Podcasts about achingly

Pools of blood, And pools of dust, And fools, and fools, and fools Pools of love, And pools of list And tools and tools, and tools Pools of us, And Pools of hours And palms of pools D'hors Pools of plants, And pools of listen Pools and Pools and Pools Now, for us, what's at stake has come upon us For whether which now or ever ties have made for us to burn; Ne'er mistake there lust for listens and of ponders, Waterfalls of love and feathers, wanders Ties to honor stars and fore of fathers Almost lost it, there, I– Almost gathered, therefore. [ ] So to us who part ties, Of tied knots and of stomach's wrench To nourish shadows as remains her honor, I, depart my once, I, as flocking doves, The twist'of fated never Bare I fear or fonder Where, where, for again (bare tied as to none) and again wakes as has but not in time, to grove– The box I paved and yet, Set aside not as slabs of stone Or ash and fire But there i wake In cedar pine and oak The turn of slumber as the glow of what I once did not know, Now has shined against My eyes as water Luminescence Oh Goddamnit. Peaking pride, the oath Again i wait and ne'er did I come, but forth I woke, and also thought Not one but worlds of color, And there i know, to heart the seas I parted Not shallow or in shallows waking, red as scarlet blood but mauve, and then, the coping stays of which I gathered here has Agape and aching, wet with pride and courage Forefront others As thought to know, I, And I become, as known, now not and. “All White World” Our ENSEMBLE awakens slowly in the void of light; an all white space seemingly endless and drenched in blinding light; slowly awakening as if upon a cloud, and yet, washed in the drenched brightness of an all white world–familiar and together, but also new; The uniformity of all white attire and the simplicity of symmetry–all alike but of many and also one. I promise there's pancakes; I promise there's porridge I primise there's light at the end of the tunnel (the end of the night and beginning of brunch) And yes, I promise a run And a run for the office (not by far) And not unpardoned I promise to pray And I promise to wait And i promise to ache In the acres I've laid Made of all green pastures And days and days Without saying my name Pass us over Now…. Hiatus, Hiatus, Hiatus! My maples for all of us, cornbread And cream of the coconut (cream of the coconut) Screams from the underworld (Calling! They're calling) And trees of the very best kind; Plush with fruits What a prosperous product A merciless giving A scrupulous foreign (For four eyes, not one on my forehead) –policy! Don't you know, Conan, That all this goes over my– Over my over– Over my Over my head, –like a snowball? Don't you know, though, That nothing goes over his– Over his over– Over his Over his head –no one throws that high! (Not in softball!) ENSEMBLE What an apocalypse! What an apocalypse! What a protocol! What a dunce! What an oddball! Don't you know Nothing goes over Goes over Goes over us Nothing goes over us Nothing goes over Nothing goes over No bombs being dropped And the worst has to come because Nobody's turning this off; It's a turning point Not a mantra! It's a saga And nothing less short than a– Awful apocalypse; Long hiatus and no-low doses of Polymorohypothesis– Whatever that is! Don't you know, Conan, They're all going wrong with us. No, There's no knowing the coat From the hotbox, the hoot from the horus, the laugh from the chopsticks, The room full of products Or coatrooms of corpses No, There's no knowing us But out of nowhere The hour comes running upon us, And so The show must go on The show must go on The show must go…. DIRECTOR CUT! WHAT! That was FABULOUS! I don't disagree with you. However– What is it now? A MAN hangs by nothing but seemingly a very tightly buckled pair of restraints, above his head–the source of the object from which he hangs unknown, he appears to almost float, in fact, in quite the sufferable struggle. Holy fuck, guy. You're still up here? The VOICE comes from above but is yet unseen, it appears as though two very tidy clean white tennis shoes appear to be holding the straps of these restraints in place. CONT'D That's amazing. No false ties, And no hard wars, And no jolly ranchers, Gob stoppers, or nerf ropes. No fruit roll ups, No lunchables, or gushers No hamburger helper And no candy crush Just Drugs And more Drugs And more Drugs and more Morons Donuts, and drag queens, Tim Hortons, And Mormons; Mothballs, and Roaches, And horseflies, And rodents – Now guess which long road you're on (guess which long road you're on) Guess which long road you're aaaaahhhhhh– HALT. Who goes there. What the fuck is THIS. Finally, two acts past intermission, The troll under the bridge has put his cancer in remission The redactions have acted as class-action warfare, McDonalds has sponsored us, But barely. Look: just. No. I'm not endorsing this. Why. Because! It's killing people! Shh! It is! He–'s uh–joking. Actors! Improvising! Hush. Left and right! Speaking of left and right– You know who our sponsors are, right? Of coure! This nonsense! No! The– Shh–! –Owners of this product. Beg your pardon. Do you know who owns this brand and company? No. Well, do your research. Immediately. I highly recommend that. This seems serious. Serious as a heart attack. ACTION! Fuck you! Nuhhhhh–fuck you, you fucking fuck! Look, you lost, alright. Ughhhhhh. It's three to one. Three to one?! Yes. Fuck. Wait a–wait– What. Aren't there five of you guys? What? Huh-huh? No. Yes. There are. No. There's. Why. Five–of us–four of us You're lying. One, two, three *hiccups* four– Strike force “five”? I'm two guys! FUCK. We're missing one. Fuck. They figured us out. I figured out nothing. I'm drunk. I Fluffed. just know the difference–s between Five and One What. Four and Five! okay . Fuck. Well that's right. Well can't we just do it with us. NO! Why not. Because. the singularity has to be in the exact circumstance when this lightning strikes as the first one was. But– That's impossible. It's not–*hiccups*--umpossible. I was 9! “9 and a half!” “The half counts.” But not right now! Because i'm like a 60 year old guy! What! Gross. You're 60?! I think so! Then how old am I!?! I don't know! How old were you before!? I'm your brother! You don't know how old I am!? You're not my brother now, so maybe–I don't know–you never were! *gasps* take that bacK! [The boys fight amongst eachother] Fuck me, man. No thank you. What in the fuck did I write. I don't know but. CUT TO Ooh. Dice. DON'T TOUCH *poof* ENTER THE MULTIVERSE: L E G E N D S “The Magic Dice” (A Triad) NICE. FUCK yOu DUDE. nO fuck U U dElEETED My WRLD. THen is must not have been that great. *exaggerateD gasp* *even more exaggerated gasp* *Fluffs* *fluffs harder* *explodes* [The Festival Project ™ ] MEANWHILE The Aliens Are On A Pirate Ship, There's Still No Sign of [Redacted] and that's what this beat is called. -U. iS this a montage? Idk it just seems like a ship sinking in very slow motion. [A pirate ship full of aliens is sinking in very slow motion in a thunderous maelstrom.] (in IMAX 3D) Wow. I like that. This is fascinating. JIMMY KIMMEL is pacing relentlessly; he is driving the other hosts up a wall. KIMMEL I'm hungry, I want pants. I'm hungry– I want pants– Jimmy... KIMMEL I'm hungry– Jimmy! KIMMEL I want pants! JIMMY! KIMMEL WHAT! I'M HUNGRY AND I WANT PANTS! Oh, is that when— CRAIG FURGUSON has had enough. CRAIG You want bloody pants! KIMMEL YES! I WANT PANTS! CRAIG You know what! Fine! I'll make you some fucking pants if you just–shut UP! KIMMEL AND I'M HUNGRY. CRAIG FIRST THINGS FIRST! CRAIG FURGUSON assembles some very eclectic pants from the drapery inside the mansion; this of course reveals the windows to be boarded up in a highly distinct bunker-like maximum security prison-ish fashion, but THE HOSTS at the very least now have makeshift pants; which are startlingly fashionable: read: bohemian chic. Why do mine have beads still attached? He pulls the decorative ripchord and his fly opens promptly. Oh. CRAIG FURGUSON For emergencies. He continues pulling it in sequence with the matching lamp; he alternates turning the lights on and off and opening and shutting his pants flap in admiration. CRAIG FURGUSON CONT'D In case you really have to go. (Facinated) Ooh! CRAIG FURGUSON is satisfied with his work. CRAIG FURGUSON CONT'D I guess you could say, “The curtains match the drapes” CONAN O'BRIEN (beat) …not mine. {Enter The Multiverse} Fearsome, fearsome friends– Fearsome fearsome few Fearsome fearsome tears Listen whispers Fearsome twin Silly hollows All the lies All that waits is Hollywood and chosen five at ends of times All that waits are kings and wisdom All that knows are far, and farther All that needs is nothing, lessons All that fears is our kind Waiting. Shallow. Whispers, Gaining, Hornets nests and looming , gifted Shadow watchers Our time Farrows, Listen, Glistening as sparrows, Gifted– Kill God, There remains a far price There remains a far cry A call to wolves A false time The fabric is losts on Ghosts and Carry trains, Wishes and Tilted, Whisperers Before our Galaxy of Hard times and Wishes, Wishes, Wilting, Flowers, Waiting, Waiting And Waiting And Waiting And wanting but watching The water Gallons Fly up The wanted Waiting The gallows Have haunted us Far cries, Far cry Fear twins, have shattered To notice us Chatterbox Listens and Life turns and Waiting and Galaxies Gallantly Waiting The gallows Have haunted us Waiting And Waiting And Waiting and Water. We're watching you. An ACHINGLY TALL red-headed fellow finds himself in a FIGHT TO THE DEATH, being cast over eons and decades, and cascaded in and our of portals throughout the ever-infinite dimensional portals of unknown realms as his grasp on life itself and reality begins to fade as he crosses in and out of parallels, one galaxy to the next and one lifetime to another, gripping death and darkness in one hand and light and living in the other. In this bloody brawl, scrawling across an expanse of unknown and unknowable times and realms, this mystic remains still yet as infinite and omniscient in himself as the Gods he looks to for mercy, as the journey has been known to become of these very same deities in its context and process. A folding timeline of blood and sacrifice melds itself into the rope of the materiel worlds; not one fabric of time but many twisted and woven fibers into one rope from which he climbs into the ranks of the upperworld–or heaven, then also slipping seemingly sometimes into the depths of the underworld, a Hell known to all man as this, existence not as one but many consumed in the shadow processes of wickedness and torture, war amongst one another, and the well known humanities of pride, faith, justice and wealth. …this is supposed to be Conan? Uhh… “Achingly tall red-head?” yeah I guess. –O'Brien? [beat] He seems capable. Don't pity me, For not I weep of our pride on doorsteps not allowed, But for the grace and hope of fortune in another world i've known But lest forgotten; Do not feign me for my ignorance in desire, For I am not of man, or woman, or grain, or stone But of the world itself and all ire. (Don't doubt me.) To be cruel not those who pass judgement That weighs in this way or that is utmost critical, In this the end of times and now the end of my desires, And yet the way that I have known, And the offer I have rung Is not here, but elsewhere. And yea, I walk alone. Amen. What the fuck does this have to do with show hosts. Almost always Irish Catholic Almost Always clothed in robes Almost Always fathers, aren't I? Almost always old, of Rome. Almost always birds of feather Almost always sticks and stones Almost always on the airwaves Almost always silver, gold Slither, Slither, Here i wait And Slither slither, Here I came And whether she will slit her wrists Is neither here Nor either there It's a comfort that I offer you to slaughter; That you'd rather not to love but instead murder– I'd be better off to love, then kill you after, Course, tarantula, or just as well, a spider. It's a comfort that I offer you to kill me; Lay my head upon a sanded wooden platter– That you'd rather me to say I'd kill than love you– So I rather just to love, then murder after. Woah. Good to God, God ought to know. I close my palms together full of laughter, So. Good to God, God ought to know, I sacrified my life for ever after. So far. Good to God, God ought to know, That all he wants, I want My heart is surely shattered. Now what. Good as God, God ought to know, That all I want becomes; The looking glass, The wishing well, The cross to bare The shepherd to the pasture. Amen. Omen. All men. Want none. But one. But– So. [The Festival Project™ ] {Enter The Multiverse} L E G E N D S: ICONS W E L C O M E -Ū. Copyright The Festival Project, Inc. ™ & The Complex Collective © 2015-2025 All Rights Reserved B A C K Tales of A Superstar DJ

Pools of blood, And pools of dust, And fools, and fools, and fools Pools of love, And pools of list And tools and tools, and tools Pools of us, And Pools of hours And palms of pools D'hors Pools of plants, And pools of listen Pools and Pools and Pools Now, for us, what's at stake has come upon us For whether which now or ever ties have made for us to burn; Ne'er mistake there lust for listens and of ponders, Waterfalls of love and feathers, wanders Ties to honor stars and fore of fathers Almost lost it, there, I– Almost gathered, therefore. [ ] So to us who part ties, Of tied knots and of stomach's wrench To nourish shadows as remains her honor, I, depart my once, I, as flocking doves, The twist'of fated never Bare I fear or fonder Where, where, for again (bare tied as to none) and again wakes as has but not in time, to grove– The box I paved and yet, Set aside not as slabs of stone Or ash and fire But there i wake In cedar pine and oak The turn of slumber as the glow of what I once did not know, Now has shined against My eyes as water Luminescence Oh Goddamnit. Peaking pride, the oath Again i wait and ne'er did I come, but forth I woke, and also thought Not one but worlds of color, And there i know, to heart the seas I parted Not shallow or in shallows waking, red as scarlet blood but mauve, and then, the coping stays of which I gathered here has Agape and aching, wet with pride and courage Forefront others As thought to know, I, And I become, as known, now not and. “All White World” Our ENSEMBLE awakens slowly in the void of light; an all white space seemingly endless and drenched in blinding light; slowly awakening as if upon a cloud, and yet, washed in the drenched brightness of an all white world–familiar and together, but also new; The uniformity of all white attire and the simplicity of symmetry–all alike but of many and also one. I promise there's pancakes; I promise there's porridge I primise there's light at the end of the tunnel (the end of the night and beginning of brunch) And yes, I promise a run And a run for the office (not by far) And not unpardoned I promise to pray And I promise to wait And i promise to ache In the acres I've laid Made of all green pastures And days and days Without saying my name Pass us over Now…. Hiatus, Hiatus, Hiatus! My maples for all of us, cornbread And cream of the coconut (cream of the coconut) Screams from the underworld (Calling! They're calling) And trees of the very best kind; Plush with fruits What a prosperous product A merciless giving A scrupulous foreign (For four eyes, not one on my forehead) –policy! Don't you know, Conan, That all this goes over my– Over my over– Over my Over my head, –like a snowball? Don't you know, though, That nothing goes over his– Over his over– Over his Over his head –no one throws that high! (Not in softball!) ENSEMBLE What an apocalypse! What an apocalypse! What a protocol! What a dunce! What an oddball! Don't you know Nothing goes over Goes over Goes over us Nothing goes over us Nothing goes over Nothing goes over No bombs being dropped And the worst has to come because Nobody's turning this off; It's a turning point Not a mantra! It's a saga And nothing less short than a– Awful apocalypse; Long hiatus and no-low doses of Polymorohypothesis– Whatever that is! Don't you know, Conan, They're all going wrong with us. No, There's no knowing the coat From the hotbox, the hoot from the horus, the laugh from the chopsticks, The room full of products Or coatrooms of corpses No, There's no knowing us But out of nowhere The hour comes running upon us, And so The show must go on The show must go on The show must go…. DIRECTOR CUT! WHAT! That was FABULOUS! I don't disagree with you. However– What is it now? A MAN hangs by nothing but seemingly a very tightly buckled pair of restraints, above his head–the source of the object from which he hangs unknown, he appears to almost float, in fact, in quite the sufferable struggle. Holy fuck, guy. You're still up here? The VOICE comes from above but is yet unseen, it appears as though two very tidy clean white tennis shoes appear to be holding the straps of these restraints in place. CONT'D That's amazing. No false ties, And no hard wars, And no jolly ranchers, Gob stoppers, or nerf ropes. No fruit roll ups, No lunchables, or gushers No hamburger helper And no candy crush Just Drugs And more Drugs And more Drugs and more Morons Donuts, and drag queens, Tim Hortons, And Mormons; Mothballs, and Roaches, And horseflies, And rodents – Now guess which long road you're on (guess which long road you're on) Guess which long road you're aaaaahhhhhh– HALT. Who goes there. What the fuck is THIS. Finally, two acts past intermission, The troll under the bridge has put his cancer in remission The redactions have acted as class-action warfare, McDonalds has sponsored us, But barely. Look: just. No. I'm not endorsing this. Why. Because! It's killing people! Shh! It is! He–'s uh–joking. Actors! Improvising! Hush. Left and right! Speaking of left and right– You know who our sponsors are, right? Of coure! This nonsense! No! The– Shh–! –Owners of this product. Beg your pardon. Do you know who owns this brand and company? No. Well, do your research. Immediately. I highly recommend that. This seems serious. Serious as a heart attack. ACTION! Fuck you! Nuhhhhh–fuck you, you fucking fuck! Look, you lost, alright. Ughhhhhh. It's three to one. Three to one?! Yes. Fuck. Wait a–wait– What. Aren't there five of you guys? What? Huh-huh? No. Yes. There are. No. There's. Why. Five–of us–four of us You're lying. One, two, three *hiccups* four– Strike force “five”? I'm two guys! FUCK. We're missing one. Fuck. They figured us out. I figured out nothing. I'm drunk. I Fluffed. just know the difference–s between Five and One What. Four and Five! okay . Fuck. Well that's right. Well can't we just do it with us. NO! Why not. Because. the singularity has to be in the exact circumstance when this lightning strikes as the first one was. But– That's impossible. It's not–*hiccups*--umpossible. I was 9! “9 and a half!” “The half counts.” But not right now! Because i'm like a 60 year old guy! What! Gross. You're 60?! I think so! Then how old am I!?! I don't know! How old were you before!? I'm your brother! You don't know how old I am!? You're not my brother now, so maybe–I don't know–you never were! *gasps* take that bacK! [The boys fight amongst eachother] Fuck me, man. No thank you. What in the fuck did I write. I don't know but. CUT TO Ooh. Dice. DON'T TOUCH *poof* ENTER THE MULTIVERSE: L E G E N D S “The Magic Dice” (A Triad) NICE. FUCK yOu DUDE. nO fuck U U dElEETED My WRLD. THen is must not have been that great. *exaggerateD gasp* *even more exaggerated gasp* *Fluffs* *fluffs harder* *explodes* [The Festival Project ™ ] MEANWHILE The Aliens Are On A Pirate Ship, There's Still No Sign of [Redacted] and that's what this beat is called. -U. iS this a montage? Idk it just seems like a ship sinking in very slow motion. [A pirate ship full of aliens is sinking in very slow motion in a thunderous maelstrom.] (in IMAX 3D) Wow. I like that. This is fascinating. JIMMY KIMMEL is pacing relentlessly; he is driving the other hosts up a wall. KIMMEL I'm hungry, I want pants. I'm hungry– I want pants– Jimmy... KIMMEL I'm hungry– Jimmy! KIMMEL I want pants! JIMMY! KIMMEL WHAT! I'M HUNGRY AND I WANT PANTS! Oh, is that when— CRAIG FURGUSON has had enough. CRAIG You want bloody pants! KIMMEL YES! I WANT PANTS! CRAIG You know what! Fine! I'll make you some fucking pants if you just–shut UP! KIMMEL AND I'M HUNGRY. CRAIG FIRST THINGS FIRST! CRAIG FURGUSON assembles some very eclectic pants from the drapery inside the mansion; this of course reveals the windows to be boarded up in a highly distinct bunker-like maximum security prison-ish fashion, but THE HOSTS at the very least now have makeshift pants; which are startlingly fashionable: read: bohemian chic. Why do mine have beads still attached? He pulls the decorative ripchord and his fly opens promptly. Oh. CRAIG FURGUSON For emergencies. He continues pulling it in sequence with the matching lamp; he alternates turning the lights on and off and opening and shutting his pants flap in admiration. CRAIG FURGUSON CONT'D In case you really have to go. (Facinated) Ooh! CRAIG FURGUSON is satisfied with his work. CRAIG FURGUSON CONT'D I guess you could say, “The curtains match the drapes” CONAN O'BRIEN (beat) …not mine. {Enter The Multiverse} Fearsome, fearsome friends– Fearsome fearsome few Fearsome fearsome tears Listen whispers Fearsome twin Silly hollows All the lies All that waits is Hollywood and chosen five at ends of times All that waits are kings and wisdom All that knows are far, and farther All that needs is nothing, lessons All that fears is our kind Waiting. Shallow. Whispers, Gaining, Hornets nests and looming , gifted Shadow watchers Our time Farrows, Listen, Glistening as sparrows, Gifted– Kill God, There remains a far price There remains a far cry A call to wolves A false time The fabric is losts on Ghosts and Carry trains, Wishes and Tilted, Whisperers Before our Galaxy of Hard times and Wishes, Wishes, Wilting, Flowers, Waiting, Waiting And Waiting And Waiting And wanting but watching The water Gallons Fly up The wanted Waiting The gallows Have haunted us Far cries, Far cry Fear twins, have shattered To notice us Chatterbox Listens and Life turns and Waiting and Galaxies Gallantly Waiting The gallows Have haunted us Waiting And Waiting And Waiting and Water. We're watching you. An ACHINGLY TALL red-headed fellow finds himself in a FIGHT TO THE DEATH, being cast over eons and decades, and cascaded in and our of portals throughout the ever-infinite dimensional portals of unknown realms as his grasp on life itself and reality begins to fade as he crosses in and out of parallels, one galaxy to the next and one lifetime to another, gripping death and darkness in one hand and light and living in the other. In this bloody brawl, scrawling across an expanse of unknown and unknowable times and realms, this mystic remains still yet as infinite and omniscient in himself as the Gods he looks to for mercy, as the journey has been known to become of these very same deities in its context and process. A folding timeline of blood and sacrifice melds itself into the rope of the materiel worlds; not one fabric of time but many twisted and woven fibers into one rope from which he climbs into the ranks of the upperworld–or heaven, then also slipping seemingly sometimes into the depths of the underworld, a Hell known to all man as this, existence not as one but many consumed in the shadow processes of wickedness and torture, war amongst one another, and the well known humanities of pride, faith, justice and wealth. …this is supposed to be Conan? Uhh… “Achingly tall red-head?” yeah I guess. –O'Brien? [beat] He seems capable. Don't pity me, For not I weep of our pride on doorsteps not allowed, But for the grace and hope of fortune in another world i've known But lest forgotten; Do not feign me for my ignorance in desire, For I am not of man, or woman, or grain, or stone But of the world itself and all ire. (Don't doubt me.) To be cruel not those who pass judgement That weighs in this way or that is utmost critical, In this the end of times and now the end of my desires, And yet the way that I have known, And the offer I have rung Is not here, but elsewhere. And yea, I walk alone. Amen. What the fuck does this have to do with show hosts. Almost always Irish Catholic Almost Always clothed in robes Almost Always fathers, aren't I? Almost always old, of Rome. Almost always birds of feather Almost always sticks and stones Almost always on the airwaves Almost always silver, gold Slither, Slither, Here i wait And Slither slither, Here I came And whether she will slit her wrists Is neither here Nor either there It's a comfort that I offer you to slaughter; That you'd rather not to love but instead murder– I'd be better off to love, then kill you after, Course, tarantula, or just as well, a spider. It's a comfort that I offer you to kill me; Lay my head upon a sanded wooden platter– That you'd rather me to say I'd kill than love you– So I rather just to love, then murder after. Woah. Good to God, God ought to know. I close my palms together full of laughter, So. Good to God, God ought to know, I sacrified my life for ever after. So far. Good to God, God ought to know, That all he wants, I want My heart is surely shattered. Now what. Good as God, God ought to know, That all I want becomes; The looking glass, The wishing well, The cross to bare The shepherd to the pasture. Amen. Omen. All men. Want none. But one. But– So. [The Festival Project™ ] {Enter The Multiverse} L E G E N D S: ICONS W E L C O M E -Ū. Copyright The Festival Project, Inc. ™ & The Complex Collective © 2015-2025 All Rights Reserved B A C K Tales of A Superstar DJ

Pools of blood, And pools of dust, And fools, and fools, and fools Pools of love, And pools of list And tools and tools, and tools Pools of us, And Pools of hours And palms of pools D'hors Pools of plants, And pools of listen Pools and Pools and Pools Now, for us, what's at stake has come upon us For whether which now or ever ties have made for us to burn; Ne'er mistake there lust for listens and of ponders, Waterfalls of love and feathers, wanders Ties to honor stars and fore of fathers Almost lost it, there, I– Almost gathered, therefore. [ ] So to us who part ties, Of tied knots and of stomach's wrench To nourish shadows as remains her honor, I, depart my once, I, as flocking doves, The twist'of fated never Bare I fear or fonder Where, where, for again (bare tied as to none) and again wakes as has but not in time, to grove– The box I paved and yet, Set aside not as slabs of stone Or ash and fire But there i wake In cedar pine and oak The turn of slumber as the glow of what I once did not know, Now has shined against My eyes as water Luminescence Oh Goddamnit. Peaking pride, the oath Again i wait and ne'er did I come, but forth I woke, and also thought Not one but worlds of color, And there i know, to heart the seas I parted Not shallow or in shallows waking, red as scarlet blood but mauve, and then, the coping stays of which I gathered here has Agape and aching, wet with pride and courage Forefront others As thought to know, I, And I become, as known, now not and. “All White World” Our ENSEMBLE awakens slowly in the void of light; an all white space seemingly endless and drenched in blinding light; slowly awakening as if upon a cloud, and yet, washed in the drenched brightness of an all white world–familiar and together, but also new; The uniformity of all white attire and the simplicity of symmetry–all alike but of many and also one. I promise there's pancakes; I promise there's porridge I primise there's light at the end of the tunnel (the end of the night and beginning of brunch) And yes, I promise a run And a run for the office (not by far) And not unpardoned I promise to pray And I promise to wait And i promise to ache In the acres I've laid Made of all green pastures And days and days Without saying my name Pass us over Now…. Hiatus, Hiatus, Hiatus! My maples for all of us, cornbread And cream of the coconut (cream of the coconut) Screams from the underworld (Calling! They're calling) And trees of the very best kind; Plush with fruits What a prosperous product A merciless giving A scrupulous foreign (For four eyes, not one on my forehead) –policy! Don't you know, Conan, That all this goes over my– Over my over– Over my Over my head, –like a snowball? Don't you know, though, That nothing goes over his– Over his over– Over his Over his head –no one throws that high! (Not in softball!) ENSEMBLE What an apocalypse! What an apocalypse! What a protocol! What a dunce! What an oddball! Don't you know Nothing goes over Goes over Goes over us Nothing goes over us Nothing goes over Nothing goes over No bombs being dropped And the worst has to come because Nobody's turning this off; It's a turning point Not a mantra! It's a saga And nothing less short than a– Awful apocalypse; Long hiatus and no-low doses of Polymorohypothesis– Whatever that is! Don't you know, Conan, They're all going wrong with us. No, There's no knowing the coat From the hotbox, the hoot from the horus, the laugh from the chopsticks, The room full of products Or coatrooms of corpses No, There's no knowing us But out of nowhere The hour comes running upon us, And so The show must go on The show must go on The show must go…. DIRECTOR CUT! WHAT! That was FABULOUS! I don't disagree with you. However– What is it now? A MAN hangs by nothing but seemingly a very tightly buckled pair of restraints, above his head–the source of the object from which he hangs unknown, he appears to almost float, in fact, in quite the sufferable struggle. Holy fuck, guy. You're still up here? The VOICE comes from above but is yet unseen, it appears as though two very tidy clean white tennis shoes appear to be holding the straps of these restraints in place. CONT'D That's amazing. No false ties, And no hard wars, And no jolly ranchers, Gob stoppers, or nerf ropes. No fruit roll ups, No lunchables, or gushers No hamburger helper And no candy crush Just Drugs And more Drugs And more Drugs and more Morons Donuts, and drag queens, Tim Hortons, And Mormons; Mothballs, and Roaches, And horseflies, And rodents – Now guess which long road you're on (guess which long road you're on) Guess which long road you're aaaaahhhhhh– HALT. Who goes there. What the fuck is THIS. Finally, two acts past intermission, The troll under the bridge has put his cancer in remission The redactions have acted as class-action warfare, McDonalds has sponsored us, But barely. Look: just. No. I'm not endorsing this. Why. Because! It's killing people! Shh! It is! He–'s uh–joking. Actors! Improvising! Hush. Left and right! Speaking of left and right– You know who our sponsors are, right? Of coure! This nonsense! No! The– Shh–! –Owners of this product. Beg your pardon. Do you know who owns this brand and company? No. Well, do your research. Immediately. I highly recommend that. This seems serious. Serious as a heart attack. ACTION! Fuck you! Nuhhhhh–fuck you, you fucking fuck! Look, you lost, alright. Ughhhhhh. It's three to one. Three to one?! Yes. Fuck. Wait a–wait– What. Aren't there five of you guys? What? Huh-huh? No. Yes. There are. No. There's. Why. Five–of us–four of us You're lying. One, two, three *hiccups* four– Strike force “five”? I'm two guys! FUCK. We're missing one. Fuck. They figured us out. I figured out nothing. I'm drunk. I Fluffed. just know the difference–s between Five and One What. Four and Five! okay . Fuck. Well that's right. Well can't we just do it with us. NO! Why not. Because. the singularity has to be in the exact circumstance when this lightning strikes as the first one was. But– That's impossible. It's not–*hiccups*--umpossible. I was 9! “9 and a half!” “The half counts.” But not right now! Because i'm like a 60 year old guy! What! Gross. You're 60?! I think so! Then how old am I!?! I don't know! How old were you before!? I'm your brother! You don't know how old I am!? You're not my brother now, so maybe–I don't know–you never were! *gasps* take that bacK! [The boys fight amongst eachother] Fuck me, man. No thank you. What in the fuck did I write. I don't know but. CUT TO Ooh. Dice. DON'T TOUCH *poof* ENTER THE MULTIVERSE: L E G E N D S “The Magic Dice” (A Triad) NICE. FUCK yOu DUDE. nO fuck U U dElEETED My WRLD. THen is must not have been that great. *exaggerateD gasp* *even more exaggerated gasp* *Fluffs* *fluffs harder* *explodes* [The Festival Project ™ ] MEANWHILE The Aliens Are On A Pirate Ship, There's Still No Sign of [Redacted] and that's what this beat is called. -U. iS this a montage? Idk it just seems like a ship sinking in very slow motion. [A pirate ship full of aliens is sinking in very slow motion in a thunderous maelstrom.] (in IMAX 3D) Wow. I like that. This is fascinating. JIMMY KIMMEL is pacing relentlessly; he is driving the other hosts up a wall. KIMMEL I'm hungry, I want pants. I'm hungry– I want pants– Jimmy... KIMMEL I'm hungry– Jimmy! KIMMEL I want pants! JIMMY! KIMMEL WHAT! I'M HUNGRY AND I WANT PANTS! Oh, is that when— CRAIG FURGUSON has had enough. CRAIG You want bloody pants! KIMMEL YES! I WANT PANTS! CRAIG You know what! Fine! I'll make you some fucking pants if you just–shut UP! KIMMEL AND I'M HUNGRY. CRAIG FIRST THINGS FIRST! CRAIG FURGUSON assembles some very eclectic pants from the drapery inside the mansion; this of course reveals the windows to be boarded up in a highly distinct bunker-like maximum security prison-ish fashion, but THE HOSTS at the very least now have makeshift pants; which are startlingly fashionable: read: bohemian chic. Why do mine have beads still attached? He pulls the decorative ripchord and his fly opens promptly. Oh. CRAIG FURGUSON For emergencies. He continues pulling it in sequence with the matching lamp; he alternates turning the lights on and off and opening and shutting his pants flap in admiration. CRAIG FURGUSON CONT'D In case you really have to go. (Facinated) Ooh! CRAIG FURGUSON is satisfied with his work. CRAIG FURGUSON CONT'D I guess you could say, “The curtains match the drapes” CONAN O'BRIEN (beat) …not mine. {Enter The Multiverse} Fearsome, fearsome friends– Fearsome fearsome few Fearsome fearsome tears Listen whispers Fearsome twin Silly hollows All the lies All that waits is Hollywood and chosen five at ends of times All that waits are kings and wisdom All that knows are far, and farther All that needs is nothing, lessons All that fears is our kind Waiting. Shallow. Whispers, Gaining, Hornets nests and looming , gifted Shadow watchers Our time Farrows, Listen, Glistening as sparrows, Gifted– Kill God, There remains a far price There remains a far cry A call to wolves A false time The fabric is losts on Ghosts and Carry trains, Wishes and Tilted, Whisperers Before our Galaxy of Hard times and Wishes, Wishes, Wilting, Flowers, Waiting, Waiting And Waiting And Waiting And wanting but watching The water Gallons Fly up The wanted Waiting The gallows Have haunted us Far cries, Far cry Fear twins, have shattered To notice us Chatterbox Listens and Life turns and Waiting and Galaxies Gallantly Waiting The gallows Have haunted us Waiting And Waiting And Waiting and Water. We're watching you. An ACHINGLY TALL red-headed fellow finds himself in a FIGHT TO THE DEATH, being cast over eons and decades, and cascaded in and our of portals throughout the ever-infinite dimensional portals of unknown realms as his grasp on life itself and reality begins to fade as he crosses in and out of parallels, one galaxy to the next and one lifetime to another, gripping death and darkness in one hand and light and living in the other. In this bloody brawl, scrawling across an expanse of unknown and unknowable times and realms, this mystic remains still yet as infinite and omniscient in himself as the Gods he looks to for mercy, as the journey has been known to become of these very same deities in its context and process. A folding timeline of blood and sacrifice melds itself into the rope of the materiel worlds; not one fabric of time but many twisted and woven fibers into one rope from which he climbs into the ranks of the upperworld–or heaven, then also slipping seemingly sometimes into the depths of the underworld, a Hell known to all man as this, existence not as one but many consumed in the shadow processes of wickedness and torture, war amongst one another, and the well known humanities of pride, faith, justice and wealth. …this is supposed to be Conan? Uhh… “Achingly tall red-head?” yeah I guess. –O'Brien? [beat] He seems capable. Don't pity me, For not I weep of our pride on doorsteps not allowed, But for the grace and hope of fortune in another world i've known But lest forgotten; Do not feign me for my ignorance in desire, For I am not of man, or woman, or grain, or stone But of the world itself and all ire. (Don't doubt me.) To be cruel not those who pass judgement That weighs in this way or that is utmost critical, In this the end of times and now the end of my desires, And yet the way that I have known, And the offer I have rung Is not here, but elsewhere. And yea, I walk alone. Amen. What the fuck does this have to do with show hosts. Almost always Irish Catholic Almost Always clothed in robes Almost Always fathers, aren't I? Almost always old, of Rome. Almost always birds of feather Almost always sticks and stones Almost always on the airwaves Almost always silver, gold Slither, Slither, Here i wait And Slither slither, Here I came And whether she will slit her wrists Is neither here Nor either there It's a comfort that I offer you to slaughter; That you'd rather not to love but instead murder– I'd be better off to love, then kill you after, Course, tarantula, or just as well, a spider. It's a comfort that I offer you to kill me; Lay my head upon a sanded wooden platter– That you'd rather me to say I'd kill than love you– So I rather just to love, then murder after. Woah. Good to God, God ought to know. I close my palms together full of laughter, So. Good to God, God ought to know, I sacrified my life for ever after. So far. Good to God, God ought to know, That all he wants, I want My heart is surely shattered. Now what. Good as God, God ought to know, That all I want becomes; The looking glass, The wishing well, The cross to bare The shepherd to the pasture. Amen. Omen. All men. Want none. But one. But– So. [The Festival Project™ ] {Enter The Multiverse} L E G E N D S: ICONS W E L C O M E -Ū. Copyright The Festival Project, Inc. ™ & The Complex Collective © 2015-2025 All Rights Reserved B A C K Tales of A Superstar DJ

What the Constitution Means to Me: Fifteen-year-old Heidi earned her college tuition by winning constitutional debate competitions across the United States. In this hilarious, hopeful, and achingly human new play, she embodies her teenage self in order to trace the founding document's profound impact on not just her own life, but the past four generations of women in her family, starting with the first to set foot in America: a mail-order bride. Issue Box Theatre September 20th at 7:30pm September 21st at 2:30pm University of Toledo Law Center 1825 W Rocket Dr, Toledo, OH 43606 Tickets are available at www.issueboxtheatre.org Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/214M4OKBbWcDivndnc2MTu Apple Podcasts: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/stage-door-a-theatre-podcast-hosted-by-two-regular-guys/id1573865415

Andy & Martin get their cock-er-nee on as they explore the London-set family saga Fox, executive-produced by Verity Lambert. Written by Trevor Preston (The Sweeney) and directed by Jim Goddard (Out) and boasting a stellar cast - Peter Vaughan, Elizabeth Spriggs, Bernard Hill, Rosemary Martin, Ray Winstone and many more - Fox was expected to be a big success but just did not catch the imagination of the ITV audience back in 1980. Fox is a curious beast, with its ambition to be a sprawling epic despite only covering a period of 8 months and its incredibly off-putting musical content which really has to be heard to be believed. Its also a difficult watch in places principally due to its casual depiction of domestic violence and terrible treatment of its female characters. Achingly toxic masculinity aside, Fox also has a proto-Eastenders obsession with family and loyalty and yet is populated by characters who are much less engaging than those in Albert Square. If you've never watched Fox we still invite you to hop in this televisual music-filled black cab to the East End of 1980 in order to muse in a pre-Brexit daydream why fings aint wot they used to be...

Achingly human, Flee uses its medium and varied film styles for maximum impact. Read more at: https://scottsself-indulgentmovieblog.blogspot.com/

All uploads on this channel are for promotional purposes only! The music has been converted before uploading to prevent ripping and to protect the artist(s) and label(s). If you don't want your content here (that goes for audio or images) please contact me immediately via email: unpluggedtube@outlook.it and I WILL REMOVE THE EPISODE OR ARTWORK IMMEDIATELY! ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Daughter first popped up on our radar when we heard the London band's song "Landfill" while preparing for SXSW early last year: Achingly pretty and melancholy, the track builds to an absolute gut-punch of a line — "I want you so much, but I hate your guts" — that conjures a pitch-perfect mix of gloom, desire and hostility. The group has since released a full-length album, this year's lovely If You Leave, but Daughter was kind enough to resuscitate "Landfill" for this stripped-down performance at the Tiny Desk. As you'll see and hear, that aforementioned gut-punch is a recurring specialty for the band: In all three of these sad, searing songs, singer Elena Tonra showcases a remarkable gift for coolly but approachably dishing out weary words that resonate and devastate. --STEPHEN THOMPSON Set List "Youth" "Landfill" "Tomorrow" Credits Producers: Bob Boilen, Denise DeBelius, Stephen Thompson; Audio Engineer: Kevin Wait; Videographers: Parker Miles Blohm, Chloe Coleman, Denise DeBelius Team UNPLUGGED.

Wednesday, June 23rd: This week, Nick, Randy, and Dave talk about reboots of Blacua and TSR, Dark Ages from Tom Taylor, and the next Transformers movie! Then we talk comics for the week, including Wonder Woman: Black and Gold #1, Infinite Frontier #1, Batman Reptilian #1, Gamma Flight #1, Marvel Voices Pride #1, Good Luck... Read more » The post 337: Achingly Non-Anxiety Inducing appeared first on Rogues Gallery Comics + Games, Round Rock, TX.

To be a moffie is to be weak, effeminate, illegal. The year is 1981 and South Africa's white minority government is embroiled in a conflict on the southern Angolan border. Like all white boys over the age of 16, Nicholas Van der Swart (Kai Luke Brummer) must complete two years of compulsory military service. South African director Oliver Hermanus, fourth feature MOFFIE explores the life of a closeted young boy serving his mandatory military service during Apartheid in 1980s South Africa. MOFFIE is an adaptation of André-Carl van der Merwe's iconic memoir, the film serves as a brilliant period piece exposing the psychological violence of institutionalized homophobia. Achingly raw depictions of the brutality of military training recall scenes from Kubrick's FULL METAL JACKET while the beautifully acted love story provides a sharp contrast to the pervasive violence. Director and screenwriter Oliver Hermanus joins us for a conversation on how important it was to accurately capture to nexus of religion and the racist Apartheid regime and how the repressive culture it created made any relationship outside of it a treasonous act and how rewarding it was for him to be working with a gifted group of talented actors. For news and updates go to: ifcfilms.com/films/moffie IFC Films will release MOFFIE on Friday, April 9, 2021 in select theaters and on digital and VOD platforms. 

Vocalist Lezlie Harrison is my guest for a Deep Focus on Abbey Lincoln. Achingly beautiful recordings of Abbey that you have never heard and Lezlie lifts the veil on Abbey in a whole new way. Come thru!#WKCR #DeepFocus #MitchGoldman #AbbeyLincoln #LezlieHarrison #Jazz #JazzRadio #JazzInterview #jazzpodcastPhoto credit: Jac. de Nijs / Anefo; Restoration by User:Adam Cuerden, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons 

Vocalist Lezlie Harrison is my guest for a Deep Focus on Abbey Lincoln. Achingly beautiful recordings of Abbey that you have never heard and Lezlie lifts the veil on Abbey in a whole new way. Come thru!#WKCR #DeepFocus #MitchGoldman #AbbeyLincoln #LezlieHarrison #Jazz #JazzRadio #JazzInterview #jazzpodcastPhoto credit: Jac. de Nijs / Anefo; Restoration by User:Adam Cuerden, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons 

Vocalist Lezlie Harrison is my guest for a Deep Focus on Abbey Lincoln. Achingly beautiful recordings of Abbey that you have never heard and Lezlie lifts the veil on Abbey in a whole new way. Come thru!#WKCR #DeepFocus #MitchGoldman #AbbeyLincoln #LezlieHarrison #Jazz #JazzRadio #JazzInterview #jazzpodcastPhoto credit: Jac. de Nijs / Anefo; Restoration by User:Adam Cuerden, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons 

Vocalist Lezlie Harrison is my guest for a Deep Focus on Abbey Lincoln. Achingly beautiful recordings of Abbey that you have never heard and Lezlie lifts the veil on Abbey in a whole new way. Come thru!#WKCR #DeepFocus #MitchGoldman #AbbeyLincoln #LezlieHarrison #Jazz #JazzRadio #JazzInterview #jazzpodcastPhoto credit: Jac. de Nijs / Anefo; Restoration by User:Adam Cuerden, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons 

Vocalist Lezlie Harrison is my guest for a Deep Focus on Abbey Lincoln. Achingly beautiful recordings of Abbey that you have never heard and Lezlie lifts the veil on Abbey in a whole new way.   Come thru!#WKCR #DeepFocus #MitchGoldman #AbbeyLincoln #LezlieHarrison #Jazz #JazzRadio #JazzInterview #jazzpodcastPhoto credit: Jac. de Nijs / Anefo; Restoration by User:Adam Cuerden, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons 

Vocalist Lezlie Harrison is my guest for a Deep Focus on Abbey Lincoln. Achingly beautiful recordings of Abbey that you have never heard and Lezlie lifts the veil on Abbey in a whole new way.   Come thru!#WKCR #DeepFocus #MitchGoldman #AbbeyLincoln #LezlieHarrison #Jazz #JazzRadio #JazzInterview #jazzpodcastPhoto credit: Jac. de Nijs / Anefo; Restoration by User:Adam Cuerden, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons 

Ache

Six  talented and vibrant young musicians chat to the Sunday Magazine Arts team about their current classical recital programmes. Collide has curated a programme of French mid 19th century music to honour the beginnings of […] http://media.rawvoice.com/joy_sundayartsmagazine/p/joy.org.au/sundayarts/wp-content/uploads/sites/276/2020/03/Classical-Recitals-1.mp3 Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 14:23 — 4.9MB) Subscribe or Follow Us: Apple Podcasts | Android | Google Podcasts | Spotify | RSS The post Visions Collide – Homage to French Classical Music – Achingly Beautiful, Sometimes Frivolous appeared first on Sunday Arts Magazine.

Achingly visceral and rarely employed actress Anna Mann returns for a brand new season of her podcast. Here she bangs on about having too much money, really lays into the Tories and interviews the delightful star of The Inbetweeners and I’m A Celebrity, Emily Atack. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

In this episode, I share a recent dating experience of mine where I went all-in with someone and what I learned from the process. I also share some ideas about how to make sure you fall for the right person. Get the free guide Copy And Paste Texts For When He Is Pulling Away Or Acting Flaky:https://www.ambergrubenmann.com/copy-and-paste-texts-for-when-he-is-pulling-away-or-acting-flakyInterested in sharing your dating question on the show? You can schedule a free call if you allow me to record it and possibly share it with the Women's Dating And Confidence Podcast audience. Message me on Instagram if you are interested! @ambergrubenmannTHANK YOU from the bottom of my heart for being here and showing up boldly. Please let me know how to improve your listening experience and serve you. Have a great day!

Achingly romantic and visually rapturous, If Beale Street Could Talk, Barry Jenkins' adaptation of James Baldwin's 1974 novel of the same name, utterly bowls Mike over, while José expresses some reservations about it, despite also finding it enormously impressive. A love story set in New York City in the late 60s/early 70s, the film follows Tish (KiKi Layne) and Fonny (Stephan James) as they fall in love, begin to build a life together, but are threatened with its destruction by a racist cop and a false accusation of rape. The title refers to a street in New Orleans that Baldwin, and subsequently Jenkins, use as a metaphor for the black experience across America, and arguably this is overambitious (if not simply impossible). The universality implied by the title is dissonant with what the film offers, which is much more personal and idiosyncratic. José points out the lack of anger in the film, anger that would be absolutely justified to express given both the general institutional racism the characters face in their place and time, and the specific instance of racist behaviour to which they are subjected: the rape accusation. Instead of fury, we see coping, survival, sadness, resistance and love, all communicated with an extraordinary depth of feeling and a camera that finds the beauty and subtlety in everyone's face. And ultimately this is wonderful, it's just that the title and opening intertitle that explains it somehow don't seem to quite understand their own story. There's a huge amount we discuss, including the narration; the film's excursion to Puerto Rico and how its depiction of the experience of Latinx people might or might not offer an interesting comparison to its central interest, the African-American community; how Brian Tyree Henry shows up for a scene and steals the entire film; how the film aims for visual poetry; how Jenkins conveys rich sense of different people's lives and environments with just a few shots; and how the film chokes you up with its incredibly tactile depth of feeling that is sustained more or less throughout. We also bring up comparisons to Green Book, Get Out, and in particular, Moonlight, Jenkins' previous film - José has issues with how he copped out of giving his story of a gay black boy's difficulties growing up an honest ending, and takes issue with how viscerally one feels Tish's desire for Fonny due to the way he's shot, finding it even more disappointing than before that Jenkins didn't do the same in Moonlight. It's a film we want to see again, infectious and emotionally rich, and if you don't see it in a cinema you're missing out. It's great. Recorded on 8th February 2019.

In which Piers and Erik find the perfect balance between irony and sincerity with two podcast pitches that are competing directly against each other.

A father searches for his addict son while grappling with his own choices as a parent (and as a user of sorts) Achingly funny and full of feeling, Eat Only When You’re Hungry follows fifty-eight-year-old Greg as he searches for his son, GJ, an addict who has been missing for three weeks. Greg is bored, demoralized, obese, and as dubious of GJ’s desire to be found as he is of his own motivation to go looking. Almost on a whim, Greg embarks on a road trip to central Florida—a noble search for his son, or so he tells himself. Greg takes us on a tour of highway and roadside, of Taco Bell, KFC, gas-station Slurpees, sticky strip-club floors, pooling sweat, candy wrappers and crumpled panes of cellophane and wrinkled plastic bags tumbling along the interstate. This is the America Greg knows, one he feels closer to than to his youthful idealism, closer even than to his younger second wife. As his journey continues, through drive-thru windows and into the living rooms of his alluring ex-wife and his distant, curmudgeonly father, Greg’s urgent search for GJ slowly recedes into the background, replaced with a painstaking, illuminating, and unavoidable look at Greg’s own mistakes—as a father, as a husband, and as a man. Brimming with the same visceral regret and joy that leak from the fast food Greg inhales, Eat Only When You’re Hungry is a wild and biting study of addiction, perseverance, and the insurmountable struggle to change. With America’s desolate underbelly serving as her guide, Lindsay Hunter elicits a singular type of sympathy for her characters, using them to challenge our preconceived notions about addiction and to explore the innumerable ways we fail ourselves. Praise for Eat Only When You're Hungry "[A] commanding narrative . . . A savage tale of parenthood and squandered hope from an author whose unsparing eye never ceases to subvert the mundane." —Kirkus "Hunter's absurd Floridian landscapes and darkly tender moments are keen and hilarious, exposing the complexities of addiction and an overweight man with a weak heart but unfailing love." —Booklist "The frailties of the human body and the human heart are laid bare in Lindsay Hunter’s utterly superb novel Eat Only When You’re Hungry. There is real delicacy, tenderness, and intelligence with which Hunter tackles this portrait of a broken family of people who don’t realize just how broken they are until they are forced to confront the fractures between them and within themselves. With this novel, Hunter establishes herself as an unforgettable voice in American letters. Her work here, as ever, is unparalleled." —Roxane Gay, author of Bad Feminist "This novel takes us on a road trip with an American Everyman into the heart of American hunger—for freedom, for connection, for junk food, for love. Hunter has a brilliant sense for the perfectly telling image, and her humor is so biting and smart it was almost a surprise, at the end of this engrossing book, to realize how thoroughly she had broken my heart.” —Garth Greenwell, author of What Belongs to You "Compassionate, claustrophobic, gut-wrenchingly observed, Eat Only When You’re Hungry probes the fine lines between hunger and addiction, addiction and desire. In perfectly nuanced prose, Lindsay Hunter observes the human ability to go on in the face of the unexpected, the unknown, the regretted, and, perhaps most important, the mundane." —Lori Ostlund, author of After the Parade Lindsay Hunter is the author of the story collections Don’t Kiss Me and Daddy’s and the novel Ugly Girls. Originally from Florida, she now lives in Chicago with her husband, sons, and dogs. Photo by Liliane Calfee Roxane Gay is the author of the novel An Untamed State, which was a finalist for the Dayton Literary Peace Prize for Fiction; the essay collection Bad Feminist; Ayiti, a multi-genre collection, the collection of stories Difficult Women and the memoir, Hunger. She is at work on a comic book in Marvel’s Black Panther series. Her writing has appeared in Best American Short Stories 2012, the New York Times, the Guardian, and many others. She is a recipient of the PEN Center USA Freedom to Write Award, among other honors. She splits her time between Indiana and Los Angeles. She can be found online at www.roxanegay.com and on Twitter @rgay. Event date:  Thursday, August 10, 2017 - 7:30pm

Eat Only When You're Hungry (Farrar, Straus, Giroux) A father searches for his addict son while grappling with his own choices as a parent (and as a user of sorts) Achingly funny and full of feeling, Eat Only When You’re Hungry follows fifty-eight-year-old Greg as he searches for his son, GJ, an addict who has been missing for three weeks. Greg is bored, demoralized, obese, and as dubious of GJ’s desire to be found as he is of his own motivation to go looking. Almost on a whim, Greg embarks on a road trip to central Florida—a noble search for his son, or so he tells himself. Greg takes us on a tour of highway and roadside, of Taco Bell, KFC, gas-station Slurpees, sticky strip-club floors, pooling sweat, candy wrappers and crumpled panes of cellophane and wrinkled plastic bags tumbling along the interstate. This is the America Greg knows, one he feels closer to than to his youthful idealism, closer even than to his younger second wife. As his journey continues, through drive-thru windows and into the living rooms of his alluring ex-wife and his distant, curmudgeonly father, Greg’s urgent search for GJ slowly recedes into the background, replaced with a painstaking, illuminating, and unavoidable look at Greg’s own mistakes—as a father, as a husband, and as a man. Brimming with the same visceral regret and joy that leak from the fast food Greg inhales, Eat Only When You’re Hungry is a wild and biting study of addiction, perseverance, and the insurmountable struggle to change. With America’s desolate underbelly serving as her guide, Lindsay Hunter elicits a singular type of sympathy for her characters, using them to challenge our preconceived notions about addiction and to explore the innumerable ways we fail ourselves. Praise for Eat Only When You're Hungry "[A] commanding narrative . . . A savage tale of parenthood and squandered hope from an author whose unsparing eye never ceases to subvert the mundane." —Kirkus "Hunter's absurd Floridian landscapes and darkly tender moments are keen and hilarious, exposing the complexities of addiction and an overweight man with a weak heart but unfailing love." —Booklist "The frailties of the human body and the human heart are laid bare in Lindsay Hunter’s utterly superb novel Eat Only When You’re Hungry. There is real delicacy, tenderness, and intelligence with which Hunter tackles this portrait of a broken family of people who don’t realize just how broken they are until they are forced to confront the fractures between them and within themselves. With this novel, Hunter establishes herself as an unforgettable voice in American letters. Her work here, as ever, is unparalleled." —Roxane Gay, author of Bad Feminist "This novel takes us on a road trip with an American Everyman into the heart of American hunger—for freedom, for connection, for junk food, for love. Hunter has a brilliant sense for the perfectly telling image, and her humor is so biting and smart it was almost a surprise, at the end of this engrossing book, to realize how thoroughly she had broken my heart.” —Garth Greenwell, author of What Belongs to You "Compassionate, claustrophobic, gut-wrenchingly observed, Eat Only When You’re Hungry probes the fine lines between hunger and addiction, addiction and desire. In perfectly nuanced prose, Lindsay Hunter observes the human ability to go on in the face of the unexpected, the unknown, the regretted, and, perhaps most important, the mundane." —Lori Ostlund, author of After the Parade Lindsay Hunter is the author of the story collections Don’t Kiss Me and Daddy’s and the novel Ugly Girls. Originally from Florida, she now lives in Chicago with her husband, sons, and dogs. Roxane Gay is the author of the novel An Untamed State, which was a finalist for the Dayton Literary Peace Prize for Fiction; the essay collection Bad Feminist; Ayiti, a multi-genre collection, the collection of stories Difficult Women and the memoir, Hunger. She is at work on a comic book in Marvel’s Black Panther series. Her writing has appeared in Best American Short Stories 2012, the New York Times, the Guardian, and many others. She is a recipient of the PEN Center USA Freedom to Write Award, among other honors. She splits her time between Indiana and Los Angeles. She can be found online at www.roxanegay.com and on Twitter @rgay.

Herb Sutter presents atomic Weapons, 1 of 2. This was filmed at C++ and Beyond 2012. As the title suggests, this is a two part series (given the depth of treatment and complexity of the subject matter).Part 1 -> Optimizations, races, and the memory model; acquire and release ordering; mutexes vs. atomics vs. fencesDownload the slides.Abstract:This session in one word: Deep.It's a session that includes topics I've publicly said for years is Stuff You Shouldn't Need To Know and I Just Won't Teach, but it's becoming achingly clear that people do need to know about it. Achingly, heartbreakingly clear, because some hardware incents you to pull out the big guns to achieve top performance, and C++ programmers just are so addicted to full performance that they'll reach for the big red levers with the flashing warning lights. Since we can't keep people from pulling the big red levers, we'd better document the A to Z of what the levers actually do, so that people don't SCRAM unless they really, really, really meant to.Topics Covered:The facts: The C++11 memory model and what it requires you to do to make sure your code is correct and stays correct. We'll include clear answers to several FAQs: "how do the compiler and hardware cooperate to remember how to respect these rules?", "what is a race condition?", and the ageless one-hand-clapping question "how is a race condition like a debugger?"The tools: The deep interrelationships and fundamental tradeoffs among mutexes, atomics, and fences/barriers. I'll try to convince you why standalone memory barriers are bad, and why barriers should always be associated with a specific load or store.The unspeakables: I'll grudgingly and reluctantly talk about the Thing I Said I'd Never Teach That Programmers Should Never Need To Now: relaxed atomics. Don't use them! If you can avoid it. But here's what you need to know, even though it would be nice if you didn't need to know it.The rapidly-changing hardware reality: How locks and atomics map to hardware instructions on ARM and x86/x64, and throw in POWER and Itanium for good measure – and I'll cover how and why the answers are actually different last year and this year, and how they will likely be different again a few years from now. We'll cover how the latest CPU and GPU hardware memory models are rapidly evolving, and how this directly affects C++ programmers.Part 2 -> Restrictions on compilers and hardware (incl. common bugs); code generation and performance on x86/x64, IA64, POWER, ARM, and more; relaxed atomics; volatile

Herb Sutter presents atomic Weapons, 2 of 2. This was filmed at C++ and Beyond 2012. As the title suggests, this is a two part series (given the depth of treatment and complexity of the subject matter). STOP! => Watch part 1 first!Download the slides.Abstract:This session in one word: Deep.It's a session that includes topics I've publicly said for years is Stuff You Shouldn't Need To Know and I Just Won't Teach, but it's becoming achingly clear that people do need to know about it. Achingly, heartbreakingly clear, because some hardware incents you to pull out the big guns to achieve top performance, and C++ programmers just are so addicted to full performance that they'll reach for the big red levers with the flashing warning lights. Since we can't keep people from pulling the big red levers, we'd better document the A to Z of what the levers actually do, so that people don't SCRAM unless they really, really, really meant to.Topics Covered:The facts: The C++11 memory model and what it requires you to do to make sure your code is correct and stays correct. We'll include clear answers to several FAQs: "how do the compiler and hardware cooperate to remember how to respect these rules?", "what is a race condition?", and the ageless one-hand-clapping question "how is a race condition like a debugger?"The tools: The deep interrelationships and fundamental tradeoffs among mutexes, atomics, and fences/barriers. I'll try to convince you why standalone memory barriers are bad, and why barriers should always be associated with a specific load or store.The unspeakables: I'll grudgingly and reluctantly talk about the Thing I Said I'd Never Teach That Programmers Should Never Need To Now: relaxed atomics. Don't use them! If you can avoid it. But here's what you need to know, even though it would be nice if you didn't need to know it.The rapidly-changing hardware reality: How locks and atomics map to hardware instructions on ARM and x86/x64, and throw in POWER and Itanium for good measure – and I'll cover how and why the answers are actually different last year and this year, and how they will likely be different again a few years from now. We'll cover how the latest CPU and GPU hardware memory models are rapidly evolving, and how this directly affects C++ programmers.