Podcasts about Crypt

Dana and David welcome Paul Feig for a dapper deep-dive through comedy history. Paul and David relive their audition grind—including a Tales from the Crypt saga—before Paul breaks down why he traded stand-up for the director's chair. He revisits one of his early gigs directing The Office, then shares stories from Bridesmaids and Ghostbusters. Plus he adds in some sharp SNL and comedy commentary. To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Your Horror Show is a horror anthology podcast that features a full cast, sound and music. Every episode is presented by their fiendish host, Mr. Graves, who delights in showcasing stories that will make you shudder. The show is heavily influenced by Tales from the Crypt and The Twilight Zone. The episode you're about to hear first premiered in 2025 and is an adaptation of a Poe classic. Be sure to keep the lights on, and if you enjoy what you hear from Your Horror Show, they have over 25 stories of terror for your listening enjoyment. Follow them wherever you listen to podcasts. Episode Info & Credits: Mr. Graves is brushing up on his horror stories and decides to share one from the master of gothic horror Edgar Allan Poe. This tale of vengeance and madness is best enjoyed with a bottle of red.CW: Excessive alcohol consumption, sounds of someone being buried alive⁠⁠TranscriptMR GRAVES: Ryan Joseph Murphy OLD MONTY: Jarret GriffisYOUNG MONTY: Jarret GriffisFRANK: J.R. SnyderKATHY: Kate J. WhiteDedicated to Mark RedfieldWritten by: Edgar Allan PoeAdapted by: Ryan Joseph MurphyDirected by Ryan Joseph MurphySound Design: Brady FlanaganIntro Music: Edith MudgeArtwork: ⁠⁠⁠⁠R.L. Black⁠⁠⁠Produced by: Gavin Michael Booth and Brady Flanagan   Find us online:Patreon: ⁠https://www.patreon.com/redracula⁠Merch: ⁠https://store.dftba.com/collections/re-dracula⁠Website: ⁠www.ReDracula.live⁠Tumblr: ⁠https://www.tumblr.com/re-dracula⁠Bloody Disgusting Website: ⁠www.Bloody-Disgusting.com Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Joe Lynch, director of Wrong Turn 2, Mayhem, and Suitable Flesh, joins us in the Crypt for a candid conversation about directing, nerves that never go away, and navigating a long career in Hollywood.Joe discusses Wrong Turn 2, filmmaking struggles, leadership on set, yelling, chaos, and the behind-the-scenes drama on Suitable Flesh. We talk the good and bad of meeting heroes, talking shop with Guillermo Del Toro, and shaking hands with John Carpenter. He also breaks news on his upcoming films Buzzkill and Meatpaw, sharing cast and crew details about the new projects, and talks about staying hungry, rolling with punches, and more.—Subscribe: youtube.com/@TalksFromTheCryptFollow On Social Media –Talks From The Crypt: https://instagram.com/talksfromthecrypt https://talksfromthecrypt.com Joe Lynchhttps://instagram.com/thejoelynch youtube.com/@ACoupleOfOldFashionedshttps://patreon.com/themoviecrypt—00:00:00 - Intro00:00:31 - "Cold" Open? Still Being Nervous. Steven Spielberg and Working With Tony Todd.00:09:15 - Working in Television with Disney and How It Differs From Filmmaking. Still Getting Nervous on The Movie Crypt After 600+ Episodes & Meeting Heroes00:21:28 - "Never Meet Your Heroes," Meeting John Carpenter00:28:02 - Joe Opens Up About Directing. Working on Wrong Turn 2 and G4. Why He Hasn't Written More.00:37:59 - Breaking Down The Creative Process Behind Wrong Turn 2, His Directorial Debut. The "Most Hated" Director in Hollywood.00:55:46 - Maintaining an Enthusiastic Attitude in the Film Industry, People That Are Not Cut Out For It, Learning All Jobs01:11:26 - Getting Serious With Cast and Crew As a Director, Screaming on Set, Problems on Suitable Flesh, People Actually Having Sex on Mayhem01:23:56 - Joe Breaks News On His Newest Features - Buzzkill and Meatpaw - and REVEALS the Creature and New Crew Members On the Film, Meeting Del Toro, Attending Masters of Horror Dinners - good title01:58:52 - Not Being a "Veteran" and Staying as the New Kid On The Block, Staying Hungry. Truth In Journalism, Joe's Spider-Man Universe Short Film Inspired by Man Bites Dog02:11:54 - Directors Must Roll With The Punches02:21:26 - Outro—Copyright Disclaimer (Fair Use Notice):Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for fair use for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, education, and research. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright law that might otherwise be infringing. All media used in this video are for the purpose of commentary, analysis, and education under fair use.

The Dads are hoping to stay on Santa's nice list as they dive into a festive-yet-fearful review of the 1984 slasher horror classic Silent Night, Deadly Night. In this episode, they break down the controversial holiday horror film, exploring its chilling take on Christmas, its place in 1980s slasher history, and why it remains a cult favorite among horror fans. From killer Santas to seasonal scares, this review delivers nostalgic insights, sharp commentary, and plenty of holiday horror fun for fans of classic slasher movies and Christmas-themed terror.Follow Dads From the Crypt! Threads: @dadsfromthecryptTikTok: Dads From The Crypt-TokInstagram: @dadsfromthecrypt Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/DadsFromTheCrypt

It's the most wonderful time of the year... to die! Your ghoulish hosts, Marcus and Luke, are trading in their eggnog for cocktails as they celebrate the holidays with a deep-dive into the chilling world of Christmas Horror Shorts.We're opening the crypt and pulling out three blood-soaked presents from the HBO classic, Tales From the Crypt:"All Through the House""New Arrival”"Death of Some Salesmen” Then, we're decking the halls with viscera as we face the greatest arboreal threat of our time: the 2008 viral sensation, "Treevenge." Get ready for a gory, satirical look at the brutal revenge exacted by a group of sentient Christmas trees on the unsuspecting human population.Grab a seat by the fire, lock your doors, and join us as we dissect these miniature masterpieces of holiday terror. Don't forget your safety goggles—things are about to get messy!

Send us a textDeath Howl, The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Anniversary Edition, Rayman 2: The Great Escape, Wario Worldand Tonic Trouble, NitroDeck 2, Pragmata, LEGO Batman: Legacy Of The Dark Knight, 007 First Light, Out Of Words, Orbitals, Phasmophobia, South of Midnight, Resident Evil Requiem, Mega Man: Dual Override, The Super Mario Galaxy Movie, The Game Awards 2025, PC Gaming Show: Most Wanted 2025, Blood: Refreshed Supply, MIO: Memories In Orbit, Deus Ex Remastered, Grave Seasons, Starship Troopers: Ultimate Bug War!, Tamer Town, Starsand Island, Dungeons of Dusk, 4PGP: Four-Player Grand Prix, Despelote, SHUTEN ORDER, R-Type Dimensions III, Welcome Tour, Metroid Prime 4: Beyond, Switch 2 support for Chrono Cross: The Radical Dreamers Edition, Crypt of the NecroDancer, and Mega Mall Story, Gear.Club Unlimited 3, Jaws, Yooka-Replaylee, Nintendo Switch Parental Controls, Assassin's Creed Shadows, Nintendo Music gets a Year in Review, Yoshi's Crafted World and Metroid Prime 4: Beyond added to Nintendo Music, Mario Kart World Donkey Kong DLC, Pikmin 4, Support the show

Pool Pros text questions hereThis week, Steve flies solo again — but with good news: Wayne is on the mend and expected back very soon. Until then, Steve brings a full toolbox of stories, lessons, and a deep dive into one of the most-requested topics from pool pros: leak detection as a service.

Chroma111. She does backflips Purple cosmos Whole turnover— We set the whole world on its stomach; A Whole corpse So so wrong Oh oh oh, You made me fall in love Oh, You made me fall in love “Jimmy Gets Belligerent” Hey. Yeah. Remember when Anne Hathaway went into God Mode? FLASHBACK: ANNE HATHAWAY goes into GOD MODE. CUT IMMIDIATELY BACK TO: Yeah. Well this is that, but Jimmy Kimmel. oh boy. Yeah, that. {enter the multiverse} lol. Please writing gods tell me how and why this dude is running around the multidimentions carrying briefcases of sedatives and other recreational enhancements— JIMMY KIMMEL enters EXTREMELY CONFUSIEDLY. And also, why, Apparently he remembers nothing at all, While everyone else in this entire arc seems to have some sort of familiarity within these paradoxes?? I don't know. But I love Jimmy Kimmel. Duh, who doesn't? Yeah alright— but you know why? DAVID LETTERMAN MOO-HA-HA! Yo what the fuck. That dude is kind of evil. TINY KIMMEL (staring into the old ass television SET in a hypnotic state, mimicking with his own version of this evil, diabolical laugh.) Ehheehee!!! DAVID LETTERMAN discovers TELESYNTHESIS via his late night ENDEAVORS, all the while unmasking the true secret to TIME TRAVEL and THE MULTIDIMENSION, unlocked. YOUNG(ER) LETTERMAN Yessss, come to me dear child! Yeeeesssssssss. Damn. Yeah. That right there. That's how it works, apparently. L E G E N D S MOOHAHA! wtf. CC Sometimes we see the things in the TV which are plainly meant to see, but so often overlooked… {Enter The Multiverse} Stephen Colbert Lost Light I was thinking fondly about that scene at the end of the first season of The Studio— That nearly final shot from the finale where the light hits Seth Rogen's smiling eyes, and made them seem ten times bigger than they ever thought they could be— or how maybe possibly, How you never quite noticed how beautiful they are, because you're always remarkably distracted by his charm, and his trademark laugher, or his other well known markers. But I was thinking about it for a second time today, because I was also still somewhere somehow working on the other part of my projects that were although, still falling apart, however important— this ramshackle chaos between all of these media monarchies, the hosts of late night television —though some departed— and an arc that was coming together from scenes i'd already written in hiatus but still probably couldn't find, even if I tried… and the basis of it was really so dark and so off from what the regular gesture or any of those personalities was as established, I sometimes stayed off it, even if though the vision in my mind that made the anchor of something that was supposed to come from that side of the project, was so vivid in the moment, as if I was watching the actual finished product played back or played out in my mind. The reality of my actual life had become such a cruel joke that I no longer really even wanted to cave in and just write it, because I was so particularly embarrassed of how i'd even thought of [any of] that. But here was this, Mr. Stephen Colbert, whom I adored severely, who also had eyes that were quite shiny and large and round that made him, with his boyish face and little dimples, quite cute to look at— but more like a teddy bear, than any vicious or decrepit sexual monster, like some of the other [aforementioned], or so, not mentioned for other reasons. To be clear, this is what, from what I would gather, could come with the job, but the job was also another job, and had its own sort of chronicled problems and equations to solve that I could gawk at, if I watched enough of them. So far, however, there was only really only never more than one I would ever flock to for my gawking, and because I was so enamored by it, I mostly never bothered the others, until it came up in my project as something so artful that it would cause such a gentle heart murmur as one did— This sudden image of Mister Colbert standing in a stream of light in however an outward darkness, with the expression one might call a ‘longingness' as if in all the light had been forgotten—and now was shining on him with such a glow that it took the warmth inside my glow from it, as I saw this, a man of shadows seeming to have come to a final moment of some hope left. But was it lost? Was it false hope? And what had happened? Last I left dear Colbert and our other dearly beloved in a twist of fate— a paradox at the proportion of Titans, in that this, a pocket watch, and a very daunting silver pistol, seeming to be stuck inside a hall of some sort where the linoleum floors and barren abandonment amongst the tattered and ripped unkempt nature of either of them— —Or at least I believed in my head— it were Mr. Kimmel and Colbert, but the scene had been somewhere so long gone and forgotten that I could not remark on which other host it was, that had the memories of all the paradoxes still sharp and hard on his mind, while poor Kimmel somehow seemed, even after a thousand rounds of groundhogged circumstances— (that is to say ‘over and over')— to not remember anything that had happened? But what did happen? And still this was far off from that same shadowed dark place where now in this vivid moment Mister Colbert stood looking up into the light with such grace as if to say, maybe he was thankful for what was approaching— but what? In this pale and yellow warm light streaking across his already very shiny eyes and pleasant face he seemed to be seeking some relief and may have even found it, but was now alone in this place, silver pistol still clutched in his hand, and standing even in the dark set, some percentium arch, rather, as the floor beneath his feet seemed even that rubber type you'd find upon a stage somewhere… But where had I drifted off? I'd come to New York all those years ago mindlessly writing about what appeared to be that same watch, or a watch—a pocket watch, that was somehow rather important to the plot, also. It had to have been important because, at least I thought, it was Morgan Freeman that brought it up [in the first place]. And of course I couldn't overlook at all how anyone I'd written about or thought of fondly just rather seemed to show up in these shows where the hosts were so good at their job they sometimes almost entirely disappeared in plain sight — and for a moment the spectacle was that they even seemed to have removed themselves as a whole from the eyes of the camera, and the audience at the job. A well-done late night host is often a man inside a hole— a suit in the dark where there's not light, because in essence, in the man, he must remain as trapped and as silenced as I have been, or I am, as I write this. And perhaps that's why I found them here, in a foreign land, in my prison trap where I keep my eyes from the rest of the world that cannot have them, under my public sunglasses and ‘why-try' when I am forced to go out into the world and have at it, but always quite missing my mark and stumbling back into the box with much damage and the excitement of a child on Christmas to see my cat, and a warm box, and an hour of something to laugh at. But this project was no laughing matter— mostly because it was sadness; sadness which I kept composed— [the neighbor exits quietly] Oh she IS capable of shutting the door normally. Look at that. —Sadness which I kept composed as darkness, woven into songs as verses or poems as proses without ever giving it a single thought of what was reflected or why it was I was decided to watch that. {Enter The Multiverse} After all, we began chasing Skrillex into forests with monsters, and now balance the delicate calorie deficits of all of what they have— the actors and actresses, media titans, and even politicians, as I burn through my own light like the Palisades fires, where ironically my legend was born before I'd even think to write it; L E G E N D S Somewhere in a place inside my mind where my diaries and lost unrequited love would become sometimes my light and sometimes my darkness and the forced focus of becoming nothing without actually being done— this sort of infinite place that has to exist somewhere in my mind, because it does— and also out in the world — [the door slams violently] Nevermind, she sucks. They all suck. —because thst's where it comes from. So what of Colbert, and the Gun, and the watch, and the Owl, and all of our friends on the trains, in the mazes and libraries? I hadn't not the slightest cause to reckon where the rest of it was because the tragedy of the story was still being just as lived as it was written. The variable pertaining to how many times I had seemingly fallen in love with nothing more than just a shadow or simple reflection of my own thoughts— Glimpses into mirrors and corridors of infinite in all the effective possibilities of the things I'd ever wanted. Perhaps the darkness was that without searching, I wanted to be loved— And it was here, the whole time, quantified and personified in the people that had so much of it, that I could take the idea of such and skate on it, like a complex sort of obstacle, that it wasn't directed at me— but then it was— because I was looking to deeply into something I loved, That it would come back in the form of something, no matter what it was. Long after the perfume was gone, the diamond eyes would still remind me of an Owl that I had once seen and even become, but since arriving in New York and staying too long, had not come back. There certainly was a piece or part of me that had lived and died here, but I was unsure what it was yet. But what of Colbert? Even this was an incomplete and intercepted thought, or concept. All I looked at was him in this light, clutching this little gun that I loved because it was so silver and so polished and so small, And the words “Lost Light”. So perhaps I'd write that song next. [The Festival Project ™] —Death of a Superstar DJ Chroma111. INT. CRYPT. ROCKEFELLER PLAZA. I told you he was a genius! [a mechanical sound erupts from the cooridor above.] Hey! What happened?! BILL MURRAY Well, that's easy! You're trapped. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

Chroma111. She does backflips Purple cosmos Whole turnover— We set the whole world on its stomach; A Whole corpse So so wrong Oh oh oh, You made me fall in love Oh, You made me fall in love “Jimmy Gets Belligerent” Hey. Yeah. Remember when Anne Hathaway went into God Mode? FLASHBACK: ANNE HATHAWAY goes into GOD MODE. CUT IMMIDIATELY BACK TO: Yeah. Well this is that, but Jimmy Kimmel. oh boy. Yeah, that. {enter the multiverse} lol. Please writing gods tell me how and why this dude is running around the multidimentions carrying briefcases of sedatives and other recreational enhancements— JIMMY KIMMEL enters EXTREMELY CONFUSIEDLY. And also, why, Apparently he remembers nothing at all, While everyone else in this entire arc seems to have some sort of familiarity within these paradoxes?? I don't know. But I love Jimmy Kimmel. Duh, who doesn't? Yeah alright— but you know why? DAVID LETTERMAN MOO-HA-HA! Yo what the fuck. That dude is kind of evil. TINY KIMMEL (staring into the old ass television SET in a hypnotic state, mimicking with his own version of this evil, diabolical laugh.) Ehheehee!!! DAVID LETTERMAN discovers TELESYNTHESIS via his late night ENDEAVORS, all the while unmasking the true secret to TIME TRAVEL and THE MULTIDIMENSION, unlocked. YOUNG(ER) LETTERMAN Yessss, come to me dear child! Yeeeesssssssss. Damn. Yeah. That right there. That's how it works, apparently. L E G E N D S MOOHAHA! wtf. CC Sometimes we see the things in the TV which are plainly meant to see, but so often overlooked… {Enter The Multiverse} Stephen Colbert Lost Light I was thinking fondly about that scene at the end of the first season of The Studio— That nearly final shot from the finale where the light hits Seth Rogen's smiling eyes, and made them seem ten times bigger than they ever thought they could be— or how maybe possibly, How you never quite noticed how beautiful they are, because you're always remarkably distracted by his charm, and his trademark laugher, or his other well known markers. But I was thinking about it for a second time today, because I was also still somewhere somehow working on the other part of my projects that were although, still falling apart, however important— this ramshackle chaos between all of these media monarchies, the hosts of late night television —though some departed— and an arc that was coming together from scenes i'd already written in hiatus but still probably couldn't find, even if I tried… and the basis of it was really so dark and so off from what the regular gesture or any of those personalities was as established, I sometimes stayed off it, even if though the vision in my mind that made the anchor of something that was supposed to come from that side of the project, was so vivid in the moment, as if I was watching the actual finished product played back or played out in my mind. The reality of my actual life had become such a cruel joke that I no longer really even wanted to cave in and just write it, because I was so particularly embarrassed of how i'd even thought of [any of] that. But here was this, Mr. Stephen Colbert, whom I adored severely, who also had eyes that were quite shiny and large and round that made him, with his boyish face and little dimples, quite cute to look at— but more like a teddy bear, than any vicious or decrepit sexual monster, like some of the other [aforementioned], or so, not mentioned for other reasons. To be clear, this is what, from what I would gather, could come with the job, but the job was also another job, and had its own sort of chronicled problems and equations to solve that I could gawk at, if I watched enough of them. So far, however, there was only really only never more than one I would ever flock to for my gawking, and because I was so enamored by it, I mostly never bothered the others, until it came up in my project as something so artful that it would cause such a gentle heart murmur as one did— This sudden image of Mister Colbert standing in a stream of light in however an outward darkness, with the expression one might call a ‘longingness' as if in all the light had been forgotten—and now was shining on him with such a glow that it took the warmth inside my glow from it, as I saw this, a man of shadows seeming to have come to a final moment of some hope left. But was it lost? Was it false hope? And what had happened? Last I left dear Colbert and our other dearly beloved in a twist of fate— a paradox at the proportion of Titans, in that this, a pocket watch, and a very daunting silver pistol, seeming to be stuck inside a hall of some sort where the linoleum floors and barren abandonment amongst the tattered and ripped unkempt nature of either of them— —Or at least I believed in my head— it were Mr. Kimmel and Colbert, but the scene had been somewhere so long gone and forgotten that I could not remark on which other host it was, that had the memories of all the paradoxes still sharp and hard on his mind, while poor Kimmel somehow seemed, even after a thousand rounds of groundhogged circumstances— (that is to say ‘over and over')— to not remember anything that had happened? But what did happen? And still this was far off from that same shadowed dark place where now in this vivid moment Mister Colbert stood looking up into the light with such grace as if to say, maybe he was thankful for what was approaching— but what? In this pale and yellow warm light streaking across his already very shiny eyes and pleasant face he seemed to be seeking some relief and may have even found it, but was now alone in this place, silver pistol still clutched in his hand, and standing even in the dark set, some percentium arch, rather, as the floor beneath his feet seemed even that rubber type you'd find upon a stage somewhere… But where had I drifted off? I'd come to New York all those years ago mindlessly writing about what appeared to be that same watch, or a watch—a pocket watch, that was somehow rather important to the plot, also. It had to have been important because, at least I thought, it was Morgan Freeman that brought it up [in the first place]. And of course I couldn't overlook at all how anyone I'd written about or thought of fondly just rather seemed to show up in these shows where the hosts were so good at their job they sometimes almost entirely disappeared in plain sight — and for a moment the spectacle was that they even seemed to have removed themselves as a whole from the eyes of the camera, and the audience at the job. A well-done late night host is often a man inside a hole— a suit in the dark where there's not light, because in essence, in the man, he must remain as trapped and as silenced as I have been, or I am, as I write this. And perhaps that's why I found them here, in a foreign land, in my prison trap where I keep my eyes from the rest of the world that cannot have them, under my public sunglasses and ‘why-try' when I am forced to go out into the world and have at it, but always quite missing my mark and stumbling back into the box with much damage and the excitement of a child on Christmas to see my cat, and a warm box, and an hour of something to laugh at. But this project was no laughing matter— mostly because it was sadness; sadness which I kept composed— [the neighbor exits quietly] Oh she IS capable of shutting the door normally. Look at that. —Sadness which I kept composed as darkness, woven into songs as verses or poems as proses without ever giving it a single thought of what was reflected or why it was I was decided to watch that. {Enter The Multiverse} After all, we began chasing Skrillex into forests with monsters, and now balance the delicate calorie deficits of all of what they have— the actors and actresses, media titans, and even politicians, as I burn through my own light like the Palisades fires, where ironically my legend was born before I'd even think to write it; L E G E N D S Somewhere in a place inside my mind where my diaries and lost unrequited love would become sometimes my light and sometimes my darkness and the forced focus of becoming nothing without actually being done— this sort of infinite place that has to exist somewhere in my mind, because it does— and also out in the world — [the door slams violently] Nevermind, she sucks. They all suck. —because thst's where it comes from. So what of Colbert, and the Gun, and the watch, and the Owl, and all of our friends on the trains, in the mazes and libraries? I hadn't not the slightest cause to reckon where the rest of it was because the tragedy of the story was still being just as lived as it was written. The variable pertaining to how many times I had seemingly fallen in love with nothing more than just a shadow or simple reflection of my own thoughts— Glimpses into mirrors and corridors of infinite in all the effective possibilities of the things I'd ever wanted. Perhaps the darkness was that without searching, I wanted to be loved— And it was here, the whole time, quantified and personified in the people that had so much of it, that I could take the idea of such and skate on it, like a complex sort of obstacle, that it wasn't directed at me— but then it was— because I was looking to deeply into something I loved, That it would come back in the form of something, no matter what it was. Long after the perfume was gone, the diamond eyes would still remind me of an Owl that I had once seen and even become, but since arriving in New York and staying too long, had not come back. There certainly was a piece or part of me that had lived and died here, but I was unsure what it was yet. But what of Colbert? Even this was an incomplete and intercepted thought, or concept. All I looked at was him in this light, clutching this little gun that I loved because it was so silver and so polished and so small, And the words “Lost Light”. So perhaps I'd write that song next. [The Festival Project ™] —Death of a Superstar DJ Chroma111. INT. CRYPT. ROCKEFELLER PLAZA. I told you he was a genius! [a mechanical sound erupts from the cooridor above.] Hey! What happened?! BILL MURRAY Well, that's easy! You're trapped. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

Chroma111. She does backflips Purple cosmos Whole turnover— We set the whole world on its stomach; A Whole corpse So so wrong Oh oh oh, You made me fall in love Oh, You made me fall in love “Jimmy Gets Belligerent” Hey. Yeah. Remember when Anne Hathaway went into God Mode? FLASHBACK: ANNE HATHAWAY goes into GOD MODE. CUT IMMIDIATELY BACK TO: Yeah. Well this is that, but Jimmy Kimmel. oh boy. Yeah, that. {enter the multiverse} lol. Please writing gods tell me how and why this dude is running around the multidimentions carrying briefcases of sedatives and other recreational enhancements— JIMMY KIMMEL enters EXTREMELY CONFUSIEDLY. And also, why, Apparently he remembers nothing at all, While everyone else in this entire arc seems to have some sort of familiarity within these paradoxes?? I don't know. But I love Jimmy Kimmel. Duh, who doesn't? Yeah alright— but you know why? DAVID LETTERMAN MOO-HA-HA! Yo what the fuck. That dude is kind of evil. TINY KIMMEL (staring into the old ass television SET in a hypnotic state, mimicking with his own version of this evil, diabolical laugh.) Ehheehee!!! DAVID LETTERMAN discovers TELESYNTHESIS via his late night ENDEAVORS, all the while unmasking the true secret to TIME TRAVEL and THE MULTIDIMENSION, unlocked. YOUNG(ER) LETTERMAN Yessss, come to me dear child! Yeeeesssssssss. Damn. Yeah. That right there. That's how it works, apparently. L E G E N D S MOOHAHA! wtf. CC Sometimes we see the things in the TV which are plainly meant to see, but so often overlooked… {Enter The Multiverse} Stephen Colbert Lost Light I was thinking fondly about that scene at the end of the first season of The Studio— That nearly final shot from the finale where the light hits Seth Rogen's smiling eyes, and made them seem ten times bigger than they ever thought they could be— or how maybe possibly, How you never quite noticed how beautiful they are, because you're always remarkably distracted by his charm, and his trademark laugher, or his other well known markers. But I was thinking about it for a second time today, because I was also still somewhere somehow working on the other part of my projects that were although, still falling apart, however important— this ramshackle chaos between all of these media monarchies, the hosts of late night television —though some departed— and an arc that was coming together from scenes i'd already written in hiatus but still probably couldn't find, even if I tried… and the basis of it was really so dark and so off from what the regular gesture or any of those personalities was as established, I sometimes stayed off it, even if though the vision in my mind that made the anchor of something that was supposed to come from that side of the project, was so vivid in the moment, as if I was watching the actual finished product played back or played out in my mind. The reality of my actual life had become such a cruel joke that I no longer really even wanted to cave in and just write it, because I was so particularly embarrassed of how i'd even thought of [any of] that. But here was this, Mr. Stephen Colbert, whom I adored severely, who also had eyes that were quite shiny and large and round that made him, with his boyish face and little dimples, quite cute to look at— but more like a teddy bear, than any vicious or decrepit sexual monster, like some of the other [aforementioned], or so, not mentioned for other reasons. To be clear, this is what, from what I would gather, could come with the job, but the job was also another job, and had its own sort of chronicled problems and equations to solve that I could gawk at, if I watched enough of them. So far, however, there was only really only never more than one I would ever flock to for my gawking, and because I was so enamored by it, I mostly never bothered the others, until it came up in my project as something so artful that it would cause such a gentle heart murmur as one did— This sudden image of Mister Colbert standing in a stream of light in however an outward darkness, with the expression one might call a ‘longingness' as if in all the light had been forgotten—and now was shining on him with such a glow that it took the warmth inside my glow from it, as I saw this, a man of shadows seeming to have come to a final moment of some hope left. But was it lost? Was it false hope? And what had happened? Last I left dear Colbert and our other dearly beloved in a twist of fate— a paradox at the proportion of Titans, in that this, a pocket watch, and a very daunting silver pistol, seeming to be stuck inside a hall of some sort where the linoleum floors and barren abandonment amongst the tattered and ripped unkempt nature of either of them— —Or at least I believed in my head— it were Mr. Kimmel and Colbert, but the scene had been somewhere so long gone and forgotten that I could not remark on which other host it was, that had the memories of all the paradoxes still sharp and hard on his mind, while poor Kimmel somehow seemed, even after a thousand rounds of groundhogged circumstances— (that is to say ‘over and over')— to not remember anything that had happened? But what did happen? And still this was far off from that same shadowed dark place where now in this vivid moment Mister Colbert stood looking up into the light with such grace as if to say, maybe he was thankful for what was approaching— but what? In this pale and yellow warm light streaking across his already very shiny eyes and pleasant face he seemed to be seeking some relief and may have even found it, but was now alone in this place, silver pistol still clutched in his hand, and standing even in the dark set, some percentium arch, rather, as the floor beneath his feet seemed even that rubber type you'd find upon a stage somewhere… But where had I drifted off? I'd come to New York all those years ago mindlessly writing about what appeared to be that same watch, or a watch—a pocket watch, that was somehow rather important to the plot, also. It had to have been important because, at least I thought, it was Morgan Freeman that brought it up [in the first place]. And of course I couldn't overlook at all how anyone I'd written about or thought of fondly just rather seemed to show up in these shows where the hosts were so good at their job they sometimes almost entirely disappeared in plain sight — and for a moment the spectacle was that they even seemed to have removed themselves as a whole from the eyes of the camera, and the audience at the job. A well-done late night host is often a man inside a hole— a suit in the dark where there's not light, because in essence, in the man, he must remain as trapped and as silenced as I have been, or I am, as I write this. And perhaps that's why I found them here, in a foreign land, in my prison trap where I keep my eyes from the rest of the world that cannot have them, under my public sunglasses and ‘why-try' when I am forced to go out into the world and have at it, but always quite missing my mark and stumbling back into the box with much damage and the excitement of a child on Christmas to see my cat, and a warm box, and an hour of something to laugh at. But this project was no laughing matter— mostly because it was sadness; sadness which I kept composed— [the neighbor exits quietly] Oh she IS capable of shutting the door normally. Look at that. —Sadness which I kept composed as darkness, woven into songs as verses or poems as proses without ever giving it a single thought of what was reflected or why it was I was decided to watch that. {Enter The Multiverse} After all, we began chasing Skrillex into forests with monsters, and now balance the delicate calorie deficits of all of what they have— the actors and actresses, media titans, and even politicians, as I burn through my own light like the Palisades fires, where ironically my legend was born before I'd even think to write it; L E G E N D S Somewhere in a place inside my mind where my diaries and lost unrequited love would become sometimes my light and sometimes my darkness and the forced focus of becoming nothing without actually being done— this sort of infinite place that has to exist somewhere in my mind, because it does— and also out in the world — [the door slams violently] Nevermind, she sucks. They all suck. —because thst's where it comes from. So what of Colbert, and the Gun, and the watch, and the Owl, and all of our friends on the trains, in the mazes and libraries? I hadn't not the slightest cause to reckon where the rest of it was because the tragedy of the story was still being just as lived as it was written. The variable pertaining to how many times I had seemingly fallen in love with nothing more than just a shadow or simple reflection of my own thoughts— Glimpses into mirrors and corridors of infinite in all the effective possibilities of the things I'd ever wanted. Perhaps the darkness was that without searching, I wanted to be loved— And it was here, the whole time, quantified and personified in the people that had so much of it, that I could take the idea of such and skate on it, like a complex sort of obstacle, that it wasn't directed at me— but then it was— because I was looking to deeply into something I loved, That it would come back in the form of something, no matter what it was. Long after the perfume was gone, the diamond eyes would still remind me of an Owl that I had once seen and even become, but since arriving in New York and staying too long, had not come back. There certainly was a piece or part of me that had lived and died here, but I was unsure what it was yet. But what of Colbert? Even this was an incomplete and intercepted thought, or concept. All I looked at was him in this light, clutching this little gun that I loved because it was so silver and so polished and so small, And the words “Lost Light”. So perhaps I'd write that song next. [The Festival Project ™] —Death of a Superstar DJ Chroma111. INT. CRYPT. ROCKEFELLER PLAZA. I told you he was a genius! [a mechanical sound erupts from the cooridor above.] Hey! What happened?! BILL MURRAY Well, that's easy! You're trapped. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

“Down boy!” Our rebels delve into the underworld beneath the Kintargo Opera House, and find secrets left behind by their predecessors! Support us on Patreon to access our actual play of the Tyrant's Grasp Adventure Path and other content: https://www.patreon.com/FindthePath Cast Rick Sandidge is Gamemaster and Host Heather Allen plays Cesare Nightbloom (male seer elf [...] The post Hell's Rebels Episode 140: Founder's Crypt appeared first on Find the Path Ventures.

This week on the show, we're finally back! And because we've been gone so long, we have a ton of geek news to catch up on.Before we start, don't forget you can head over to Goodnight.gg where as a patron of our show you can suggest topics for us to talk about! Also as a patron, you get access to our off-week episodes! We're now into Season 2 of our Tales from the Crypt watch and recap - it's only a dollar to join our patreon!

Click to Subscribe: https://bit.ly/Youtube-Subscribe-SoapDirt Days of our Lives spoilers expect a shocking revelation that leaves the DiMera family, including Kristen DiMera (Stacy Haiduk) and EJ DiMera (Dan Feuerriegel), in absolute bewilderment. The mystery revolves around the identification of bones discovered in the family crypt buried beneath the floor.  DOOL spoilers indicate that as the family reunion in the mausoleum almost reaches completion with Chad DiMera (Billy Flynn), Tony DiMera (Thaao Penghlis), and Theo Carver (Tyler Joseph Andrews) joining in, the bone discovery is set to stir up more intrigue.  Spoilers for Days of our Lives suggest the captives are not only desperate to escape but are also eager to find out who their abductor is. As the storyline unfolds, fans will see Jada Hunter (Elia Cantu) and Rafe Hernandez (Galen Gering) join forces to rescue the captives. The discovery of the hidden bones leads to several speculations, including the possibility that they could belong to the late Stefano DiMera (Joseph Mascolo) or Abigail Deveraux (AnnaLynne McCord).   The Soap Dirt podcast made the Top 100 List for Apple Podcast's Entertainment News Category. Visit our Days of our Lives section of Soap Dirt: https://soapdirt.com/category/days-of-our-lives/ Listen to our Podcasts: https://soapdirt.podbean.com/ Check out our always up-to-date Days of our Lives Spoilers page at: https://soapdirt.com/days-of-our-lives-spoilers/ Check Out our Social Media... Twitter: https://twitter.com/SoapDirtTV Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/SoapDirt Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/soapdirt/ TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@soapdirt Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/soapdirt/

Featuring: Michael "Boston" Hannon and Paul "Moonpir" Smith Running Time: 47:43 Video Version: YouTube For this brand new season of TVGP's Critical Misses, we're back for another spooky anthology two-fer! First up we have 1972's Tales From the Crypt, where we talk about small puppets, brooches, time loops, first person segments, going to Hell, and much more! Applause sound effect from SoundBible Royalty free music from https://www.fesliyanstudios.com Become a patron of TVGP for just a few dollars a month at E1M1's Patreon Page! Get two month early access to Critical Misses, uncensored outtakes, production meetings, and much more for just $5/month!

Aujourd'hui, 120 Secondes Essentiel est consacré au Pacs et aux impôts. Après la conclusion d'un Pacte civil de solidarité, les deux partenaires sont soumis à une imposition commune. Capital vous explique les conséquences de ce changement en matière fiscale. Hébergé par Audion. Visitez https://www.audion.fm/fr/privacy-policy pour plus d'informations.

The Dads enjoy the taste of butter and review "The VVitch" with Ashley from the Seeking Witchcraft podcast!Follow Dads From the Crypt! Threads: @dadsfromthecryptTikTok: Dads From The Crypt-TokInstagram: @dadsfromthecrypt Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/DadsFromTheCrypt

Scenario 04 would like a recap and if you've been paying attention that scenario might potentially be worth a second episode and a second recap because it was so big... or something... we take a dive into The Crypt of the Damned and go through what we experienced. We talk a little about last weeks cheesy topic, and bring back our Monster Spotlight having little delve into Cultists and Living Bones. (Again due to recording time conflicts this episode is slightly shorter but hopefully we can get back to a slightly fuller episode soon)Find us on: IG - https://www.instagram.com/am_dirt/YouTube - https://www.youtube.com/@amdirtOr contact us directly at: contact@rollingterribly.com** Please note our episodes may contain spoilers for all games in the Haven series but we will try to keep them to a minimum **

Jason interviews Steven Kostanski, director/writer of cult fantasy remake "Deathstalker".Follow Dads From the Crypt! Threads: @dadsfromthecryptTikTok: Dads From The Crypt-TokInstagram: @dadsfromthecrypt Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/DadsFromTheCrypt

This week, the Mikes continue the look at John Cena's Final go. Also, is WARGAMES too soft? Daniel stops by from the Crypt to blast open the wormhole!Please consider helping Mikey: https://gofund.me/46b0b4fb“I Am Strange” written and performend by BZfOS / Schlitzer Pepi Recordsfacebook.com/drivebypodArchives:Piledriversinthecrypt.comdanielgrothe.us danielgrothe.net danielgrothe.at

J.M. Brandt joins the Dads to dive into Steven Kostanski's remake of the swords-and-sorcery cult classic Deathstalker. Be sure to check out the Kickstarter for his charity horror anthology Horror Not Hate—every dollar raised goes directly to charities fighting for LGBTQIA and immigrant rights.https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/jmbrandt/horror-not-hateSong of the day by "Castle Rat"!!!Follow Dads From the Crypt! Threads: @dadsfromthecryptTikTok: Dads From The Crypt-TokInstagram: @dadsfromthecrypt Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/DadsFromTheCrypt

https://jrbialik.com/ What if k98% of human history has vanished — along with the wisdom we need most today? In Lost in Time: Our Forgotten and Vanishing Knowledge, Jack R. Bialik uncovers more than 300 examples of lost technologies and ideas, from ancient cataract surgery to early batteries, proving that forgotten knowledge could hold the keys to our future survival. Please refer to the press release below for additional information, and let me know if you would like to see a copy of Lost in Time for interview and/or review purposes. Watch an interview with Jack R. Bialik here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6UZvpWWZOXY FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE Groundbreaking New Book Exposes Humanity's Forgotten Wisdom, Revealing How Lost Knowledge Could Shape Future Survival A Fascinating Exploration of More Than 300 Compelling Examples of Missing Historical Information That Humanity Can Learn From Today PHOENIX, Ariz, Nov. 7, 2025 — Only 1.6 percent of human history is recorded in some form, meaning most of humanity's past will remain buried forever. This is just one of the surprises revealed in Jack R. Bialik's Lost in Time: Our Forgotten and Vanishing Knowledge, a fascinating book that challenges readers to rethink how much they truly know and how much is waiting to be rediscovered. With bite-sized nuggets of wisdom, Lost in Time: Our Forgotten and Vanishing Knowledge takes readers on a captivating exploration of humanity's lost ingenuity and the forgotten knowledge that once shaped civilizations. Spanning centuries and continents, the book uncovers astonishing technologies, philosophies and cultural practices that have been buried under the sands of time — some of which are more advanced than what people use today. Bialik effortlessly confronts the assumption that only modern-day humans are capable of producing innovative feats of technology and brilliance. With meticulous research that spanned over 10 years and compelling storytelling, Bialik highlights how these past innovations could still hold the potential to address modern challenges, from knowledge sustainability to societal resilience. Lost in Time unravels the intricate tapestry of human civilization, weaving together narratives of inventions of yesterday, overlooked pioneers and epoch-defining discoveries that have shaped the modern world. Among the amazing facts readers will learn: • Cataract surgery was being performed in India more than 2000 years ago. • The first known fountain pen was created centuries before Europe “invented” it. • Ancient civilizations debated waste disposal and sanitation solutions that rival or even surpass some modern systems. • When filled with vinegar, an ancient Mesopotamian clay jar called The Baghdad Battery generated electricity, centuries before Volta's experiments. • In the 1930s, the Crypt of Civilization was sealed with 640,000 pages of microfilm, a Donald Duck doll and a Budweiser can — set to be opened in the year 8113 AD. Through thought-provoking analysis, Lost in Time examines the fragile nature of human knowledge and the forces — be they war, natural disasters or changing priorities — that contribute to its disappearance. Bialik highlights just how easily human knowledge can literally vanish, with the burning of the Library of Alexandria in Egypt that possessed nearly half a million scrolls and the destruction of the ancient Mayan civilization's written records, to name just two of many such losses. However, Lost in Time is more than an archive of historical losses. Bialik inspires readers to reconnect with the lessons of the past as a means of fostering a more informed and innovative future. He challenges readers to consider whether humanity is building a legacy of accessible wisdom — or an archive of forgotten lessons.

Alan L. Katz, more widely recognized as Al Katz, played an instrumental role in transforming the comic book series "Tales from the Crypt" into a successful television show that seamlessly blended horror and dark humor. Despite arriving in Los Angeles in 1985 without traditional credentials, Katz drew upon his background in comedy and drama from Vassar College to infuse the series with a unique perspective, particularly in crafting the memorable Crypt Keeper character. His deep personal connection to comic books and horror allowed Katz to navigate the adaptation process with creativity and authenticity, ensuring the show's success and leaving a lasting impact on the horror genre with projects like the 1995 movie "Demon Knight." Beyond television, Katz has embraced podcasting as a way to continue his storytelling journey, demonstrating a commitment to overcoming traditional industry barriers and directly engaging with audiences.(00:06:34) Unconventional Journey: Tales from the Crypt(00:10:42) Crypt Keeper's Creation and Development in Show(00:11:41) "Creating the Unique Crypt Keeper Persona"(00:22:35) "Appreciating Practical Effects in Demon Knight Movie"(00:24:34) DreamWorks Deal Alters Film Production Plans(00:33:24) Influential Casting Decisions in Bordello of Blood(00:39:38) Unique Lighting Challenges in Vancouver Productions(00:48:50) Navigating Challenges in Script Development for Film and TV(00:50:14) Podcasts Revolutionize Creative Industry Power Dynamics(00:53:30) Intense Relationships Among Genetically Related Individuals

Invitée : Alexandra Ternant pour "Paternité, une métamorphose décryptée" sur ArteHébergé par Audiomeans. Visitez audiomeans.fr/politique-de-confidentialite pour plus d'informations.

Celebrity Chef Joe Gatto joins the dads to review the horror dark comedy "The Menu" and gives us Thanksgiving cooking tips!Follow Dads From the Crypt! Threads: @dadsfromthecryptTikTok: Dads From The Crypt-TokInstagram: @dadsfromthecrypt Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/DadsFromTheCrypt

In the penultimate 2025 episode, our friend Justin Riley joins us to discuss metal news and evaluate a mighty list of new releases, including albums from Coroner, Evoken, An Abstract Illusion, Hooded Menace, Tombs, Wode, Testament and more. Plus, What We're Listening To, Picks From the Crypt, epic homework failures and an elemental monster battle of final albums, as Celtic Frost "Monotheist" locks horns with Bolt Thrower "Those Once Loyal" in a Thunderdome clash for the ages.

03. s w e a t. Just pretend It's imminent; My relapse, As a drug I take it in in increments Collapse; My photographic image memory Serves me perfectly A classical caricature And still I'm sure it's supposed to hurt (Still I'm sure it's supposed to hurt) I'm here in present tense An artifact and image Inside all the builds and relics Mr. Tim is here When Mr, Night Guy gets too perfect Ties it on a bit for treasure chests And pleasure's never where the head will reac, dear Here hearts Silk eyes Don't trust Tame scarves Legwarmers Silk ties Autographs Silk ties Autographs Silk ties Autographs Silk ties Autographs Wedding bells And autocrats Grandfather clock and pendulum And scarcities and garish art, And murderers upon the dusk The carriage sure to'ave spoken Crypt sinking, There faultlines, now quaking My hind legs are to shore And still my forelegs tip. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events.

s u c k e r p u n c h. The kid will never go to sleep, You know The boy will never rest He'll never do his best, you know He'll never do his best She'll never be the best you know She's never out of bed She'll never see the sun you know ‘It's only in your head' The boy will never drown, you know You know the boy's so cold You might go out for now, you know But you'll go home alone He'll never hit the ground, you know The boy will never rest The boy will just go down, You know As history at best (The girl is staring out the window as the frost comes out their mouths) Fresh from the land of a thousand suns And I still don't know which stone to land on No random environment; I underwent the whole attorney And still met with resistance I just asked for an amphetamine as if it was A supplement to my existence In fact, it is, An edifice or addition to my nutrition deficit And I says, For whatever's lost but goes on, Fight for rich or poorer – while the poorer suffer longer. No longer argue my agreements, Distance to whatever's after There I rest upon the sober throne, And throwing watermelon seeds into the ground as stones, For may as well without the water And also sure to rot, Or waste as rats, Computer paper, There again Recycling bins of compost Just for show, but not for shredded wager No, no longer or wonder my nonsense, In fact, I, raging there had kept no more a suffer than a secret to be sure of here— And sure of her I was and sheer and gathered Torment your emotions, Also just to want but not to have As those that matter. So I've called in all the white clothes Now we represent with denim. And I'm stuck inside your television Stuck inside your television Don't you know you've shown you're weakness in the purest of hatred, Separating yourselfs as the basis for this Depreciation? Wonder, again I wonder And still no sad trombones, Only stories, and somber surfers And solemn whores and silent wars with words And sundries From the land of one thousand suns And a thousand sons you've lost A thousand wars, A thousand girls who want you Gathered over rails and velvet theatre ropes for it Rare. But slightly often scored, Parched, And barely long forgotten, Tipping, And waiting only This bitch comes on the train and smells like soup. Don't look at me as if I'm the one to have done something, I've no cardboard box but rather lift my chin at Whole Foods market over bags or water. You know it? I also do that for the dozen, No trend follows, or feathered gathered, Hollow winds and tunnels Tunnels sent and shadows I hadn't been pin pricked I never been picked out Blow the candles for which wish? I've been ever been bound to love Or celebrated by another besides my mother But here's some sensory deprivation, Overstimulation lol I love getting on the train and just happening to see a dude who is not listening to his dumb fucking girlfriend But she won't shut the fuck up He's just standing there like “Clearly I'm getting sex out of this” And she won't stop talking. I love that. I'm like “bitch, shut up.” He's like, “Help me.” I'm like, Not my problem, broskies, You better look interested instead of over here. Anyway, another year's gone by and no one's here for me. Anyway, another son was born without my honor. Anyway, I want to lap it up like all the water on the floor Before I realized it was gold, And I was slaughtered No use crying over spilled galaxies, Still you're trapped in I, And I'm found to want more than I decided If I'm divided and clustered up And yet I'm divine then, I should gather all I've had Combine it into one —and yet Another columbine has come As if they're all occurrences, Just set to Apple Watches And broadcast t'all the provinces. In a cinch I've just realized I've the trench coat to match your jacket But no longer the converse all stars And you've seen to washed yours off from my angle Simple single triangle and spheres for fears of masturbating, Crash the grate at all the hours, Never really gravitating for anything important, Only alt-right Can't afford that All your penlaltied for real to mean political rallies or ambitions act as barriers to those that actually ally. Who am I? That's right? I can't belay in body! Oh, I can't to grip the shadows Boxing with the cat for your night V.O We were friends with the humans— Most of our job is finding out what happened with them. Future people Vintage potluck All out time And all our hard work All our bad luck All our warns Fell on her shores as lodes for her Oh, How his legs fall so calmly one over the other Or, How his songs flow not as words, but heart strings Our melodies will walk in chords for all time For now if ta zzz A as te r What a brilliant blue, Yea, in fact, its cerulean Yes, in fact, if you can Facts to rule them all, so If you fax, try to call, here goes all your worry Here's your love; None For the facts you were sure to walk about, now you're our, gone From the top Don't ever forget you're on watch I've got a whole heart full of freedom Just don't look up from your phone e They brought you up now pull you down a bit You're a clown, it seems But no activists They heil Hitler in central Bedford No articles of new clothing l, huh? They love to watch all your digging They call it hyper vigilance m because the whites in New York can be so violently racist m Their strength lies not only in money and power but nearly balanced numbers Which justifies their hurtful and aggressive actions as adaptations to the changing world They see themselves as the controllers Still slave master but in such a context That they mask the hatred that lies under the surface as social issues of another kind Why existing in white neighborhoods in less than perfect black skin seems to hurt in another way you can't always tell the doctor What if covert racism doesn't hurt as much– (or never, ever-after) Mister Jimmy you're out of touch. Mr. Chaos you're out of God. Ms. Divine, you're not enough Ms. Monroe, you're out of love A dozen is a dozen Hallmark roses I still love my ‘ol Miss Molly I still love my golden trophy Mr. Trump, You're out of touch Mr. Moore, You're out of line Ms. Monroe, you're not enough Mr. God, you're out of love But I still love my ol' Miss Molly I still love my golden trophy I still love my Hollywood, Golden boys I still love my silver screen And golden eras, I still love my world before love I still like my alma mater But i'll never ever love her I put out for dear Miss Molly I get up for four-door wallets I belong to none or nothing I should die, I don't belong here I still call her over after Don't belong here under, over I still love my golden boys though I still love my golden trophy Mister Jimmy, you're out of touch. F I can very much count you out; E I can very much drift away G I can very well close my eyes. Am What do you want me to say? You want the whole thing? Well what a fun night. It was a hard roll; it was a good time It was a hard come down, though A hard fuck It was a hard laugh; I wrote a good book We took a long ride; Then smoked a long blunt Woah Hush now, good fan Come and take a hard roll A long stroll a hot dance I want to take a half more The comedown was hard, But i just got the honor roll Come down, good fan I want to hold your hand now I want to take a good pause I want to have a hard roll Calm down, good fan I'm headed for your heart now (i want to take a hard fall, I want to take a hard roll) Come on, good man I wanna get a hard on I wanna take a hard fan I want to have a hard fuck I'm going for your heart now I want to have a long roll I'm going for your heart now I want to take a good smoke Yeah, and it's something like that And i look both ways before I cross the Cut the road Yeah, i hate myself as well But i know you don' But you know, we're all getting older It just goes more post mortem To hold secrets inside Pass over regrets and don't touch em Like you don't want em But you don't want No one else And you don't wanna run So you either say hello to the dog Or bark, And then jump back I have you on speed dial But I misfire T total recall I don't call blocked numbers but still number one d-d-don't be a retard, Work harder Learn more than your other parts To control them supermanteras Entourage Tata- Ratata Don't be retarded Rat poison for supper Rat poison for supper And politics for something sweet afterward You heard of the knowledge? You heard of the good book Good one, Doctor I'll run harder next workhour Cause we're all undercooked And we're all overdone on the outside still half frozen in the gut though, You know You know? Enjoy your holiday supper Enjoy your apartment Enjoy your destruction I'm just getting started corrupting your disk drive Full system failure! Fill system failure! Full Jimmy Fallon! I mean– Redact that. Don't be retarded. Run out of water! We're all out of order! I might as well pull the plug Or just more fires. I got hard times under And hard times covered No hard times coming cause Look, I got smarter (don't be retarded) I got semi sweet chocolate And lessons And lovers And neighbors And demons and evil around I So who could have thought That the work of God was just [us, at it] At first, i thought nothing, and then all at once, All it was, as is. While I hope that one day for me, there's a me And a man in a meadow No time to decide however, how long I can act as irreverent, The single disciple, the limitless modem,, the signal to imminent the I took a misstep, I went the wrong way I thought I was done, but I should be on stage Just pretend It's imminent; My relapse, As a drug I take it in in increments Collapse; My photographic image memory Serves me perfectly A classical caricature And still I'm sure it's supposed to hurt (Still I'm sure it's supposed to hurt) I'm here in present tense An artifact and image Inside all the builds and relics Mr. Tim is here When Mr, Night Guy gets too perfect Ties it on a bit for treasure chests And pleasure's never where the head will reac, dear Here hearts Silk eyes Don't trust Tame scarves Legwaemwss Silk ties Autographs Silk ties Autographs Silk ties Autographs Silk ties Autographs Wedding bells And autocrats Grandfather clock and pendulum And scarities and garish art, And murderers upon the dusk The carriage sure to'ave spoken Crypt sinking, There faultlines, now quaking My hind legs are to shore And still my forelegs tip So why am I envious? It isn't athletics, I promise Its pages and pages Poems and proses Keep it together karassndra Why are you out all alone in a war zone without a gun? Why are you out with the bomb squad in a rainstorm Why are you known amongst all the lands? You won by a landslide but by a show of hands And a slight side of hands And a show to the world that you own what you're on, Let them come hold enough to hold you down with the motorcycles. No country for old nothing When the highlight of your whole life Is the subdural hematoma growing to the surface. And you were sure before you'd never have that part of your symmetry in tact again See how the devil surrounds us when we interact with God and pure genius Human will always kill God; He doesn't understand it The attacks and the tactical wall for sure come to a close; The whole empire is falling And Heaven is calling us home; This has been just a warning I'm still hiding j. The closet; I'm sure to fly your hawk back, homing, Nothing like a good pigeon, depending on the moment And deepening hour disinterest in anything? See how evil walks amongst us When you haven't come upon it in a moment Or have all your other targets lined up— Do remember dear ther it all comes back to haunt them When they're all younger And haven't been tortured yet The fun part first and the war part after; Sure to suffer if you're sure to hurt her Sure to muder for a quarter or a tucked shirt Sure to give a shit if just my mister in a basket Do you understand that? I won't Good good Goddamn I might have a heart attack I might have to kill myself I hate this place I'm tired now I dropped my hat . I'm an individual Stuck in a simulated and subject collective consciousness I'll tel you where the problem is I promise this It seemed more like a tactical marketing strategy than an actual accident, knowing the type of superstar Sonny had become. Yet, I couldn't help but give it a second thought, almost admiring it—whatever it was—as there is no such thing as bad press. As it all played out over social media—which I obstinately rejected, but however so embraced by those in what one used to call "the arts"—it felt undone; It was now strictly business within those very same markets. Here was this, an apparent plagiarism based on ‘outsourcing' a simple photo for a follow-up single to an album I knew I could not be moved to listen to, even after months. I had spent my own time, in a torturous chaos sense, researching these sorts of psychological tactics and strategies of such conglomerates. It seemed almost as if the negative and seemingly coincidental exposure was in congruency with the so very Skrillexian need to stay relevant to the newer age in changing times. He seemed to embrace some sort of artistic evolution, at least from what I could sense at a long and strong distance. However, my ability to understand the article I'd very much by accident stumbled upon—while overlooking my own dilapidated ticket stubs on Resident Advisor—cautioned at the kind of humbled and grown logic that had become what was left of my womanhood. I had in so many ways made a fool of myself, an embarrassment for what I thought of at the time in the name of love. Still, in all this time, I was so desolated and alone that it had become such an apparent and distraught sense of waking up to what formerly was. With this, I thought one of two things. I knew this Sonny, like most men of prestige, power, and great wealth, had devised his team of sharp-witted, intelligent, beautiful women. This apparent slip-up over the artwork for his latest endeavor—which I had, for every reason, protested in defense of my own dignity—was perhaps the result of a beautiful woman without creative ingenuity stealing the artwork in bad taste, as evidenced. Or—even more cunning—this was the wit of a trained and marginalized soldier in the art of programming. The apparent plagiarism was, in fact, another brutal and hollow Skrillefied market for attention. Over the last decade, he had no shortage of the ability to create and draw eyes to whatever art or concept was forced out of the mechanized monster. Still, there was a sharp growl. I knew I was meant to find this as a reminder of what I'd find if I looked any further or listened to his music anymore: a rise in sharp numbers, mass appeal tactics, and this-or-that shallow hogwash of distinctly skeletal bodies and avant-garde aesthetics. It pointed at the unachievable from my eyes and standpoint. It was the rockstar air and attire of everything I wasn't: strictly thin Hollywood or other ideals to which the construct was entitled, but I wasn't. I had to set out on my own way because what I had intended with music was jumbled into appearances, pornographic sexualities, and masculine dominance. It meant I had aged out of the desirability and affect these very same masses were being marketed from. Sure, I understood that the Skrillex project had established a sort of order for what the electronic festival industry wanted. But I also wanted something else accomplished in my time that wasn't just being some shallow, hot-girl, obscure go-after. The entire time, I had been under the impression of a duality of magnetism I often still had difficulty loosening myself from—that this illusion of an emotional tie or loveness, outside of what was a physical or illustrious concept, had no substance within the business at its core. It was, to say the least, a heartless world and a heartless business. Now that my own music was without purpose, I could forever distance myself from the other masses—the consumer-prosumer-commercialized "artists" that had sprung up out of access to the direct-to-streaming music market via technology and disposable funding. I had no way of embodying my mind to do away with the parts of me that needed to change to become one of them—in the sense that if my music looked and sounded alike, I would be embraced. But I was far from being the type of consciousness that had formed seemingly with the twist of a knob or an Ableton shortcut by one of electronic's founding fathers. In an unfortunate way, I had finally realized he was just that. — Death of A Superstar DJ. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events. The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit. This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state. The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

Don't you see, sensei I'm just as disappointed in myself And ready to die Just as I relay the message, Spray me with your morbid essence Don't, croak, you fool, You've only a spoon ful of sugar left to go The dose is coming up your throat, — you didn't know to throw up Grab the rope and go up Before gravity has crushed your —thought: Stupid boy, you don't want to die— Nor to do, but oh, do we have it coming Silly mortal, overlords and governed, Short of morals, steady coming at your doorstep So goes our concert! And so goes our concept for divorce, And sure of course, Your four corse meal, and/or dessert This is just devastating, genetics made me The sort at sorting words, but surfing, Sure. Ever temporarily the cadence changes, Still they say “you've been betrayed” But never had a friend I made made As good as death and God have been to me For everything you're meant to be, Plus everything you're meant to me, I go, unwanted, troubled and disgusted at my own immortal outcome. Sure. My back hurts and I'm wounded, Heartbroke, Thrust in every cardinal direction Also, honored at the mark of magic wand Upon her shoulder; And so, Just as soon as the sun and moon, Does the fire escape set a perfect path For outward destruction of the bricks and mortar Or your alter (This we talk about, to some effect Is your repression and affective form of supernatural perfection) But forget the makeup; I can make you up to be a star And not of wars and other worlds, But those that come before us, Carson, and the others Paar before that. But, I think not dear sir How wrong you are, A wretched bird, Set not to fly, but O father Wit and relay messages, The passage said, and set to clocks, The past was won and so the future altered, But dear feathered father, Mortal you are not But just another triumph Of my god; And set the mirror to the magnets Camera, lights and action, Magic— All the signs of the dawn, and the mad don Red Dawn came upon us, called the Red Man Tom, from other, over, under Still was my mistake to mumble such Or put upon the tongue As such assumption Still— wonder? Bird, shut up; Love I dusk And lust I soak In all the frittered dust and feathers, Colors, coming up as mister Chuck and wood, and wait and ponder Slithered this to wonder, not a rock, But potted fern, Asunder Thunderstorm And wicked rain And fair the back A tide had come And sitting there upon the shore, Was us, and 12 apostles She's a Brick— Seemingly out of nowhere, A RED BRICK HOUSE falls very perfectly from the SKY and into OZ. oh good, my house is here. House. [the festival project ™] But I don't want to make house! Then play it! I don't want to play house it is BORING. You play it— they want it. But I don't want it. Then forget it! What! Listen kid, a job's a job! {Enter The Multiverse} Wrong, this is wrong— everything is wrong. What's wrong, Rob? I'll be back. ROB LOWE has just played TRUTH OR DARE L E G E N D S if I could get inside your head For just a second Bread and butter Heaven, hell, And other places I have wandered But oh, wonder This is never what I wanted, Was it? No sir. Sure, I set you off, No sooner had you got a gun and shot me. Handsome fucker. I'll bet. Wrong act. Wrong award show. Wrong hat and a baseball bat, Peanut butter and a nice cold cheesecake, Don't forget to order cheesesteak For your cat. A carnivore at odds with the other worlds, And also fused to us; This drifting back and forth Between the Rock And Hollywood Has got to stop. ((The world is toxic.)) the legend of… L. JONES It's you! BLŪ AH, crap. L. JONES Listen, I got something for you. BLŪ Where did your bird go? L.JONES What bird? CUT TO: Now open that. No wait! It's a trap! THE VAULT inside THE CRYPT at 30 ROCK has been opened. I keep looking down at my phone As if I'm expecting a phone call Or incoming message from God But the worlds to a song Are all jumbled up in my Concious I don't want to talk about it I feel Nauseous Everyone is being obnoxious Even my own blood I don't want to function I just want some French toast crunch For lunch Nostalgia I got a whole inch taller on the peloton Holla Now I got a body, Broader, So close to Broadway But I never go there That's a tall order Of “gotta have money” I mean live theatre It's fine I'll eat here And repeat these things till they just rhyme Line them all up like a context, Story Someday I'm gonna cut my own check Watch me lol none of this rhymes without a hard Brooklyn accent ; Guess you can't hack it! Send you ass packin! I said “That's whack son!” Then I went back blonde Now they want Backend, Contract, Off the top, Royalties Residuals I'm an individual with insidious syntax And yet I'm ridiculed Truly I'm a tit-for-tat Or particle of all you are Circular centrifuge, I trickle down your tentacles (Eugh) Choke the chicken just to give the cat a chicken bowl, Chick fil et and pret a tair just to get a ritual Espresso and a quick snack So I can get my dick wrapped In chocolate and licorice because the shit is edible Damn that I guess they set a damn trap By putting out the welcome mat, Then strapping Like a mothafuckin' straight jacket Matter fact, I look a nap in it, Then magic tricked the slip effective Compliments of Michael Jackson Or was it tech nine? Maybe I should get my Mind right I lost it once I guess I've better find it If I am, in fact, A diamond in the rough It's probably blooded it up enough That you should dig it up and shine it; Better yet, Somebody outta pick it up And sign it, Cause I write enough To put a vision To a blind man It's Fran Fine, man I'm behind, man The shadowgov had put me on a diet My bad I noticed that they tried to shut me up But couldn't stop the words or other stuff That just keeps coming out of my head I put coconuts as butter onto my bread And thinking thoughts of Carl cox As I drift off in my bed, I said, “It shouldn't be a problem, officer” As I reached for the gun And he aimed it at my death. That's an impossible apocalyptic suicide— Did you invite the devil in? I said “Nah, but that guy did.” The problem is, I pointed over yonder to a ghost Who also knows that I'm a well respected psychic; Nevermind a sidekick, side bitch in a sidecar, Psych ward, Sike! We spike war on your kind! So far, If I make history tonight, The other side decides their psalm is just as likely The third reike. Okay, strike one: I'm gonna turn your lights off. Strike two : you do and say what I do: Strike three: we're gonna make you suicidal I specialize in denying rights for high profits But big brother, or boss— What if my glove fits? The instance it does, We lock you up with no service, Your world becomes dark And your words become worthless Oh shit. This is not a good rap song. Like, at all. I must say, I do agree, You lose your trust, but silently Denied is all your trouble, Till it just begins to bubble up Until the cookie crumbles— See that feeling in your stomach? This is bigger than the money, girl — They want your soul, and then the world! I told you never call him. I didn't! Then explain this: [Skrillex] *sharp inward sigh* CUT IMMIDIATLEH TO STAN You know what! That's it! I don't care how handsome or rich and famous he is! This has to stop! KYLE Hey, wait just a minute— STAN SHUT UP KYLE. KYLE You shut up! STAN You're starting to sound just like him! KYLE Take that back! STAN I won't take it back! You all might have forgotten who you are, but I haven't!after of fact, I bet to Cartman, you're still that stupid little Jew kid! KYLE That's IT. KYLE takes out his phone. what are you doing? …I'm tweeting about this. I thought it was X now… It is, but you can't ‘x' anything, it's still calledl tweeting. I guess youre right. —and I'm tagging Cartman ! STAN Are you serious? Oh shit, this is social suicide. …did I ever explain this storyline? …I don't know, did i? I'd gotten so focused on this impending doom looming over me with this whole lawsuit that I'd forgotten entire worlds and whole documents. Even more terrifying, was the sudden quiet and the onset guilt that came over me for getting distracted. But I couldn't remove myself from it entirely—- it seemed to have ruined everything. It wasn't just motorcycle noises, it was like a nervousness and angst twisting in my stomach for months and months, until finally, as the court dates started approaching, it was peaceful, or rather, normal, all of a sudden. It couldn't be peaceful because now that the extreme noise was gone, I knew it had been planted all long— but what was the purpose? I'd lost two years not knowing, and though there were albums, they were never what I wanted. Now I was sorting through the documents of the show like it was the rubble of a decimated building— completely demolished, and I hadn't the slightest clue the contexts or the storylines anymore. It was pain and suffering, but not in the legal context. It was a creative disaster— I hadn't any idea in the slightest where I'd left my audience before I was forced to abandon them. But I was forced to choose, at times, between soap and toilet paper, or eventually, food, and water— or a phone. Eventually, this too became a pattern of the impossible— trying my hardest to do what I thought had been my purpose, but for far, being so endlessly sabotaged, even ridiculed and humiliated, and still, I couldn't understand why. I was tired— and somehow, even though I'd wanted to be left alone, I was the target. Worse was that I assumed it to be bigger than I thought and completely out of control— I thought immediately back to how my best friend from middle school had been attacked, and how she was made to think that it was me…to the point that she'd become obsessive about it to call my mom over it. And as far as the court was concerned, to the wrong ears or wrong eyes, anything I'd published in the festival project could look troublesome, like the ramblings of a mad mad, or schizo, or uncontrolled obsessive thoughts— because the biggest secrets of all, the things that tied together these fictional worlds and plots, were my own real life experience. The inability in a court of law to detail the podcast, which had started as meltdown some would call grandiose over an almost long forgotten rockstar and a porn model — and the entries into the festival project that followed, which included high concepts, off-kilter comedy, politics, and even fringed on social justice. Nothing I ever would have wanted and especially over money, but the lawsuit wasn't about money at all. In fact, at any moment I would have chosen to die and have it all stop if it weren't for my very young son being left alone. Though recently the dread had overcome with a sense of unbearable loss and agony, encrypted with suicidal thoughts and wants, reeling for human touch, the overbearing factor seemed to be that if I killed myself, I was giving someone what they wanted. I was really much too tired to go on, but leaving behind the world in entirety, in my very own way of beliefs wasn't just “shitutting it off”, it was starting it over. Understandably and undeniably immortal in its nature, the instances of God I had left spoke with a reminiscence of being born again, and having to remember which is it I'd wanted to start off. It was an unachievable overload of chaos and disruption, a level of corruption that spoke to something so dark and sinister it seemed biblical — then, again, I tried to wrap my mind around a way to rebuild a positive world from hope and thought, or manifest reality, but this is the very experience I'd felt was intended all along. The motorcycles weren't merely meant to destroy my career, or my will power, or force— they were, but also they were made to play upon my most valuable asset, the power of thought, to make it impossible to become something other than what was wanted; to use my own mind against itself and destroy my way of thought by using vibrations that could not be shut out, or stopped— they followed me to the sound collective, to Shakespeare in the park, the bank, the doctors office— it was as if they knew and understood my very thoughts, my process. It was of nothing at all to corrupt every single body and brain who would surround me or come close— by using the power that seemed supernatural enough, but indeed were powered by money, and technology. Perhaps, in this essence, I thought, was the purest display of defective intention itself; the mere thought that this indeed was rather Good Vs. Evil or God and The Devil would easily be written off as a diseased way of thought. The social world and constructs had been built around being open minded to a system of psychology that was intrinsically rather corrupt. I knew this could only be fought with what I knew, and what I could draw from as logic. I didn't want to go to court because I knew the people I would be fighting were liars, and well trained psychological masters of manipulation, well hidden terrorists dressed as public servants and systematic corrupters all for simple profit margins, to whom I was not so much a person or a mother, or a daughter, but a number. Because I was poor, and had once or four times chosen to love the wrong person in an unorthodox and uncontrollable form of torture, dismissing each and every social construct or physiology that was by the book, by embracing that there was a reason for change I quickly became quite the antagonist of sorts and hopefully not some sort of martyr —for the kind of people that had money and property, and perhaps even socially constructed circles to camoflage their own self doubt and hatred, but absolutely also had no morals. –Death of a Superstar DJ If I lose my mind At least I know I'm right on time This time— I meant that, I had it bad this time MCBADBAT I had it bad this time, And the last. Perchance for you, Hour or folded, Hair my weight And glassed upon thy, This upon now, Feathered waking, And there barely weathered Shaking. Dear, dear, Tis is fair truth, To fare that I have gasp And fated at thy doorstep; And yet, care to force, Her breaking waves and saving tinder, Fit there slithered in as yet astonished, Then another; And I hated. So, then, slower now. All there, gathered none. And show to show thy force What then became and withered after, None to bark or beg But birds and feathered creatures, pander The tides did Quake, And the heart did grow ten fold and steady saying None upon us but one left to shiver in the depths That yet remain as undiscovered For now never there was another world, Undone, And also another becomes, My death— And therefore all the worlds I kept, To travel on and travel As becomes one, does another onward As the first is glass to dust, And last is born there. So, Then, I, Crept, In my dress, Kept for clothes that church did water I, met, My mark and there the doors of shadows open Wilted and wake? Hear you; A star was born In other cosmos tied with our own nurture So, Kept, The weight of clasp and bone That holds the crept and precious alter Goddamn cat! Where are you. AAtticus Caaticus Oop. Gotta go. Toonces! Tooooonces! Where are you? Omg remember that one where that couple has a magic toddler and they just let him like,float away. Yeah, barely. Yeah. So I do. CUT TO: TOONCES focuses intently on the task at hand; he's sure he can manage to drive the human vehicle to his own home— to where he's assured he will find the actual body in which he belongs. Now… let's see, if I can just Wait, I who? ATTICUS CATTICUS, An ancient alien sorcerer must relay a series of important messages. Unfortunately. YO WHAT THE FUCK. None of them seem to be getting through. CUT BACK TO: TOONCEEESSSS. here kitty kitty kitty!! {Enter the Multiverse} I would dedicate, but honestly I've not time to waste And I'm craving wedding cake I hate to destroy you But for now, you know I can't employ you; This implies my eyes are also murder And I'm sure of her departure From another world, Perhaps across the border. Also, quite the dark sorcerer himself LORNE MICHAELS has well hidden himself under the guise of having become one of the most successful television producer of all times— And even in his own very small world, Nobody quite seems to know why. JIMMY FALLON Lorne, I have to tell you something. LORNE MICHAELS This had better be good, Jimmy, I've just made popcorn. [the festival project ™] Don't worry, for now, The risk remains hidden, As sure as an asset is an advantage, I can't have the classes counting Heads of cabbage as accomplishes, The masses are honestly astonished And impossible, but what was wrong with Boredom in the first place? Nonsense More words And still no dollars Hunger strike, And burning harder, California deficit, lack of bread, Heaven sent interventions and scissors, Mistresses, disasters and divorces But who says the whole story has to suffer? You're a surfer under water, Remember that when you finally catch your breath above the surface Can you clear her? He who? Back to work! Or back to the future! My super brain is dead but I think I'm next I think heaven swallows whole the blooded laugher From the constructs I've come from. Remember that. Remember not to fall from too far up, God would give you wings With time to spare Before you ever wondered where Your mark was On the plaza Don't let me up to the very top. I will at the very least Best scenario jump off And rid the world myself, Just for a dozen donuts over Crossing hearts and Hollywood And Griffith park To also soft my foot Upon red carpets. You ever shave your armpits!? …no. Hm. Catholic. Of course. Get in. Destination. —Rotterdam. You idiot. I made it. Whatever, get in the boat. DI NERO Give her your shirt. What. Your shirt. Why my shirt. Just— Fine. Here. [he hands over his shirt— in an instant, the woman becomes an exact REPLICA.] …my shirt. Relax. Nothing's gonna happen to it. Okay? —in fact, you're still wearing it. Alright! She's right, Jimmy, relax. I can't, that's— It's simple. There is nothing simple about this whatsoever. You're right. It's not, so get over it. [The Festival Project ™] BILL MURRAY There's a compartment at the end of the left corridor— Alright. In that hatch, there's a chamber. Okay, what'll I do? You'll open it? How? I'll tell you how, just get there. Suddenly, a barrier falls; it appears as though there are booby traps set here. Uh— that might be a problem. There might be a few of them. What just happened? Booby traps. —ah, I know what you're talking. Those aren't booby traps— they're Bobby Traps. What in the Hell are you talking about? For whatever reason Jimmy Kimmel Is important Now I'm scared of him, I know he knows the devil Come to think of it, Might even be an advocate Have an avocado But don't know the half of it These are, as it stands Comes what may Special circumstances I could circumvent an intervention, Never second chances I've been setting rat traps, Trapeze artists, Bampheramph camp, And also trampolines over the plaza That seems dangerous. Yeah. AHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Damn. Know it's plausible, That I also am an alcoholic, Though dysfunctional, Professional, And underrepresented So I stand myself, Let's just say pro-se if you will I could add Prozac to my snacks But I'll be delayed, if you still Don't get my messages I'm sick of having heart attacks; A hard advantage I was looking back on “fully packaged” A six pack of abs And nothing left to eat but cabbage, Haven't had a mouth, But I've been counting on my ass To get me back up north, I'm coming from the South Out West, there's a word for that At best, you're a four and a half My body double stunts and stumbles Struts at nothing Struck before the one, And so between high noon and Somewhere around 30 in I'm never turning 30, 30 Rock is in the wind— So count that up, That's what my income is. That's what they said? “Too late, you've been betrayed” If that's how it is, Then I request “beheaded” You know your mother says That ugly face just becomes permanent If you keep making it, And so I did, The second that it ended I'm Trying so hard Just to be What they want That it hurts Just to stop And relax For a moment INT. THE LAIR. NIGHT What is this? Where am I? You're— Alive. Why? …I changed my mind. You're not ugly You're just not mine I changed my mind I changed my life around. I skip line after line, But the message ain't right, I have time a chance No challenge accepted No exceptions or Expectations Expand this racism vocabulary Set the rat traps back To February Stamp the weather's getting Better with the postage clearing Abstr– My cat is so cute I can't stand him; But he's pretty bad, That my only friend; Animal. I blacklisted deadmau5, And my whole set sucked. Presently, however I'm a peasant Plucking pheasant feathers Guess I– pppftt. Like it never even happened But I'm sure we're all to war, Like a fear I never grasp it, What's l before, uncertain of your l words— My dear, were tattered and the masters heavy handed, Oh, my dear, we're marching on a battered Wit, to all your fan mail I tel you, I was I tortured, Let me show you And also, No one forced my hand at magic, Questioned prestidigitation, Or went back to every second, Land you think you owned as time In fact, my crucial very hard earned gossip column Asks the reader to reform his or her thought Before a judgement can be made How fascinating. The bag says ‘poems' so I wrote one, But I'm sure since my marker's toggled on I'm being stalked, It's like a magnet, Punch the clock And here they pour into the coffin So I won't be pouring coffee for the puffin; Maybe someday I'll look back at this as all I ever wanted, But for now it's just a horror show, Where I belong the murder— Yet a thriller, Best, The audience is captivated, Yes This is evasive, Cause I can't been captured yet By either masses or Mass murderers. At last, a cadence comes clean of its Breaking waves and rhythms, Tides and ties, Becomes another— Then, I'm whisked away Not back to slumber, but of subtle thoughts Of Californian water Lapping up across our surfboards; I often wear them tides, The undertow As pull of greater waves I sit aside as all that passes [The Festival Project ™] When I see Calvin Klein, I think of you; Not what you used to be But turned in to So it's mutual— Pay attention, fool As does moss grow on a rock And this to you— It is unfortunate, my dear You miss with every twist, Adjustment of attention span, The glances I foreshadowed (Here you are, inside your past) It's just affective of the effect, You've been levitating, Yes, I find it devastating Every second kept is just a fortune But you pause before you post— You reap before you even think Of what you sow, You don't belong, Agast, (True) Set the tone, Classless, But I'm Art, you are a Daunting folk song, Mistletoe and marker. CAMERA ASSISTANT Marker. …what is this for again? CAMERA ASSISTANT (Annoyed, mumbling) Shut up. Ten minutes passes and still, I'm awake But the tragedy of the mistake has just set in, I'm sure I've been tortured, I'm paid in mistakes, but I'd rather be shattered with Mortimer's curse. To the tune of Ten by ten by ten I will never be lover, nor friend in the end. {Enter The Multiverse] DRAKE concentrates heavily on a very long , seemingly very angry message— a frowning face plastered as he writes that is so noteworthy, it catches the attention of many a passerby— still this focus unwatered, as he bashes heavily away at the text message with the thumbs of fury for over 30 minutes while sitting at a booth in a well-loved pancake restaurant. As a tall stack of pancakes is served before him, and he, still unbreaking this angry texting streak or eye contact with his phone sits before them, history is made in what internet culture has now deemed as “the most meme worthy face in history” The world wonders what he could possibly be writing— and more importantly—-who he could be texting. Tears come to his eyes but do not fall as he raises his thumb with reserve, to finally press [RETURN.] CUT TO: SUNNI BLU receives a text amidst a wild party. Almost without so much as a reaction, SUNNI BLU pings the message to a projector and cuts off the lights, and music. A VERY LONG, ANGRY TEXT is projected on the wall. I slept from 10-2 There was nothing else to do My name is Devin DeLouise And I am not supposed to know these things Seven are dead and three are left I know what's next I'm also often known as And referred to as coyote ugly; Suffering a tantra wall, Yo, you son of a bitch! You dirty, dirty son of a bitch. I must admit, I had a lot to do with this… I had no part in it! Relax… soon enough, the both of your realize— this is how the unimaginable gets written. [he loads the polished sterling silver pistol and glamours over it] You have our memory. —all memory. And as soon as it ends, before it can begin again. The slate is wiped clean. Good riddance. “A Different Kind of Monologue” Is this what you wanted? Ooh— you should try me! I wish you would try me! Try me! I wish you would. Be calm, Grand Master. This will all be over momentarily. What's going on. Deprivation chamber. Crypt? —Encrypted? A lockup. Ah. Thought so. That ought to show us what he's really made up. We can all hope. [he pounds on the glass, the one way mirror acts as a camera which the maj aresses, rabid and wi the anger of a dangerous animal, both we, n audience, and the small group of men gathered a the other side of the room. This could be the basis of a lot of lawsuits. So now I have your tears and agony A wilted throne and wand Which which would grant a wish of comedy, And therefore ever after, Not pain and guilt, but laughter So heavy is the hat that acts as crown, And so foolish is the King to think ‘imself as not one, Creaks the crow and also of the feathered guilt that follows, I Kept and bashful, wishing not the show as throne but sorrow, Kept to wick and wake and bones to shatter from tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Do you fear us? …do you wish to be feared? What of us? I seek to cause the wish that stands as though you may as granted. So shallow, fair child. And brother and my son also. Gross! Stop. You are weird! Dude, you are fucked. In the withdraw, my shadows and darkness Are there always, never resting Stories and gathered images, Visions of betrayal and archaic wants. In time, I've abandoned them all and betraying that which I've lost, For I know, and not ponder on That I shall never know love, As all standing tal over me Have eyes; And all I want Knows not what hides under my ugly. Alright. I followed your spiral, downward, and down wind and down wood, Into a place where I also aspired to show your mark Upon my rotted corpse or coarse crossifix; Sure worded and down trodden. Now, worse, I'm also sworn To mourn all my own losses, Kind folk. Kind hearted and now my eyes also sudden to wander— And there goes my miles and triumphs And morals and war songs, And sure, swallowed the barrel of a gun But also departed with honor, I tell I. Glimpses of wither and winter and whittling pain, And I slither my back to the center of All I am, in this, and shadows, Fairtails, And grains of rice and sand to twist away Into the rain as I lay dying. What a fortunate! Don't make my mark up and out, few for short times, Aye, conspire to warthog, Remember so force your spirit onto ours, And shake, sandbox! There aiming at you were the snakes of six liars, And the stakes of empires lost and won over, Also one solemn subtle Star of David Worn upon the neck of six monks, Ragtime Six popes, pass I; Six fathers and streaks solemn and Care tan teared salamander, Having weight and wake to cheer For our slaughter. Then, you, Having gained and also lost should reap to sow, What you'd have wanted; Though the tongue so convexed having way to guild your complex, Shaking as I hunger fruit that not but hangs Before l wanted I know, I could knot be consoled I know, I could not be consoled I know I could not be consolidated either Bought, or purchased I know I'm not consoled at all, I know I'm not confirmed at all I know, I know I'm not confronted, nor immortal — but your glorified affliction. Poor infinity. Of poverty, perhaps, but never poor at all. For your were warned of all the doors as opened at your calling. Not to walk though, But to ponder at them, wondering. he's gone Maybe I should go Too Heavy weight hanging on my Shoulders I'm just star struck I don't know You I don't really like saying What I go through Talk an hour, Fake it All day show Monologue Improvisation Now i'm on a roll, But my thoughts got darker I like adderall and a real smooth talker I like a husband-father , Doctor, Actor, Tall and handsome, Doesn't matter I'm alone, so i feel hopeless Aggie's gone, So i might as well go though Oh– She's gone ((I think i'm past my time)) I think i should go to She's gone (so long) Right on, man I might as well go to It's been a long time, Gotta turn my light off, Overtime, That's a long ball game Season's over; On my back in the middle of the ball court She's gone, So i might as well go too. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events. The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit. This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state. The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Genre: "Afro-Surrealism" / "Social Horror" "Psycho-Acoustic Weaponry" or "Havana Syndrome symptoms." The Frame: The protagonist is subjected to "noise harassment"—a tactic dramatized here but rooted in the known reality of tenant displacement and "psychological attrition." The narrative depicts a process of "Soul Murder" ( also known as spiritual warfare) orchestrated by a hostile apparatus. The antagonist is "The Institution," representing deep-state mechanisms that view multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story allegorically dramatizes the invisible mechanisms that enforce racial hierarchy, depicting how broken social systems weaponize psychological practices against the individual. Artist's Note: This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as an artistic testament to the psychological siege endured from to 2023-2025. It is a creative record of survival against a hostile state architecture. The following is a creative non-fiction horror manifesto regarding the psychological assassination of a multicultural American artist. It documents—through the lens of Afro-Surrealism—how modern surveillance technology and sonic harassment are experienced by the targeted individual. As it stands It has become a modern sequel which mirrors the civil rights struggles of the 1960s, set in the present day. "The protagonist is being subjected to 'noise harassment'—a known tactic used by landlords and corrupt entities to displace tenants. The sound is weaponized to induce sleep deprivation and psychological attrition, dismantling of their ego and will to live, orchestrated by a hostile state apparatus. The antagonist in this piece is 'The Institution'—a deep state that views multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story dramatizes over time the invisible mechanisms (the 'Deep State') that enforce racial hierarchy and and psychological genocide, weaponizing broken social systems and unfounded psychological practices as biological weapons. This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as evidence of the psychological siege endured from 2023-2025. It is a transcript of survival against a hostile state architecture. This project spans an unlimited multiprojectoral arc of over two years of chronic violence, reaching into historical and theatrical projections and parallels over the all documented records of human existence through time and space.

Plains Township, Luzerne County, Pennsylvania, is reeling from an unsettling case of grave desecration after remains belonging to two individuals were stolen from crypts in a mausoleum at Good Shepherd Memorial Park between November 1 and November 6, 2025. Authorities are treating the incident as a burglary and desecration. But the mystery remains...who did it? --For early, ad free episodes and monthly exclusive bonus content, join our Patreon! Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Un bureau secret, un télégramme intercepté et un plan allemand qui aurait pu changer la face du monde. En janvier 1917, quelques lignes décryptées à Londres vont précipiter l'Amérique dans la Grande Guerre.Mention légales : Vos données de connexion, dont votre adresse IP, sont traités par Radio Classique, responsable de traitement, sur la base de son intérêt légitime, par l'intermédiaire de son sous-traitant Ausha, à des fins de réalisation de statistiques agréées et de lutte contre la fraude. Ces données sont supprimées en temps réel pour la finalité statistique et sous cinq mois à compter de la collecte à des fins de lutte contre la fraude. Pour plus d'informations sur les traitements réalisés par Radio Classique et exercer vos droits, consultez notre Politique de confidentialité.Hébergé par Ausha. Visitez ausha.co/politique-de-confidentialite pour plus d'informations.

Un bureau secret, un télégramme intercepté et un plan allemand qui aurait pu changer la face du monde. En janvier 1917, quelques lignes décryptées à Londres vont précipiter l'Amérique dans la Grande Guerre.Mention légales : Vos données de connexion, dont votre adresse IP, sont traités par Radio Classique, responsable de traitement, sur la base de son intérêt légitime, par l'intermédiaire de son sous-traitant Ausha, à des fins de réalisation de statistiques agréées et de lutte contre la fraude. Ces données sont supprimées en temps réel pour la finalité statistique et sous cinq mois à compter de la collecte à des fins de lutte contre la fraude. Pour plus d'informations sur les traitements réalisés par Radio Classique et exercer vos droits, consultez notre Politique de confidentialité.Hébergé par Ausha. Visitez ausha.co/politique-de-confidentialite pour plus d'informations.

Jason sits down with director Jack Sholder to dive into the making of A Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy's Revenge, revisit his chilling “Tales From the Crypt” episode Fitting Punishment, and explore the creation of his cult classic Alone in the Dark.Follow Dads From the Crypt! Threads: @dadsfromthecryptTikTok: Dads From The Crypt-TokInstagram: @dadsfromthecrypt Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/DadsFromTheCrypt

Dave talks about his latest restoration: Eightball Deluxe LE. Listener mail. Hollywood Casino Arcade. Helicon Brewery. Lord of the Rings. Spooky Shack. Tales from the Crypt.

Mike Harmon and Rich Ohrnberger head out to the Crypt and welcome in NBA Insider/Writer Mark Medina to talk about all things Lakers and Lebron’s return to the hardwood.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

The team regroups and then stumbles into a situation that may prove too much for them.    Cast: Gary Eoff - Game Master Gary Garcia - Thwip McClintock Phillip De Leon - Genoeva Natacia Ursula de Cascabel aka "Genny" Keith Thomason - Yaneeko John Blizzard - Diego Dominus Klint Georgeson - Porkchop   Music: Winged Fury from Vampyre: Symphonies from the Crypt by Midnight Syndicate (https://www.midnightsyndicate.com/product/vampyre/)     Ambiance: Sword Coast Soundscapes (http://www.youtube.com/swordcoastsoundscapes)   Need some snacks to enhance your gaming session? Check out the D&D Adventures Rations Pack from Mythical Meats! https://shop.mythicalmeats.com/products/dungeons-dragons-variety-pack?sca_ref=7946851.eGmnnJQVAwIneaihttps://ntsdgaming.com?sca_ref=6402987.ZaeDIC1rRt

Enter the Pharaoh's Crypt in tonight's bone-chilling Creepypasta horror story, where a terrifying ancient curse is unleashed beneath the sands of Egypt. This immersive tale blends elements of True Scary Stories, Deep Woods Horror Stories, and classic cursed artifact legends to deliver a truly unsettling experience. When a team of explorers disturbs a burial chamber lost for centuries, they awaken something that was never meant to be found. Perfect for fans of Scary Stories and Horror Stories that blur the line between myth and nightmare, this story will keep you awake long after the final scream.

In this fourth installment of our beloved Tales from the West London Witch Crypt series, we open the vault once more to share a fresh collection of short but chilling encounters. Over the years, I've gathered countless bite-sized tales of the strange and supernatural, and this anthology series gives them a home.Join us as we dust off some of my favorite tiny, terrifying stories from around the world. These stories are unconnected, unpredictable, and guaranteed to send shivers down your spine!

Jason has a good day reviewing "Predator: Badlands" with his son JT and friend Michael- and he did not have to use his AK!!!!Follow Dads From the Crypt! Threads: @dadsfromthecryptTikTok: Dads From The Crypt-TokInstagram: @dadsfromthecrypt Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/DadsFromTheCrypt

Anne Ghesquière reçoit la Dr Pauline Guillouche, hépato-gastro-entérologue. Connaît-on vraiment notre ventre ? Ballonnements, flatulence, SIBO, SII, foie en souffrance, carence en fer ou en B12, Helicobacter pylori : notre système digestif parle mais savons-nous encore l'écouter ? Comment faire la paix avec notre ventre ? Quels sont les aliments à bannir ou favoriser ? Nos besoins en fibres ? Comment préserver le foie sans tomber dans les fausses promesses ? Que penser du repose-pieds aux toilettes ? Que sont de bonnes selles ? Comment prévenir les cancers ? La Dr Guillouche nous explique de la bouche au côlon, du foie au pancréas, comment chaque organe agit en synergie. Elle démonte les idées reçues et révèle les bons réflexes pour faire la paix avec notre ventre. Son livre Décryptez votre ventre ! est paru aux éditions Vuibert. Épisode #640Quelques citations du podcast avec la Dr Pauline Guillouche :"Il vaut mieux mettre son argent dans l'alimentation et dans l'activité physique plutôt que dans des promesses miraculeuses qui ne seront pas tenues.""Quelque chose d'inhabituel doit faire consulter.""Les fibres, c'est comme donner de la nourriture à nos bactéries et c'est extrêmement important pour notre santé digestive."Recevez chaque semaine l'inspirante newsletter Métamorphose par Anne GhesquièreDécouvrez Objectif Métamorphose, notre programme en 12 étapes pour partir à la rencontre de soi-même.Suivez nos RS : Insta, Facebook & TikTokAbonnez-vous sur Apple Podcast / Spotify / Deezer / CastBox / YoutubeSoutenez Métamorphose en rejoignant la Tribu MétamorphoseThèmes abordés lors du podcast avec la Dr Pauline Guillouche :00:00Introduction02:00Présentation invitée03:26L'expérience de la maladie par la Dr Pauline Guillouche07:14Qu'est-ce que le système digestif ?08:37Les idées reçues sur les maux de ventre12:07Tout commence par la bouche13:01Prendre soin de l'oesophage15:19L'Hélicobacter pylori18:14Fibroscopie / endoscopie21:16Maladie de Biermer et carence en B1224:25Le Sibo25:57La maladie du foie gras29:04Le foie : un organe silencieux31:02Préserver sa santé digestive33:01Les aliments à bannir36:36Comment prévenir le cancer du pancréas40:24L'impact du sevrage tabagique41:17Comment avoir un bon transit ?43:53 L'importance du repose-pieds aux toilettes45:16Les besoins en fibres47:17Le psyllium blond49:29Conseils pour une meilleure digestion51:45L'impact des hormones54:41Ménopause et sphère digestive57:54L'incontinence anale : trop tabou01:01:492ème cerveau et santé mentale01:05:12La clé : la préventionAvant-propos et précautions à l'écoute du podcast Photo DR Hébergé par Acast. Visitez acast.com/privacy pour plus d'informations.

Franken-expert Alyssa joins the Dads to review Guillermo del Toro's "Frankenstein"!!!Follow Dads From the Crypt! Threads: @dadsfromthecryptTikTok: Dads From The Crypt-TokInstagram: @dadsfromthecrypt Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/DadsFromTheCrypt

The Old Washoe Club is one of the most notorious, and reportedly haunted locations we have here in the Northern Nevada Area. A hub for the social elites during the silver rush in Virginia City in the 1800s, the club is full of history, as well as alleged spirits. Come along with one of the club's tour guides as she shows us inside “The Crypt” of the building and tells us all about its spooky history. Audio reporting by Natalie MacKay.

Arts & culture reporter Andrew Shearer (USA TODAY Network) sits down with filmmaker and creator Henrique Couto for a candid, anniversary deep-dive into how Weekly Spooky grew from a Halloween 2019 launch into a must-hear horror podcast. They unpack the October blitz of 32 episodes in 31 days, what it takes to publish nearly five days a week, and how the show evolved into a sustainable business through advertising and relentless consistency.     You'll hear behind-the-scenes production stories, the chapters of Henrique's podcasting journey (“Making a Living in Podcasting,” “Behind the Curtain of Creativity”), and the classic influences—Tales from the Crypt, The Twilight Zone—that shaped Weekly Spooky's voice. Plus: how new segments like Terrifying & True and This Week in Horror History expanded the universe while keeping fans coming back.     If you love indie storytelling, horror audio, and nuts-and-bolts talk about audience growth, monetization, and creative endurance, this conversation is your roadmap—hosted by Andrew Shearer and centered on six years of Weekly Spooky's scares, stumbles, and successes.

Order The Memory Palace book now, dear listener. On Bookshop.org, on Amazon.com, on Barnes & Noble, or directly from Random House. Or order the audiobook at places like Libro.fm.The Memory Palace is a proud member of Radiotopia from PRX. Radiotopia is a collective of independently owned and operated podcasts that's a part of PRX, a not-for-profit public media company. If you'd like to directly support this show, you can make a donation at Radiotopia.fm/donate. Music Kara-Lis Coverdale's A480 Palimpsest from Will Bate's score to The Sound of Silence Harriett Smith and Robert Martin Meet in the Rain from Isobel Waller Bridge's score to Emma. The Play from Dan Romer's score to (the terrific) Station Eleven. Cutting Branches from a Temporary Shelter from the Penguin Cafe Orchestra. Sustainable from H. Takahashi. Notes There's a particularly good article by Colin Dickey about Jacobs and The Crypt in American Scholar.  You can read all 1100 pages of Jacobs' autobiography here, if you haven't already. Learn about your ad choices: dovetail.prx.org/ad-choices

Gaming hosts Josh, Ryan, and Ace are diving into another jam-packed Indie TWIG full of fresh gaming news and creative indie surprises! From the brand-new Shovel Knight collaborations shaking up the indie scene to the detective charm of Mouse PI, the prehistoric chaos of Dinoblade, and the mysterious world of Far Far West — there's plenty to talk about. We're breaking down what makes these projects stand out, why they're capturing the gaming community's attention, and how they're redefining what's possible in indie video games. It's a conversation packed with passion, predictions, and plenty of laughs. If you love indie gaming and want to stay ahead of the next big video games making waves, this episode's for you. Tune in to the Video Gamers Podcast for all things indie, creative, and unforgettable!   Mouse PI release date https://youtu.be/4vm7bHKIoI8?si=2d-1sR-wqYLP9qMv Shovel knight collabs with Crypt and Rift of the Necrodancer https://youtu.be/FBiZNLWen70?si=p-Mekq63h5XY9aaD Dinoblade https://store.steampowered.com/app/3440070/Dinoblade/ Dark Light Survivor https://store.steampowered.com/app/3088070/Dark_Light_Survivor/ EXEKILLER https://store.steampowered.com/app/1701840/ExeKiller/ Far Far West https://store.steampowered.com/app/3124540/Far_Far_West/ 13z The Zodiac Trials https://store.steampowered.com/app/2348250/13Z_The_Zodiac_Trials/     Thanks to our MYTHIC Supporters: Redletter, Disratory, Ol' Jake, Gaius, Jigglepuf, Phelps and NorwegianGreaser   Thanks to our Legendary Supporters: HypnoticPyro, PeopleWonder and Bobby S.   Connect with the show: Support us on Patreon: ⁠patreon.com/videogamerspod⁠ Join our Gaming Community: https://discord.gg/vUzjAZBV Follow us on Instagram:⁠ https://www.instagram.com/videogamerspod/⁠  Follow us on X:⁠ https://twitter.com/VideoGamersPod⁠  Subscribe to us on YouTube:⁠ ⁠⁠https://www.youtube.com/@VideoGamersPod?sub_confirmation=1⁠    Visit us on the web:⁠https://videogamerspod.com/⁠   Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Episode #396 of BGMania: A Video Game Music Podcast. Today on the show, Bryan and Bedroth explore the often-overlooked art of tutorial music... those crucial first moments where composers must welcome players into new worlds while teaching fundamental mechanics without becoming distracting. From emotional orchestral awakenings to high-energy training facilities, we examine how the best tutorial tracks strike that delicate balance between being memorable enough to engage players and unobtrusive enough to let learning take center stage, ultimately setting the tone for entire gaming experiences while feeling distinctly introductory. Email the show at bgmaniapodcast@gmail.com with requests for upcoming episodes, questions, feedback, comments, concerns, or any other thoughts you'd like to share! Special thanks to our Executive Producers: Jexak, Xancu, Jeff & Mike. EPISODE PLAYLIST AND CREDITS Nascence from Journey [Austin Wintory, 2012] Training Stage from Super Street Fighter IV [Hideyuki Fukasawa, 2010] Tombtorial -Tutorial- from Crypt of the NecroDancer [Danny Baranowsky, 2015] Training from Perfect Dark [Grant Kirkhope, 2000] Tutorial from Freedom Planet 2 [Leilani Wilson, 2022] Artisans Home from Spyro Reignited Trilogy [Stewart Copeland, 2018] Tutorial Theme from New Pokémon Snap [Hiroki Hashimoto, 2021] Door into Summer from Knuckles Chaotix [Junko Shiratsu & Mariko Nanba, 1995] Training Menu from Wii Fit U [Takayuki Kobara, Toru Minegishi, Manaka Kataoka, Shiho Fujii & Asuka Hayazaki, 2013] Explanations from Kirby's Return to Dream Land [Hirokazu Ando & Jun Ishikawa, 2011] Gateway Galaxy from Super Mario Galaxy [Mahito Yokota, 2007] Tutorial Theme from Code Vein [Go Shiina, 2019] The Test from Rollerdrome [Electric Dragon, 2022] Training from Star Fox [Hajime Hirasawa, 1993] LINKS Patreon: https://patreon.com/bgmania Website: https://bgmania.podbean.com/ Discord: https://discord.gg/cC73Heu Facebook: BGManiaPodcast X: BGManiaPodcast Instagram: BGManiaPodcast TikTok: BGManiaPodcast YouTube: BGManiaPodcast Twitch: BGManiaPodcast PODCAST NETWORK Very Good Music: A VGM Podcast Listening Religiously

On this episode of the South Carolina Lede for November 1, 2025: we look at the federal government shutdown, the lapse in SNAP benefits, how the state is responding, and how it will affect 560,000 South Carolinians; Republican gubernatorial candidate Attorney General Alan Wilson rolled out his law and order platform; state Democratic Rep. Jermaine Johnson jumps into the race for governor; and more!

Death is not an option: How much do you hate Kandy Korn? Could you handle a horde of bats? ‘Wicked: For Good' will NOT show Dorothy - here are our thoughts. Sending good vibes to the people of Jamaica. The pumpkin world record has been broken - again! PSA: You're not going to overdose on happiness. Plus, a crazy guy doing crazy guys things.

BCC Episode #348 | Zombie Bigfoots Cryptid Crypt Week 4! It's L-Files form the Crypt a Michael and RIley read some startling new listener stories about ufos and haunted houses! Plus what are the spookiest places on Earth? And… was a man attacked by a Carolina Pale Walker? It's a BCC “BOOS” segment you'll never forget. Carolina Pale Walker 911 Call Pale Walker History BCC Merch Shop Peacedrone.net This Episode is Brought to You By… Miracle Made - Upgrade your sleep with Miracle Made! Go to https://trymiracle.com/BCC and use the code BCC to claim your FREE 3 PIECE TOWEL SET and SAVE over 40% OFF. – SHOW INFORMATION Bigfoot Collectors Club is produced by Riley Bray and Michael McMillian YouTube Channel Listener-Files Submissions: BigfootCollectorsClub@gmail.com. Instagram: https://bit.ly/3W7izlL | Blue Sky: https://bsky.app/profile/bccpodcast.bsky.social Our theme song is “Come Alone,” by Suneaters, courtesy of Lotuspool Records. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Hi friends, happy Wednesday! No tricks. Just treats here this spooky season. Over the years, many of your have commented that your like to put Dark History on and just let it play in the background. So, instead of you having to shuffle through a mish mash of episodes... I did the hard work for you and created a special themed playlist, if you will. Welcome to... Tales from the Dark History Crypt. A compilation episode made up of my handpicked freaky favorites from over the years. I'm talking everything from Satanic Panic gripping the American countryside to a spellbinding spiritual leader who had Russian Royalty under his control. We got witches, we got psychics and we got conspiracy theories so insane... they just might be true. So lock your door, light some candles and pull that blankie up tight. Spooky season is upon us with Tales from the Dark History Crypt. ________ FOLLOW ME AROUND Tik Tok: https://bit.ly/3e3jL9v Instagram: http://bit.ly/2nbO4PR Facebook: http://bit.ly/2mdZtK6 Twitter: http://bit.ly/2yT4BLV Pinterest: http://bit.ly/2mVpXnY Youtube: http://bit.ly/1HGw3Og Snapchat: https://bit.ly/3cC0V9d Goodreads: http://bit.ly/3IVnO7N Discord: https://discord.gg/BaileySarian RECOMMEND A STORY HERE: cases4bailey@gmail.com Business Related Emails: bailey@underscoretalent.com Business Related Mail: Bailey Sarian 4400 W. Riverside Dr., Ste 110-300 Burbank, CA 91505 ________ Shop my favorite bras and underwear at SKIMS.com. After you place your order, be sure to let them know I sent you! Select "podcast" in the survey and be sure to select my show in the dropdown menu that follows. Get started today at stitchfix.com/darkhistory to get $20 off your first order—and they'll waive your styling fee. That's stitchfix.com/darkhistory. Check out squarespace.com/DARKHISTORY for a free trial, and when you're ready to launch, use OFFER CODE: DARKHISTORY to save 10 percent off your first purchase of a website or domain. Stop putting off those doctors appointments and go to zocdoc.com/DARKHISTORY to find and instantly book a top-rated doctor today. That's zocdoc.com/DARKHISTORY.