Podcast appearances and mentions of Kurt Sutter

Kurt Sutter and Katey Sagal are the Hollywood power couple behind “Sons of Anarchy,” numerous iconic performances, and hosts of the podcast “PIE.”   This conversation strips bare the intoxicating trap of fame, the parallel paths that led them both to sobriety at 31, and the brutal honesty required to save their relationship when “money, property, and prestige” threatened everything.   Kurt's evolution from Hollywood's combative bad boy to spiritual seeker alongside Katey's unflinching wisdom on intimacy creates a masterclass in reinvention.    They're authentic. They're vulnerable. Their journey might change how you think about success. Enjoy!   Show notes + MORE Watch on YouTube Newsletter Sign-Up  Today's Sponsors: Momentous: 20% OFF all of my favorite products 

Co-writers Scott Rosenbaum, Glen Mazzara & Kurt Sutter, creator Shawn Ryan and consulting producer Jim Manos Jr.

Director Guy Ferland, co-writer Kurt Sutter, actors Michael Jace & Cathy Cahlin Ryan and creator Shawn Ryan

Kurt Sutter (creator of Sons of Anarchy) talks to Rachel and Oliva about his marriage with the incredible Katey Sagal, making memorable television and what scares him most. Later, the ladies chat with Producer Kevin about why is the booger so vulnerable, food in your teeth and people who one-up stories in a conversation. Watch the video of this episode HERE!Like the show? Rate Broad Ideas 5-Stars on Apple Podcasts and SpotifyAdvertise on Broad Ideas via Gumball.fm See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Kurt Sutter and Katey Sagal are dropping a special Slice of Pie episode with the charming, Jackson White! He'll be answering YOUR fan questions about his career, growing up in Hollywood (with his famous 'rents, yes, Katey Sagal is his mom) and what's next for him. Plus, he'll chat about the Hulu hit TV series, Tell Me Lies. Don't forget to follow @jacksonwhite on Instagram! Heads up: He does spill some Season 2 spoilers, so watch out for those around the 31-minute mark. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

This week on PIE, The lovable Ryan Hurst joins Kurt Sutter while Katey is off filming. They discuss Ryan's childhood, how he met his wife and of course the death of Opie on Sons of Anarchy. Get your PIE Swag here: https://piepodcast.myshopify.com/ Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The talented Michael Rosenbaum (Smallville, Guardians of the Galaxy) joins Kurt Sutter and Katey Sagal on Pie today. Check out Michael's podcast, Inside of You wherever you listen to your podcasts. And check out his children's book, The Talented Farter coming out on October 22, 2024. Get your PIE Swag here: https://piepodcast.myshopify.com/ Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Kurt Sutter is an American screenwriter, director, producer, and actor. He worked as a writer, director, and executive producer on The Shield, and appeared on the show as hitman Margos Dezerian. Katey Sagal is an American actress and singer. She is known for playing Peggy Bundy on Married... with Children, Leela on Futurama, Cate Hennessy on 8 Simple Rules, Gemma Teller Morrow on The Connors. Howie Mandel Does Stuff available on every podcast platform. Howie Mandel Does Stuff Merchandise available on Amazon.com here https://www.amazon.com/shop/howiemandeldoesstuff Join the "Official Howie Mandel Does Stuff" Reddit: https://www.reddit.com/r/HowieMandelPodcast/ Say Hello to our new house band Sunny and the Black Pack! Follow them here! YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@BlackMediaPresents TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@blackmediapresents Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/artist/01uFmntCHwOW438t7enYOO?si=0Oc-_QJdQ0CrMkWii42BWA&nd=1&dlsi=a9792af062844b4f Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/SunnyAndTheBlackPack/ Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/blackmediapresents/ Twitch: https://www.twitch.tv/blackmediapresents Twitter: twitter.com/blackmedia @kateysagal @sutterink @howiemandel @jackelynshultz

Howie Mandel joins Kurt Sutter and Katey Sagal on Pie today. Howie talks about his childhood in Canada, his OCD disorder and how that helped him become a comedian all over Howie's favorite Hot Dog Pie. A special shout out and thank you to Suzie over at 2nd Place Pie for putting together this INCREDIBLE recipe.   Check out Howie's podcast, Howie Does Stuff and of course America's Got Talent.  Pie is a Sutterink Production, executive produced by Katie Curtright and crafted together by our wonderful technical engineer, Brian Barcheski Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Jesse Starcher and Mark Radulich present their Sons of Anarchy Season 7 TV Show Review! Sons of Anarchy is an American action crime drama television series created by Kurt Sutter for FX. The seventh and final season of the American television drama series Sons of Anarchy premiered on September 9, 2014, and concluded on December 9, 2014, after 13 episodes aired on cable network FX. Created by Kurt Sutter, it is about the lives of a close-knit outlaw motorcycle club operating in Charming, a fictional town in California's Central Valley. The show centers on protagonist Jackson "Jax" Teller (Charlie Hunnam), the President of the club, who begins questioning the club and himself after reading his father's journal about how Samcro dies, (his father the original founder of SOA) is murdered.Sons of Anarchy is the story of the Teller-Morrow family of Charming, California, as well as other members of the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club, Redwood Original (SAMCRO), their families, various Charming townspeople, allied and rival gangs, associates, and law agencies that undermine or support SAMCRO's legal and illegal enterprises.Jax struggles with his recent loss and turns himself into the authorities. While in jail, Jax makes decisions that radically alter the direction of the club and uses it to exact revenge for the death of his wife. Another member's death fuels the hate and lies created by Gemma and Juice, who are on the run and hiding from the club. After Jax learns the truth, he works to make things right with all parties involved. The series ends with Jax making the ultimate sacrifice to complete his part of the story of SAMCRO and fulfill his father's vision.Disclaimer: The following may contain offensive language, adult humor, and/or content that some viewers may find offensive – The views and opinions expressed by any one speaker does not explicitly or necessarily reflect or represent those of Mark Radulich or W2M Network.Mark Radulich and his wacky podcast on all the things:https://linktr.ee/markkind76alsohttps://www.teepublic.com/user/radulich-in-broadcasting-networkFB Messenger: Mark Radulich LCSWTiktok: @markradulichtwitter: @MarkRadulichInstagram: markkind76RIBN Album Playlist: https://suno.com/playlist/91d704c9-d1ea-45a0-9ffe-5069497bad59

Jesse Starcher and Mark Radulich present their Sons of Anarchy Season 6 TV Show Review! Sons of Anarchy is an American action crime drama television series created by Kurt Sutter for FX. Originally aired from October 3, 2008, to December 9, 2014, Sons of Anarchy follows the lives of a close-knit outlaw motorcycle club operating in Charming, a fictional town in California's Central Valley. Charlie Hunnam stars as Jackson "Jax" Teller, who is initially the vice president and subsequently the president of the club. After discovering a manifesto written by his late father, John, who previously led the club, he begins to question himself, his relationships, and the club. Themes throughout the show include love, brotherhood, loyalty, betrayal and redemption. It explored vigilantism, government corruption and racism. The show's plot depicted an outlaw motorcycle club as an analogy for human transformation. David Labrava, a real-life member of the Oakland chapter of Hells Angels, served as a technical adviser, and also played the recurring character Happy Lowman, the club's assassin.The sixth and penultimate season of the American television drama series Sons of Anarchy premiered on September 10, 2013, and concluded on December 10, 2013, after 13 episodes aired on cable network FX.[1] Created by Kurt Sutter, it is about the lives of a close-knit outlaw motorcycle club operating in Charming, a fictional town in California's Central Valley. The show centers on protagonist Jackson "Jax" Teller (Charlie Hunnam), the president of the club, who begins questioning the club and himself.The season finale was the second-most watched episode of the season and the most-watched finale in the series history.Sons of Anarchy is the story of the Teller-Morrow family of Charming, California, as well as other members of the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club, Redwood Original (SAMCRO), their families, various Charming townspeople, allied and rival gangs, associates, and law agencies that undermine or support SAMCRO's legal and illegal enterprises.Disclaimer: The following may contain offensive language, adult humor, and/or content that some viewers may find offensive – The views and opinions expressed by any one speaker does not explicitly or necessarily reflect or represent those of Mark Radulich or W2M Network.Mark Radulich and his wacky podcast on all the things:https://linktr.ee/markkind76alsohttps://www.teepublic.com/user/radulich-in-broadcasting-networkFB Messenger: Mark Radulich LCSWTiktok: @markradulichtwitter: @MarkRadulichInstagram: markkind76RIBN Album Playlist: https://suno.com/playlist/91d704c9-d1ea-45a0-9ffe-5069497bad59

The incredible and talented, Paris Barclay joins Kurt Sutter and Katey Sagal on this week's episode of Pie. Paris does a deep dive into his childhood, his time at Harvard, working as a music video directors with greats like LL Cool J and his transition over to tv and film directing incredible series, like Sons of Anarchy, Station 19, Monster: The Jeffrey Dahmer, plus many more. Paris also shares an jaw dropping story 9/11 story. Please support Paris by following him on Instagram and twitter at @pkcbarclay Check out Exceptional Children, where he does his charity work and lastly, stay tuned for Monsters: The Menedez Brothers coming soon to Netflix! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Jesse Starcher and Mark Radulich present their Sons of Anarchy Season 5 TV Show Review! Sons of Anarchy is an American action crime drama television series created by Kurt Sutter for FX. Originally aired from October 3, 2008, to December 9, 2014, Sons of Anarchy follows the lives of a close-knit outlaw motorcycle club operating in Charming, a fictional town in California's Central Valley. Charlie Hunnam stars as Jackson "Jax" Teller, who is initially the vice president and subsequently the president of the club. After discovering a manifesto written by his late father, John, who previously led the club, he begins to question himself, his relationships, and the club. Themes throughout the show include love, brotherhood, loyalty, betrayal and redemption. It explored vigilantism, government corruption and racism. The show's plot depicted an outlaw motorcycle club as an analogy for human transformation. David Labrava, a real-life member of the Oakland chapter of Hells Angels, served as a technical adviser, and also played the recurring character Happy Lowman, the club's assassin.The fifth season of the American television drama series Sons of Anarchy premiered on September 11, 2012, and concluded on December 4, 2012, after 13 episodes aired on cable network FX. Created by Kurt Sutter, it is about the lives of a close-knit outlaw motorcycle club operating in Charming, a fictional town in California's Central Valley. The show centers on protagonist Jackson "Jax" Teller (Charlie Hunnam), the president of the club, who begins questioning the club and himself after the deaths of several SAMCRO members at the hand of former club president, Clay Morrow (Ron Perlman).The premiere ("Sovereign"), directed by series executive producer and principal director Paris Barclay and written by series creator and executive producer Kurt Sutter, was one of the highest-rated telecasts in FX's history.Sons of Anarchy is the story of the Teller-Morrow family of Charming, California, as well as other members of the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club, Redwood Original (SAMCRO), their families, various Charming townspeople, allied and rival gangs, associates, and law agencies that undermine or support SAMCRO's legal and illegal enterprises.Disclaimer: The following may contain offensive language, adult humor, and/or content that some viewers may find offensive – The views and opinions expressed by any one speaker does not explicitly or necessarily reflect or represent those of Mark Radulich or W2M Network.Mark Radulich and his wacky podcast on all the things:https://linktr.ee/markkind76alsoFB Messenger: Mark Radulich LCSWTiktok: @markradulichtwitter: @MarkRadulichInstagram: markkind76

Kurt Sutter and Katey Sagal are joined today but best friends, actresses, producers and podcasters, Rachel Bilson and Olivia Allen. Rachel and Olivia have known each other since high school and discuss their friendship dynamics, how one of them grew up on the ride side of the tracks, relationships and of course motherhood all over some excellent key lime pie courtesy of 2nd Place Pie here in Los Angeles. Please check out Rachel Bilson and Olivia Allen's podcast, Broad Ideas, and their charity that they work on Continue On, that brings awareness to suicide prevention and mental health, https://www.continueonorganization.com/ Please support our sponsor: Get NordVPN 2Y plan + 4 months extra here ➼ https://nordvpn.com/pievpn It's risk-free with Nord's 30-day money-back guarantee! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Theo Rossi joins Kurt Sutter and Katey Sagal today on the latest episode of Pie.  Theo goes deep into his childhood, how his life has changed since SoA, and Kurt explains why Theo and his character Juice is why he started the podcast.  Patreon users will give exclusive access to episodes before the live feed, plus Slice of Pie episodes and first chance to purchase merch, which we will be launching this week!  Head over to https://www.patreon.com/piepodcast to learn more. Please support Theo Rossi by giving him a follow on his IG @theorossi, you can also follow on IG at  @sutterink and @kateysagal  Thank you to our sponsors: Get NordVPN 2Y plan + 4 months extra here ➼ https://nordvpn.com/pievpn It's risk-free with Nord's 30-day money-back guarantee!  We love HelloFresh, go to https://www.hellofresh.com/pieapps for FREE appetizers for life! One appetizer item per box while subscription is active. HelloFresh, America's #1 Meal Kit! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Jesse Starcher, Ronnie Adams and Mark Radulich present their Sons of Anarchy Season 3 and 4 TV Show Review! Sons of Anarchy is an American action crime drama television series created by Kurt Sutter for FX. Originally aired from October 3, 2008, to December 9, 2014, Sons of Anarchy follows the lives of a close-knit outlaw motorcycle club operating in Charming, a fictional town in California's Central Valley. Charlie Hunnam stars as Jackson "Jax" Teller, who is initially the vice president and subsequently the president of the club. After discovering a manifesto written by his late father, John, who previously led the club, he begins to question himself, his relationships, and the club. Themes throughout the show include love, brotherhood, loyalty, betrayal and redemption. It explored vigilantism, government corruption and racism. The show's plot depicted an outlaw motorcycle club as an analogy for human transformation. David Labrava, a real-life member of the Oakland chapter of Hells Angels, served as a technical adviser, and also played the recurring character Happy Lowman, the club's assassin.The third season of the American television drama series Sons of Anarchy premiered on September 7, 2010, and concluded on November 30, 2010, after 13 episodes aired on cable network FX. Created by Kurt Sutter, it is about the lives of a close-knit outlaw motorcycle club operating in Charming, a fictional town in California's Central Valley. The show centers on protagonist Jackson "Jax" Teller (Charlie Hunnam), the then–vice president of the club, who begins questioning the club and himself in the aftermath of his infant son's abduction.The fourth season of the American television drama series Sons of Anarchy premiered on September 6, 2011, and concluded on December 6, 2011, after 14 episodes aired on cable network FX. Created by Kurt Sutter, it is about the lives of a close-knit outlaw motorcycle club operating in Charming, a fictional town in California's Central Valley. The show centers on protagonist Jackson "Jax" Teller (Charlie Hunnam), the then–vice president of the club, and is first shown as the new president here, who begins questioning the club and himself.It is the longest season of Sons of Anarchy and the only season to have 14 episodes, as every other season had 13 episodes.The season premiere ("Out") was written by series creator and executive producer Kurt Sutter and was one of the highest-rated telecasts in FX's history.Disclaimer: The following may contain offensive language, adult humor, and/or content that some viewers may find offensive – The views and opinions expressed by any one speaker does not explicitly or necessarily reflect or represent those of Mark Radulich or W2M Network. Mark Radulich and his wacky podcast on all the things:https://linktr.ee/markkind76also FB Messenger: Mark Radulich LCSWTiktok: @markradulichtwitter: @MarkRadulichInstagram: markkind76 

Rainn Wilson joins Kurt Sutter and Katey Sagal on this week's episode of Pie. Rainn discusses his eclectic religious upbringing and goes deep into some of his favorite childhood memories, how he got into acting and what's next for him all over a slice of Marionberry pie. Please check out Rainn's new podcast, Soul Boom wherever you listen to your podcast or on his YouTube channel. Also just a reminder, that Kurt and Katey answer your fan questions bi-weekly on their Slice of Pie episodes, send your questions to them at either: https://www.speakpipe.com/piepodcast or email it to inkbox@sutterink.com. Pie Podcast is produced by Big IP with Executive Producers Katie Curtright and Harris Lane. Edited by Brian Barcheski. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The delightful Maggie Siff joins Kurt Sutter and Katey Sagal on this week's episode of Pie. Maggie discusses growing up in a creative family, her recent loss, and what's next for her all over a warm slice of Blueberry pie.  Please check out, Drama Club in NYC where Maggie Siff volunteers at, https://www.dramaclub.org/ Also just a reminder, that Kurt and Katey answer your fan questions bi-weekly on their Slice of Pie episodes, send your questions to them at either: https://www.speakpipe.com/piepodcast or email it to inkbox@sutterink.com. Please support our sponsors: Get it off your chest with BetterHelp. Visit https://www.betterhelp.com/PIE today to get 10% off your first month. Fast and powerful relief is just a quick trip away. Find Claritin D at the pharmacy counter without a prescription or go to https://www.claritin.com right now for a discount so you can Live Claritin Clear. Use as directed. Pie Podcast is produced by Big IP with Executive Producers Katie Curtright and Harris Lane Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Katey Sagal & Kurt Sutter (PIE, Sons of Anarchy) join us this week as (potentially) our first married couple to share their experience working together on the hit series Sons of Anarchy, finding love through sobriety, and fighting for marriage while giving grace to your partner at their lowest. Kurt talks about the creative inception of Sons of Anarchy, while Katey shares her gratitude for being able to get out of the comedic box that she was put into after the success of Married With Children. We also talk about the working relationship between a director and actor, Katey's rockstar origins in Hollywood, and Kurt's upcoming series The Abandons. Thank you to our sponsors:

Katey and Rob looooove talking to other sober people! Actress and musician Katey Sagal joins Rob Lowe to discuss her new podcast with husband Kurt Sutter, the joys of sobriety, the passing of her godfather Norman Lear, being a Keith Richards girl, working with the amazing John Ritter, why “Sons of Anarchy” convinced Rob to go buy a biker jacket, being of service, and much more.  Listen to Katey's new podcast, “PIE with Kurt Sutter and Katey Sagal!” Got a question for Rob? Call our voicemail at (323) 570-4551. Your question could get featured on the show!

Rabia and Ellyn are talking about one of the most audacious white-collar crimes in American history, joined by none other than celebrity power couple actor Katey Sagal and 'Sons of Anarchy' creator Kurt Sutter. The McDonald's Monopoly game captivated the nation, with promises of lavish prizes like cars and million-dollar jackpots. Little did the public know, these winnings were manipulated by a rogue ex-police officer, the mob, and a network of co-conspirators in a scheme that pocketed a staggering $24 million in illegal gains. Listen to uncover the wild details of this tale of greed, deceit, and the dark underbelly of the American dream. Please give Rabia and Ellyn a follow on Instagram at @rabiaandellyn or on their personal pages, @rabiasquared2 and @ellynmarsh. Check out their Patreon page for exclusive bonus content for Rabia and Ellyn Solve the Case at https://www.patreon.com/rabiaandellyn! And do not forget to subscribe to our YouTube channel for more Solve the Case, https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCA8XyM5mAldu9zswyj5zcLQ

Katey Sagal (PIE podcast, Married With Children) and Justin talk about her upbringing in Hollywood, her early career as a singer, how she got cast in Married With Children and her new podcast with husband Kurt Sutter called PIE.See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

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Jesse Starcher, Ronnie Adams and Mark Radulich present their Sons of Anarchy Season 2 TV Show Review! Sons of Anarchy is an American action crime drama television series created by Kurt Sutter for FX. Originally aired from October 3, 2008, to December 9, 2014, Sons of Anarchy follows the lives of a close-knit outlaw motorcycle club operating in Charming, a fictional town in California's Central Valley. Charlie Hunnam stars as Jackson "Jax" Teller, who is initially the vice president and subsequently the president of the club. After discovering a manifesto written by his late father, John, who previously led the club, he begins to question himself, his relationships, and the club. Themes throughout the show include love, brotherhood, loyalty, betrayal and redemption. It explored vigilantism, government corruption and racism. The show's plot depicted an outlaw motorcycle club as an analogy for human transformation. David Labrava, a real-life member of the Oakland chapter of Hells Angels, served as a technical adviser, and also played the recurring character Happy Lowman, the club's assassin.The second season of the American television drama series Sons of Anarchy premiered on September 8, 2009, and concluded on December 1, 2009, after 13 episodes aired on cable network FX. Created by Kurt Sutter, it is about the lives of a close-knit outlaw motorcycle club operating in Charming, a fictional town in California's Central Valley. The show centers on protagonist Jackson "Jax" Teller (Charlie Hunnam), the vice president of the club, who begins questioning himself.Introduced in this season are white separatists called the League of American Nationalists (LOAN). LOAN arrives in Charming with leader Ethan Zobelle and Zobelle's enforcer, A.J. Weston, seeking to drive SAMCRO out of Charming.Disclaimer: The following may contain offensive language, adult humor, and/or content that some viewers may find offensive – The views and opinions expressed by any one speaker does not explicitly or necessarily reflect or represent those of Mark Radulich or W2M Network.Mark Radulich and his wacky podcast on all the things:https://linktr.ee/markkind76alsoFB Messenger: Mark Radulich LCSWTiktok: @markradulichtwitter: @MarkRadulichInstagram: markkind76

First rule of inter dimensional time traveling… DON'T. I smelled like an old, wet bandaid. My heart wasn't in it anymore—looking in the mirror for progress after nearly a month of extreme training and dieting, i could feel the difference, but not see it. Perhaps it was the result of sleeping under the white devil, or just the lack of good coffee since departing from Mexico—still, something was off about my energy, in the way that I was moving about my day to day—or, I should note, the way that I was barely moving—I seemed to be under a spell of mediocrity and apathetic listlessness, emotions and passions welling up in an uncontrollable, irritating and chaotic fury; i was lost from love. I hugged a tree in the entryway to the parking lot if the gym; it almost seemed to hug me back—and, in the broad daylight, I fought the will to lay my head down in relief, as if she had offered me a shoulder to cry all the tears that I needed; behold, however, the tears would come indeed, as I barely tried at the pectoral machine or whatever it was. After selecting Daft Punk's Discovery Album as the track for my first circuit, One Last Time bellowing into my sweaty earbuds as tears streamed down by face—without having to address it in too long, I realized I missed my son; not that it mattered. My ex husband was the evil everything that had ruined me—or rather, I was the evil thing that ruined myself by loving him. At least I was no longer nearly 400 pounds—not that it mattered. The leftovers made it impossible for me to go about my life acting as if nothing had happened; I couldn't wear almost anything without bulging and unsightly rolls. Being dark skinned might not have been so bad, as long as I could be perfect—maybe that's why every rapper bragged about fixing up girls in exchange for sex; it was too bad I wasn't attracted to black men enough to let that happened. Maybe I was supposed to have taken the bait of my brother and law while living in his home in Las Vegas—I could have had the all access pass to driving one of his three Mercedes, and maybe even lucky enough to have had my skin reduction surgery sponsored by the drug money he boastfully prided himself on, being a “business owner”. But no, I had let my own pride neglect his underhanded proposition; He couldn't fuck be, but even almost a year later, at least had the benefit of making me feel stupid for not taking advantage, obsessing over my body to a point that anyone would clearly consider unhealthy. I occasionally would look up at the screens in front of whatever machine I was working at, wondering “What the fuck am I watching?” As always, I knew if it was FX, it was assuredly something captivating—I didn't need more than its logo to be reminded of my once-obsession with Kurt Sutter's writing, demolishing Sons of Anarchy episode by episode once weekly for years, and repeatedly bing watching The Sheild until I could recite each episode word for word, and understand the happenings of any given season In Portuguese. Fuck this. For some reason, it was Rihanna's hit Only girl In the world blasting over the loud speakers after the conclusion of the Daft Punk album—that made me quit and call it a day; I had only been on the floor an hour and a half, which anyone would call a good workout, but to me it felt like giving up—like I was weak; but something about Rihanna's voice had allowed the picture of her perfect, skinny silhouette from the cover of one of her albums, or maybe a single (I didn't know, as I had never really considered myself a fan of hers, even though I could admire her vocals, and did recall with vivid conclusion cycling at least two of her hits on repeat in my high school days) but either way, I had probably always harnessed a deep disgruntlement and bitterness towards her, not simply for being about the complexion my mother constantly told me she wished I could have been, or “should” have been, but also for being so wonderously skinny—another thing my mother wished I should and could have been and always hated me for not being—though, it was true that the last time we had spoken, she commented on how perfect my figure was becoming, to which I replied cockily “I know.” But I hated everything about y figure now, and hadn't even the clothes I needed to help accentuate it; I possessed only a low-impact sports bra, which would have been a cute tube top on anyone with a body worth looking at—and a Victoria's Secret zip-up sports bra, which was falling apart and after being washed and worn to bits, was now not only too big, but also lacked almost any support at all. I felt fit, and probably was, under all the wretched skin and sagging I was sure came first handed my from Satan himself, as I was sure God was punishing me by assigning me to such an unforgivably unlovable vessel—not to say I wasn't fuckable, as I always knew I could l grab a decent enough dick and take it for a spin—but I had never seen the dopey-eyed, puppy like gaze of a man in love with a beautiful woman on me, ever, besides once—on the heavy (read: obese) light-skinned black man who I befriended at my first EDC, who clung to me for dear life and treated me like I was the light of the worlds for the duration of our friendship—-SUPACREE's first fan, a true hype man, and valuable asset during my free from Alaska; however, I never did feel the same thing for him as he did for me and was thoroughly dismissive, eventually growing apart entirely—however, if a decent looking Caucasian man had ever looked at me or treated me the same, i would know I had somehow reached my goal. I just wasn't attracted to black men—something I had been made, of course by black men, to feel ashamed of—certainly in the same way that most Caucasian men weren't really “into black girls”; probably the same thing that made all little white girls appear as demonic vampires, aside from the actual privelege and soul-sucking unawareness of any of the world's actual problems. It was becoming clearer and clearer with each passing day at Equinox that I was again the Guinea pig central to some kind of secret social experiment, or worse, psychological—which meant of course I had become allures into a trap and had always been the perfect prey—still a dumb, fat, lazy and now hood-bound nigger with a taste for luxury and the wellness that had been stripped from the lower realms at all—desperate for the life I had designed for myself on my own but still trapped in some kind of hex or curse—some strange and bodiless demon always find its way next to, around or near me—anyone I liked, loved, or became close to had vanished, and I was left alone to suffer in the loveless and dark underworld without any solid way to escape. I had been fed with garbage for weeks —almost no fruits and vegetables at all, and had been without water for quite some time, my clothes were embarrassingly worn and dirty, wreaking of mildew—and now it was even worse—demons were always quick to overcome the body of any female I wished I could be— my entire life has been an nightmare, the glimpses and flashes of regression flashing through my mind— my abusive mother, my abusive husband— I was an altogether shit person, doomed to again succumb to slavery; meanwhile, the pretty and perfect bodies around me seemed not to worry, work, or care at all—I was taunted with everything I wanted and everything I loved—and it had taken me all the time I had lived to realized that I had never been loved at all. I guess I'm not ‘pure of heart' Stroke of genius, perhaps— Stroke or dark Let me stroke your cock underwater; Of course, said the God To the Goddess— m I've just aboutbhad it, Or lost it Wreaking all havoc on my mind, Or most of it I turn the whole goddamn world on a dollar And then I move on, There are so many others I hold my guitar like a body, It's a small one Like a daughter Or just someone to love me If that's what you're after, I'm honestly sorry I'm not pure of heart And nobody loves me It's been a week back at Equinox I've barely touched my decks But men fall in love with bodies, Not talent And I need somebody to love me For balance Cause I've been so out of it, I've been in ballet But this is New York, And that was Alaska. Callie whatever's music fucking sucks and she gets to open. For deadmau5. Okay, white supremacy. I get it. I quit. I don't know why I even try. It's okay. She's a little white girl. She's gonna look 40 in 5 years. Yeah, and I'm gonna have permanent lines in my head from getting fucked over by the world continually for being a fat black woman. But you still won't look 40. But I WILL be 40. But you won't LOOK it. I'm so broken and lonely I just want someone to hold me and love me But that just won't happen Love isn't for me I was just born in the wrong fucking body (No free days) I had named my new skateboard Ryder, and though it had been acquired quite by accident, it had been an instant manifestation that was somewhat unexpected, although I had explicitedly listed a new skateboard amongst the other items I had wished for in the series of spells that had would up the whole world into a strange and yet somehow better place, though of course not without its own shortcomings, and of course ultimately my own shortcomings— the spells had been working in the ways that they always did—explicitly accurate, and manifesting quickly with an unexpected twist, which would come with some sort of strange sting that didn't last long—but the lesson itself did, which was the thing that was important. I was in and out of love—of course, not all the way out of it entirely, but still bruised and burned from all that I had learned about the men I had fallen for, the the industry I had been at the very least introduced to, but still not entirely enough so that I was paid well, of course, pouting in every single sense that I would have to take a regular job at some point to smooth and jazzy, City-style modern and chic the synethetic experience / the sound of synesthesia - hard, weird, 90's sounding techno, glitch I hated Hudson Yards more than any other Equinox I had ever been to in my life—and I considered the fact that I had been to so many an achievement—I'd have never been able to afford it if I hadn't gotten on the mailing lists, awaiting the perfect time to join, eliminating the pricey initiation fee— then, something like $250, now having doubled, and all the more with an exclusive top-tier which has first excluded me from entering the Hudson Yards location at all, the actuality which had led to my eventual delay in arriving to JFK after all, though it had first been the Spirit Airlines flight delay out of LA and into Vegas to retrieve my drum machine, which now sat in yet another pawn shop in New York, and though I had at least until October to pick it up, I wasn't at all happy with any of the progress—or lack there of that I was making in music; the specifics of the curse began to unravel— and since I had once been married to a sufferably failed musician, it was more than likely his abborent energy the block which had been dellaying my eventual success—and there was an eventual success, knowing that all curses and hexes are ultimately returned to the sender at a devastatingly amplified . Though I seemed myself marked I realized it had been somrone or something all along that had allowed be back into Equinox in the first place, which was the only thing in the world I had wanted, besides food, water, and music— almost e entirely leaving love out of it, because in a sense there was this ever-present inner knowing that I could never be loved: my own child had during our last conversation regurgitated the sadness and destruction of the negative energy my ex had indudated him with—stories of dead babies and unsupervised near-death experiences where my ex husband, always reluctant to wake up, had slept through some tragedy in which my then-toddler had gotten himself into—he had slept through out eldest son's death, and of course, his over sleeping had lead to the numerous jobs he had lost over the course of our relationship, probably doomed to fail from the start but myself never having been aware of how blind becoming morbidly obsese and so drug-dependent could cause one to experience a walking death in itself—the loss of two children, the faithless, loveless My plan for the day has been to get into the sports club early with my laptop in hand, but of course, the quest for proper and balanced nutrition continued, as I had finally of course squired the protein I had been so desperately lacking, but still with the deficits of the actual energy I needed— I waxwork. Nice I awoke just before noon, only to drift back into a dream for 40 minutes or so, awaking again at 30 past the hour in a a rush and frenzy to skate to the food bank, which I had been m dreading, especially because it was my third week in a row and I knew for a fact. That threes were indeed a charm of some sort— a heavy esoteric rule that I had followed quite faithfully—so faithfully, in fact, that I always knew that true third time doing, saying, or seeing anything was a certain sign of rapid change, in one way or another, and proceeded in all with heavy caution. This also meant that it had been threee weekend since the last episode in my podcast series, and though I had thought to perhaps pawn my audio interface as well as my almost defunct MPC studi, as I was more preoccupied with improving my body so that I might find someone decent to offset the awful and horrible sexual monster that had been welling up from inside me — the reason I hated Hudson Yards the most1- mirrors and reminders, reflections of how I would never be good enough, in a sea of picture perfect Barbie dolls of all shapes and sizes— and I had nearly lost my mind and soul just by way of googling the upcoming support for the deadmau5 vs. test pilot show, very fittingly at the Brooklyn mirage and on the date which marked the anniversary of my own suicide, august 4th; and as the date grew near, I wanted more and more to try again1-to escape the horrible and awful cruel world of inequality—I hated the blackness of it all— the black slaves of Jamaica queens m a heavy contrast to the thoughtless Barbie dolls that didn't have tow work or think for anything—they were created just to have fun, lounge, party, and fuck—all of which I wanted to do but never had the chance. My entire life I had been too dark and too ugly to be pretty or adorable—and of course, my mother's scattered actions and bipolar personality, perhaps even schizophrenic tendencies which had been beaten into her by her father, rather than genetically inherited—had kept me from being good at anything. Sports, music, or anything which might have allowed me to be successful were often abandoned—my mother's temper tantrums always acting up on days which I was due to rehearsal or practice— eventually quitting because it no longer excited me, her mood swings controlling my entire destiny, and causing the uproar of anxiety and unconscious addiction that culminated in my doomed, abusive narrorator (Don't leave me like this) (From am to pm). Love,'money, party Alive fidkros The fight to keep blacks and browns in the darker and lower realms while elevating the whites and hybrid elites into ascension continues to deter the human race from true and forward evolution. "Post raciality and the silent technologically driven race war in America" -CC Stone Pollen on my lips, I love to kiss you; Missing the elliptical at Equinox A full eclipse And I've never known anything to smell to sweet as this, Just naturally I'd loved to be loved But I'm just getting famous I guess that's the trade, then A sacrifice, as if I'd not already lost my life, —Or slit my wrists Intermittent 5th dimension Tim, or what they used to call him… But he can't remember. This is major Tom, Another psalm Or poem, From Ms. Gypsy Spinning into mixes, Drifting into spiderwebs as a reminder She would write for The Times, Like the power, or a webinar She borrowed the guitar. Which then, became a gift So she dismissed him—the minister. Or who administers the medicine Of the administration Menustration , under stress of course Or as she keeps on fasting For Last Earth Seeing things? Certainly! I've been fasting, and under the influence of Dillon Francis God Dammit Hanzel Did you have to Hold her hand And have the other one Covered in Kandi On that album cover?! I can't stand it Whatever the master plan is Give me the schematics, quick So I can land a man to match with That holds a candle To that piñata Maybe I should shapeshift into Taylor Swift So I can get some dick in The right complexion… Is that too explicit? Or maybe I should just stick to Skrillex The first on my wishlist— Until Kayla Lauren (Or the other ones— And there's a lot of em; The rabbit's always on the run) Hey Allison Or Alex— Yeah, that's it I'm still an insomniac Just trying to forget that I'm black And only mildly attractive With a New New York accent And sudden onset passive aggression From the stress and pressure of synethesia And mastering my tracks Without another expensive subscription And another one Here comes another one The sun just spins in circles and whistles This is the worst I've ever written with indifference ‘Fear nothing' On, the fire burns And nothing more she ever feared It only gets better from here It only get better from here It only gets better from here Still, my love burns Like a smouldering flame Here, a star was born from the ashes, Destined for fame ‘Avarita,' She called, from the caverns of lust— The curse has been broken Come dawn, from the dusk So much for purpose— Gone was the suffering; Sending smoke signals to dieties Laying beneath all the names, The labels so sacred Such secrets and fables, The table of L E G E N D S All worlds collide in collisions of conciousness, space, and time as we travel the ever-infinite multidimensions of existence as we know it… (Or—Don't.) Rules of Time Travel: Don't. First rule of inter dimensional time traveling… DON'T. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U. [VOID.]

First rule of inter dimensional time traveling… DON'T. I smelled like an old, wet bandaid. My heart wasn't in it anymore—looking in the mirror for progress after nearly a month of extreme training and dieting, i could feel the difference, but not see it. Perhaps it was the result of sleeping under the white devil, or just the lack of good coffee since departing from Mexico—still, something was off about my energy, in the way that I was moving about my day to day—or, I should note, the way that I was barely moving—I seemed to be under a spell of mediocrity and apathetic listlessness, emotions and passions welling up in an uncontrollable, irritating and chaotic fury; i was lost from love. I hugged a tree in the entryway to the parking lot if the gym; it almost seemed to hug me back—and, in the broad daylight, I fought the will to lay my head down in relief, as if she had offered me a shoulder to cry all the tears that I needed; behold, however, the tears would come indeed, as I barely tried at the pectoral machine or whatever it was. After selecting Daft Punk's Discovery Album as the track for my first circuit, One Last Time bellowing into my sweaty earbuds as tears streamed down by face—without having to address it in too long, I realized I missed my son; not that it mattered. My ex husband was the evil everything that had ruined me—or rather, I was the evil thing that ruined myself by loving him. At least I was no longer nearly 400 pounds—not that it mattered. The leftovers made it impossible for me to go about my life acting as if nothing had happened; I couldn't wear almost anything without bulging and unsightly rolls. Being dark skinned might not have been so bad, as long as I could be perfect—maybe that's why every rapper bragged about fixing up girls in exchange for sex; it was too bad I wasn't attracted to black men enough to let that happened. Maybe I was supposed to have taken the bait of my brother and law while living in his home in Las Vegas—I could have had the all access pass to driving one of his three Mercedes, and maybe even lucky enough to have had my skin reduction surgery sponsored by the drug money he boastfully prided himself on, being a “business owner”. But no, I had let my own pride neglect his underhanded proposition; He couldn't fuck be, but even almost a year later, at least had the benefit of making me feel stupid for not taking advantage, obsessing over my body to a point that anyone would clearly consider unhealthy. I occasionally would look up at the screens in front of whatever machine I was working at, wondering “What the fuck am I watching?” As always, I knew if it was FX, it was assuredly something captivating—I didn't need more than its logo to be reminded of my once-obsession with Kurt Sutter's writing, demolishing Sons of Anarchy episode by episode once weekly for years, and repeatedly bing watching The Sheild until I could recite each episode word for word, and understand the happenings of any given season In Portuguese. Fuck this. For some reason, it was Rihanna's hit Only girl In the world blasting over the loud speakers after the conclusion of the Daft Punk album—that made me quit and call it a day; I had only been on the floor an hour and a half, which anyone would call a good workout, but to me it felt like giving up—like I was weak; but something about Rihanna's voice had allowed the picture of her perfect, skinny silhouette from the cover of one of her albums, or maybe a single (I didn't know, as I had never really considered myself a fan of hers, even though I could admire her vocals, and did recall with vivid conclusion cycling at least two of her hits on repeat in my high school days) but either way, I had probably always harnessed a deep disgruntlement and bitterness towards her, not simply for being about the complexion my mother constantly told me she wished I could have been, or “should” have been, but also for being so wonderously skinny—another thing my mother wished I should and could have been and always hated me for not being—though, it was true that the last time we had spoken, she commented on how perfect my figure was becoming, to which I replied cockily “I know.” But I hated everything about y figure now, and hadn't even the clothes I needed to help accentuate it; I possessed only a low-impact sports bra, which would have been a cute tube top on anyone with a body worth looking at—and a Victoria's Secret zip-up sports bra, which was falling apart and after being washed and worn to bits, was now not only too big, but also lacked almost any support at all. I felt fit, and probably was, under all the wretched skin and sagging I was sure came first handed my from Satan himself, as I was sure God was punishing me by assigning me to such an unforgivably unlovable vessel—not to say I wasn't fuckable, as I always knew I could l grab a decent enough dick and take it for a spin—but I had never seen the dopey-eyed, puppy like gaze of a man in love with a beautiful woman on me, ever, besides once—on the heavy (read: obese) light-skinned black man who I befriended at my first EDC, who clung to me for dear life and treated me like I was the light of the worlds for the duration of our friendship—-SUPACREE's first fan, a true hype man, and valuable asset during my free from Alaska; however, I never did feel the same thing for him as he did for me and was thoroughly dismissive, eventually growing apart entirely—however, if a decent looking Caucasian man had ever looked at me or treated me the same, i would know I had somehow reached my goal. I just wasn't attracted to black men—something I had been made, of course by black men, to feel ashamed of—certainly in the same way that most Caucasian men weren't really “into black girls”; probably the same thing that made all little white girls appear as demonic vampires, aside from the actual privelege and soul-sucking unawareness of any of the world's actual problems. It was becoming clearer and clearer with each passing day at Equinox that I was again the Guinea pig central to some kind of secret social experiment, or worse, psychological—which meant of course I had become allures into a trap and had always been the perfect prey—still a dumb, fat, lazy and now hood-bound nigger with a taste for luxury and the wellness that had been stripped from the lower realms at all—desperate for the life I had designed for myself on my own but still trapped in some kind of hex or curse—some strange and bodiless demon always find its way next to, around or near me—anyone I liked, loved, or became close to had vanished, and I was left alone to suffer in the loveless and dark underworld without any solid way to escape. I had been fed with garbage for weeks —almost no fruits and vegetables at all, and had been without water for quite some time, my clothes were embarrassingly worn and dirty, wreaking of mildew—and now it was even worse—demons were always quick to overcome the body of any female I wished I could be— my entire life has been an nightmare, the glimpses and flashes of regression flashing through my mind— my abusive mother, my abusive husband— I was an altogether shit person, doomed to again succumb to slavery; meanwhile, the pretty and perfect bodies around me seemed not to worry, work, or care at all—I was taunted with everything I wanted and everything I loved—and it had taken me all the time I had lived to realized that I had never been loved at all. I guess I'm not ‘pure of heart' Stroke of genius, perhaps— Stroke or dark Let me stroke your cock underwater; Of course, said the God To the Goddess— m I've just aboutbhad it, Or lost it Wreaking all havoc on my mind, Or most of it I turn the whole goddamn world on a dollar And then I move on, There are so many others I hold my guitar like a body, It's a small one Like a daughter Or just someone to love me If that's what you're after, I'm honestly sorry I'm not pure of heart And nobody loves me It's been a week back at Equinox I've barely touched my decks But men fall in love with bodies, Not talent And I need somebody to love me For balance Cause I've been so out of it, I've been in ballet But this is New York, And that was Alaska. Callie whatever's music fucking sucks and she gets to open. For deadmau5. Okay, white supremacy. I get it. I quit. I don't know why I even try. It's okay. She's a little white girl. She's gonna look 40 in 5 years. Yeah, and I'm gonna have permanent lines in my head from getting fucked over by the world continually for being a fat black woman. But you still won't look 40. But I WILL be 40. But you won't LOOK it. I'm so broken and lonely I just want someone to hold me and love me But that just won't happen Love isn't for me I was just born in the wrong fucking body (No free days) I had named my new skateboard Ryder, and though it had been acquired quite by accident, it had been an instant manifestation that was somewhat unexpected, although I had explicitedly listed a new skateboard amongst the other items I had wished for in the series of spells that had would up the whole world into a strange and yet somehow better place, though of course not without its own shortcomings, and of course ultimately my own shortcomings— the spells had been working in the ways that they always did—explicitly accurate, and manifesting quickly with an unexpected twist, which would come with some sort of strange sting that didn't last long—but the lesson itself did, which was the thing that was important. I was in and out of love—of course, not all the way out of it entirely, but still bruised and burned from all that I had learned about the men I had fallen for, the the industry I had been at the very least introduced to, but still not entirely enough so that I was paid well, of course, pouting in every single sense that I would have to take a regular job at some point to smooth and jazzy, City-style modern and chic the synethetic experience / the sound of synesthesia - hard, weird, 90's sounding techno, glitch I hated Hudson Yards more than any other Equinox I had ever been to in my life—and I considered the fact that I had been to so many an achievement—I'd have never been able to afford it if I hadn't gotten on the mailing lists, awaiting the perfect time to join, eliminating the pricey initiation fee— then, something like $250, now having doubled, and all the more with an exclusive top-tier which has first excluded me from entering the Hudson Yards location at all, the actuality which had led to my eventual delay in arriving to JFK after all, though it had first been the Spirit Airlines flight delay out of LA and into Vegas to retrieve my drum machine, which now sat in yet another pawn shop in New York, and though I had at least until October to pick it up, I wasn't at all happy with any of the progress—or lack there of that I was making in music; the specifics of the curse began to unravel— and since I had once been married to a sufferably failed musician, it was more than likely his abborent energy the block which had been dellaying my eventual success—and there was an eventual success, knowing that all curses and hexes are ultimately returned to the sender at a devastatingly amplified . Though I seemed myself marked I realized it had been somrone or something all along that had allowed be back into Equinox in the first place, which was the only thing in the world I had wanted, besides food, water, and music— almost e entirely leaving love out of it, because in a sense there was this ever-present inner knowing that I could never be loved: my own child had during our last conversation regurgitated the sadness and destruction of the negative energy my ex had indudated him with—stories of dead babies and unsupervised near-death experiences where my ex husband, always reluctant to wake up, had slept through some tragedy in which my then-toddler had gotten himself into—he had slept through out eldest son's death, and of course, his over sleeping had lead to the numerous jobs he had lost over the course of our relationship, probably doomed to fail from the start but myself never having been aware of how blind becoming morbidly obsese and so drug-dependent could cause one to experience a walking death in itself—the loss of two children, the faithless, loveless My plan for the day has been to get into the sports club early with my laptop in hand, but of course, the quest for proper and balanced nutrition continued, as I had finally of course squired the protein I had been so desperately lacking, but still with the deficits of the actual energy I needed— I waxwork. Nice I awoke just before noon, only to drift back into a dream for 40 minutes or so, awaking again at 30 past the hour in a a rush and frenzy to skate to the food bank, which I had been m dreading, especially because it was my third week in a row and I knew for a fact. That threes were indeed a charm of some sort— a heavy esoteric rule that I had followed quite faithfully—so faithfully, in fact, that I always knew that true third time doing, saying, or seeing anything was a certain sign of rapid change, in one way or another, and proceeded in all with heavy caution. This also meant that it had been threee weekend since the last episode in my podcast series, and though I had thought to perhaps pawn my audio interface as well as my almost defunct MPC studi, as I was more preoccupied with improving my body so that I might find someone decent to offset the awful and horrible sexual monster that had been welling up from inside me — the reason I hated Hudson Yards the most1- mirrors and reminders, reflections of how I would never be good enough, in a sea of picture perfect Barbie dolls of all shapes and sizes— and I had nearly lost my mind and soul just by way of googling the upcoming support for the deadmau5 vs. test pilot show, very fittingly at the Brooklyn mirage and on the date which marked the anniversary of my own suicide, august 4th; and as the date grew near, I wanted more and more to try again1-to escape the horrible and awful cruel world of inequality—I hated the blackness of it all— the black slaves of Jamaica queens m a heavy contrast to the thoughtless Barbie dolls that didn't have tow work or think for anything—they were created just to have fun, lounge, party, and fuck—all of which I wanted to do but never had the chance. My entire life I had been too dark and too ugly to be pretty or adorable—and of course, my mother's scattered actions and bipolar personality, perhaps even schizophrenic tendencies which had been beaten into her by her father, rather than genetically inherited—had kept me from being good at anything. Sports, music, or anything which might have allowed me to be successful were often abandoned—my mother's temper tantrums always acting up on days which I was due to rehearsal or practice— eventually quitting because it no longer excited me, her mood swings controlling my entire destiny, and causing the uproar of anxiety and unconscious addiction that culminated in my doomed, abusive narrorator (Don't leave me like this) (From am to pm). Love,'money, party Alive fidkros The fight to keep blacks and browns in the darker and lower realms while elevating the whites and hybrid elites into ascension continues to deter the human race from true and forward evolution. "Post raciality and the silent technologically driven race war in America" -CC Stone Pollen on my lips, I love to kiss you; Missing the elliptical at Equinox A full eclipse And I've never known anything to smell to sweet as this, Just naturally I'd loved to be loved But I'm just getting famous I guess that's the trade, then A sacrifice, as if I'd not already lost my life, —Or slit my wrists Intermittent 5th dimension Tim, or what they used to call him… But he can't remember. This is major Tom, Another psalm Or poem, From Ms. Gypsy Spinning into mixes, Drifting into spiderwebs as a reminder She would write for The Times, Like the power, or a webinar She borrowed the guitar. Which then, became a gift So she dismissed him—the minister. Or who administers the medicine Of the administration Menustration , under stress of course Or as she keeps on fasting For Last Earth Seeing things? Certainly! I've been fasting, and under the influence of Dillon Francis God Dammit Hanzel Did you have to Hold her hand And have the other one Covered in Kandi On that album cover?! I can't stand it Whatever the master plan is Give me the schematics, quick So I can land a man to match with That holds a candle To that piñata Maybe I should shapeshift into Taylor Swift So I can get some dick in The right complexion… Is that too explicit? Or maybe I should just stick to Skrillex The first on my wishlist— Until Kayla Lauren (Or the other ones— And there's a lot of em; The rabbit's always on the run) Hey Allison Or Alex— Yeah, that's it I'm still an insomniac Just trying to forget that I'm black And only mildly attractive With a New New York accent And sudden onset passive aggression From the stress and pressure of synethesia And mastering my tracks Without another expensive subscription And another one Here comes another one The sun just spins in circles and whistles This is the worst I've ever written with indifference ‘Fear nothing' On, the fire burns And nothing more she ever feared It only gets better from here It only get better from here It only gets better from here Still, my love burns Like a smouldering flame Here, a star was born from the ashes, Destined for fame ‘Avarita,' She called, from the caverns of lust— The curse has been broken Come dawn, from the dusk So much for purpose— Gone was the suffering; Sending smoke signals to dieties Laying beneath all the names, The labels so sacred Such secrets and fables, The table of L E G E N D S All worlds collide in collisions of conciousness, space, and time as we travel the ever-infinite multidimensions of existence as we know it… (Or—Don't.) Rules of Time Travel: Don't. First rule of inter dimensional time traveling… DON'T. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.

First rule of inter dimensional time traveling… DON'T. I smelled like an old, wet bandaid. My heart wasn't in it anymore—looking in the mirror for progress after nearly a month of extreme training and dieting, i could feel the difference, but not see it. Perhaps it was the result of sleeping under the white devil, or just the lack of good coffee since departing from Mexico—still, something was off about my energy, in the way that I was moving about my day to day—or, I should note, the way that I was barely moving—I seemed to be under a spell of mediocrity and apathetic listlessness, emotions and passions welling up in an uncontrollable, irritating and chaotic fury; i was lost from love. I hugged a tree in the entryway to the parking lot if the gym; it almost seemed to hug me back—and, in the broad daylight, I fought the will to lay my head down in relief, as if she had offered me a shoulder to cry all the tears that I needed; behold, however, the tears would come indeed, as I barely tried at the pectoral machine or whatever it was. After selecting Daft Punk's Discovery Album as the track for my first circuit, One Last Time bellowing into my sweaty earbuds as tears streamed down by face—without having to address it in too long, I realized I missed my son; not that it mattered. My ex husband was the evil everything that had ruined me—or rather, I was the evil thing that ruined myself by loving him. At least I was no longer nearly 400 pounds—not that it mattered. The leftovers made it impossible for me to go about my life acting as if nothing had happened; I couldn't wear almost anything without bulging and unsightly rolls. Being dark skinned might not have been so bad, as long as I could be perfect—maybe that's why every rapper bragged about fixing up girls in exchange for sex; it was too bad I wasn't attracted to black men enough to let that happened. Maybe I was supposed to have taken the bait of my brother and law while living in his home in Las Vegas—I could have had the all access pass to driving one of his three Mercedes, and maybe even lucky enough to have had my skin reduction surgery sponsored by the drug money he boastfully prided himself on, being a “business owner”. But no, I had let my own pride neglect his underhanded proposition; He couldn't fuck be, but even almost a year later, at least had the benefit of making me feel stupid for not taking advantage, obsessing over my body to a point that anyone would clearly consider unhealthy. I occasionally would look up at the screens in front of whatever machine I was working at, wondering “What the fuck am I watching?” As always, I knew if it was FX, it was assuredly something captivating—I didn't need more than its logo to be reminded of my once-obsession with Kurt Sutter's writing, demolishing Sons of Anarchy episode by episode once weekly for years, and repeatedly bing watching The Sheild until I could recite each episode word for word, and understand the happenings of any given season In Portuguese. Fuck this. For some reason, it was Rihanna's hit Only girl In the world blasting over the loud speakers after the conclusion of the Daft Punk album—that made me quit and call it a day; I had only been on the floor an hour and a half, which anyone would call a good workout, but to me it felt like giving up—like I was weak; but something about Rihanna's voice had allowed the picture of her perfect, skinny silhouette from the cover of one of her albums, or maybe a single (I didn't know, as I had never really considered myself a fan of hers, even though I could admire her vocals, and did recall with vivid conclusion cycling at least two of her hits on repeat in my high school days) but either way, I had probably always harnessed a deep disgruntlement and bitterness towards her, not simply for being about the complexion my mother constantly told me she wished I could have been, or “should” have been, but also for being so wonderously skinny—another thing my mother wished I should and could have been and always hated me for not being—though, it was true that the last time we had spoken, she commented on how perfect my figure was becoming, to which I replied cockily “I know.” But I hated everything about y figure now, and hadn't even the clothes I needed to help accentuate it; I possessed only a low-impact sports bra, which would have been a cute tube top on anyone with a body worth looking at—and a Victoria's Secret zip-up sports bra, which was falling apart and after being washed and worn to bits, was now not only too big, but also lacked almost any support at all. I felt fit, and probably was, under all the wretched skin and sagging I was sure came first handed my from Satan himself, as I was sure God was punishing me by assigning me to such an unforgivably unlovable vessel—not to say I wasn't fuckable, as I always knew I could l grab a decent enough dick and take it for a spin—but I had never seen the dopey-eyed, puppy like gaze of a man in love with a beautiful woman on me, ever, besides once—on the heavy (read: obese) light-skinned black man who I befriended at my first EDC, who clung to me for dear life and treated me like I was the light of the worlds for the duration of our friendship—-SUPACREE's first fan, a true hype man, and valuable asset during my free from Alaska; however, I never did feel the same thing for him as he did for me and was thoroughly dismissive, eventually growing apart entirely—however, if a decent looking Caucasian man had ever looked at me or treated me the same, i would know I had somehow reached my goal. I just wasn't attracted to black men—something I had been made, of course by black men, to feel ashamed of—certainly in the same way that most Caucasian men weren't really “into black girls”; probably the same thing that made all little white girls appear as demonic vampires, aside from the actual privelege and soul-sucking unawareness of any of the world's actual problems. It was becoming clearer and clearer with each passing day at Equinox that I was again the Guinea pig central to some kind of secret social experiment, or worse, psychological—which meant of course I had become allures into a trap and had always been the perfect prey—still a dumb, fat, lazy and now hood-bound nigger with a taste for luxury and the wellness that had been stripped from the lower realms at all—desperate for the life I had designed for myself on my own but still trapped in some kind of hex or curse—some strange and bodiless demon always find its way next to, around or near me—anyone I liked, loved, or became close to had vanished, and I was left alone to suffer in the loveless and dark underworld without any solid way to escape. I had been fed with garbage for weeks —almost no fruits and vegetables at all, and had been without water for quite some time, my clothes were embarrassingly worn and dirty, wreaking of mildew—and now it was even worse—demons were always quick to overcome the body of any female I wished I could be— my entire life has been an nightmare, the glimpses and flashes of regression flashing through my mind— my abusive mother, my abusive husband— I was an altogether shit person, doomed to again succumb to slavery; meanwhile, the pretty and perfect bodies around me seemed not to worry, work, or care at all—I was taunted with everything I wanted and everything I loved—and it had taken me all the time I had lived to realized that I had never been loved at all. I guess I'm not ‘pure of heart' Stroke of genius, perhaps— Stroke or dark Let me stroke your cock underwater; Of course, said the God To the Goddess— m I've just aboutbhad it, Or lost it Wreaking all havoc on my mind, Or most of it I turn the whole goddamn world on a dollar And then I move on, There are so many others I hold my guitar like a body, It's a small one Like a daughter Or just someone to love me If that's what you're after, I'm honestly sorry I'm not pure of heart And nobody loves me It's been a week back at Equinox I've barely touched my decks But men fall in love with bodies, Not talent And I need somebody to love me For balance Cause I've been so out of it, I've been in ballet But this is New York, And that was Alaska. Callie whatever's music fucking sucks and she gets to open. For deadmau5. Okay, white supremacy. I get it. I quit. I don't know why I even try. It's okay. She's a little white girl. She's gonna look 40 in 5 years. Yeah, and I'm gonna have permanent lines in my head from getting fucked over by the world continually for being a fat black woman. But you still won't look 40. But I WILL be 40. But you won't LOOK it. I'm so broken and lonely I just want someone to hold me and love me But that just won't happen Love isn't for me I was just born in the wrong fucking body (No free days) I had named my new skateboard Ryder, and though it had been acquired quite by accident, it had been an instant manifestation that was somewhat unexpected, although I had explicitedly listed a new skateboard amongst the other items I had wished for in the series of spells that had would up the whole world into a strange and yet somehow better place, though of course not without its own shortcomings, and of course ultimately my own shortcomings— the spells had been working in the ways that they always did—explicitly accurate, and manifesting quickly with an unexpected twist, which would come with some sort of strange sting that didn't last long—but the lesson itself did, which was the thing that was important. I was in and out of love—of course, not all the way out of it entirely, but still bruised and burned from all that I had learned about the men I had fallen for, the the industry I had been at the very least introduced to, but still not entirely enough so that I was paid well, of course, pouting in every single sense that I would have to take a regular job at some point to smooth and jazzy, City-style modern and chic the synethetic experience / the sound of synesthesia - hard, weird, 90's sounding techno, glitch I hated Hudson Yards more than any other Equinox I had ever been to in my life—and I considered the fact that I had been to so many an achievement—I'd have never been able to afford it if I hadn't gotten on the mailing lists, awaiting the perfect time to join, eliminating the pricey initiation fee— then, something like $250, now having doubled, and all the more with an exclusive top-tier which has first excluded me from entering the Hudson Yards location at all, the actuality which had led to my eventual delay in arriving to JFK after all, though it had first been the Spirit Airlines flight delay out of LA and into Vegas to retrieve my drum machine, which now sat in yet another pawn shop in New York, and though I had at least until October to pick it up, I wasn't at all happy with any of the progress—or lack there of that I was making in music; the specifics of the curse began to unravel— and since I had once been married to a sufferably failed musician, it was more than likely his abborent energy the block which had been dellaying my eventual success—and there was an eventual success, knowing that all curses and hexes are ultimately returned to the sender at a devastatingly amplified . Though I seemed myself marked I realized it had been somrone or something all along that had allowed be back into Equinox in the first place, which was the only thing in the world I had wanted, besides food, water, and music— almost e entirely leaving love out of it, because in a sense there was this ever-present inner knowing that I could never be loved: my own child had during our last conversation regurgitated the sadness and destruction of the negative energy my ex had indudated him with—stories of dead babies and unsupervised near-death experiences where my ex husband, always reluctant to wake up, had slept through some tragedy in which my then-toddler had gotten himself into—he had slept through out eldest son's death, and of course, his over sleeping had lead to the numerous jobs he had lost over the course of our relationship, probably doomed to fail from the start but myself never having been aware of how blind becoming morbidly obsese and so drug-dependent could cause one to experience a walking death in itself—the loss of two children, the faithless, loveless My plan for the day has been to get into the sports club early with my laptop in hand, but of course, the quest for proper and balanced nutrition continued, as I had finally of course squired the protein I had been so desperately lacking, but still with the deficits of the actual energy I needed— I waxwork. Nice I awoke just before noon, only to drift back into a dream for 40 minutes or so, awaking again at 30 past the hour in a a rush and frenzy to skate to the food bank, which I had been m dreading, especially because it was my third week in a row and I knew for a fact. That threes were indeed a charm of some sort— a heavy esoteric rule that I had followed quite faithfully—so faithfully, in fact, that I always knew that true third time doing, saying, or seeing anything was a certain sign of rapid change, in one way or another, and proceeded in all with heavy caution. This also meant that it had been threee weekend since the last episode in my podcast series, and though I had thought to perhaps pawn my audio interface as well as my almost defunct MPC studi, as I was more preoccupied with improving my body so that I might find someone decent to offset the awful and horrible sexual monster that had been welling up from inside me — the reason I hated Hudson Yards the most1- mirrors and reminders, reflections of how I would never be good enough, in a sea of picture perfect Barbie dolls of all shapes and sizes— and I had nearly lost my mind and soul just by way of googling the upcoming support for the deadmau5 vs. test pilot show, very fittingly at the Brooklyn mirage and on the date which marked the anniversary of my own suicide, august 4th; and as the date grew near, I wanted more and more to try again1-to escape the horrible and awful cruel world of inequality—I hated the blackness of it all— the black slaves of Jamaica queens m a heavy contrast to the thoughtless Barbie dolls that didn't have tow work or think for anything—they were created just to have fun, lounge, party, and fuck—all of which I wanted to do but never had the chance. My entire life I had been too dark and too ugly to be pretty or adorable—and of course, my mother's scattered actions and bipolar personality, perhaps even schizophrenic tendencies which had been beaten into her by her father, rather than genetically inherited—had kept me from being good at anything. Sports, music, or anything which might have allowed me to be successful were often abandoned—my mother's temper tantrums always acting up on days which I was due to rehearsal or practice— eventually quitting because it no longer excited me, her mood swings controlling my entire destiny, and causing the uproar of anxiety and unconscious addiction that culminated in my doomed, abusive narrorator (Don't leave me like this) (From am to pm). Love,'money, party Alive fidkros The fight to keep blacks and browns in the darker and lower realms while elevating the whites and hybrid elites into ascension continues to deter the human race from true and forward evolution. "Post raciality and the silent technologically driven race war in America" -CC Stone Pollen on my lips, I love to kiss you; Missing the elliptical at Equinox A full eclipse And I've never known anything to smell to sweet as this, Just naturally I'd loved to be loved But I'm just getting famous I guess that's the trade, then A sacrifice, as if I'd not already lost my life, —Or slit my wrists Intermittent 5th dimension Tim, or what they used to call him… But he can't remember. This is major Tom, Another psalm Or poem, From Ms. Gypsy Spinning into mixes, Drifting into spiderwebs as a reminder She would write for The Times, Like the power, or a webinar She borrowed the guitar. Which then, became a gift So she dismissed him—the minister. Or who administers the medicine Of the administration Menustration , under stress of course Or as she keeps on fasting For Last Earth Seeing things? Certainly! I've been fasting, and under the influence of Dillon Francis God Dammit Hanzel Did you have to Hold her hand And have the other one Covered in Kandi On that album cover?! I can't stand it Whatever the master plan is Give me the schematics, quick So I can land a man to match with That holds a candle To that piñata Maybe I should shapeshift into Taylor Swift So I can get some dick in The right complexion… Is that too explicit? Or maybe I should just stick to Skrillex The first on my wishlist— Until Kayla Lauren (Or the other ones— And there's a lot of em; The rabbit's always on the run) Hey Allison Or Alex— Yeah, that's it I'm still an insomniac Just trying to forget that I'm black And only mildly attractive With a New New York accent And sudden onset passive aggression From the stress and pressure of synethesia And mastering my tracks Without another expensive subscription And another one Here comes another one The sun just spins in circles and whistles This is the worst I've ever written with indifference ‘Fear nothing' On, the fire burns And nothing more she ever feared It only gets better from here It only get better from here It only gets better from here Still, my love burns Like a smouldering flame Here, a star was born from the ashes, Destined for fame ‘Avarita,' She called, from the caverns of lust— The curse has been broken Come dawn, from the dusk So much for purpose— Gone was the suffering; Sending smoke signals to dieties Laying beneath all the names, The labels so sacred Such secrets and fables, The table of L E G E N D S All worlds collide in collisions of conciousness, space, and time as we travel the ever-infinite multidimensions of existence as we know it… (Or—Don't.) Rules of Time Travel: Don't. First rule of inter dimensional time traveling… DON'T. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U. [VOODOO CHILD.]

First rule of inter dimensional time traveling… DON'T. I smelled like an old, wet bandaid. My heart wasn't in it anymore—looking in the mirror for progress after nearly a month of extreme training and dieting, i could feel the difference, but not see it. Perhaps it was the result of sleeping under the white devil, or just the lack of good coffee since departing from Mexico—still, something was off about my energy, in the way that I was moving about my day to day—or, I should note, the way that I was barely moving—I seemed to be under a spell of mediocrity and apathetic listlessness, emotions and passions welling up in an uncontrollable, irritating and chaotic fury; i was lost from love. I hugged a tree in the entryway to the parking lot if the gym; it almost seemed to hug me back—and, in the broad daylight, I fought the will to lay my head down in relief, as if she had offered me a shoulder to cry all the tears that I needed; behold, however, the tears would come indeed, as I barely tried at the pectoral machine or whatever it was. After selecting Daft Punk's Discovery Album as the track for my first circuit, One Last Time bellowing into my sweaty earbuds as tears streamed down by face—without having to address it in too long, I realized I missed my son; not that it mattered. My ex husband was the evil everything that had ruined me—or rather, I was the evil thing that ruined myself by loving him. At least I was no longer nearly 400 pounds—not that it mattered. The leftovers made it impossible for me to go about my life acting as if nothing had happened; I couldn't wear almost anything without bulging and unsightly rolls. Being dark skinned might not have been so bad, as long as I could be perfect—maybe that's why every rapper bragged about fixing up girls in exchange for sex; it was too bad I wasn't attracted to black men enough to let that happened. Maybe I was supposed to have taken the bait of my brother and law while living in his home in Las Vegas—I could have had the all access pass to driving one of his three Mercedes, and maybe even lucky enough to have had my skin reduction surgery sponsored by the drug money he boastfully prided himself on, being a “business owner”. But no, I had let my own pride neglect his underhanded proposition; He couldn't fuck be, but even almost a year later, at least had the benefit of making me feel stupid for not taking advantage, obsessing over my body to a point that anyone would clearly consider unhealthy. I occasionally would look up at the screens in front of whatever machine I was working at, wondering “What the fuck am I watching?” As always, I knew if it was FX, it was assuredly something captivating—I didn't need more than its logo to be reminded of my once-obsession with Kurt Sutter's writing, demolishing Sons of Anarchy episode by episode once weekly for years, and repeatedly bing watching The Sheild until I could recite each episode word for word, and understand the happenings of any given season In Portuguese. Fuck this. For some reason, it was Rihanna's hit Only girl In the world blasting over the loud speakers after the conclusion of the Daft Punk album—that made me quit and call it a day; I had only been on the floor an hour and a half, which anyone would call a good workout, but to me it felt like giving up—like I was weak; but something about Rihanna's voice had allowed the picture of her perfect, skinny silhouette from the cover of one of her albums, or maybe a single (I didn't know, as I had never really considered myself a fan of hers, even though I could admire her vocals, and did recall with vivid conclusion cycling at least two of her hits on repeat in my high school days) but either way, I had probably always harnessed a deep disgruntlement and bitterness towards her, not simply for being about the complexion my mother constantly told me she wished I could have been, or “should” have been, but also for being so wonderously skinny—another thing my mother wished I should and could have been and always hated me for not being—though, it was true that the last time we had spoken, she commented on how perfect my figure was becoming, to which I replied cockily “I know.” But I hated everything about y figure now, and hadn't even the clothes I needed to help accentuate it; I possessed only a low-impact sports bra, which would have been a cute tube top on anyone with a body worth looking at—and a Victoria's Secret zip-up sports bra, which was falling apart and after being washed and worn to bits, was now not only too big, but also lacked almost any support at all. I felt fit, and probably was, under all the wretched skin and sagging I was sure came first handed my from Satan himself, as I was sure God was punishing me by assigning me to such an unforgivably unlovable vessel—not to say I wasn't fuckable, as I always knew I could l grab a decent enough dick and take it for a spin—but I had never seen the dopey-eyed, puppy like gaze of a man in love with a beautiful woman on me, ever, besides once—on the heavy (read: obese) light-skinned black man who I befriended at my first EDC, who clung to me for dear life and treated me like I was the light of the worlds for the duration of our friendship—-SUPACREE's first fan, a true hype man, and valuable asset during my free from Alaska; however, I never did feel the same thing for him as he did for me and was thoroughly dismissive, eventually growing apart entirely—however, if a decent looking Caucasian man had ever looked at me or treated me the same, i would know I had somehow reached my goal. I just wasn't attracted to black men—something I had been made, of course by black men, to feel ashamed of—certainly in the same way that most Caucasian men weren't really “into black girls”; probably the same thing that made all little white girls appear as demonic vampires, aside from the actual privelege and soul-sucking unawareness of any of the world's actual problems. It was becoming clearer and clearer with each passing day at Equinox that I was again the Guinea pig central to some kind of secret social experiment, or worse, psychological—which meant of course I had become allures into a trap and had always been the perfect prey—still a dumb, fat, lazy and now hood-bound nigger with a taste for luxury and the wellness that had been stripped from the lower realms at all—desperate for the life I had designed for myself on my own but still trapped in some kind of hex or curse—some strange and bodiless demon always find its way next to, around or near me—anyone I liked, loved, or became close to had vanished, and I was left alone to suffer in the loveless and dark underworld without any solid way to escape. I had been fed with garbage for weeks —almost no fruits and vegetables at all, and had been without water for quite some time, my clothes were embarrassingly worn and dirty, wreaking of mildew—and now it was even worse—demons were always quick to overcome the body of any female I wished I could be— my entire life has been an nightmare, the glimpses and flashes of regression flashing through my mind— my abusive mother, my abusive husband— I was an altogether shit person, doomed to again succumb to slavery; meanwhile, the pretty and perfect bodies around me seemed not to worry, work, or care at all—I was taunted with everything I wanted and everything I loved—and it had taken me all the time I had lived to realized that I had never been loved at all. I guess I'm not ‘pure of heart' Stroke of genius, perhaps— Stroke or dark Let me stroke your cock underwater; Of course, said the God To the Goddess— m I've just aboutbhad it, Or lost it Wreaking all havoc on my mind, Or most of it I turn the whole goddamn world on a dollar And then I move on, There are so many others I hold my guitar like a body, It's a small one Like a daughter Or just someone to love me If that's what you're after, I'm honestly sorry I'm not pure of heart And nobody loves me It's been a week back at Equinox I've barely touched my decks But men fall in love with bodies, Not talent And I need somebody to love me For balance Cause I've been so out of it, I've been in ballet But this is New York, And that was Alaska. Callie whatever's music fucking sucks and she gets to open. For deadmau5. Okay, white supremacy. I get it. I quit. I don't know why I even try. It's okay. She's a little white girl. She's gonna look 40 in 5 years. Yeah, and I'm gonna have permanent lines in my head from getting fucked over by the world continually for being a fat black woman. But you still won't look 40. But I WILL be 40. But you won't LOOK it. I'm so broken and lonely I just want someone to hold me and love me But that just won't happen Love isn't for me I was just born in the wrong fucking body (No free days) I had named my new skateboard Ryder, and though it had been acquired quite by accident, it had been an instant manifestation that was somewhat unexpected, although I had explicitedly listed a new skateboard amongst the other items I had wished for in the series of spells that had would up the whole world into a strange and yet somehow better place, though of course not without its own shortcomings, and of course ultimately my own shortcomings— the spells had been working in the ways that they always did—explicitly accurate, and manifesting quickly with an unexpected twist, which would come with some sort of strange sting that didn't last long—but the lesson itself did, which was the thing that was important. I was in and out of love—of course, not all the way out of it entirely, but still bruised and burned from all that I had learned about the men I had fallen for, the the industry I had been at the very least introduced to, but still not entirely enough so that I was paid well, of course, pouting in every single sense that I would have to take a regular job at some point to smooth and jazzy, City-style modern and chic the synethetic experience / the sound of synesthesia - hard, weird, 90's sounding techno, glitch I hated Hudson Yards more than any other Equinox I had ever been to in my life—and I considered the fact that I had been to so many an achievement—I'd have never been able to afford it if I hadn't gotten on the mailing lists, awaiting the perfect time to join, eliminating the pricey initiation fee— then, something like $250, now having doubled, and all the more with an exclusive top-tier which has first excluded me from entering the Hudson Yards location at all, the actuality which had led to my eventual delay in arriving to JFK after all, though it had first been the Spirit Airlines flight delay out of LA and into Vegas to retrieve my drum machine, which now sat in yet another pawn shop in New York, and though I had at least until October to pick it up, I wasn't at all happy with any of the progress—or lack there of that I was making in music; the specifics of the curse began to unravel— and since I had once been married to a sufferably failed musician, it was more than likely his abborent energy the block which had been dellaying my eventual success—and there was an eventual success, knowing that all curses and hexes are ultimately returned to the sender at a devastatingly amplified . Though I seemed myself marked I realized it had been somrone or something all along that had allowed be back into Equinox in the first place, which was the only thing in the world I had wanted, besides food, water, and music— almost e entirely leaving love out of it, because in a sense there was this ever-present inner knowing that I could never be loved: my own child had during our last conversation regurgitated the sadness and destruction of the negative energy my ex had indudated him with—stories of dead babies and unsupervised near-death experiences where my ex husband, always reluctant to wake up, had slept through some tragedy in which my then-toddler had gotten himself into—he had slept through out eldest son's death, and of course, his over sleeping had lead to the numerous jobs he had lost over the course of our relationship, probably doomed to fail from the start but myself never having been aware of how blind becoming morbidly obsese and so drug-dependent could cause one to experience a walking death in itself—the loss of two children, the faithless, loveless My plan for the day has been to get into the sports club early with my laptop in hand, but of course, the quest for proper and balanced nutrition continued, as I had finally of course squired the protein I had been so desperately lacking, but still with the deficits of the actual energy I needed— I waxwork. Nice I awoke just before noon, only to drift back into a dream for 40 minutes or so, awaking again at 30 past the hour in a a rush and frenzy to skate to the food bank, which I had been m dreading, especially because it was my third week in a row and I knew for a fact. That threes were indeed a charm of some sort— a heavy esoteric rule that I had followed quite faithfully—so faithfully, in fact, that I always knew that true third time doing, saying, or seeing anything was a certain sign of rapid change, in one way or another, and proceeded in all with heavy caution. This also meant that it had been threee weekend since the last episode in my podcast series, and though I had thought to perhaps pawn my audio interface as well as my almost defunct MPC studi, as I was more preoccupied with improving my body so that I might find someone decent to offset the awful and horrible sexual monster that had been welling up from inside me — the reason I hated Hudson Yards the most1- mirrors and reminders, reflections of how I would never be good enough, in a sea of picture perfect Barbie dolls of all shapes and sizes— and I had nearly lost my mind and soul just by way of googling the upcoming support for the deadmau5 vs. test pilot show, very fittingly at the Brooklyn mirage and on the date which marked the anniversary of my own suicide, august 4th; and as the date grew near, I wanted more and more to try again1-to escape the horrible and awful cruel world of inequality—I hated the blackness of it all— the black slaves of Jamaica queens m a heavy contrast to the thoughtless Barbie dolls that didn't have tow work or think for anything—they were created just to have fun, lounge, party, and fuck—all of which I wanted to do but never had the chance. My entire life I had been too dark and too ugly to be pretty or adorable—and of course, my mother's scattered actions and bipolar personality, perhaps even schizophrenic tendencies which had been beaten into her by her father, rather than genetically inherited—had kept me from being good at anything. Sports, music, or anything which might have allowed me to be successful were often abandoned—my mother's temper tantrums always acting up on days which I was due to rehearsal or practice— eventually quitting because it no longer excited me, her mood swings controlling my entire destiny, and causing the uproar of anxiety and unconscious addiction that culminated in my doomed, abusive narrorator (Don't leave me like this) (From am to pm). Love,'money, party Alive fidkros The fight to keep blacks and browns in the darker and lower realms while elevating the whites and hybrid elites into ascension continues to deter the human race from true and forward evolution. "Post raciality and the silent technologically driven race war in America" -CC Stone Pollen on my lips, I love to kiss you; Missing the elliptical at Equinox A full eclipse And I've never known anything to smell to sweet as this, Just naturally I'd loved to be loved But I'm just getting famous I guess that's the trade, then A sacrifice, as if I'd not already lost my life, —Or slit my wrists Intermittent 5th dimension Tim, or what they used to call him… But he can't remember. This is major Tom, Another psalm Or poem, From Ms. Gypsy Spinning into mixes, Drifting into spiderwebs as a reminder She would write for The Times, Like the power, or a webinar She borrowed the guitar. Which then, became a gift So she dismissed him—the minister. Or who administers the medicine Of the administration Menustration , under stress of course Or as she keeps on fasting For Last Earth Seeing things? Certainly! I've been fasting, and under the influence of Dillon Francis God Dammit Hanzel Did you have to Hold her hand And have the other one Covered in Kandi On that album cover?! I can't stand it Whatever the master plan is Give me the schematics, quick So I can land a man to match with That holds a candle To that piñata Maybe I should shapeshift into Taylor Swift So I can get some dick in The right complexion… Is that too explicit? Or maybe I should just stick to Skrillex The first on my wishlist— Until Kayla Lauren (Or the other ones— And there's a lot of em; The rabbit's always on the run) Hey Allison Or Alex— Yeah, that's it I'm still an insomniac Just trying to forget that I'm black And only mildly attractive With a New New York accent And sudden onset passive aggression From the stress and pressure of synethesia And mastering my tracks Without another expensive subscription And another one Here comes another one The sun just spins in circles and whistles This is the worst I've ever written with indifference ‘Fear nothing' On, the fire burns And nothing more she ever feared It only gets better from here It only get better from here It only gets better from here Still, my love burns Like a smouldering flame Here, a star was born from the ashes, Destined for fame ‘Avarita,' She called, from the caverns of lust— The curse has been broken Come dawn, from the dusk So much for purpose— Gone was the suffering; Sending smoke signals to dieties Laying beneath all the names, The labels so sacred Such secrets and fables, The table of L E G E N D S All worlds collide in collisions of conciousness, space, and time as we travel the ever-infinite multidimensions of existence as we know it… (Or—Don't.) Rules of Time Travel: Don't. First rule of inter dimensional time traveling… DON'T. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U. [VOID]

First rule of inter dimensional time traveling… DON'T. I smelled like an old, wet bandaid. My heart wasn't in it anymore—looking in the mirror for progress after nearly a month of extreme training and dieting, i could feel the difference, but not see it. Perhaps it was the result of sleeping under the white devil, or just the lack of good coffee since departing from Mexico—still, something was off about my energy, in the way that I was moving about my day to day—or, I should note, the way that I was barely moving—I seemed to be under a spell of mediocrity and apathetic listlessness, emotions and passions welling up in an uncontrollable, irritating and chaotic fury; i was lost from love. I hugged a tree in the entryway to the parking lot if the gym; it almost seemed to hug me back—and, in the broad daylight, I fought the will to lay my head down in relief, as if she had offered me a shoulder to cry all the tears that I needed; behold, however, the tears would come indeed, as I barely tried at the pectoral machine or whatever it was. After selecting Daft Punk's Discovery Album as the track for my first circuit, One Last Time bellowing into my sweaty earbuds as tears streamed down by face—without having to address it in too long, I realized I missed my son; not that it mattered. My ex husband was the evil everything that had ruined me—or rather, I was the evil thing that ruined myself by loving him. At least I was no longer nearly 400 pounds—not that it mattered. The leftovers made it impossible for me to go about my life acting as if nothing had happened; I couldn't wear almost anything without bulging and unsightly rolls. Being dark skinned might not have been so bad, as long as I could be perfect—maybe that's why every rapper bragged about fixing up girls in exchange for sex; it was too bad I wasn't attracted to black men enough to let that happened. Maybe I was supposed to have taken the bait of my brother and law while living in his home in Las Vegas—I could have had the all access pass to driving one of his three Mercedes, and maybe even lucky enough to have had my skin reduction surgery sponsored by the drug money he boastfully prided himself on, being a “business owner”. But no, I had let my own pride neglect his underhanded proposition; He couldn't fuck be, but even almost a year later, at least had the benefit of making me feel stupid for not taking advantage, obsessing over my body to a point that anyone would clearly consider unhealthy. I occasionally would look up at the screens in front of whatever machine I was working at, wondering “What the fuck am I watching?” As always, I knew if it was FX, it was assuredly something captivating—I didn't need more than its logo to be reminded of my once-obsession with Kurt Sutter's writing, demolishing Sons of Anarchy episode by episode once weekly for years, and repeatedly bing watching The Sheild until I could recite each episode word for word, and understand the happenings of any given season In Portuguese. Fuck this. For some reason, it was Rihanna's hit Only girl In the world blasting over the loud speakers after the conclusion of the Daft Punk album—that made me quit and call it a day; I had only been on the floor an hour and a half, which anyone would call a good workout, but to me it felt like giving up—like I was weak; but something about Rihanna's voice had allowed the picture of her perfect, skinny silhouette from the cover of one of her albums, or maybe a single (I didn't know, as I had never really considered myself a fan of hers, even though I could admire her vocals, and did recall with vivid conclusion cycling at least two of her hits on repeat in my high school days) but either way, I had probably always harnessed a deep disgruntlement and bitterness towards her, not simply for being about the complexion my mother constantly told me she wished I could have been, or “should” have been, but also for being so wonderously skinny—another thing my mother wished I should and could have been and always hated me for not being—though, it was true that the last time we had spoken, she commented on how perfect my figure was becoming, to which I replied cockily “I know.” But I hated everything about y figure now, and hadn't even the clothes I needed to help accentuate it; I possessed only a low-impact sports bra, which would have been a cute tube top on anyone with a body worth looking at—and a Victoria's Secret zip-up sports bra, which was falling apart and after being washed and worn to bits, was now not only too big, but also lacked almost any support at all. I felt fit, and probably was, under all the wretched skin and sagging I was sure came first handed my from Satan himself, as I was sure God was punishing me by assigning me to such an unforgivably unlovable vessel—not to say I wasn't fuckable, as I always knew I could l grab a decent enough dick and take it for a spin—but I had never seen the dopey-eyed, puppy like gaze of a man in love with a beautiful woman on me, ever, besides once—on the heavy (read: obese) light-skinned black man who I befriended at my first EDC, who clung to me for dear life and treated me like I was the light of the worlds for the duration of our friendship—-SUPACREE's first fan, a true hype man, and valuable asset during my free from Alaska; however, I never did feel the same thing for him as he did for me and was thoroughly dismissive, eventually growing apart entirely—however, if a decent looking Caucasian man had ever looked at me or treated me the same, i would know I had somehow reached my goal. I just wasn't attracted to black men—something I had been made, of course by black men, to feel ashamed of—certainly in the same way that most Caucasian men weren't really “into black girls”; probably the same thing that made all little white girls appear as demonic vampires, aside from the actual privelege and soul-sucking unawareness of any of the world's actual problems. It was becoming clearer and clearer with each passing day at Equinox that I was again the Guinea pig central to some kind of secret social experiment, or worse, psychological—which meant of course I had become allures into a trap and had always been the perfect prey—still a dumb, fat, lazy and now hood-bound nigger with a taste for luxury and the wellness that had been stripped from the lower realms at all—desperate for the life I had designed for myself on my own but still trapped in some kind of hex or curse—some strange and bodiless demon always find its way next to, around or near me—anyone I liked, loved, or became close to had vanished, and I was left alone to suffer in the loveless and dark underworld without any solid way to escape. I had been fed with garbage for weeks —almost no fruits and vegetables at all, and had been without water for quite some time, my clothes were embarrassingly worn and dirty, wreaking of mildew—and now it was even worse—demons were always quick to overcome the body of any female I wished I could be— my entire life has been an nightmare, the glimpses and flashes of regression flashing through my mind— my abusive mother, my abusive husband— I was an altogether shit person, doomed to again succumb to slavery; meanwhile, the pretty and perfect bodies around me seemed not to worry, work, or care at all—I was taunted with everything I wanted and everything I loved—and it had taken me all the time I had lived to realized that I had never been loved at all. I guess I'm not ‘pure of heart' Stroke of genius, perhaps— Stroke or dark Let me stroke your cock underwater; Of course, said the God To the Goddess— m I've just aboutbhad it, Or lost it Wreaking all havoc on my mind, Or most of it I turn the whole goddamn world on a dollar And then I move on, There are so many others I hold my guitar like a body, It's a small one Like a daughter Or just someone to love me If that's what you're after, I'm honestly sorry I'm not pure of heart And nobody loves me It's been a week back at Equinox I've barely touched my decks But men fall in love with bodies, Not talent And I need somebody to love me For balance Cause I've been so out of it, I've been in ballet But this is New York, And that was Alaska. Callie whatever's music fucking sucks and she gets to open. For deadmau5. Okay, white supremacy. I get it. I quit. I don't know why I even try. It's okay. She's a little white girl. She's gonna look 40 in 5 years. Yeah, and I'm gonna have permanent lines in my head from getting fucked over by the world continually for being a fat black woman. But you still won't look 40. But I WILL be 40. But you won't LOOK it. I'm so broken and lonely I just want someone to hold me and love me But that just won't happen Love isn't for me I was just born in the wrong fucking body (No free days) I had named my new skateboard Ryder, and though it had been acquired quite by accident, it had been an instant manifestation that was somewhat unexpected, although I had explicitedly listed a new skateboard amongst the other items I had wished for in the series of spells that had would up the whole world into a strange and yet somehow better place, though of course not without its own shortcomings, and of course ultimately my own shortcomings— the spells had been working in the ways that they always did—explicitly accurate, and manifesting quickly with an unexpected twist, which would come with some sort of strange sting that didn't last long—but the lesson itself did, which was the thing that was important. I was in and out of love—of course, not all the way out of it entirely, but still bruised and burned from all that I had learned about the men I had fallen for, the the industry I had been at the very least introduced to, but still not entirely enough so that I was paid well, of course, pouting in every single sense that I would have to take a regular job at some point to smooth and jazzy, City-style modern and chic the synethetic experience / the sound of synesthesia - hard, weird, 90's sounding techno, glitch I hated Hudson Yards more than any other Equinox I had ever been to in my life—and I considered the fact that I had been to so many an achievement—I'd have never been able to afford it if I hadn't gotten on the mailing lists, awaiting the perfect time to join, eliminating the pricey initiation fee— then, something like $250, now having doubled, and all the more with an exclusive top-tier which has first excluded me from entering the Hudson Yards location at all, the actuality which had led to my eventual delay in arriving to JFK after all, though it had first been the Spirit Airlines flight delay out of LA and into Vegas to retrieve my drum machine, which now sat in yet another pawn shop in New York, and though I had at least until October to pick it up, I wasn't at all happy with any of the progress—or lack there of that I was making in music; the specifics of the curse began to unravel— and since I had once been married to a sufferably failed musician, it was more than likely his abborent energy the block which had been dellaying my eventual success—and there was an eventual success, knowing that all curses and hexes are ultimately returned to the sender at a devastatingly amplified . Though I seemed myself marked I realized it had been somrone or something all along that had allowed be back into Equinox in the first place, which was the only thing in the world I had wanted, besides food, water, and music— almost e entirely leaving love out of it, because in a sense there was this ever-present inner knowing that I could never be loved: my own child had during our last conversation regurgitated the sadness and destruction of the negative energy my ex had indudated him with—stories of dead babies and unsupervised near-death experiences where my ex husband, always reluctant to wake up, had slept through some tragedy in which my then-toddler had gotten himself into—he had slept through out eldest son's death, and of course, his over sleeping had lead to the numerous jobs he had lost over the course of our relationship, probably doomed to fail from the start but myself never having been aware of how blind becoming morbidly obsese and so drug-dependent could cause one to experience a walking death in itself—the loss of two children, the faithless, loveless My plan for the day has been to get into the sports club early with my laptop in hand, but of course, the quest for proper and balanced nutrition continued, as I had finally of course squired the protein I had been so desperately lacking, but still with the deficits of the actual energy I needed— I waxwork. Nice I awoke just before noon, only to drift back into a dream for 40 minutes or so, awaking again at 30 past the hour in a a rush and frenzy to skate to the food bank, which I had been m dreading, especially because it was my third week in a row and I knew for a fact. That threes were indeed a charm of some sort— a heavy esoteric rule that I had followed quite faithfully—so faithfully, in fact, that I always knew that true third time doing, saying, or seeing anything was a certain sign of rapid change, in one way or another, and proceeded in all with heavy caution. This also meant that it had been threee weekend since the last episode in my podcast series, and though I had thought to perhaps pawn my audio interface as well as my almost defunct MPC studi, as I was more preoccupied with improving my body so that I might find someone decent to offset the awful and horrible sexual monster that had been welling up from inside me — the reason I hated Hudson Yards the most1- mirrors and reminders, reflections of how I would never be good enough, in a sea of picture perfect Barbie dolls of all shapes and sizes— and I had nearly lost my mind and soul just by way of googling the upcoming support for the deadmau5 vs. test pilot show, very fittingly at the Brooklyn mirage and on the date which marked the anniversary of my own suicide, august 4th; and as the date grew near, I wanted more and more to try again1-to escape the horrible and awful cruel world of inequality—I hated the blackness of it all— the black slaves of Jamaica queens m a heavy contrast to the thoughtless Barbie dolls that didn't have tow work or think for anything—they were created just to have fun, lounge, party, and fuck—all of which I wanted to do but never had the chance. My entire life I had been too dark and too ugly to be pretty or adorable—and of course, my mother's scattered actions and bipolar personality, perhaps even schizophrenic tendencies which had been beaten into her by her father, rather than genetically inherited—had kept me from being good at anything. Sports, music, or anything which might have allowed me to be successful were often abandoned—my mother's temper tantrums always acting up on days which I was due to rehearsal or practice— eventually quitting because it no longer excited me, her mood swings controlling my entire destiny, and causing the uproar of anxiety and unconscious addiction that culminated in my doomed, abusive narrorator (Don't leave me like this) (From am to pm). Love,'money, party Alive fidkros The fight to keep blacks and browns in the darker and lower realms while elevating the whites and hybrid elites into ascension continues to deter the human race from true and forward evolution. "Post raciality and the silent technologically driven race war in America" -CC Stone Pollen on my lips, I love to kiss you; Missing the elliptical at Equinox A full eclipse And I've never known anything to smell to sweet as this, Just naturally I'd loved to be loved But I'm just getting famous I guess that's the trade, then A sacrifice, as if I'd not already lost my life, —Or slit my wrists Intermittent 5th dimension Tim, or what they used to call him… But he can't remember. This is major Tom, Another psalm Or poem, From Ms. Gypsy Spinning into mixes, Drifting into spiderwebs as a reminder She would write for The Times, Like the power, or a webinar She borrowed the guitar. Which then, became a gift So she dismissed him—the minister. Or who administers the medicine Of the administration Menustration , under stress of course Or as she keeps on fasting For Last Earth Seeing things? Certainly! I've been fasting, and under the influence of Dillon Francis God Dammit Hanzel Did you have to Hold her hand And have the other one Covered in Kandi On that album cover?! I can't stand it Whatever the master plan is Give me the schematics, quick So I can land a man to match with That holds a candle To that piñata Maybe I should shapeshift into Taylor Swift So I can get some dick in The right complexion… Is that too explicit? Or maybe I should just stick to Skrillex The first on my wishlist— Until Kayla Lauren (Or the other ones— And there's a lot of em; The rabbit's always on the run) Hey Allison Or Alex— Yeah, that's it I'm still an insomniac Just trying to forget that I'm black And only mildly attractive With a New New York accent And sudden onset passive aggression From the stress and pressure of synethesia And mastering my tracks Without another expensive subscription And another one Here comes another one The sun just spins in circles and whistles This is the worst I've ever written with indifference ‘Fear nothing' On, the fire burns And nothing more she ever feared It only gets better from here It only get better from here It only gets better from here Still, my love burns Like a smouldering flame Here, a star was born from the ashes, Destined for fame ‘Avarita,' She called, from the caverns of lust— The curse has been broken Come dawn, from the dusk So much for purpose— Gone was the suffering; Sending smoke signals to dieties Laying beneath all the names, The labels so sacred Such secrets and fables, The table of L E G E N D S All worlds collide in collisions of conciousness, space, and time as we travel the ever-infinite multidimensions of existence as we know it… (Or—Don't.) Rules of Time Travel: Don't. First rule of inter dimensional time traveling… DON'T. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.

Bruce Dickinson returns to talk about “The Mandrake Project,” his first new solo album in some 20 years! And of course, in true Bruce fashion, this “project” is so much more than just an album; it's a comic book series and tour too! Bruce talks about the timing of the album, the meaning behind Mandrake, what it was like to work with guitarist Roy Z again, and how he managed to write and produce a comic book series at the same time (with a little help from “Sons of Anarchy” creator, writer, and director Kurt Sutter). Bruce shares behind-the-scenes stories from the making of the “Afterglow of Ragnarok” and “Rain On The Graves” music videos, including the role that Michael Jackson's “Thriller” played, and the unexpected visitor that came to set one day. Album: https://brucedickinson.lnk.to/themandrakeprojectTickets: https://brucedickinson.lnk.to/tourPRComic series: http://www.z2comics.com/STAY CONNECTED:TikTok: @ChrisJerichoInstagram: @talkisjericho @chrisjerichofozzy Twitter: @TalkIsJericho @IAmJerichoYouTube: https://www.youtube.com/c/ChrisJerichoFozzyWebsite: https://www.webisjericho.com/

Interview by Kris PetersIt's been almost 20 years since Bruce Dickinson released his last solo album Tyranny Of Souls back in 2005, but the wait is almost over with the release of The Mandrake Project on March 1. Much has happened with Dickinson both professionally and personally between albums, and he pours the bulk of it out on this, his seventh solo album, which is once again completed with the assistance of Dickinson's long-time collaborator Roy Z. Dickinson is no stranger to releasing albums between his solo project and Iron Maiden, but we pose the question if he still gets nervous in the weeks before an album drop. "Nervous… I wasn't so much nervous about this one,” he measured. “I was just really excited and frustrated. The whole thing is we spent seven years making this record because of COVID and all that rubbish and various other things. I got sick for a year with throat cancer, but basically after seven years we got together and made the record, and it's been ready for release for about a year now. So people who have heard it are freaking out about it saying isn't it amazing, wow, this is the best thing you've ever done, and I'm like 'I JUST WANT IT TO BE RELEASED'." The Mandrake Project is an album seven years in the making, giving Dickinson time to pour more of his heart and soul into the musical aspect of the recording than usual. As a result, the album is more than just another hard rock release from the solo project of a famous frontman. It is more of a musical journey that transcends time, space and expectation that eventually comes back to the true essence of what got Dickinson interested in music in the first place. “Well, obviously, back in the day looking at stuff I dealt with Roy Z,” he recalled, “who's my partner in the record and the producer. He co-wrote probably two-thirds of the songs with me, the rest of them are all mine. We did two really good records, Accident Of Birth and The Chemical Wedding, which in the back end of the 90s people thought was a very influential record. And then we did Tyranny Of Souls then back in Maiden, so this was like unfinished business. There's definitely another album here that we could do. Continue the line as it were, because we started to diversify a bit on the journey. Chemical was fantastically heavy, and we wanted to kind of go beyond both of those albums so have more diversity on this record but also make it… when it was heavy, it was really heavy (laughs). Things we couldn't do, for example, in the context of Iron Maiden. Because Maiden's got its own style, and we've got gazillions of songwriters in Maiden, so this is very much stuff where you say… some of this you would never hear on a Maiden record. So that was the basic idea with the album. I do need to mention that it looks like a concept album, but it's not. There is a 12-episode comic that goes with… as a companion to the album, but it's an independent, free-standing entity also called The Mandrake Project and the first issue was released on January 15. The Mandrake Project is going to go on for the best part of three years, so every three months we'll do a new episode of a 34 page comic. End of this year will be four issues, or the first book if you like, and that will come out at the end of the year as a full, complete issue, and then we'll crack on.” “That and the album combined look like a concept,” he continued. “From a presentation perspective they are, but from an artistic perspective, they're separate. They're like two free-standing trees next door to each other. You can't see the connection, but it's there because the roots talk to each other. But that's in fact what they are. If you listen to the album, but you never bother to have a look at the comic, that's just fine. And vice versa. But if you dip in and out of both, it's a lot more fun." Looking through the album track listing, there's no song actually called The Mandrake Project to be seen, so we ask Dickinson what greater significance the title has. "That's quite an interesting point,” he smiled. “There's no title track per se. The original title of the album was going to be If Eternity Should Fail, which is actually pulled from a Doctor Strange episode of the comic. That song got pulled off and put on the Maiden Book Of Souls album, so I was cool with that. I thought I will repossess the song when we get around to doing the album - which of course we didn't for years because of all the circumstances. But when I finally came around to record that song I actually changed the title to Eternity Has Failed because I tweaked some of the lyrics and some of the story in the comic - there's our little two trees connected by the roots again - and I thought I need a title that sums up both the record and the comic and ties it all together. And this is where the two things really start getting linked. I've had two pages of scribbling absolute garbage, silly names, I won't tell you some of them because they're embarrassing (laughs) and I just kept churning at it saying "no, no, almost, no, oh my God get down the pub and forget about it" and then finally - I don't know why - the word Mandrake popped in my head and I had a good search of who else used anything Mandrake. I like Mandrake. I like The Mandrake Project because it sounds like some secret government clandestine thing. It sounds mysterious and you think what is that? That's a great intro to a world. And that worked for the comic as well, because The Mandrake Project is the name of this scientific organisation that is clandestine, which has developed technology to effectively bottle the human soul at the point of death and store it and then re-introduce it into something else. I invented these two characters, Dr. Necropolis and Professor Lazarus and a very basic story. By the time seven years had gone by, and I'd been locked up for three years (laughs) in a little apartment with my girlfriend binge watching Netflix, the story had moved on and I'd actually done a bit of work on it and taken a bit of advice from friends of mine who are Hollywood screenwriters. I ran the story past Kurt Sutter, who wrote Sons Of Anarchy. We had a zoom call together, and I ran the development of the story, and he was the one who said that would make a great comic. I said what do I do, do I write a script and send it to Netflix, and he said no, it will go in the bin but do a comic. So it ended up at four episodes in one book, so I wrote a couple of episodes and thought no way is this four episodes. Eight episodes then, and in no time at all it was no, this is twelve episodes and that felt just right. I rang the comic company and they were great. I expected them to show me the door, but they loved the story. They loved the idea. It's not a superhero comic by any stretch. It's much darker." The Mandrake Project has become a deeply personal album for Dickinson, with the vocalist admitting tapping into his fears, problems and truths brought out the absolute best in him. "I mean, all albums should be personal experiences,” he shrugged. “In my opinion, the best albums are, usually. This album wasn't like therapy for me, but it kind of is in there's a big sweep of emotion on the record. In particular, the last three songs really go to some very moving but in some ways tragic places. And I couldn't have done that 20 years ago. There's a lot of mumblings about life and death, quite a lot of death on the record, and that's because I got a little bit closer to it than I really wanted to when I had throat cancer. I imagined I did anyway. You confront the possibility you might not be here in a couple of years, and you think well… how does that make me feel (laughs). Years ago when people asked me if the experience changed the way I thought about life I went ‘no, no, no, nah. No. It was just a bad cold'. But looking back nine years ago when I got diagnosed… looking back I realised actually yeah, it has changed the way I look at life. My perspective is unbelievably precious. Everybody should hang onto it and squeeze the last bits of life out of life. Right until your croaking breath because this may well be the only one you've got, and The Mandrake Project kind of addresses that. It's like, is there a God? And if there is, what kind of God is he? Is he a poet? Maybe it's just the force, Luke? Or maybe he does nothing at all. There's a few things along with that. There's a lot of underworld references, there's a lot of… not too much sci-fi on the record.” Before finishing up, we feel obliged to ask Dickinson what we can expect from the Iron Maiden tour of Australia later this year. "Death, destruction and skull doggery mate,” he promised. “It's gonna be amazing. I do 40 shows solo starting in April until 21st July, then I go lie down in a darkened room for two or three weeks and I wake up in Australia, and we start rehearsals in Perth. I'm really looking forward to it, we all are. We love Australia as a place, as a country, as the people who live there. We're gonna have a blast. The only thing that would be almost as good as touring there with Maiden would be bringing this project down to Oz at some point. Obviously we're not gonna be doing 10,000 seaters,

Jesse Starcher, Ronnie Adams and Mark Radulich present their Sons of Anarchy Season One Review! Sons of Anarchy is an American action crime drama television series created by Kurt Sutter for FX. Originally aired from October 3, 2008, to December 9, 2014, Sons of Anarchy follows the lives of a close-knit outlaw motorcycle club operating in Charming, a fictional town in California's Central Valley. Charlie Hunnam stars as Jackson "Jax" Teller, who is initially the vice president and subsequently the president of the club. After discovering a manifesto written by his late father, John, who previously led the club, he begins to question himself, his relationships, and the club. Themes throughout the show include love, brotherhood, loyalty, betrayal and redemption. It explored vigilantism, government corruption and racism. The show's plot depicted an outlaw motorcycle club as an analogy for human transformation. David Labrava, a real-life member of the Oakland chapter of Hells Angels, served as a technical adviser, and also played the recurring character Happy Lowman, the club's assassin.The first season of the American television drama series Sons of Anarchy premiered on September 3, 2008, and concluded on November 26, 2008, after 13 episodes aired on cable network FX. It is also the only season to air on Wednesdays before the show moved to Tuesdays for the remainder of its run. Created by Kurt Sutter, it is about the lives of a close-knit outlaw motorcycle club operating in Charming, a fictional town in California's Central Valley. The show centers on protagonist Jackson "Jax" Teller (Charlie Hunnam), the vice president of the motorcycle club, who begins questioning the club and himself.Disclaimer: The following may contain offensive language, adult humor, and/or content that some viewers may find offensive – The views and opinions expressed by any one speaker does not explicitly or necessarily reflect or represent those of Mark Radulich or W2M Network.Mark Radulich and his wacky podcast on all the things:https://linktr.ee/markkind76alsoFB Messenger: Mark Radulich LCSWTiktok: @markradulichtwitter: @MarkRadulichInstagram: markkind76

If you love Sons of Anarchy and you consume fan content covering our beloved SAMCRO, you'll recognize my guest on this episode. I'm thrilled to be joined by Celle from The Celle SOA on YouTube and two massive Sons of Anarchy fan pages on Instagram (@sonsofanarchyofficialfanpage) and Tiktok (@sonsofanarchyofficial), to discuss the future of the biker world we all love. If there IS a future beyond the conclusion of Mayans MC on FX. What could it be? First Nine? The prequel short series Kurt Sutter promised? How about a sequel series following Jax's sons Abel and Thomas? And what about those recent rumors Charlie Hunnam started? Could Jax Teller have survived that accident in the SOA season 7 finale?? Sons of Anarchy season 8? What could this all look like? We'll discuss our wishlists for each potential show. [Spoilers for the original series]   Find Celle: Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/sonsofanarchyofficialfanpage/ TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@sonsofanarchyofficial YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@TheCelleSOA Personal Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/the.celle/ For bonus episodes and more cool stuff, check out Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/BelatedBinge This includes access to my sequel fanfic I started back in 2020 that I'm now reading for Bonus Binge Squad and above Patrons! (which may be similar to what we discuss in this episode)   I'd love for you to join the discussion, which you can do on Patreon, or 2 other key ways: Leaving a voicemail on my website: https://www.belatedbinge.com/
 Joining the FREE Facebook Group for listeners of the show: https://www.facebook.com/groups/688037702835574/ Find Belated Binge on social media: Twitter: https://twitter.com/belatedbinge Instagram: https://instagram.com/belatedbinge Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/belatedbinge TikTok: www.tiktok.com/@belatedbinge YouTube: https://youtube.com/@belatedbinge Show theme song: 'Worth the Wait' by Zac S. Eagle: Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/6feyaCsf8OxQY8cumcQtox?si=9df77d0dee0742ab Apple: https://music.apple.com/us/album/worth-the-wait-single/1627714792 Life is short, buy the motorcycle. When you do, wear a helmet. Dress for the slide, not the ride and be sure to take Belated Binge along for that ride!

If you love Sons of Anarchy and you consume fan content covering our beloved SAMCRO, you'll recognize my guest on this episode. I'm thrilled to be joined by Celle from The Celle SOA on YouTube and two massive Sons of Anarchy fan pages on Instagram (@sonsofanarchyofficialfanpage) and Tiktok (@sonsofanarchyofficial), to discuss the future of the biker world we all love. If there IS a future beyond the conclusion of Mayans MC on FX. What could it be?First Nine? The prequel short series Kurt Sutter promised?How about a sequel series following Jax's sons Abel and Thomas?And what about those recent rumors Charlie Hunnam started? Could Jax Teller have survived that accident in the SOA season 7 finale??Sons of Anarchy season 8?What could this all look like?We'll discuss our wishlists for each potential show.[Spoilers for the original series]  Find Celle: Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/sonsofanarchyofficialfanpage/ TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@sonsofanarchyofficial YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@TheCelleSOA Personal Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/the.celle/ For bonus episodes and more cool stuff, check out Patreon: ⁠https://www.patreon.com/BelatedBinge⁠This includes access to my sequel fanfic I started back in 2020 that I'm now reading for Bonus Binge Squad and above Patrons! (which may be similar to what we discuss in this episode) I'd love for you to join the discussion, which you can do on Patreon, or 2 other key ways: Leaving a voicemail on my website: https://www.belatedbinge.com/
 Joining the FREE Facebook Group for listeners of the show: https://www.facebook.com/groups/688037702835574/ Find Belated Binge on social media: Twitter: https://twitter.com/belatedbinge Instagram: https://instagram.com/belatedbinge Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/belatedbinge TikTok: www.tiktok.com/@belatedbinge YouTube: https://youtube.com/@belatedbinge Show theme song: 'Worth the Wait' by Zac S. Eagle: Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/6feyaCsf8OxQY8cumcQtox?si=9df77d0dee0742ab Apple: https://music.apple.com/us/album/worth-the-wait-single/1627714792 Life is short, buy the motorcycle. When you do, wear a helmet. Dress for the slide, not the ride and be sure to take Belated Binge along for that ride!

I smelled like an old, wet bandaid. My heart wasn't in it anymore—looking in the mirror for progress after nearly a month of extreme training and dieting, i could feel the difference, but not see it. Perhaps it was the result of sleeping under the white devil, or just the lack of good coffee since departing from Mexico—still, something was off about my energy, in the way that I was moving about my day to day—or, I should note, the way that I was barely moving—I seemed to be under a spell of mediocrity and apathetic listlessness, emotions and passions welling up in an uncontrollable, irritating and chaotic fury; i was lost from love. I hugged a tree in the entryway to the parking lot if the gym; it almost seemed to hug me back—and, in the broad daylight, I fought the will to lay my head down in relief, as if she had offered me a shoulder to cry all the tears that I needed; behold, however, the tears would come indeed, as I barely tried at the pectoral machine or whatever it was. After selecting Daft Punk's Discovery Album as the track for my first circuit, One Last Time bellowing into my sweaty earbuds as tears streamed down by face—without having to address it in too long, I realized I missed my son; not that it mattered. My ex husband was the evil everything that had ruined me—or rather, I was the evil thing that ruined myself by loving him. At least I was no longer nearly 400 pounds—not that it mattered. The leftovers made it impossible for me to go about my life acting as if nothing had happened; I couldn't wear almost anything without bulging and unsightly rolls. Being dark skinned might not have been so bad, as long as I could be perfect—maybe that's why every rapper bragged about fixing up girls in exchange for sex; it was too bad I wasn't attracted to black men enough to let that happened. Maybe I was supposed to have taken the bait of my brother and law while living in his home in Las Vegas—I could have had the all access pass to driving one of his three Mercedes, and maybe even lucky enough to have had my skin reduction surgery sponsored by the drug money he boastfully prided himself on, being a “business owner”. But no, I had let my own pride neglect his underhanded proposition; He couldn't fuck be, but even almost a year later, at least had the benefit of making me feel stupid for not taking advantage, obsessing over my body to a point that anyone would clearly consider unhealthy. I occasionally would look up at the screens in front of whatever machine I was working at, wondering “What the fuck am I watching?” As always, I knew if it was FX, it was assuredly something captivating—I didn't need more than its logo to be reminded of my once-obsession with Kurt Sutter's writing, demolishing Sons of Anarchy episode by episode once weekly for years, and repeatedly bing watching The Sheild until I could recite each episode word for word, and understand the happenings of any given season In Portuguese. Fuck this. For some reason, it was Rihanna's hit Only girl In the world blasting over the loud speakers after the conclusion of the Daft Punk album—that made me quit and call it a day; I had only been on the floor an hour and a half, which anyone would call a good workout, but to me it felt like giving up—like I was weak; but something about Rihanna's voice had allowed the picture of her perfect, skinny silhouette from the cover of one of her albums, or maybe a single (I didn't know, as I had never really considered myself a fan of hers, even though I could admire her vocals, and did recall with vivid conclusion cycling at least two of her hits on repeat in my high school days) but either way, I had probably always harnessed a deep disgruntlement and bitterness towards her, not simply for being about the complexion my mother constantly told me she wished I could have been, or “should” have been, but also for being so wonderously skinny—another thing my mother wished I should and could have been and always hated me for not being—though, it was true that the last time we had spoken, she commented on how perfect my figure was becoming, to which I replied cockily “I know.” But I hated everything about y figure now, and hadn't even the clothes I needed to help accentuate it; I possessed only a low-impact sports bra, which would have been a cute tube top on anyone with a body worth looking at—and a Victoria's Secret zip-up sports bra, which was falling apart and after being washed and worn to bits, was now not only too big, but also lacked almost any support at all. I felt fit, and probably was, under all the wretched skin and sagging I was sure came first handed my from Satan himself, as I was sure God was punishing me by assigning me to such an unforgivably unlovable vessel—not to say I wasn't fuckable, as I always knew I could l grab a decent enough dick and take it for a spin—but I had never seen the dopey-eyed, puppy like gaze of a man in love with a beautiful woman on me, ever, besides once—on the heavy (read: obese) light-skinned black man who I befriended at my first EDC, who clung to me for dear life and treated me like I was the light of the worlds for the duration of our friendship—-SUPACREE's first fan, a true hype man, and valuable asset during my free from Alaska; however, I never did feel the same thing for him as he did for me and was thoroughly dismissive, eventually growing apart entirely—however, if a decent looking Caucasian man had ever looked at me or treated me the same, i would know I had somehow reached my goal. I just wasn't attracted to black men—something I had been made, of course by black men, to feel ashamed of—certainly in the same way that most Caucasian men weren't really “into black girls”; probably the same thing that made all little white girls appear as demonic vampires, aside from the actual privelege and soul-sucking unawareness of any of the world's actual problems. It was becoming clearer and clearer with each passing day at Equinox that I was again the Guinea pig central to some kind of secret social experiment, or worse, psychological—which meant of course I had become allures into a trap and had always been the perfect prey—still a dumb, fat, lazy and now hood-bound nigger with a taste for luxury and the wellness that had been stripped from the lower realms at all—desperate for the life I had designed for myself on my own but still trapped in some kind of hex or curse—some strange and bodiless demon always find its way next to, around or near me—anyone I liked, loved, or became close to had vanished, and I was left alone to suffer in the loveless and dark underworld without any solid way to escape. I had been fed with garbage for weeks —almost no fruits and vegetables at all, and had been without water for quite some time, my clothes were embarrassingly worn and dirty, wreaking of mildew—and now it was even worse—demons were always quick to overcome the body of any female I wished I could be— my entire life has been an nightmare, the glimpses and flashes of regression flashing through my mind— my abusive mother, my abusive husband— I was an altogether shit person, doomed to again succumb to slavery; meanwhile, the pretty and perfect bodies around me seemed not to worry, work, or care at all—I was taunted with everything I wanted and everything I loved—and it had taken me all the time I had lived to realized that I had never been loved at all. I guess I'm not ‘pure of heart' Stroke of genius, perhaps— Stroke or dark Let me stroke your cock underwater; Of course, said the God To the Goddess— m I've just aboutbhad it, Or lost it Wreaking all havoc on my mind, Or most of it I turn the whole goddamn world on a dollar And then I move on, There are so many others I hold my guitar like a body, It's a small one Like a daughter Or just someone to love me If that's what you're after, I'm honestly sorry I'm not pure of heart And nobody loves me It's been a week back at Equinox I've barely touched my decks But men fall in love with bodies, Not talent And I need somebody to love me For balance Cause I've been so out of it, I've been in ballet But this is New York, And that was Alaska. Callie whatever's music fucking sucks and she gets to open. For deadmau5. Okay, white supremacy. I get it. I quit. I don't know why I even try. It's okay. She's a little white girl. She's gonna look 40 in 5 years. Yeah, and I'm gonna have permanent lines in my head from getting fucked over by the world continually for being a fat black woman. But you still won't look 40. But I WILL be 40. But you won't LOOK it. I'm so broken and lonely I just want someone to hold me and love me But that just won't happen Love isn't for me I was just born in the wrong fucking body (No free days) I had named my new skateboard Ryder, and though it had been acquired quite by accident, it had been an instant manifestation that was somewhat unexpected, although I had explicitedly listed a new skateboard amongst the other items I had wished for in the series of spells that had would up the whole world into a strange and yet somehow better place, though of course not without its own shortcomings, and of course ultimately my own shortcomings— the spells had been working in the ways that they always did—explicitly accurate, and manifesting quickly with an unexpected twist, which would come with some sort of strange sting that didn't last long—but the lesson itself did, which was the thing that was important. I was in and out of love—of course, not all the way out of it entirely, but still bruised and burned from all that I had learned about the men I had fallen for, the the industry I had been at the very least introduced to, but still not entirely enough so that I was paid well, of course, pouting in every single sense that I would have to take a regular job at some point to smooth and jazzy, City-style modern and chic the synethetic experience / the sound of synesthesia - hard, weird, 90's sounding techno, glitch I hated Hudson Yards more than any other Equinox I had ever been to in my life—and I considered the fact that I had been to so many an achievement—I'd have never been able to afford it if I hadn't gotten on the mailing lists, awaiting the perfect time to join, eliminating the pricey initiation fee— then, something like $250, now having doubled, and all the more with an exclusive top-tier which has first excluded me from entering the Hudson Yards location at all, the actuality which had led to my eventual delay in arriving to JFK after all, though it had first been the Spirit Airlines flight delay out of LA and into Vegas to retrieve my drum machine, which now sat in yet another pawn shop in New York, and though I had at least until October to pick it up, I wasn't at all happy with any of the progress—or lack there of that I was making in music; the specifics of the curse began to unravel— and since I had once been married to a sufferably failed musician, it was more than likely his abborent energy the block which had been dellaying my eventual success—and there was an eventual success, knowing that all curses and hexes are ultimately returned to the sender at a devastatingly amplified . Though I seemed myself marked I realized it had been somrone or something all along that had allowed be back into Equinox in the first place, which was the only thing in the world I had wanted, besides food, water, and music— almost e entirely leaving love out of it, because in a sense there was this ever-present inner knowing that I could never be loved: my own child had during our last conversation regurgitated the sadness and destruction of the negative energy my ex had indudated him with—stories of dead babies and unsupervised near-death experiences where my ex husband, always reluctant to wake up, had slept through some tragedy in which my then-toddler had gotten himself into—he had slept through out eldest son's death, and of course, his over sleeping had lead to the numerous jobs he had lost over the course of our relationship, probably doomed to fail from the start but myself never having been aware of how blind becoming morbidly obsese and so drug-dependent could cause one to experience a walking death in itself—the loss of two children, the faithless, loveless My plan for the day has been to get into the sports club early with my laptop in hand, but of course, the quest for proper and balanced nutrition continued, as I had finally of course squired the protein I had been so desperately lacking, but still with the deficits of the actual energy I needed— I waxwork. Nice I awoke just before noon, only to drift back into a dream for 40 minutes or so, awaking again at 30 past the hour in a a rush and frenzy to skate to the food bank, which I had been m dreading, especially because it was my third week in a row and I knew for a fact. That threes were indeed a charm of some sort— a heavy esoteric rule that I had followed quite faithfully—so faithfully, in fact, that I always knew that true third time doing, saying, or seeing anything was a certain sign of rapid change, in one way or another, and proceeded in all with heavy caution. This also meant that it had been threee weekend since the last episode in my podcast series, and though I had thought to perhaps pawn my audio interface as well as my almost defunct MPC studi, as I was more preoccupied with improving my body so that I might find someone decent to offset the awful and horrible sexual monster that had been welling up from inside me — the reason I hated Hudson Yards the most1- mirrors and reminders, reflections of how I would never be good enough, in a sea of picture perfect Barbie dolls of all shapes and sizes— and I had nearly lost my mind and soul just by way of googling the upcoming support for the deadmau5 vs. test pilot show, very fittingly at the Brooklyn mirage and on the date which marked the anniversary of my own suicide, august 4th; and as the date grew near, I wanted more and more to try again1-to escape the horrible and awful cruel world of inequality—I hated the blackness of it all— the black slaves of Jamaica queens m a heavy contrast to the thoughtless Barbie dolls that didn't have tow work or think for anything—they were created just to have fun, lounge, party, and fuck—all of which I wanted to do but never had the chance. My entire life I had been too dark and too ugly to be pretty or adorable—and of course, my mother's scattered actions and bipolar personality, perhaps even schizophrenic tendencies which had been beaten into her by her father, rather than genetically inherited—had kept me from being good at anything. Sports, music, or anything which might have allowed me to be successful were often abandoned—my mother's temper tantrums always acting up on days which I was due to rehearsal or practice— eventually quitting because it no longer excited me, her mood swings controlling my entire destiny, and causing the uproar of anxiety and unconscious addiction that culminated in my doomed, abusive narrorator (Don't leave me like this) (From am to pm). Love,'money, party Alive fidkros The fight to keep blacks and browns in the darker and lower realms while elevating the whites and hybrid elites into ascension continues to deter the human race from true and forward evolution. "Post raciality and the silent technologically driven race war in America" -CC Stone {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.

C.J. Navas comenta la última hora de la huelga de guionistas, con la ampliación del plazo de negociación entre el sindicato de intérpretes y los productores, la incorporación, tras Lena Headey, de Gillian Anderson a la nueva serie de Kurt Sutter para Netflix, el fin de ‘Reservation Dogs' con su tercera temporada y muchas noticias más en su repaso diario al mundo de las series de televisión. PATROCINADOR:

I hate country music You know why? You all sound like slave owners. Yup. Country music just sounds racist, Well, it is racist. Even that shit was stolen— Country music is derived from the songs slaveowners used to steal from their slaves x Yes. I'm a sovereign submissive, A subtle subordinate Look at wrist Warm winds, SZA First stop, AH, fuck— Well, check this out No such thing as free. No such thing as freedom, either “Just take what you need” Just tear me to pieces, Jesus All we need is A little relief I'm this bitch All we need is A new release, maybe an EP or three Make sure that s/hesees this Do you need me? Do you need this? Please check your subscriptions Or your email Please, pick up this new prescription Fuck dude! I can't just listen to deadmau5 in peace? I gotta do at least three things at once, But right now, I need to focus on crunches Let's not get wasted tonight, eh. Let's go and be racist—- I forget what the name of the game is It's “USA! USA! USA!” The fucked up thing was , the preworkout and the Skrillex hit at just about the same time. Oh, just about? The exact same time. Okay, first of all, this is pre-war Skrillex. It's also Diplo! It's also Diplo—yeah. Don't be too proud of yourself NO CRYING IN THE SAUNA. But this is where I cryy! DO NOT CRY. Oh. *sniffles* Now… You know what happens if you don't cum? Uhhh…nothing? Exactly. You know what happens if I don't cum? What. My balls explode. Just make sure they're in my mouth when that happens. Wow. I don't belong here! Well, where do you belong? I don't know. @99@c Look, I have a favor. What is it. ANo. Oh, come on! NO. NO. Please! I need you to be my girlfriend. Lol. For what? I don't know. How much is he paying you? Like a kajillion dollars. That seems fair. His isn't fair. They're using Skrillex to provoke me. Come earlier tomorrow! Or just, don't come. Don't go! DONT—GO. I am leaving! NO! Yes! No! —and I am never coming back. Do you know who your audience is? Uh. The CIA THE FBI Everyone in The Oval Office. BIDEN nice. The UN. THe DEA The Secret Service. The office of Public Affairs Uhhh… Keith Richards Allison Cooper Sirs Elton John and Paul McCartney, Respectively What—for what?! The President of NBC CBS ACC fox 5, 10, and 13 That's really random. Al Jazeera, al Sharpton And Al Bundy Wait—what Oh, did you just mean, like in this dimension? Uhhh.. This is enter the multiverse YeH WHWRE IS SKRILLEX He died. He's dead. Go away. That's like 3 Skrillex songs already You guys are gonna wake up the devil. What. Stop doing that. Stop doing what. You know what you're doing. You're summoning the devil What are you guys doing? Summoning the devil. In my basement? Yes. Okay. Have fun. Dang, she's so cool. I like her. I love her. What are they up to down there? Summoning the devil. Oh. Cui bono— For whose good or benefit LIL BIIIIIIIITZZZ. I think we can all agree the cringiest trend ever is the crocs trend. The insignia of fucking laziness. I don't care who you are— if I see you wearing fucking crocs I'm going to assume you're stupid; one, cause you follow what everyone else around you is doing--and two because you think it looks acceptable. It looks dumb. It looks stupid “But they're comfortable. You know what? There are other comfortable shoes that are more functional— I wear nikes. They're slip ons, no laces— they're cozy as shit And you know what? I can outrun a dog if it's chasing me, trying to bite my ass. This trend is horrible. And you know what? It's gotten so bad to the point where, if I see someone wearing crocs, and they've actually got the sling on—I respect them for it! Not all the way, but a little more. Like hey—you tried. You tried today. But the fucking crocs the sling over the top— You're fucking lazy. I don't give a fuck what kind of job you work— There's no excuse for fucking lazy. Clean up after yourself! Do your dishes! Wash your ass! Put shoes on! —Real fucking shoes! Unless you're an actual like, nurse or 87 years old, crocs are not acceptable! I don't care! People are lazy now. “Tales of a Superstar DJ” “Strange Dream5” I had been been having very strange dreams and a lot of them happened to have been starring Kurt Sutter which I found strange— but I had been writing a lot lately, which didn't explain anything about Charlie Hunnam also having appeared, or Reese Witherspoon—or Dakota Fanning…and though I was no longer having to listen to deadmau5 just to sleep his counterpart had started appearing on very vivid dreams—which I did not necessarily have to write down to remember, at all, however—this one was surprisingly strange, rather hilarious, and not at all explicit. I awoke craving barbecue ribs and scraping my head, wondering what I might need to do today to move forward and progress…but I was at a loss, for words, at least—but certainly not for music. There was a gathering at Kurt (and Katey's) house celebrating some show or something—there was a big party with dinner and deadmau5 was playing; when deadmau5 came out and hopped on the mic nobody could hear him—the mic wasn't connected—his helmet was also much different, it looked like some sort of ancient incan mouse head carved from stone (but obviously not stone-/ which was rectangular and had green lights for the eyes and mouth—I questioned whether or not it was really Joel and looked at his arms to confirm that it was using his tattoos—I was excited to hear deadmau5–it was an intimate gathering so we were all situated around the decks—Katey (Segal) went up to the decks and adjusted a chord which looked like a jumper cable and the mic turned on, and I thought “aww, thanks, mom” —then someone—either Kurt or Katey went to the other side and plugged the mic all the way in so we could hear Joel over the mic. He played an anthem sounding song and I thought “nice, new deadmau5 “, but the song sounded old, like pre-2010 deadmau5; either way, I was just happy to listen to new deadmau5. I got on the floor in front of the decks and put my arms behind mu head to rest, then crossed my legs in the shape of a figure-eight and thought “ah, the way I always listen to deadmau5, anyway” (—which is not true…but perhaps I just meant laying on my back? Idk.) I rocked to the music like a pendulum and faded away in my mind—I didn't seem to think it was strange and neither did anyone else; it felt normal. after the show while everybody was eating (I think it was barbecue/soul food) Joel went to smoke a cigarette and indicated I should follow him—which I was weary of, but I did; he went quickly down the 3rd out of 4 stair cases; and I mistakenly went down the second—I realized my mistake and peered at him through the bars; the staircases (which were apparently the entry/exit to Kurt Sutter's house was like the lower level of a pyramid which seemed Mayan or Incan in style; I went down the 3rd staircase and did not see Joel, so went all the way to the bottom and climbed up another set of stairs, frustrated. “Kurt sutter has the worst house ever!” I said or thought, as I approached Joel at the top of another staircase, which was half the length of the others; it appeared I had somehow ended up on the other side—he sat in an opening that was colorful, though the paint was wearing, and moved himself from a colorful patch and said “ew, orange!” I sat on the wall next to him trying not to look at him and he made me so nervous (not because he was famous, but because I found him to be cute; we actually both seemed to be famous throughout the whole dream—as there were other famous people at Kurt and Katey's gathering, which included Charlie hunnam and many cast members from sons of anarchy, who were all shirtless.) anywho. I sat next to Joel and looked up at him; he seemed so tall and as if his head was in a plastic fish bowl, with masking tape at the bottom; I looked down and there were a pair of white baby crocs wrapped individually in plastic— I said “aww”, because they were baby sized—but then “yugh!” And kicked them away, Joel was like “why???” And I said “because they're crocs,” then we had a really weird conversation about the the rubber seal on a bottle of baby soap (that doesn't exist) and the dollar store that didn't make any sense at all—something about using the rubber seal to escape and swim to the other side—but then having to swim back anyway because you forgot something at the dollar store. It did not make sense—at all—but we both agreed that we loved the dollar store for whatever reason. “Joel,” I asked “can I ask you a question?” “Sure”, he said “what's it like to have done what you've done with your music—I mean really.” That's not what I wanted to ask; it was a cover question and he seemed to know it “no.” He said. “Why?” I asked, and he responded “because I'm going to ask you something.” I said “okay…l and I wanted to know what— but I was quiet. “I always go first” he said, slipping off his blue cotton boxers without taking off his shorts—which was impressive. “Okay.” Then, a strange dark skinned boy— approached us, first stopping at Joel, and kissing his hand—then coming to me—the boy had an Afro and was dressed in some tribal getup, and had heavy metal snake earrings, which I didn't like—when he went to kiss my hand, he opened his mouth to bite me instead—I pulled my arm away, which I realized had been covered in some kind of lavish warrior's attire, a colorful arm band that went all the way up my arm; “I'm not gonna fight you!” I said, and as I tried to kick him away the boy reached for my foot to bite it, and I thought “now I'll have a bite mark to match the one on my hand…” but didn't want to be bitten again, so as I kicked him, I suddenly realized I was in a dream, and that Joel was still beside me, but fading away—I was waking up. Joel…Joel…Joel…!!!”, before “FUCK.” I wanted to know what Joel was going to ask, but was suddenly awake, my foot still pointed and stretched as if I were going to kick; I could still feel the imprint of his mouth on my right foot and as I awoke. “Goddammit!” I thought, reaching for my phone to begin to write, and becoming overtaken by the baseline of a song I couldn't quite recall, looping at first in the back, and then, in the front of my mind—- “Hm.” , I thought. Now I was very awake—I rested my foot to a normal position. “WHAT THE FUCK.” I thought. I very rarely dreamt about Joel (and never about deadmau5) but it was a very strange dream. There was nothing sexual about it—and I indeed seemed more impressed that he had taken off his boxers than anything under them, without taking off his basketball shorts—and, as I reflected—it was weird that he was wearing basketball shorts. “What a weird fucking dream.” I was certainly more calm inside the dream, but now, upon waking, was confused, alightly nervous, and very angry at the dark skinned Afro boy for trying to fight and bite me—which of course, reminded me of the fight with my roommate weeks earlier, from which I still did have the half-moon shaped bite marks, even after all that time—and it was, strangely enough a half-Moon outside. The baseline rolled on and became louder in my mind, reaching full form— “This is the Hook.” ‘Oh, yeah…' I thought. ‘It's catchy. You like it.' “Yeah.” I thought. “Okay.” “I guess we'll start there.” {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.

Welcome back to another episode of Smoke & Mirrors! We're bringing you the biggest stories of the week from the movie world plus some movie reviews and thoughts on the shows we're watching!Listen in as we break down:The Latest Trailers: Florida Man, Elemental, Master Gardener, Shooting Stars, Dead Ringers, Evil Dead Rise and Whitehouse PlumbersMatthew MacFadyen to play Mr Sinister in Deadpool 3?Kurt Sutter sets up The Abandons at Netflix!Jonathan Majors innocent?Francis Ford Coppola releasing Megalopolis as more than just a film?+ our thoughts on:Ted LassoThe MandalorianSuccessionYellowjacketsTetrisAirJoin us on Thursday for more news and our thoughts on Ted Lasso, The Mandalorian and Succession!Check us out on our socials:Twitter - @SmokeNMirrorsOzFacebook - @smokeandmirrorspodcastInstagram - smoke_mirrorspodcastTikTok - @smokeandmirrorspodcastTwitch - SmokeAndMirrorsPodcastDon't forget to leave a review and refer a friend!Join us Live on YouTube weekly:https://youtube.com/channel/UC217G9nQKVZaNwsPRU82_ywDon't forget to like and subscribe!

C.J. Navas comenta la nueva serie del lejano oeste de Kurt Sutter para Netflix, la nueva comedia de Joel McHale para FOX, las series más vistas de nuestra audiencia en los Power Rankings y muchas noticias más en su repaso diario al mundo de las series de televisiónPATROCINADOR: Realizando tus compras desde amazon.fueradeseries.com a ti te costará lo mismo y a nosotros nos estarás ayudando

País Estados Unidos Dirección Doug Liman Guion Charlie Kaufman, Gary Spinelli, Lindsey Beer, John Lee Hancock, Andrew Gottlieb, David Rosen. Novela: Patrick Ness Música Marco Beltrami, Brandon Roberts Fotografía Ben Seresin Reparto Daisy Ridley, Tom Holland, Mads Mikkelsen, Demian Bichir, David Oyelowo, Kurt Sutter, Nick Jonas, Óscar Jaenada, Ray McKinnon, Cynthia Erivo, Bethany Anne Lind, Mylene Robic, Olunike Adeliyi Sinopsis Año 2267. En un planeta lejano, en la pequeña población de Prentisstown, el joven colono Todd ha crecido creyendo que una raza alienígena asesinó a todas las mujeres y contagió con el "ruido" al resto de los hombres. El ruido permite que entre ellos todos puedan escuchar lo que están pensando. Pero todo cambia cuando un día Todd se encuentra con Viola, la superviviente de una nave espacial que se ha estrellado contra el planeta. Todd se queda perplejo y confuso, pues nunca ha visto a una mujer... y ella no tiene "ruido".

Happy Wine Wednesday! Podcast fave Maddie returns this week to discuss the pilot episode of HBO's House of the Dragon.  This is a long one, so pace yourselves! And to help with your listening experience, check out the chapter markers below.  Keep an eye out for a short bonus episode next week in which Maddie and I discuss book spoilers.  REMINDER: We drink, we know things, we use LOTS of adult language, and we have a really good time.  Cheers!0:00 Intro and Drinking Selections10:01 Our engagement with the source material.13:08 Maddie discusses how the HotD source material differs from the GoT source material.17:54 How does the HotD opening scene stack up against GoT's opening scene? Also - no opening title sequence? We have thoughts!29:34 Thoughts on music from the episode and the magic of Ramin Djawadi.39:01 How the discussion of character introductions will flow.40:48 Rhaenyra56:14 Daemon1:16:32 Criston1:31:34 Alicent1:45:03 Rhaenys1:55:23 Corlys1:59:57 Rant about racism in the fandom.2:11:42 Kurt Sutter would love this.2:30:56 Other standouts.2:33:22 Appreciation for the set design. 2:35:33 Maddie notes Iron Throne differences.2:38:35 High Valyrian sounds a little different in HotD.2:39:39 Miscellaneous Targaryen thoughts.2:47:36 More praise for the pilot.2:51:29 Was there anything from the pilot that didn't work for us?2:57:17 Does HotD work best as a show that comes after the audiences introduction to Westeros after 8 seasons of Game of Thrones? 3:10:34 How bad does one smell after riding a dragon? Also, Maddie is a WHOLE vibe.3:16:22 What GoT references did we enjoy most?3:33:10 Maddie shares  thoughts on GoT season 8.3:44:33 Maddie shares why you may want to stick with HotD. Jocelyn also goes on a tangent about the lovely Patina Miller and a few other shows that you should check out on Sundays. 3:56:48 Closing out with thirsty thoughts.Follow Maddie on Twitter, IG, and Twitch.  Support the show

The bros learn that boxing is like a game of chess in this new episode about the 2015 film, Southpaw. Written by Kurt Sutter and Directed by Antoine Fuqua. Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/thefilmbrospodcast Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC4g9YbMBwRIKzDTV4uXt5Eg The bros Letterboxd's: @_isaiahlucas @lilabey @NickGowinPlaces

Happy Wine Wednesday! I'm back this week to discuss the pilot episode of one of my absolute favorite shows of all time - Sons of Anarchy.  Very special guest Lauren Sarner joins me to discuss Kurt Sutter's version of Hamlet on motorcycles.  Lauren is an entertainment journalist who covers TV at The New York Post. As always, we kick the discussion off by sharing what  drew us to the FX series.  Next, we discuss the show's iconic theme song and the very memorable opening credits.  We then get into our deep dive of the pilot episode.  We talk about the opening sequence in which we are first introduced to Jax Teller and of course we get into our initial impressions of our problematic fave, Gemma Teller Morrow.  Katey Sagal deserves so much praise for her portrayal of Gemma.  Katey was not the only perfect casting decision on the show.  We talk about the original pilot of the show and whether we could imagine a version of the series in which anyone other than Ron Perlman portrays Clay Morrow.  We follow our deep dive into the pilot by discussing standout performances and overall thoughts.  And as always, we take a few minutes to get thirsty.Lauren and I both completed the entire series, so the main discussion is followed by a brief spoiler section.  Have no fear, you'll get plenty of warning before the spoiler discussion begins. Friendly reminder - we drink, we know things, and we use adult language.As always, we love you for listening.  Find and follow Lauren on Twitter here.Follow us on Twitter and Instagram at @MoreWinePod! Send longer feedback to morewinepod@gmail.com.  Be sure to check out our prior episodes on Abbott Elementary, Grand Crew, True Blood, Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings, Claws, The Walking Dead, Teen Wolf,  Euphoria, The Sopranos,  Orphan Black, Big Sky, Manifest, Pose, Bob's Burgers, and Black Ass Falcon and The Winter Soldier.   Support the show

¡Johnny Bravo necesita un abogado gracias al Cancel Culture y reaccionamos al WandaVision Finale! Johnny Bravo , Pepé Le Pew, Miss Piggy, Speedy Gonzalez y Apu (The Simpsons) necesitan un abogado ya que son los últimos en encontrarse bajo la mirilla del Cancel Culture debido a que promueven conductas inapropiadas. Y esto nos lleva a la pregunta; ¿Debemos ver estos personajes como productos de su tiempo y la ignorancia del tiempo? O ¿Es responsabilidad del padre enseñarle a sus hijos que es entretenimiento y explicarle que no esta bien? En el jangueo de esta semana te hablamos del pasado evento del NBA All-Star donde el juego de Team Lebron James vs Team Kevin Durant donde Team Lebron salio victorioso ganando todos los parciales y $1.5M para su fundación favorita mientras Team Durant consigue $300K, sin duda convirtiendo al mayor ganador a estas fundaciones que se beneficiaron de estos fondos. Jānis Porziņģis consiguió el honor de MVP y suenan muchos rumores de cambios y separaciones con nombres como Blake Griffin, Victor Oladipo, P.J. Tucker, LaMarcus Aldridge y D'Angelo Russell entre los mencionados. El Guillo decreto que Los Buccaneers nuevamente se coronaran campeones del Super Bowl al noticias de que Tom Brady fue firmado para una extensión en su contrato debido a su reciente campeonato. Trayendo así otra apuesta con Ruben esta vez por 2 Funko Pop's en celebración del 2022 y de el posible segundo campeonato de Tom Brady. No queda duda que el season finale de WandaVision paso la expectativa de muchos, respondiendo muchas preguntas de sus videntes y dejando abierto un mundo de posibilidades para este poderoso personaje de Marvel protagonizado por Elizabeth Olsen. Ademas el corillo te trae unas recomendaciones de series que estamos viendo, estas recomendaciones incluyen South Park: Vaccination Special (HBO Max), Grimm (Amazon Prime TV), Superman and Loius (The CW), Titan (HBO Max), Walker (The CW), Modern Family (Hulu), Lost (Hulu) y Superstore (Hulu). Si no las has visto chequealas y déjanos saber lo que piensas en los comments. Kurt Sutter creador de la popular serie de FX Networks Sons Of Anarchy estará dirigiendo un proyecto para el servicio de streaming Netflix. Kurt Sutter es un increíble guionista plasmando las historias de Southpaw, The Shield, Punisher: War Zone entre otros a papel pero sin duda alguna Sons Of Anarchy es la mejor serie una obra maestra de character development e historias. Zack Snyder's Justice League comienza este próximo Marzo 18, 2021 por l plataforma de streaming HBO Max y estamos super pompiaos para tirarnos el maratón en lo que The CW confirma a Dove Cameron, Yana Perrault y Chole Bennet para caracterizar a Bubbles, Buttercup y Blossom para la serie live action titulada Powerpuff. Y Michael B. Jordan confirma que habrá una tercera entrega para Creed, la cual sera protagonizada y dirigida por el. #JohhnyBravoCanceled #TeamLebronJames #CancelCulture #WandaVision #NBAAllStar2021 #TeamKevinDurant #JanisPorzingis #NBAMVP #TomBrady #TampaBayBuccaneers #ElizabethOlsen ##SouthParkVaccinationSpecial #PepeLePew #Apu #MissPiggy #Grimm #Lost #Titans #ModernFamily #SuperStore #SonsOfAnarchy #KurtSutter #TheShield #Southpaw #BlakeGriffin #LaMarcusAldridge #ElWulfpak #ElWulfpakPodcast #JustChillinEntertainment --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Síguenos: Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/elwulfpak​​​​​ Twitter: https://twitter.com/EWulfpak​​​​​ Podcast: https://anchor.fm/el-wulfpak​​​​​ Una producción original de Just Chillin' Entertainment Síguelos: Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/justchilline... Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/justchillin... Twitter: https://twitter.com/JustChillingEn​​ --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/el-wulfpak/support

The Two Gay Geeks

With all of the crazy current events happening in America, we had to drop some knowledge bombs. Is Nasty Nancy P trying to control your mind with micro chips hidden in Pace mild salsa? Did the lizard people get to Trump and did George Soros give alien technology to China? Perhaps Jeff Bezos is actually holding Kurt Sutter hostage on a creepy sex island, forcing him to make a second season of SOA, only this time its a musical and its based on Bernie Sanders life story? Can Motorcycle Rights people save us from Trans Women armed with fully semi automatic milkshakes? We dont know, but neither do you! Relax people... the tin foil hats will keep us safe. https://www.facebook.com/DirtyFitsCustomGear/ https://www.facebook.com/Tillers-Toppers-1744693102441816/

Season 5 has arrived! The I.A.D. investigation begins when Jon Kavanaugh arrives to put the strike team under a microscope. Does Panda really hate Billings? What does the crew think of Kavanaugh? What character does Libby struggle with? Also, Drew talks with Kurt Sutter about The Shield, SOA, and the future!   Twitter: @ShieldShattered G-mail: TheShatteredShieldPod@gmail.com All audio from "The Shield" is owned by Fx Networks. All rights reserved. 

WELCOME BACK, SHIELD FANATICS We return from a winter hiatus with the revving, twisting "Trophy" - Kavanaugh goes from triumph into rage mode, Mason and Conor laugh over the greatness of the gourmet quick mealer, and Kurt Sutter shouts "Hi" via the plot device of a wrapped up corpse. Rate/review/subscribe on Itunes, Soundcloud, and wherever podcasts are found. Follow us too on Twitter @Barnpod or on our Facebook page. Produced and edited by Conor Crockford and Mason Maguire Theme song: "Stance Gives You Balance" by Hogan Grip (freemusicarchive.org/music/Hogan_Gr…es_You_Balance) Logo by Kellyn Maguire (instagram: @_couchmouse) Mason's Brand New Podcast: @itsonthelist "The Wheel By The Ocean" by C.M. Crockford: www.tohopub.com/the-wheel-by-the-ocean

Drew and Libby discuss "Fire in the Hole" on this episode of The Shattered Shield. Is this the first glance of what would become Kurt Sutter's Sons of Anarchy? Was it really worth attempting to bust The Horde in exchange for releasing an evil social worker? Who would name their club Bling Bling Room? The return of the Decoy Squad and much more! All audio clips from "The Shield" are owned by Fx Networks.  "Avengers" audio clip is owned by Disney Twitter: @ShieldShattered E-mail: TheShatteredShieldPod@gmail.com

We take on our first ever new pilot: the Sons of Anarchy spin-off Mayans MC - "Perro/Oc." Mayans MC is available for free; you'll have to watch it through your cable provider, Amazon, or iTunes:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tokSeISW1XQAbout Mayans MC (2018)After Sons of Anarchy, creator Kurt Sutter tried to do another show (The Bastard Executioner), but it was a disaster and he quit doing it after one episode. After that he returned to the Sons of Anarchy universe with the story of their rival motorcycle gang, the Mayans.Contact Us!Email: pilotprojectshow@gmail.comInstagram: @pilotprojectpodFacebook: https://fb.me/pilotprojectpodTwitter: @pilotprojectpodVoicemail: (469) 573-2337Subscribe for Free!Apple Podcasts: http://apple.pilotprojectpod.comGoogle Play: http://googleplay.pilotprojectpod.comRSS: http://feeds.feedburner.com/pilotprojectpodSpotify: http://spotify.pilotprojectpod.comStitcher: http://stitcher.pilotprojectpod.com ★ Support this podcast on Patreon ★