not a man to do either at this point in his life. Instead, he simply misplaced his shit in a big way. Broke down. Cried all night and day for a week, rolled into a ball. Crying fat, hot tears while listening to the movers take away all the things he had bought for her thinking things would change.

He began to develop several unpleasant habits at this point, chief among them being the ingesting of vast quantities of drugs. Guy would troll the internet, and then the streets, searching for chemicals that would erase his memory. Of course there are many. Alcohol is it’s king. Guy drank. He drank until he had nothing. He could not afford the plane ticket home. He stopped writing his grandma. He started selling his blood and semen. All the while searching for the thing that would make him forget her, and how he had loved her, and how she was now living with “Just Some Dude I’m ‘Seeing’”. Getting into the drug scene in NYC is surprisingly easy. You simply walk around asking for them until you’re either arrested or hooked up. Nothing seemed to work though.

He would suck on a pistol at night. He was so very tired of crying. He would lay on the couch of whoever was being kind enough to let him crash and he would begin crying. But he could not wake the host! He would hate himself for his tears, but they would assault him. The utter sadness and horror of it all. She got everything in the non-vorce but the pistol. Guy looked, at this point, something between homeless and fantastic. A broken, half-maintained, hollow wreck of a human, but still good looking. Guy wore broken like a queen wears silk. But nothing about the way he walked, or the way he talked would lead you to believe he was packing. But he was. And he did. And late at night, when nothing else would make him stop crying, he would pull out his pistol and put it in his mouth. He would feel the familiar weight and smell the gun oil and the chattering of teeth on nickel would slow. And the gentle sound of sobbing would subside. And there would be the sweet suckling of Guy on his pistol. Then there would be the click of safety reengaging, and Guy would sleep.

He began to knife people unmercifully. Before she made him quit the program, Guy had gotten the Black Belt in Aikido. Getting into the drug scene in NYC is surprisingly easy. Surviving is not. Guy looked like the kind of person who probably just looked poor because he was too rich. Wandering East Harlem at 3 AM is not high on the list of good ideas. Not when the river is so close and screams so ignored. Bullets are expensive, knives cheap. Guy would steal knives. It was a vice that had cost him many couches. But Guy found them to be simply delightful. Otherwise deadly situations could quite easily be resolved by the right knife. Placed into the right part of the body. With the right gusto. Guy always gave the knife to his victim. As both a sign of respect and warning.

Guy was 26. Broke. Strung out. Diseased. Famished. His teeth had begun falling out. His normal appearance, often seen as fashionable, revealed itself to be mere malnutrition. His modus operandi was very simple and unfortunately vexing. He only wanted to forget her. He only wanted to erase THOSE memories. And nothing seemed to be working. Guy sensed the end of the road. He considered starting to walk home. Australia. That would be a hike. Just start walking west. Meet the sea. Dive in. Guy was fairly convinced he could live with the dolphins. But for a walk like that, he would need drugs.

Guy went on a binge of work. He collected cans from garbage. He sold all the blood he had to spare. He gave all the semen his poverty wrecked reproductive system could produce. He stole car stereos and sold them on the street. When all was said and done he had made enough money that he felt confident he could please the Candy Man General, an assertive/militant pusher who seemed to like Guy, but had never asked for sex drug exchange for himself personally. For as cool a name as the Candy Man General is, the Batman mentality of fantastic villainy doesn’t cut it in the real world. Where one would imagine pillars of candy canes and men in clever outfits, there is only a pusher and his home. Guy went straight in, past the sentries. Most drug homes in the neighborhood knew to keep their hands off Guy.

Guy entered the living room only to see Keith Richards training a pistol at Mary-Kate Olson and what appeared to be a dozen or so naked women being hoarded over by a 500 lb white male with a machine gun. Keith Richards own account of the event suggests that it was the craziest thing he’d ever seen thus far in his life. Where most men would have lost their cool in a situation like this, Guy took a deep breath, considered his options, and spoke.

“Look. I just want to buy some cheap drugs!” Said Guy, and reserved his place in history.

Everyone laughed so hard, they put their ill tempered arms to the ground and all set about hugging. After everyone had explained their sides of the story it turned out everyone was just way too high to be handling guns. There began a grand communion of spirits at the Candy Man General’s brownstone, and spurred on by the general feelings of comradery and sharing, Guy explained his situation, not wanting to be “that guy that complained about his X for five hours.”.

After eight hours Guy was done ranting/crying. It was an exorcism of grand proportions. He had shown, as an example, how sucking his pistol helped him sleep. He had explained, in gritty detail, the hours he spent debating the difference between eggshell and beige. He had explained how there was a scheduled foot rub time, while she ate iced cream and watched American Idol. He said what he had done afterwards. The drugs and the crime and the sex and the not writing his grandma. He realized, only then, that he hadn’t written his grandma, and that sent him into a downward spiral of self loathing so crippling and absurd that those unwillingly exposed to this dreadful catharsis had to stop doing their drugs and start evaluating their lives. With scrutiny and self abandon Guy explained his life thus far, and Keith Richards was impressed. He spoke then.

“Guy, that is an amazing story. I know you’re worried about a lot of those things, and I understand that. I really do. Now. I have to tell you, I have seen you before in my dreams. It sounds crazy, I know, but I have seen you in them. And you are a Rock God. I don’t know how, or why, but you have to sleep with a woman in every nation, erase your memory, and then lead Rock into the Second Golden Age. I can help you, for I know the drugs you seek.”

This began a lasting and sacred mentorship established between Keith and Guy that is bonded in blood for a thousand years. But Keith still did not know something;

“Hey, what’s your name kid?” asked Keith.

“Guy Swallowcock Manlove.” Said Guy, and everyone laughed.

“Swallowcock?” asked Keith.

“Yes. It’s a bird native to Queensland.” Said Guy, and everyone laughed.

“That’ll never fly. What did your ancestors do?” asked Keith.

“They were penal colonists” said Guy, and everyone laughed.

And then Keith thought long and hard.

“You are Guy ManCock.” Said Keith, “Through time and dreaming I have remembered it. And soon, so shall the world. Come Guy, let us get you the memory erasing drugs you seek.”

Dearest George Lucas,

2010-06-08T01:27:00.000-07:00

Dearest George Lucas,

I am sending this up the flagpole and you’re bound to get it eventually. I know several people. One of them has to know you, or know someone who knows you. The world is too small. Perhaps we are related. Look, it’s my 30th birthday in a little bit here, and I am beginning a series of wishes to be accomplished by various people. Now, I don’t care if I never make a dime off of this, but will you just make the following plan happen for me by Christmas;

4 Helmets; Stormtrooper, Rebel Soldier, Rebel Pilot, Darth Vader. The Helmet will be the game, George. You will have both a lightsaber and a control stick. The lightsaber will extend. It will shoot infrared light, from the remotes, into the helmet that both projects a virtual image and immerses us in THX. I want to hear the TIE screaming over me and my R2 Astrodroid. I want my backpack to have jets. I want to feel the weight of the saber in my hand as it snaphisses to life. When I am wrenching on the controls of my A-Wing I want to feel my brain drop to the floor with the impossible physics.

I want to do it with everyone. Everyone I ever knew. Or most of them. I want you to teach kids to read with them. You could probably do that. I want you to Universally Translate for me. You will connect wirelessly to the internet, or a Local System that will project different scenarios. Mostly it will be the ultimate battlefield. You will Pilot and Soldier, Hero and Jedi, battling for the Destiny of the Galactic Republic.

That’s all I want, George. That is all I want. Just call some people. You and Bill Gates sign some deal that says we can all have a helmet. Because safety is important in this day and age. You could also attach it to a treadmill that powers the game. And that would really help me get in shape. Earlier today I was playing a virtual game where I had to RUN to meet the opponents on the field. And I was being forced to run by the remote that was determining how fast I was going. I also flew. It was something else. You can make this happen.

This may just be wishing on a star, but just let me know if it can be done by Christmas so I can start saving my money and sleeping at night. Just let me put on a helmet and battle in your universe. There are none quite like the one you’ve made. With the right programming Virtual Lightsaber Duels could usher in a new age in Swordsmanship. Hope that you and the family are great. Thanks in advance.

Regards,

Jeremiah TS Liend
Bemidji, MN

Things to Do; Purchase an Oil Proof Raincoat.

2010-06-03T19:47:00.000-07:00

The very real and necessary urge to create has me by the heart. Just the savage need to get words down. More than likely words that no one will read, or, if anyone, a fraction of the fraction that is the English speaking language. Just need something to chronicle it. I am not any one of dozens of things I may be, or what people see me as. I am all of them, and wearing the costume of my own creation is getting tiring. But of all those things, and for the sake of everything, I like to consider myself a chronicler of the human condition. Who does that anymore? Everyone has something to sell. An agenda to push. A reason to get you to buy their book. I don’t need you to buy my book. Yet. I need you to appreciate and cultivate the hope that drives us on. Because we are all of us dying [don’t tell the children] and the sands, they are a-flowin. We are all of us doomed, and the only real question is how you want to be remembered if you want to be remembered at all.

That’s what this creating is. Just digital flotsam. Like what Chaucer did, only you can understand it. Another 100 years and who is to say what will understandable anymore. Universal Language Text Conversion. That’s what we’re shooting towards. Everyone communicating with their pods and berries. Pads talking to pads in the first world while everyone else gets eaten by mutants. The complete and utter breakdown of literature as we know it. Literature wasn’t going anywhere anyhow. It’s all too nothing. Nothing to say and no reason to say it. Just stories about things that may or may not have been, trying to teach us a lesson that none of us will learn.
The poison is loosed and we are all victim to the rich and incompetent. I don’t know if you’re worried about the spill, but that shit scares me white. It’s the straw I think. And the camel was crippled and dying to begin with. I don’t want to be the lunatic saying it’s the beginning of the end, but it seems to be that the bad guys are winning and the guys we thought were good are merely politicians. Celebrities are the only thing we have that count for heroes, and they are all cowards and narcissists. Heroes are soldiers in as much as they are in harms way to keep our oil cheap and heroin out of Bagley. But mostly they are forced to serve because poverty keeps the dream of education out of reach unless you carry a rifle.

Oh the storms. There is a storm coming. And I’m not talking about a metaphysical or political storm. I am not talking about a storm in the press room or the White House. I am talking about a storm that the world has never seen. I don’t need science or reason to see its approach. If you take the time to stop and listen, you can hear the winding of the gears of a great clockwork universe. Pulleys and cogs and gears all working together to maintain the time. Keep the system in check and the seconds rolling into minutes into hours into days into ages. And if you listen now, take the time to cast aside the music and the movie, the distracting minutia fed to us to keep us docile and content, if you put all of that in a box and shut it and listen to the wind, you will hear what I hear.

It is the gentle screaming of a woman defiled. It is carried on the wind from the other end of the river. It is the silent death of my brother turtles. It is the chemical genocide of a million lives, large and small. And as their spirits hover over the gulf they cry in unison for justice. Reciprocity. They pray to Gaia that they be revenged seven fold. Sweet creatures of the gulf, forgive us our apathy. But our prayers will go unanswered. There is a balance to all things, and there is a reckoning coming. Comeuppance for our folly. The poison we spray from our tailpipes will be in our food, our air and our blood. A yellow rain is breathing into the zephyrs, cumulating and preparing. We shall all pay the price that British Petroleum has leveled on our heads.
And amidst this I can do nothing. I am locked into a calendar that is relentless in it’s pursuit of my days. There are so many destinations that are so very close. I shall turn 30 and begin my ministry. The Revelation of Jeremiah will make Saint John look like a milquetoast. The Bright New Tomorrow is obscured by clouds of acid. Look you to the skies and pray mercy of our scorned and angry Gods. No shriving time allowed.

Mine is not to prevent the inevitable. Mine is not to rally or cajole, for the pleas of a lunatic are as a fart in the wind. Mine is but to witness the Ultimate Tragedy. Those who have born children into this doomed Earth will know little rest in the coming years. To hear the fall of Rome was as a billion mirrors shattered in the night. To see the fall of America will be to bear, in high definition, the last camel beg to be slaughtered. Back broken and lungs filled with carbon it will bleat its last only after we all admit our part in it’s undoing. Embrace me zephyrs. Soon comes the fall of the Great Twin Cities. Ensure you have your survival gear handy.

I Shall Summon a Storm.

2010-04-29T05:14:00.000-07:00

I shall summon a storm to end the world.
I shall summon a storm that has not been seen since predeluvian ages.
I shall summon a storm and into its eye I shall pour my avarice and hate.
I shall summon a storm that will break the world.
I shall summon a storm that will leave no doubt that there is an angry God.
I shall summon a storm that will wipe away wealth and poverty.
I shall summon a storm that will wash away nations.
I shall summon a storm that will end worlds.
I shall summon a storm that will at last unite us in fear.
I shall summon a storm and send out the call for heroes.
I shall summon a storm and it will be righteous.

Going Around the Horn, Dracula at Dawn.

2010-04-29T03:56:00.001-07:00

The bluish hues of morning creep slowly on the horizon,
My bed friends Hewlet Packard, and Folgers, and Verizon.
I’ve not seen the sun rise for a good fortnight or more,
What has this day to give me? What is within its store?

The birds begin their morning songs as sky begins to light,
To flight the birds are singing to me that have slept away the night.
I fear the dawn and what it brings, tomorrow has arrived,
The vigil met with digital aid, fasted, prayed, and shrived.

The breeze blows cold through naked branch this morning revelry,
The light is dim, so very dim, I find it hard to see.
Vampiric hours I have attended for what seems a thousand years,
Through countless joys, terrors, hates. Through laughter, and past tears.

The sun is cresting now I see so far away to the East,
A cruel and resurrecting orb. A brilliant burdening beast.
Today shall be a victory for the good and right and true.
My hopes are high my spirit aimed at skies of morning blue.