Podcasts about quest for fire

This one's a heater with a runtime to match - we're joined by Marcy to talk about dance music past, present and (spectral) future in Skrillex's Quest for Fire, Evian Christ's Revanchist and Burial's self-titled debut. Come for the wubs, stay for the rave euphoria. You can find Marcy on twitter @Marcy_Anime. For connoisseurs of anime women. You can find Alexis on twitter @regresssion. You can find Boo on twitter @boocanan, and find her visual art @designbyboo and her music at boocanan.bandcamp.com. Important contextual material (boocanan @ Meta Physica - Faith And Trust) for further research can be found at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_-thjV3e7zc.

On this episode Erik and Tj discuss Music, Bowling alley mishaps, and more. We also talk about: Quest For Fire, Five Nights at Freddy's, Little Monsters, Black Sheep & Love and Basketball.

Support our Patreon: www.patreon.com/thepinksmoke Hosts Christopher Funderburg, John Cribbs & Martin Kessler are joined by legendary poster artist Tony Stella to discuss Jean-Jacques Annaud's 1981 masterpiece Quest for Fire. A personal favorite of both Kessler and Stella, this is one of the most enthusiastic & passionate conversations ever recorded for the podcast. Set 80,000 in the past, Annaud's film, despite being positioned as high-class awards bait in Europe, plays like a rollicking and funny adventure film with more in common with The Vikings or a classic Hollywood swashbuckler than a dour and serious look at humanity's beginning. But while the film is an expression of pure cinematic joy, it's also a serious and thoughtful look at the origins of civilization in terms of science, language, morality, humor & emotion. An exciting conversation about a knockout film! The Pink Smoke site: www.thepinksmoke.com Tony Stella on X: twitter.com/studiotstella Movie Kessler on X: twitter.com/MovieKessler The Pink Smoke on X: twitter.com/thepinksmoke Christopher Funderburg on X: twitter.com/cfunderburg Intro music: Unleash the Bastards / “Tea for Two” Outro music: Marcus Pinn / “Vegas"

Whether themed months remain a thing on this podcast remains to be seen, but for now let's pretend it's No Nonsense November, a month about serious movies. And we begin with a seriously-good movie that also happens to star Ron Perlman as a caveman. Check out Quest for Fire (1981), with it's seriously-good score by Phillipe Sarde!

In unserem #TROGtober geht es weiter um Affen-/Höhlenmenschen. "QUEST FOR FIRE" ist nicht nur ein IRON MAIDEN Song, sondern ein französischer Abenteuerepos um eine Gruppe Neanderthaler die auf der Suche nach Feuer sind. Der Streifen erschien 1981 und hieß in Deutschland "Am Anfang war das Feuer". Hört rein und erfahrt ob Chris und Philp Feuer und Flamme für den Film sind, oder eher ihr Zorn entfacht wird. Werft einen Blick auf unsere Community-Frage, vergesst nicht unsere Show zu bewerten und besucht uns auf Twitter unter https://twitter.com/DDD_Cast auf Mastodon unter DDD_Cast@Podcasts.social und auf Bluesky unter @dddpodcast.bsky.social

This week on the Talk Without Rhythm Podcast I'm taking a look at two caveman flicks from the 80s: 1981's Quest for Fire and 1986's The Clan of the Cave Bear. [00:00] INTRO [01:35] The Good, the Bad, and the Odd Promo [02:19] RANDOM CONVERSATION [10:50] Quest for Fire (1981) [45:30] The Clan of the Cave Bear (1986) [01:15:34] FEEDBACK [01:20:43] ENDING MUSIC: Quest for Fire by Iron Maiden Buy Quest for Fire (1981) Buy The Clan of the Cave Bear (1986) Support TWoRP Contact Us talkwithoutrhythm@gmail.com

Jason gets in touch with his inner cro-magnon as he reviews Jean-Jacque Annaud's 1981 caveman drama-adventure Quest for Fire.

This week Bibo and Addison check out Quest For Fire by legendary DJ, Skrillex. Bibo also gives us the first ever "storytime" on The Audifiles! #podcast #musicreview #skrillex #edm #EDM #questforfire

We have reached another full moon. This one is happening at 13 degrees Sagittarius on June 3 2023. Things may not go as planned. Having to take a different way than expected. https://www.iamastrologyreadings.com/book-online

After a long stint of guest-led episodes, we're back to the basics. Clayton wants to talk about Skrillex and one of his new albums Quest for Fire. Honestly if David gives it anything higher than a 5 beer rating, that's a huge win. Don't forget to like/subscribe/share if you enjoyed! And follow us on our socials (and Patreon) @AlesandAlbums --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/ales-and-albums/support

Hour 1 Or info from it, anyway.... Audio from WGIG-AM and FM in Brunswick, GA

James Thornton is back with host Andrew Hunter Scholey to discuss the epic caveman tale, "Quest For Fire" (1981).

Today we review two new albums from Skrillex "Quest for Fire" and "Don't Get Too Close" for our 11th and 12th albums of the year.

This mix is Inspired by album QUEST FOR FIRE of @Skrillex's

Episode 130 follows up on the discussion from episode 128 regarding Skrillex. Hosts AJ Hollywood and Karizmatik have guest Nevie back on, as they discuss the surprise Skrillex album Don't Get Too Close, as well as a review of the album Quest For Fire. Additional topics of discussion include music highlights of the month, comic book talk, and newly announced events for 2023.

Die Themen der Folge: Nach einem rassistischen Übergriff gegenüber Moderatorin Steph Karl hat ein Berliner Gericht entschieden, dass Afd-Politiker Dr. Kai Bormann eine Geldstrafe zahlen muss. Auch wir wollen unseren Teil dazu beitragen, um den Betroffenen der Erdbeben in der Türkei und in Syrien zu helfen. Deshalb versteigern wir Gemälde von Tokio Hotel, Giant Rooks, Alligatoah und vielen mehr, um den Erlös an Hilfsorganisationen vor Ort zu spenden. Nach neun Jahren weitestgehender Funkstille meldet sich Skrillex mit den beiden neuen Alben „Don't Come Too Close“ und „Quest For Fire“ zurück. Die mysteriösen Newcomerin Hanna Noir verbirgt sich hinter einer weißen Maske. Ihr Sound zwischen Deutschrap, Drum & Bass und Garage kommt aber auch ohne Gesicht an.

I fell into a dream with you last night And when I woke I had to cry And when I looked inside your eyes I had to realize they were mine Now I'm alive And in alignment Something like a diamond shines inside It's just another night Our love is just inside my mind I had to hide it Your highness Right on time. As expected. Hey, I just wanted you to know: Your evil shamanic curse worked( I've been homeless since I left you and demonic forces follow me everywhere So I'm going to kill myself eventually Just the way you hoped I would So no one will have to know that you hit me so hard it made me lose my mind You have an evil spirit and a heartless soul and nobody will ever love you except for our son— So just tell him I love him You fucking win Your curse worked Every single person you ever try to love will cheat and lie to you Just like you did to me And the only reason I don't wish homelessness and suicide onto you Like you wished onto me Is because you have our son Thanks for ruining my life I hope there's heaven on the other side I fucking hate you You're fucking evil You fat stupid retarded motherfucker —but I didn't text him that, of course I wanted to; But in my heart and soul, I knew it would be the end of me, And that he'd know he really had won— And though I didn't want to give him the power or the light of day, I knew I was cursed, Followed by coughing demons, pretty, skinny women, mindfucked by Skrillex and Dillon Francis and set to die in the streets with nothing to eat, nowhere to go, and nothing to lose but myself, not that it mattered— It would be a quiet suicide, And my son might never know I died alone and homeless in New York City; But i loved him the most And the hole in my heart that made me a ghost was shaped just like him ; And though I had nothing left but love to give, Which meant nothing in a cruel and loveless world made of money, The best that I could do was just to love him, And hope that on the other side would be heaven, Where I could know him again I just passed the white rabbit; I'd laugh at it, if I weren't rabid with absolute madness I've had it! I can't stand it I mismanaged My finances, It's fine, actually; I've got enough time (Money) To climb the Empire The Devil's a Liar, But so am I, And God's a bird on a wire How inspiring I'm one off of everything, I can't run, when I'm too busy thinking “Where the fuxk am I gonna sleep” Tomorrow, I can pawn my drum machine— That buys me one more night in a nice dream A nice clean apartment in Brooklyn, Some rice and beans; Another dream… ‘Is it supposed to be a secret?' I really had fallen in love with Sonny, but it didn't seem to matter anymore about anything—I didn't have what I needed at all—and the irony and reality was setting in that the Sonny was dropping his album on the exact day that I would run out of everything—out of money for food, a place to sleep…everything. I had loved him so wholehearly that I had recorded ïambīc; only to be devastated in the following weeks with the discovery that he had been spending time with Kayla Laurenc who I didn't exactly despise, as much as I resented—as in all of my life, girls like her had always gotten ahead and gotten everything I wanted, without even trying—just because they looked the way they did—and, at least by all the people I had been around, even my mother—I was ugly, fat, and retarded. Perhaps he did operate on the Devil's power, with my ex husband; I was homeless, at least not yet hungry, but on my way to it—and finally, out of “nowhere”, Sonny being Skrillex was in New York, releasing the album we had all been waiting for. I was either being cruicified or… Connected to a greater purpose, but it hurt either way—and either way I wanted to end it. Every time I dreamt of Dillon, it was of his entire family—in fact, I had almost forgotten that he had a brother at all; it didn't make sense to me, actually I had stopped breathing. I was crying quietly from the moment I left Equinox—I had done my best not to, but couldn't help it entirely. It had been too long since I had any sense of security. I tossed my head back to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks, staring up with widened eyes, which suddenly focused on the digital LCD screen, flashing the streets at which the train would stop; I was of course sitting directly beneath the stop for 88th street—Sonny's birth year, and a number that had repeatedly jumped out to me since our “meeting”. ‘Why would he do this to me?' Maybe this is all supposed to murder me. My ex husband had been tied to White Supremacy; “I belong to an organization that will kill you and bury you somewhere no one will ever find you.” He once said—one of the things which lead to my attempt—or completing, alternatively, suicide. “You know why I have the power to control demons?” Another notion which had the tendency to repeat itself in my mind, whenever a demonic energy found its way to me, in the form of a skinny, attractive woman or a coughing homeless person, in the form of Kayla Lauren, Dillon Francis, or even Sonny—and though none of the latter two actually ever seemed like actual demons, at least to me—the demonic energy was in knowing that someone like me, in reality, could never deserve or afford someone like Sonny, or Dillon respectively—and although the attraction that I felt to either of them was extreme wrnough to me, and could even be called love, the truth was that the effect of fame meant that it wasn't just me, but hundreds of thousands of other human beings like me, better than me, more attractive than me—and with a better perception of reality that would make more ideal partners, mates, and lovers, and that my own perception of beauty and self love had been shattered by Society. Maybe don't post this. What does it matter? What am I supposed to believe? That Sonny's come to New York to rescue me and take me to freedom—that with someone like me he'd be actually happy? That everything in my head, in my heart, in my mind—the belief that we were meant to be is actually reality? He has every reason and every right to be wary of me. I had read about the teenaged girl that had become obsessed with Drake Bell, following him to all his shows and eventually, even becoming close with him; texting back and forth, and from the looks of it—probably even meeting, hanging out together and who knows what else exactly, besides the man himself and God, on whose behalf it sometimes seeemed I was acting, however— “New York Or Nowhere” Oh shit. The orange and blue basketballs on the fabric clutch held under the arm of the man in front of me distracted my mind for a moment from my writing; the color orange had always reminded me of Dillon, because it was so prevalent in the music which had first captivated me, even before I knew who Dillon Francis was exactly, and had somehow managed to have implanted the notion —especially after the realization that he was, in fact, using magic— that perhaps such a gifted shapeshifter had learned to even transform himself into an object that was inanimate; a traffic cone, whatever that meant. [DON'T HIT ME.] Years had passed since the idea had been established, and though I couldn't seem to remember how I had first actually imagined it, besides listening to what probably may have been ‘too much' Dillon Francis, an entire storyline had been written, as Dillon Francis, having become at some point captain of The Bampheraphs, had instructed the other Insomniacs, Bampheramphs, Motherfuckers, and DJs to also transform into the very simple, very inanimate traffic cones— and though Skrillex, or Sonny—was also given an extreme amount of power and magic, especially even the ability to become inanimate himself, or, “The Inanimate Skrillex”, as it had once been written—as it remarkably turned out, Skrillex would find that he could be every color traffic cone besides Neon Orange—which, as the curator of such an idea, had, over time, become both comedic and tragic—as everywhere I seemed to go, tended to produce strangely colored tragic cones at random. ‘That did happen' Maybe all this means Is when I find the bravery To finally fly, or something… INT. AIRPLANE. DAY BLŪ is seated in a window seat towards the back of a BOEING 747. Oh man, this scene. Sometimes my worst nightmares are airplane crashes, actually. Since I could remember, maybe from the age of about two or three—I would dream awful tragedies—‘nightmares, or night terrors, actually—tornadoes, horrible fires and burning buildings and sometimes, airplane crashes, which even to this day, haunt me when I sleep. You know, nobody has a ticket to the soul train. What. You just jump. Trains in New York do come suicide fast. I was on the platform and still almost got hit! Okay, this isn't really funny anymore, is it? No. Suddenly, a sound rang out into my ears and Ugh, it's hard to write when you want to die this much ‘Why do you want to die this much? I had extended my air bnb for one more night, but it meant giving up one of my drum machines go to the pawn shop—the one which I had just reclaimed from the pawn shop in Las Vegas, and seemed an entire waste, as it was the heaviest thing in all my luggage, and I had dragged it across the country in order to use it as a performance piece to give myself an edge over the other DJs who simply mixed—But, as it turned out, of course, the world, “especially New York”, was over saturated with DJs— though I had done what I could, or most of what I could, to get a head start, I had so much work backed up that in the two weeks since I had left my job in LA, that it didn't matter now that I even had my drum machine with me—I was scrambling to gather money to keep a place to sleep, and so the drum machine would have to go in the morning, in exchange for one or two more nights of housing—and with any luck or by the grace or God I could somehow fish it back out of the pawn shop in some weeks or months time—not that I enjoyed the idea of going back into the workforce as anything but an artist—but so far, this artist that I was had been the lowest of all the low paying jobs I had ever had. ‘What is that?' I had heard the album over and over—it had infinite replay value, of course, and I was using its tones and auras to dry my tears on the long train back to Brooklyn from Manhattan—but, in this moment, as I exited the subway station and made my way down my usual route back to the flat I had depleted my entire savings on staying in—the sound shook through my entirety, rumbling strangely into the arcs of my feet and even stopping me dead in my tracks for a moment, ringing strangely in my chest and into the palms of my hands, up my shoulders and into my hollow lungs, wrapping around my heart, and colliding with the very odd thought “I gotta stay alive to ask Joel what that was.” How bizarre. It was past midnight—and now that I was above ground, I hadn't thought to check again if the new Skrillex album was being released on East Coast time, where Sonny supposedly still was, or if it might not be available until later; and I hadn't thought to look or try to check Instagram again—I had only been on Instagram anyway in hopes of finding a job—and had only checked the Skrillex Instagram hoping that I would see something that would make the way I felt about Sonny stop, by now, suddenly realizing that it never would until he married or procreated with someone else, (or I did) once and for all wiping out any dillusions I had dreamt up or summoned in the wake of our crossing paths. As quickly as he had come to New York, he could have left and probably may have—but I didn't know, and didn't care; it would be futile to believe he would come to rescue me, even if it was what I wanted and needed so much that I couldn't bear the thought of anything more than just departing the entire world. Earlier, even though I had been pressed for time to make it to the gym, having spent the day of course collecting my things and trying to figure a way out ot the homeless box I had built my way into, still stressing the somehow ‘need' to publish the entirety or the 6th season so that I could go on hiatus— It really hadn't occurred to me for more than a moment that Sonny might be listening to my podcast at all, besides listening to Renaissance which I had briefly vaulted, having worked out to it too much and beyond honestly hating myself for not being either Skrillex, or perhaps even more disappointingly, Beyoncè—and either one would have done— I retracted my last couple steps, doubling back to the discotheque—All Night Skate—where I had already asked for a job one of my first nights in Brooklyn, collecting the number of the manager but having lost it, deleting it by accident— INT. ALL NIGHT SKATE. 12:56 AM I realized it was nearly closing time; I had stopped back by after Equinox to write, hoping to music mine whatever the DJ was playing, my body strangely acting and writing quite automatically, with reason to live, shaken suddenly alive by an unidentifiable bass sound seated safely on While 1>2, and still seeking purpose Bryan eno complex heaven Terrors in my head The two songs mixed perfectly into my minds eye as I left, snapping photos for albums yet to be written, and wondering whether or not I would live long enough to write them, or to mix the two songs which had so perfectly mixed—one playing in my headphones and the other over the PA system—and wondering how less than an hour earlier I had experienced a sound I had heard at least a hundred times under the arches of my feet. Oh, wow. ‘Errors In My Bread' The numbers 404 had always triggered the thought: Error, perhaps suggesting even I myself was nothing more than just a simulation or computer of some sort, a robotic formulation of all that had been programmed and crated to exist in the way that I had, a short circuit or some kind of malfunction; I'd trickled into Equinox at precisely 9:52, which allowed me exactly 8 minutes to prepare to record the beginning of the closing announcements at 10:00 for the Equinox + EP, peel off my outer layer of clothes, and pour into the sauna for at least 15 minutes, squeezing in a light workout—warranted, considering I had spent the entirety of the day before at the club, auditioning the rest of the 6th season between the sauna and steamroom, Suffering the Skrillex that had descended onto the city I neither loved nor lived in—which might have totaled altogether about 4 hours in the sauna alone, and what seemed like 56 gallons of sweat—but I was grasping at straws, searching for random numbers to complete my thoughts. I had left Manhattan, as usual, at 11:00 PM as Sports Club closed—pulling my belongings from locker 403, with locker number 404 catching my attention from out of the corner or my eye—and as tears gushed from my face, blasted through the revolving doors—-there was indeed an Error in my Bread, and so to self soothe as usual only seemed fitting, as the words began to pour from my fingertips once more. ‘Not Your Mother's Drag Night' had ended, and the either irony or synchronicity subtly toyed with my inherent need for survival and awestruck emotions, as the last and final episode of the 6th season, which I had already named [Not Your Mother's Episode] before arriving to my Equinox venture at the party — the episode in which everything I had written, assembled with every entry for the 6th season, to be left in its description —was yet still unreleased; it had been a grueling train ride full of tears, and I had yet to neatly tie together the Jimmy Fallon timeline—the Timmy Turner Timeline, which of course connected the Amanda Bynes timelines and all of the Nickelodeon timelines respectively—and though the Skrillex and Dillon Francis timelines had driven nearly every series in their entireties in one way or another, Sonny's sudden arrival into New York City mere hours after Act III, Part IIhad been posted —indicating that either he himself or someone on his campaign had been listening and reading along with my series, jolting me into a frenzy, of course… (though I had already planned to release the end of the season concurrently—as I had with a majority of the previous seasons, taking a hiatus to regroup after each season conclusion or finale) my homeless-suicidal pattern had shown itself to be cyclical, by now—not that one thing hadn't anything to do with the other, and though someone or something may have found it interesting and entertaining, I myself was growing tired of making a mockery of my own self, remaining unloved, unhoused, and unfelt enough so much so that nothing had really changed—and although the 3rd season's hiatus had warranted the 4th season's Anandar, the 4th seasons return to the United States had of course warranted more racism, capitalistic greed, hereditary confinement, algorithmic condemnation, corporate slavery, and an interesting series of mixtapes—which of course had resulted in the 6th season's hope for a better future, my almost-return to Hollywood via the actual real-life Drake Bell and his man-habits, my mental degradation via lack of privacy, and of course, the empathic enforcement or feeling everything at once besides love, human connection or trust. My ex had texted me some weeks earlier, finally having apologized for cheating and assuring me that his karma had been paid in full—without responding, I simply screenshotted the message for future use on an album cover, deleted Google voice, and reassured myself that if his long-overdue karma for cheating had just now been ‘paid-in-full', that it surely had not been paid in full at all and was only just beginning—as he had never apologized or admitted to anything else he'd done—of course, as our relationship had ended, my re-awakening of creativity had been flourishing; I was always recording, taking samples, and writing down ideas for music I wanted to make—and besides that—openly admitting that he had hit me would probably open a disastrous wormhole of self-realization and shame no true narcissist could take—that which he was, not that I at this point had resented it, besides of course the scarring on my lower lip that had come as a result, the estrangement from my son, or the mental anguish I had suffered—and, looking back, I still could never recount whether I had… Just then, I realized that there was an error in my thinking; I had already been running off my weight at a tremendously rapid pace, working out to Recess in the living room between shifts at the veterinary clinic, where I took pride and joy in running with the greyhounds at then-top speed, racing to Diplo, Doctor P, and Rusko—of course, only stopping to express, my breasts still heavy from lactation, and realizing that it was painful to run with boobs full of anything—let alone, milk—which sometimes I pumped for Annie once her glands had gone dry, donated to the NICU, or winded up in my ex's coffee, because it gave him “superpowers.” This is a weird story. Well, if I tell some of it I have to tell all of it. Why are you even telling some of it? Because someone threw Skrillex in my tent and I should have raped him. You can't rape the willing. This is a sick bitch we're dealing with. How do you know he was willing? (He was wiling.) Idk,bro. He looked sick. Or scared. Or Ill. “ill” Get it. I put the ill in Skrillex Better fix my will forreal This could be my last meal Cause I feel like jumping off a building Or a cliff, Like dead horse point— We're beating/being a dead horse, Aren't we? Or an F'n Pig: Oink Oink! Boisterous, Aren't we boys? Let me annoint you all with oil, On upholstery You want a half, Or a whole thing? I want you to hold— I want you to know me I want you to love me I love you Are you happy? Oh, you fucked up. Oh, you think?! I barely sleep, Then you start showing up in my dreams? I don't believe you, I don't believe in anything but me, And I could be you, maybe Maybe there's a sequel, If we're equal— Or if he isn't evil; Maybe I'll just Evil Kinivel Fuck you people! Maybe I'll go fuxkin sleep with Lil Peep I'll call the reaper, Jesus Weeps, But probably not as much as _________ He's a keeper. Fun fact: when you cry, I cry. Plz. Stop crying. I can't. INT. A FIREY PLANE CRASH Wait. THE BILDERBERG MEETING. Jesus Christ, why is Shia Labouf so fuckin ripped. Ew. Who feeds him. CHICKEN. gross. BEFORE: SHIA LABEOUF ITS ME, I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. Ū Oh noooo… SHIA LABEOUF THE FESTIVAL PROJECT Ū … What. SHIA LABEOUF THE FESTIVAL PROJECT Ū k. SHIA LABEOUF NOW WAKE UP, Ū What? SHIA LABEOUF WAKE—UP. Narcissistic Cannibal- Korn, Skrillex. UP. [C.C. Wakes up, drenched in sweat. ] … … … C.C. …Shia LaBeouf…? (That was an actual dream I had once—give or take a few parts.) Yeah, give or take. Ahem. I probably would have forgotten he existed, too, were it not for that dream—and shortly thereafter… FLASHBACK: C.C. Is binge watching Hot Ones. I want—all the sauce. What's that dudes name. Sean. He seems a little off. Yeah, I bet he's off. E Q U I N O X huh. …huh. INT. THE BILDERBERG MEETING SHIA LABEOUF I DONT GIVE A SINGLE FUCK. ILLUMINATI perfect. SECURITY GET OUT. SHIA LABEOUF I WAS NEVER IN. CHICKEN. Ew. ILLUMINATI SEQUENCE C - GREENLIGNT. Wtf is happening in this show. Idk, but I like it. Where's — CHAL (From season 4) IT DOESNT MAAAAAAATER. Right. CUT BACK TO: INT. A FIREY PLANECRASH. DAY. QUEST FOR FIRE. LOOK TO THE SKIES, YOUNG PADOWAN. oh my god. It's a fire breathing dragon! No, dude, that's a firey plane crash. Fuck. FIRE BREATHING DRAGON. That's a fire breathing dragon. W0W. Which do you think is gonna be more interesting? Neither, I'd rather watch The Legend of SupaCree What time is it on? SUPACREE it's always on. How is that even possible! SUPACREE you're on it, Are you recording me? SUPACREE I record everything. Srsly?! SUPACREE Except lovemaking. … SUPACREE That is private. … SCARY TERRY SEX IS SACRED, BITCH. SUPACREE don't cal me a bitch. … go watch TV. CUT BACK TO: INT. A FIREY PLANE CRASH. DAY [Terror has stricken the passengers of flight 626, as the BOEING 747 plunges rapidly, falling from the sky at an alarming speed, as the airplane decentigrates, falling into pieces] SHIA LABEOUF Does this character not have a name? No, it's literally Shia LaBeouf; he's playing himself. CUT TO: SHIA LABEOUF I'M AN AIR MARSHALL WHEN I'M NOT ACTING Why is he still yelling? SHIA LABEOUF ‘CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. CUT BACK TO: Just before: SHIA LABEOUF looks over the rims of his glasses, staring forward at CC/SUPACREE, before lowering his head back down, momentarily pretending to read a magazine from under the brim of his tan cap, obscuring his identity. He places his hand over the gun in his holster, revealing by the golden badge beside it that he is a federal air Marshall (to the audience) before adjusting his brown leather jacket to cover it, squinting conspicuously under his bifocal lenses, peering once more at CC/SUPACREE, and swallowing subtly, licking his lips and flashing away a secondary glimpse of fear in his eyes, before presuming a fierce gaze as he braces for impact, calmly unbuckling his seatbelt. Suddenly, the plane is struck— as the passengers scream and panic in fear, he simply stands up, stabilizing his balance, and moves towards the terrified and hyperventilating SUPACREE. ] Ok. That'll do. What about Drake Bell?! what about Drake Bell!? And Drake And Josh?! AND THE AMANDA SHOW AND ARIANA GRANDE AND ALL THE NICHELODEON KIDS?! It can wait. NO! BUT WHAT ABOUT COSMO + WANDA?! AND SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS AND HEY ARNOLD I never got to Hey Arnold, but I've been thinking about it a lot since I got to New York; but—that's also Nickelodeon, so— BUT WHAT ABOUT DILLON FRANCIS. he's very attractive. WHAt ab0Ut SKriLLeX?! he's also very attractive, And just dropped his album— So we can just assume that the previously mentioned are perhaps both getting their dicks sucked often enough that I don't have to worry about it. Why would you worry about it. CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. This is not kid friendly. AHHHHHHHHHH WHAT ABOUT JIMMY FALLON. Everything naughty he says in this series is censored caused he has a contract with NBC. WHERE'S WHOOPI GOLDBERG?! WHO!? I don't like this. I don't like this at all. Then keep scrolling. What about deadmau5. Probably also presumably getting his dick sucked. W0W. I re-entered the apartment at exactly 1:15. BLŪ Of course. And though I had been filled with nothing but words and heartache, I could do no more than to peel off my layers and tumble into the shower, no longer in tears, but still devastated — and somehow dying to know if the Skrillex album just so happened to mark my Deathwish, or restore my faith in humanity…neither of which actually mattered; I had fallen prey once more to the cycle of poverty's destruction and relentlessness, if even by my own doing—the respective love I held for Sonny, Dillon Francis, or anyone else simply a faction of obsessive fandom, my writings a mere glimpse into the unobstructed world of the fourth dimension, which I undoubtedly still believed and was living in, only hoping that I was indeed not the hopeless protagonist to die, in the end—and perhaps, that even if I did, the worlds and works that I had published on The Legend of Supacree, OWSLA Confidential: The Infinite Skrillifiles, Gerald's World, and Enter The Multiverse would stand as the backbone for an unimaginable flurry of Whatever. The End. ENTER THE MULTIVERSE WAR OF WORLDS LEGENDS HOLY WAR EARTH WORLD WAR WATER (WWIII) SEASON 6 TO GRAND TOTAL/ @skrillex @dillonfrancis @jimmyfallon @drakebell @joshpeck @amandabynes @nickelodeon @ravensymone @disney @shialabeouf @drake @mileycyrus @billieelish @britneyspears @arianagrande @beyonce @kanyewest @eminem @slimshady lol @whoopigoldberg @eddiemurphy Who else did I name drop this season? Uhhh… @diplo @deadmau5 @pasqualerotella @insomniac @jkrowling @emmawatson @danielradcliffe @rupertgrint Idk there's a lot of famous people randomly entering my, uh REALITY. “likeness is what you attract” “Like attracts like.” “Opposites Attract” “You Are What You Eat” HOUSING IS A HUMAN RIGHT HOMELESSNESS IS INHUMANE no, take that part out. The government will try to kill you. *kill you. nah, they'll just force me to kill myself or join the military. same thing. @sonnymoore @u @ccxellsoleil I didn't even do this on purpose. THIS IS: [THE FESTIVAL PROJECT ™] {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.

I fell into a dream with you last night And when I woke I had to cry And when I looked inside your eyes I had to realize they were mine Now I'm alive And in alignment Something like a diamond shines inside It's just another night Our love is just inside my mind I had to hide it Your highness Right on time. As expected. Hey, I just wanted you to know: Your evil shamanic curse worked( I've been homeless since I left you and demonic forces follow me everywhere So I'm going to kill myself eventually Just the way you hoped I would So no one will have to know that you hit me so hard it made me lose my mind You have an evil spirit and a heartless soul and nobody will ever love you except for our son— So just tell him I love him You fucking win Your curse worked Every single person you ever try to love will cheat and lie to you Just like you did to me And the only reason I don't wish homelessness and suicide onto you Like you wished onto me Is because you have our son Thanks for ruining my life I hope there's heaven on the other side I fucking hate you You're fucking evil You fat stupid retarded motherfucker —but I didn't text him that, of course I wanted to; But in my heart and soul, I knew it would be the end of me, And that he'd know he really had won— And though I didn't want to give him the power or the light of day, I knew I was cursed, Followed by coughing demons, pretty, skinny women, mindfucked by Skrillex and Dillon Francis and set to die in the streets with nothing to eat, nowhere to go, and nothing to lose but myself, not that it mattered— It would be a quiet suicide, And my son might never know I died alone and homeless in New York City; But i loved him the most And the hole in my heart that made me a ghost was shaped just like him ; And though I had nothing left but love to give, Which meant nothing in a cruel and loveless world made of money, The best that I could do was just to love him, And hope that on the other side would be heaven, Where I could know him again I just passed the white rabbit; I'd laugh at it, if I weren't rabid with absolute madness I've had it! I can't stand it I mismanaged My finances, It's fine, actually; I've got enough time (Money) To climb the Empire The Devil's a Liar, But so am I, And God's a bird on a wire How inspiring I'm one off of everything, I can't run, when I'm too busy thinking “Where the fuxk am I gonna sleep” Tomorrow, I can pawn my drum machine— That buys me one more night in a nice dream A nice clean apartment in Brooklyn, Some rice and beans; Another dream… ‘Is it supposed to be a secret?' I really had fallen in love with Sonny, but it didn't seem to matter anymore about anything—I didn't have what I needed at all—and the irony and reality was setting in that the Sonny was dropping his album on the exact day that I would run out of everything—out of money for food, a place to sleep…everything. I had loved him so wholehearly that I had recorded ïambīc; only to be devastated in the following weeks with the discovery that he had been spending time with Kayla Laurenc who I didn't exactly despise, as much as I resented—as in all of my life, girls like her had always gotten ahead and gotten everything I wanted, without even trying—just because they looked the way they did—and, at least by all the people I had been around, even my mother—I was ugly, fat, and retarded. Perhaps he did operate on the Devil's power, with my ex husband; I was homeless, at least not yet hungry, but on my way to it—and finally, out of “nowhere”, Sonny being Skrillex was in New York, releasing the album we had all been waiting for. I was either being cruicified or… Connected to a greater purpose, but it hurt either way—and either way I wanted to end it. Every time I dreamt of Dillon, it was of his entire family—in fact, I had almost forgotten that he had a brother at all; it didn't make sense to me, actually I had stopped breathing. I was crying quietly from the moment I left Equinox—I had done my best not to, but couldn't help it entirely. It had been too long since I had any sense of security. I tossed my head back to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks, staring up with widened eyes, which suddenly focused on the digital LCD screen, flashing the streets at which the train would stop; I was of course sitting directly beneath the stop for 88th street—Sonny's birth year, and a number that had repeatedly jumped out to me since our “meeting”. ‘Why would he do this to me?' Maybe this is all supposed to murder me. My ex husband had been tied to White Supremacy; “I belong to an organization that will kill you and bury you somewhere no one will ever find you.” He once said—one of the things which lead to my attempt—or completing, alternatively, suicide. “You know why I have the power to control demons?” Another notion which had the tendency to repeat itself in my mind, whenever a demonic energy found its way to me, in the form of a skinny, attractive woman or a coughing homeless person, in the form of Kayla Lauren, Dillon Francis, or even Sonny—and though none of the latter two actually ever seemed like actual demons, at least to me—the demonic energy was in knowing that someone like me, in reality, could never deserve or afford someone like Sonny, or Dillon respectively—and although the attraction that I felt to either of them was extreme wrnough to me, and could even be called love, the truth was that the effect of fame meant that it wasn't just me, but hundreds of thousands of other human beings like me, better than me, more attractive than me—and with a better perception of reality that would make more ideal partners, mates, and lovers, and that my own perception of beauty and self love had been shattered by Society. Maybe don't post this. What does it matter? What am I supposed to believe? That Sonny's come to New York to rescue me and take me to freedom—that with someone like me he'd be actually happy? That everything in my head, in my heart, in my mind—the belief that we were meant to be is actually reality? He has every reason and every right to be wary of me. I had read about the teenaged girl that had become obsessed with Drake Bell, following him to all his shows and eventually, even becoming close with him; texting back and forth, and from the looks of it—probably even meeting, hanging out together and who knows what else exactly, besides the man himself and God, on whose behalf it sometimes seeemed I was acting, however— “New York Or Nowhere” Oh shit. The orange and blue basketballs on the fabric clutch held under the arm of the man in front of me distracted my mind for a moment from my writing; the color orange had always reminded me of Dillon, because it was so prevalent in the music which had first captivated me, even before I knew who Dillon Francis was exactly, and had somehow managed to have implanted the notion —especially after the realization that he was, in fact, using magic— that perhaps such a gifted shapeshifter had learned to even transform himself into an object that was inanimate; a traffic cone, whatever that meant. [DON'T HIT ME.] Years had passed since the idea had been established, and though I couldn't seem to remember how I had first actually imagined it, besides listening to what probably may have been ‘too much' Dillon Francis, an entire storyline had been written, as Dillon Francis, having become at some point captain of The Bampheraphs, had instructed the other Insomniacs, Bampheramphs, Motherfuckers, and DJs to also transform into the very simple, very inanimate traffic cones— and though Skrillex, or Sonny—was also given an extreme amount of power and magic, especially even the ability to become inanimate himself, or, “The Inanimate Skrillex”, as it had once been written—as it remarkably turned out, Skrillex would find that he could be every color traffic cone besides Neon Orange—which, as the curator of such an idea, had, over time, become both comedic and tragic—as everywhere I seemed to go, tended to produce strangely colored tragic cones at random. ‘That did happen' Maybe all this means Is when I find the bravery To finally fly, or something… INT. AIRPLANE. DAY BLŪ is seated in a window seat towards the back of a BOEING 747. Oh man, this scene. Sometimes my worst nightmares are airplane crashes, actually. Since I could remember, maybe from the age of about two or three—I would dream awful tragedies—‘nightmares, or night terrors, actually—tornadoes, horrible fires and burning buildings and sometimes, airplane crashes, which even to this day, haunt me when I sleep. You know, nobody has a ticket to the soul train. What. You just jump. Trains in New York do come suicide fast. I was on the platform and still almost got hit! Okay, this isn't really funny anymore, is it? No. Suddenly, a sound rang out into my ears and Ugh, it's hard to write when you want to die this much ‘Why do you want to die this much? I had extended my air bnb for one more night, but it meant giving up one of my drum machines go to the pawn shop—the one which I had just reclaimed from the pawn shop in Las Vegas, and seemed an entire waste, as it was the heaviest thing in all my luggage, and I had dragged it across the country in order to use it as a performance piece to give myself an edge over the other DJs who simply mixed—But, as it turned out, of course, the world, “especially New York”, was over saturated with DJs— though I had done what I could, or most of what I could, to get a head start, I had so much work backed up that in the two weeks since I had left my job in LA, that it didn't matter now that I even had my drum machine with me—I was scrambling to gather money to keep a place to sleep, and so the drum machine would have to go in the morning, in exchange for one or two more nights of housing—and with any luck or by the grace or God I could somehow fish it back out of the pawn shop in some weeks or months time—not that I enjoyed the idea of going back into the workforce as anything but an artist—but so far, this artist that I was had been the lowest of all the low paying jobs I had ever had. ‘What is that?' I had heard the album over and over—it had infinite replay value, of course, and I was using its tones and auras to dry my tears on the long train back to Brooklyn from Manhattan—but, in this moment, as I exited the subway station and made my way down my usual route back to the flat I had depleted my entire savings on staying in—the sound shook through my entirety, rumbling strangely into the arcs of my feet and even stopping me dead in my tracks for a moment, ringing strangely in my chest and into the palms of my hands, up my shoulders and into my hollow lungs, wrapping around my heart, and colliding with the very odd thought “I gotta stay alive to ask Joel what that was.” How bizarre. It was past midnight—and now that I was above ground, I hadn't thought to check again if the new Skrillex album was being released on East Coast time, where Sonny supposedly still was, or if it might not be available until later; and I hadn't thought to look or try to check Instagram again—I had only been on Instagram anyway in hopes of finding a job—and had only checked the Skrillex Instagram hoping that I would see something that would make the way I felt about Sonny stop, by now, suddenly realizing that it never would until he married or procreated with someone else, (or I did) once and for all wiping out any dillusions I had dreamt up or summoned in the wake of our crossing paths. As quickly as he had come to New York, he could have left and probably may have—but I didn't know, and didn't care; it would be futile to believe he would come to rescue me, even if it was what I wanted and needed so much that I couldn't bear the thought of anything more than just departing the entire world. Earlier, even though I had been pressed for time to make it to the gym, having spent the day of course collecting my things and trying to figure a way out ot the homeless box I had built my way into, still stressing the somehow ‘need' to publish the entirety or the 6th season so that I could go on hiatus— It really hadn't occurred to me for more than a moment that Sonny might be listening to my podcast at all, besides listening to Renaissance which I had briefly vaulted, having worked out to it too much and beyond honestly hating myself for not being either Skrillex, or perhaps even more disappointingly, Beyoncè—and either one would have done— I retracted my last couple steps, doubling back to the discotheque—All Night Skate—where I had already asked for a job one of my first nights in Brooklyn, collecting the number of the manager but having lost it, deleting it by accident— INT. ALL NIGHT SKATE. 12:56 AM I realized it was nearly closing time; I had stopped back by after Equinox to write, hoping to music mine whatever the DJ was playing, my body strangely acting and writing quite automatically, with reason to live, shaken suddenly alive by an unidentifiable bass sound seated safely on While 1>2, and still seeking purpose Bryan eno complex heaven Terrors in my head The two songs mixed perfectly into my minds eye as I left, snapping photos for albums yet to be written, and wondering whether or not I would live long enough to write them, or to mix the two songs which had so perfectly mixed—one playing in my headphones and the other over the PA system—and wondering how less than an hour earlier I had experienced a sound I had heard at least a hundred times under the arches of my feet. Oh, wow. ‘Errors In My Bread' The numbers 404 had always triggered the thought: Error, perhaps suggesting even I myself was nothing more than just a simulation or computer of some sort, a robotic formulation of all that had been programmed and crated to exist in the way that I had, a short circuit or some kind of malfunction; I'd trickled into Equinox at precisely 9:52, which allowed me exactly 8 minutes to prepare to record the beginning of the closing announcements at 10:00 for the Equinox + EP, peel off my outer layer of clothes, and pour into the sauna for at least 15 minutes, squeezing in a light workout—warranted, considering I had spent the entirety of the day before at the club, auditioning the rest of the 6th season between the sauna and steamroom, Suffering the Skrillex that had descended onto the city I neither loved nor lived in—which might have totaled altogether about 4 hours in the sauna alone, and what seemed like 56 gallons of sweat—but I was grasping at straws, searching for random numbers to complete my thoughts. I had left Manhattan, as usual, at 11:00 PM as Sports Club closed—pulling my belongings from locker 403, with locker number 404 catching my attention from out of the corner or my eye—and as tears gushed from my face, blasted through the revolving doors—-there was indeed an Error in my Bread, and so to self soothe as usual only seemed fitting, as the words began to pour from my fingertips once more. ‘Not Your Mother's Drag Night' had ended, and the either irony or synchronicity subtly toyed with my inherent need for survival and awestruck emotions, as the last and final episode of the 6th season, which I had already named [Not Your Mother's Episode] before arriving to my Equinox venture at the party — the episode in which everything I had written, assembled with every entry for the 6th season, to be left in its description —was yet still unreleased; it had been a grueling train ride full of tears, and I had yet to neatly tie together the Jimmy Fallon timeline—the Timmy Turner Timeline, which of course connected the Amanda Bynes timelines and all of the Nickelodeon timelines respectively—and though the Skrillex and Dillon Francis timelines had driven nearly every series in their entireties in one way or another, Sonny's sudden arrival into New York City mere hours after Act III, Part IIhad been posted —indicating that either he himself or someone on his campaign had been listening and reading along with my series, jolting me into a frenzy, of course… (though I had already planned to release the end of the season concurrently—as I had with a majority of the previous seasons, taking a hiatus to regroup after each season conclusion or finale) my homeless-suicidal pattern had shown itself to be cyclical, by now—not that one thing hadn't anything to do with the other, and though someone or something may have found it interesting and entertaining, I myself was growing tired of making a mockery of my own self, remaining unloved, unhoused, and unfelt enough so much so that nothing had really changed—and although the 3rd season's hiatus had warranted the 4th season's Anandar, the 4th seasons return to the United States had of course warranted more racism, capitalistic greed, hereditary confinement, algorithmic condemnation, corporate slavery, and an interesting series of mixtapes—which of course had resulted in the 6th season's hope for a better future, my almost-return to Hollywood via the actual real-life Drake Bell and his man-habits, my mental degradation via lack of privacy, and of course, the empathic enforcement or feeling everything at once besides love, human connection or trust. My ex had texted me some weeks earlier, finally having apologized for cheating and assuring me that his karma had been paid in full—without responding, I simply screenshotted the message for future use on an album cover, deleted Google voice, and reassured myself that if his long-overdue karma for cheating had just now been ‘paid-in-full', that it surely had not been paid in full at all and was only just beginning—as he had never apologized or admitted to anything else he'd done—of course, as our relationship had ended, my re-awakening of creativity had been flourishing; I was always recording, taking samples, and writing down ideas for music I wanted to make—and besides that—openly admitting that he had hit me would probably open a disastrous wormhole of self-realization and shame no true narcissist could take—that which he was, not that I at this point had resented it, besides of course the scarring on my lower lip that had come as a result, the estrangement from my son, or the mental anguish I had suffered—and, looking back, I still could never recount whether I had… Just then, I realized that there was an error in my thinking; I had already been running off my weight at a tremendously rapid pace, working out to Recess in the living room between shifts at the veterinary clinic, where I took pride and joy in running with the greyhounds at then-top speed, racing to Diplo, Doctor P, and Rusko—of course, only stopping to express, my breasts still heavy from lactation, and realizing that it was painful to run with boobs full of anything—let alone, milk—which sometimes I pumped for Annie once her glands had gone dry, donated to the NICU, or winded up in my ex's coffee, because it gave him “superpowers.” This is a weird story. Well, if I tell some of it I have to tell all of it. Why are you even telling some of it? Because someone threw Skrillex in my tent and I should have raped him. You can't rape the willing. This is a sick bitch we're dealing with. How do you know he was willing? (He was wiling.) Idk,bro. He looked sick. Or scared. Or Ill. “ill” Get it. I put the ill in Skrillex Better fix my will forreal This could be my last meal Cause I feel like jumping off a building Or a cliff, Like dead horse point— We're beating/being a dead horse, Aren't we? Or an F'n Pig: Oink Oink! Boisterous, Aren't we boys? Let me annoint you all with oil, On upholstery You want a half, Or a whole thing? I want you to hold— I want you to know me I want you to love me I love you Are you happy? Oh, you fucked up. Oh, you think?! I barely sleep, Then you start showing up in my dreams? I don't believe you, I don't believe in anything but me, And I could be you, maybe Maybe there's a sequel, If we're equal— Or if he isn't evil; Maybe I'll just Evil Kinivel Fuck you people! Maybe I'll go fuxkin sleep with Lil Peep I'll call the reaper, Jesus Weeps, But probably not as much as _________ He's a keeper. Fun fact: when you cry, I cry. Plz. Stop crying. I can't. INT. A FIREY PLANE CRASH Wait. THE BILDERBERG MEETING. Jesus Christ, why is Shia Labouf so fuckin ripped. Ew. Who feeds him. CHICKEN. gross. BEFORE: SHIA LABEOUF ITS ME, I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. Ū Oh noooo… SHIA LABEOUF THE FESTIVAL PROJECT Ū … What. SHIA LABEOUF THE FESTIVAL PROJECT Ū k. SHIA LABEOUF NOW WAKE UP, Ū What? SHIA LABEOUF WAKE—UP. Narcissistic Cannibal- Korn, Skrillex. UP. [C.C. Wakes up, drenched in sweat. ] … … … C.C. …Shia LaBeouf…? (That was an actual dream I had once—give or take a few parts.) Yeah, give or take. Ahem. I probably would have forgotten he existed, too, were it not for that dream—and shortly thereafter… FLASHBACK: C.C. Is binge watching Hot Ones. I want—all the sauce. What's that dudes name. Sean. He seems a little off. Yeah, I bet he's off. E Q U I N O X huh. …huh. INT. THE BILDERBERG MEETING SHIA LABEOUF I DONT GIVE A SINGLE FUCK. ILLUMINATI perfect. SECURITY GET OUT. SHIA LABEOUF I WAS NEVER IN. CHICKEN. Ew. ILLUMINATI SEQUENCE C - GREENLIGNT. Wtf is happening in this show. Idk, but I like it. Where's — CHAL (From season 4) IT DOESNT MAAAAAAATER. Right. CUT BACK TO: INT. A FIREY PLANECRASH. DAY. QUEST FOR FIRE. LOOK TO THE SKIES, YOUNG PADOWAN. oh my god. It's a fire breathing dragon! No, dude, that's a firey plane crash. Fuck. FIRE BREATHING DRAGON. That's a fire breathing dragon. W0W. Which do you think is gonna be more interesting? Neither, I'd rather watch The Legend of SupaCree What time is it on? SUPACREE it's always on. How is that even possible! SUPACREE you're on it, Are you recording me? SUPACREE I record everything. Srsly?! SUPACREE Except lovemaking. … SUPACREE That is private. … SCARY TERRY SEX IS SACRED, BITCH. SUPACREE don't cal me a bitch. … go watch TV. CUT BACK TO: INT. A FIREY PLANE CRASH. DAY [Terror has stricken the passengers of flight 626, as the BOEING 747 plunges rapidly, falling from the sky at an alarming speed, as the airplane decentigrates, falling into pieces] SHIA LABEOUF Does this character not have a name? No, it's literally Shia LaBeouf; he's playing himself. CUT TO: SHIA LABEOUF I'M AN AIR MARSHALL WHEN I'M NOT ACTING Why is he still yelling? SHIA LABEOUF ‘CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. CUT BACK TO: Just before: SHIA LABEOUF looks over the rims of his glasses, staring forward at CC/SUPACREE, before lowering his head back down, momentarily pretending to read a magazine from under the brim of his tan cap, obscuring his identity. He places his hand over the gun in his holster, revealing by the golden badge beside it that he is a federal air Marshall (to the audience) before adjusting his brown leather jacket to cover it, squinting conspicuously under his bifocal lenses, peering once more at CC/SUPACREE, and swallowing subtly, licking his lips and flashing away a secondary glimpse of fear in his eyes, before presuming a fierce gaze as he braces for impact, calmly unbuckling his seatbelt. Suddenly, the plane is struck— as the passengers scream and panic in fear, he simply stands up, stabilizing his balance, and moves towards the terrified and hyperventilating SUPACREE. ] Ok. That'll do. What about Drake Bell?! what about Drake Bell!? And Drake And Josh?! AND THE AMANDA SHOW AND ARIANA GRANDE AND ALL THE NICHELODEON KIDS?! It can wait. NO! BUT WHAT ABOUT COSMO + WANDA?! AND SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS AND HEY ARNOLD I never got to Hey Arnold, but I've been thinking about it a lot since I got to New York; but—that's also Nickelodeon, so— BUT WHAT ABOUT DILLON FRANCIS. he's very attractive. WHAt ab0Ut SKriLLeX?! he's also very attractive, And just dropped his album— So we can just assume that the previously mentioned are perhaps both getting their dicks sucked often enough that I don't have to worry about it. Why would you worry about it. CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. This is not kid friendly. AHHHHHHHHHH WHAT ABOUT JIMMY FALLON. Everything naughty he says in this series is censored caused he has a contract with NBC. WHERE'S WHOOPI GOLDBERG?! WHO!? I don't like this. I don't like this at all. Then keep scrolling. What about deadmau5. Probably also presumably getting his dick sucked. W0W. I re-entered the apartment at exactly 1:15. BLŪ Of course. And though I had been filled with nothing but words and heartache, I could do no more than to peel off my layers and tumble into the shower, no longer in tears, but still devastated — and somehow dying to know if the Skrillex album just so happened to mark my Deathwish, or restore my faith in humanity…neither of which actually mattered; I had fallen prey once more to the cycle of poverty's destruction and relentlessness, if even by my own doing—the respective love I held for Sonny, Dillon Francis, or anyone else simply a faction of obsessive fandom, my writings a mere glimpse into the unobstructed world of the fourth dimension, which I undoubtedly still believed and was living in, only hoping that I was indeed not the hopeless protagonist to die, in the end—and perhaps, that even if I did, the worlds and works that I had published on The Legend of Supacree, OWSLA Confidential: The Infinite Skrillifiles, Gerald's World, and Enter The Multiverse would stand as the backbone for an unimaginable flurry of Whatever. The End. ENTER THE MULTIVERSE WAR OF WORLDS LEGENDS HOLY WAR EARTH WORLD WAR WATER (WWIII) {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U. Whatever it is-- look, whatever you want, you can have and I'll give you my love, when I've got it I'm sorry, I don't mean to fiend for a friend; If I lend you my pen, just remember: I've got nothing. listen, I've got nothing left: If you want my best friend, (Perhaps, again) then here's her address, Dillon Not that I would either wish this shit on either of you imbicles: a missile hit the plane where I and Shia were. If you were wondering- but then again, I have been meditating lately, dreaming dreams that drive me crazy wiahing I were so amazing that you'd have to date me and masterbating and fabricating traffic comes and slander, Praying for a savior, pay, and baby making it's okay, though Dillon Francis I didn't mean for this to happen; and you'd have to practice magic for the Amethyst I have for you to act like that (it fucking levitated) anyway, I know you're probably at a rave with 80 ladies and a bunch of people yelling out your name, and some hot babe who looks like Hailey Bieber naked, patiently waiting to mate with you: And I can't wait for you to make it public so I hate you and just space cadet with no regrets not laying with you in my head, like it has been- since my ex, then Kayla Lauren; this is probably boring I should be snoring someone one's outside coughing anyway, I should get going-- but you should know, I'd blow you If I blow up and Sonny never shows up as my beux, but maybe ya'll are bros, huh? fuck. I love C u P C A K E S

I fell into a dream with you last night And when I woke I had to cry And when I looked inside your eyes I had to realize they were mine Now I'm alive And in alignment Something like a diamond shines inside It's just another night Our love is just inside my mind I had to hide it Your highness Right on time. As expected. Hey, I just wanted you to know: Your evil shamanic curse worked( I've been homeless since I left you and demonic forces follow me everywhere So I'm going to kill myself eventually Just the way you hoped I would So no one will have to know that you hit me so hard it made me lose my mind You have an evil spirit and a heartless soul and nobody will ever love you except for our son— So just tell him I love him You fucking win Your curse worked Every single person you ever try to love will cheat and lie to you Just like you did to me And the only reason I don't wish homelessness and suicide onto you Like you wished onto me Is because you have our son Thanks for ruining my life I hope there's heaven on the other side I fucking hate you You're fucking evil You fat stupid retarded motherfucker —but I didn't text him that, of course I wanted to; But in my heart and soul, I knew it would be the end of me, And that he'd know he really had won— And though I didn't want to give him the power or the light of day, I knew I was cursed, Followed by coughing demons, pretty, skinny women, mindfucked by Skrillex and Dillon Francis and set to die in the streets with nothing to eat, nowhere to go, and nothing to lose but myself, not that it mattered— It would be a quiet suicide, And my son might never know I died alone and homeless in New York City; But i loved him the most And the hole in my heart that made me a ghost was shaped just like him ; And though I had nothing left but love to give, Which meant nothing in a cruel and loveless world made of money, The best that I could do was just to love him, And hope that on the other side would be heaven, Where I could know him again I just passed the white rabbit; I'd laugh at it, if I weren't rabid with absolute madness I've had it! I can't stand it I mismanaged My finances, It's fine, actually; I've got enough time (Money) To climb the Empire The Devil's a Liar, But so am I, And God's a bird on a wire How inspiring I'm one off of everything, I can't run, when I'm too busy thinking “Where the fuxk am I gonna sleep” Tomorrow, I can pawn my drum machine— That buys me one more night in a nice dream A nice clean apartment in Brooklyn, Some rice and beans; Another dream… ‘Is it supposed to be a secret?' I really had fallen in love with Sonny, but it didn't seem to matter anymore about anything—I didn't have what I needed at all—and the irony and reality was setting in that the Sonny was dropping his album on the exact day that I would run out of everything—out of money for food, a place to sleep…everything. I had loved him so wholehearly that I had recorded ïambīc; only to be devastated in the following weeks with the discovery that he had been spending time with Kayla Laurenc who I didn't exactly despise, as much as I resented—as in all of my life, girls like her had always gotten ahead and gotten everything I wanted, without even trying—just because they looked the way they did—and, at least by all the people I had been around, even my mother—I was ugly, fat, and retarded. Perhaps he did operate on the Devil's power, with my ex husband; I was homeless, at least not yet hungry, but on my way to it—and finally, out of “nowhere”, Sonny being Skrillex was in New York, releasing the album we had all been waiting for. I was either being cruicified or… Connected to a greater purpose, but it hurt either way—and either way I wanted to end it. Every time I dreamt of Dillon, it was of his entire family—in fact, I had almost forgotten that he had a brother at all; it didn't make sense to me, actually I had stopped breathing. I was crying quietly from the moment I left Equinox—I had done my best not to, but couldn't help it entirely. It had been too long since I had any sense of security. I tossed my head back to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks, staring up with widened eyes, which suddenly focused on the digital LCD screen, flashing the streets at which the train would stop; I was of course sitting directly beneath the stop for 88th street—Sonny's birth year, and a number that had repeatedly jumped out to me since our “meeting”. ‘Why would he do this to me?' Maybe this is all supposed to murder me. My ex husband had been tied to White Supremacy; “I belong to an organization that will kill you and bury you somewhere no one will ever find you.” He once said—one of the things which lead to my attempt—or completing, alternatively, suicide. “You know why I have the power to control demons?” Another notion which had the tendency to repeat itself in my mind, whenever a demonic energy found its way to me, in the form of a skinny, attractive woman or a coughing homeless person, in the form of Kayla Lauren, Dillon Francis, or even Sonny—and though none of the latter two actually ever seemed like actual demons, at least to me—the demonic energy was in knowing that someone like me, in reality, could never deserve or afford someone like Sonny, or Dillon respectively—and although the attraction that I felt to either of them was extreme wrnough to me, and could even be called love, the truth was that the effect of fame meant that it wasn't just me, but hundreds of thousands of other human beings like me, better than me, more attractive than me—and with a better perception of reality that would make more ideal partners, mates, and lovers, and that my own perception of beauty and self love had been shattered by Society. Maybe don't post this. What does it matter? What am I supposed to believe? That Sonny's come to New York to rescue me and take me to freedom—that with someone like me he'd be actually happy? That everything in my head, in my heart, in my mind—the belief that we were meant to be is actually reality? He has every reason and every right to be wary of me. I had read about the teenaged girl that had become obsessed with Drake Bell, following him to all his shows and eventually, even becoming close with him; texting back and forth, and from the looks of it—probably even meeting, hanging out together and who knows what else exactly, besides the man himself and God, on whose behalf it sometimes seeemed I was acting, however— “New York Or Nowhere” Oh shit. The orange and blue basketballs on the fabric clutch held under the arm of the man in front of me distracted my mind for a moment from my writing; the color orange had always reminded me of Dillon, because it was so prevalent in the music which had first captivated me, even before I knew who Dillon Francis was exactly, and had somehow managed to have implanted the notion —especially after the realization that he was, in fact, using magic— that perhaps such a gifted shapeshifter had learned to even transform himself into an object that was inanimate; a traffic cone, whatever that meant. [DON'T HIT ME.] Years had passed since the idea had been established, and though I couldn't seem to remember how I had first actually imagined it, besides listening to what probably may have been ‘too much' Dillon Francis, an entire storyline had been written, as Dillon Francis, having become at some point captain of The Bampheraphs, had instructed the other Insomniacs, Bampheramphs, Motherfuckers, and DJs to also transform into the very simple, very inanimate traffic cones— and though Skrillex, or Sonny—was also given an extreme amount of power and magic, especially even the ability to become inanimate himself, or, “The Inanimate Skrillex”, as it had once been written—as it remarkably turned out, Skrillex would find that he could be every color traffic cone besides Neon Orange—which, as the curator of such an idea, had, over time, become both comedic and tragic—as everywhere I seemed to go, tended to produce strangely colored tragic cones at random. ‘That did happen' Maybe all this means Is when I find the bravery To finally fly, or something… INT. AIRPLANE. DAY BLŪ is seated in a window seat towards the back of a BOEING 747. Oh man, this scene. Sometimes my worst nightmares are airplane crashes, actually. Since I could remember, maybe from the age of about two or three—I would dream awful tragedies—‘nightmares, or night terrors, actually—tornadoes, horrible fires and burning buildings and sometimes, airplane crashes, which even to this day, haunt me when I sleep. You know, nobody has a ticket to the soul train. What. You just jump. Trains in New York do come suicide fast. I was on the platform and still almost got hit! Okay, this isn't really funny anymore, is it? No. Suddenly, a sound rang out into my ears and Ugh, it's hard to write when you want to die this much ‘Why do you want to die this much? I had extended my air bnb for one more night, but it meant giving up one of my drum machines go to the pawn shop—the one which I had just reclaimed from the pawn shop in Las Vegas, and seemed an entire waste, as it was the heaviest thing in all my luggage, and I had dragged it across the country in order to use it as a performance piece to give myself an edge over the other DJs who simply mixed—But, as it turned out, of course, the world, “especially New York”, was over saturated with DJs— though I had done what I could, or most of what I could, to get a head start, I had so much work backed up that in the two weeks since I had left my job in LA, that it didn't matter now that I even had my drum machine with me—I was scrambling to gather money to keep a place to sleep, and so the drum machine would have to go in the morning, in exchange for one or two more nights of housing—and with any luck or by the grace or God I could somehow fish it back out of the pawn shop in some weeks or months time—not that I enjoyed the idea of going back into the workforce as anything but an artist—but so far, this artist that I was had been the lowest of all the low paying jobs I had ever had. ‘What is that?' I had heard the album over and over—it had infinite replay value, of course, and I was using its tones and auras to dry my tears on the long train back to Brooklyn from Manhattan—but, in this moment, as I exited the subway station and made my way down my usual route back to the flat I had depleted my entire savings on staying in—the sound shook through my entirety, rumbling strangely into the arcs of my feet and even stopping me dead in my tracks for a moment, ringing strangely in my chest and into the palms of my hands, up my shoulders and into my hollow lungs, wrapping around my heart, and colliding with the very odd thought “I gotta stay alive to ask Joel what that was.” How bizarre. It was past midnight—and now that I was above ground, I hadn't thought to check again if the new Skrillex album was being released on East Coast time, where Sonny supposedly still was, or if it might not be available until later; and I hadn't thought to look or try to check Instagram again—I had only been on Instagram anyway in hopes of finding a job—and had only checked the Skrillex Instagram hoping that I would see something that would make the way I felt about Sonny stop, by now, suddenly realizing that it never would until he married or procreated with someone else, (or I did) once and for all wiping out any dillusions I had dreamt up or summoned in the wake of our crossing paths. As quickly as he had come to New York, he could have left and probably may have—but I didn't know, and didn't care; it would be futile to believe he would come to rescue me, even if it was what I wanted and needed so much that I couldn't bear the thought of anything more than just departing the entire world. Earlier, even though I had been pressed for time to make it to the gym, having spent the day of course collecting my things and trying to figure a way out ot the homeless box I had built my way into, still stressing the somehow ‘need' to publish the entirety or the 6th season so that I could go on hiatus— It really hadn't occurred to me for more than a moment that Sonny might be listening to my podcast at all, besides listening to Renaissance which I had briefly vaulted, having worked out to it too much and beyond honestly hating myself for not being either Skrillex, or perhaps even more disappointingly, Beyoncè—and either one would have done— I retracted my last couple steps, doubling back to the discotheque—All Night Skate—where I had already asked for a job one of my first nights in Brooklyn, collecting the number of the manager but having lost it, deleting it by accident— INT. ALL NIGHT SKATE. 12:56 AM I realized it was nearly closing time; I had stopped back by after Equinox to write, hoping to music mine whatever the DJ was playing, my body strangely acting and writing quite automatically, with reason to live, shaken suddenly alive by an unidentifiable bass sound seated safely on While 1>2, and still seeking purpose Bryan eno complex heaven Terrors in my head The two songs mixed perfectly into my minds eye as I left, snapping photos for albums yet to be written, and wondering whether or not I would live long enough to write them, or to mix the two songs which had so perfectly mixed—one playing in my headphones and the other over the PA system—and wondering how less than an hour earlier I had experienced a sound I had heard at least a hundred times under the arches of my feet. Oh, wow. ‘Errors In My Bread' The numbers 404 had always triggered the thought: Error, perhaps suggesting even I myself was nothing more than just a simulation or computer of some sort, a robotic formulation of all that had been programmed and crated to exist in the way that I had, a short circuit or some kind of malfunction; I'd trickled into Equinox at precisely 9:52, which allowed me exactly 8 minutes to prepare to record the beginning of the closing announcements at 10:00 for the Equinox + EP, peel off my outer layer of clothes, and pour into the sauna for at least 15 minutes, squeezing in a light workout—warranted, considering I had spent the entirety of the day before at the club, auditioning the rest of the 6th season between the sauna and steamroom, Suffering the Skrillex that had descended onto the city I neither loved nor lived in—which might have totaled altogether about 4 hours in the sauna alone, and what seemed like 56 gallons of sweat—but I was grasping at straws, searching for random numbers to complete my thoughts. I had left Manhattan, as usual, at 11:00 PM as Sports Club closed—pulling my belongings from locker 403, with locker number 404 catching my attention from out of the corner or my eye—and as tears gushed from my face, blasted through the revolving doors—-there was indeed an Error in my Bread, and so to self soothe as usual only seemed fitting, as the words began to pour from my fingertips once more. ‘Not Your Mother's Drag Night' had ended, and the either irony or synchronicity subtly toyed with my inherent need for survival and awestruck emotions, as the last and final episode of the 6th season, which I had already named [Not Your Mother's Episode] before arriving to my Equinox venture at the party — the episode in which everything I had written, assembled with every entry for the 6th season, to be left in its description —was yet still unreleased; it had been a grueling train ride full of tears, and I had yet to neatly tie together the Jimmy Fallon timeline—the Timmy Turner Timeline, which of course connected the Amanda Bynes timelines and all of the Nickelodeon timelines respectively—and though the Skrillex and Dillon Francis timelines had driven nearly every series in their entireties in one way or another, Sonny's sudden arrival into New York City mere hours after Act III, Part IIhad been posted —indicating that either he himself or someone on his campaign had been listening and reading along with my series, jolting me into a frenzy, of course… (though I had already planned to release the end of the season concurrently—as I had with a majority of the previous seasons, taking a hiatus to regroup after each season conclusion or finale) my homeless-suicidal pattern had shown itself to be cyclical, by now—not that one thing hadn't anything to do with the other, and though someone or something may have found it interesting and entertaining, I myself was growing tired of making a mockery of my own self, remaining unloved, unhoused, and unfelt enough so much so that nothing had really changed—and although the 3rd season's hiatus had warranted the 4th season's Anandar, the 4th seasons return to the United States had of course warranted more racism, capitalistic greed, hereditary confinement, algorithmic condemnation, corporate slavery, and an interesting series of mixtapes—which of course had resulted in the 6th season's hope for a better future, my almost-return to Hollywood via the actual real-life Drake Bell and his man-habits, my mental degradation via lack of privacy, and of course, the empathic enforcement or feeling everything at once besides love, human connection or trust. My ex had texted me some weeks earlier, finally having apologized for cheating and assuring me that his karma had been paid in full—without responding, I simply screenshotted the message for future use on an album cover, deleted Google voice, and reassured myself that if his long-overdue karma for cheating had just now been ‘paid-in-full', that it surely had not been paid in full at all and was only just beginning—as he had never apologized or admitted to anything else he'd done—of course, as our relationship had ended, my re-awakening of creativity had been flourishing; I was always recording, taking samples, and writing down ideas for music I wanted to make—and besides that—openly admitting that he had hit me would probably open a disastrous wormhole of self-realization and shame no true narcissist could take—that which he was, not that I at this point had resented it, besides of course the scarring on my lower lip that had come as a result, the estrangement from my son, or the mental anguish I had suffered—and, looking back, I still could never recount whether I had… Just then, I realized that there was an error in my thinking; I had already been running off my weight at a tremendously rapid pace, working out to Recess in the living room between shifts at the veterinary clinic, where I took pride and joy in running with the greyhounds at then-top speed, racing to Diplo, Doctor P, and Rusko—of course, only stopping to express, my breasts still heavy from lactation, and realizing that it was painful to run with boobs full of anything—let alone, milk—which sometimes I pumped for Annie once her glands had gone dry, donated to the NICU, or winded up in my ex's coffee, because it gave him “superpowers.” This is a weird story. Well, if I tell some of it I have to tell all of it. Why are you even telling some of it? Because someone threw Skrillex in my tent and I should have raped him. You can't rape the willing. This is a sick bitch we're dealing with. How do you know he was willing? (He was wiling.) Idk,bro. He looked sick. Or scared. Or Ill. “ill” Get it. I put the ill in Skrillex Better fix my will forreal This could be my last meal Cause I feel like jumping off a building Or a cliff, Like dead horse point— We're beating/being a dead horse, Aren't we? Or an F'n Pig: Oink Oink! Boisterous, Aren't we boys? Let me annoint you all with oil, On upholstery You want a half, Or a whole thing? I want you to hold— I want you to know me I want you to love me I love you Are you happy? Oh, you fucked up. Oh, you think?! I barely sleep, Then you start showing up in my dreams? I don't believe you, I don't believe in anything but me, And I could be you, maybe Maybe there's a sequel, If we're equal— Or if he isn't evil; Maybe I'll just Evil Kinivel Fuck you people! Maybe I'll go fuxkin sleep with Lil Peep I'll call the reaper, Jesus Weeps, But probably not as much as _________ He's a keeper. Fun fact: when you cry, I cry. Plz. Stop crying. I can't. INT. A FIREY PLANE CRASH Wait. THE BILDERBERG MEETING. Jesus Christ, why is Shia Labouf so fuckin ripped. Ew. Who feeds him. CHICKEN. gross. BEFORE: SHIA LABEOUF ITS ME, I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. Ū Oh noooo… SHIA LABEOUF THE FESTIVAL PROJECT Ū … What. SHIA LABEOUF THE FESTIVAL PROJECT Ū k. SHIA LABEOUF NOW WAKE UP, Ū What? SHIA LABEOUF WAKE—UP. Narcissistic Cannibal- Korn, Skrillex. UP. [C.C. Wakes up, drenched in sweat. ] … … … C.C. …Shia LaBeouf…? (That was an actual dream I had once—give or take a few parts.) Yeah, give or take. Ahem. I probably would have forgotten he existed, too, were it not for that dream—and shortly thereafter… FLASHBACK: C.C. Is binge watching Hot Ones. I want—all the sauce. What's that dudes name. Sean. He seems a little off. Yeah, I bet he's off. E Q U I N O X huh. …huh. INT. THE BILDERBERG MEETING SHIA LABEOUF I DONT GIVE A SINGLE FUCK. ILLUMINATI perfect. SECURITY GET OUT. SHIA LABEOUF I WAS NEVER IN. CHICKEN. Ew. ILLUMINATI SEQUENCE C - GREENLIGNT. Wtf is happening in this show. Idk, but I like it. Where's — CHAL (From season 4) IT DOESNT MAAAAAAATER. Right. CUT BACK TO: INT. A FIREY PLANECRASH. DAY. QUEST FOR FIRE. LOOK TO THE SKIES, YOUNG PADOWAN. oh my god. It's a fire breathing dragon! No, dude, that's a firey plane crash. Fuck. FIRE BREATHING DRAGON. That's a fire breathing dragon. W0W. Which do you think is gonna be more interesting? Neither, I'd rather watch The Legend of SupaCree What time is it on? SUPACREE it's always on. How is that even possible! SUPACREE you're on it, Are you recording me? SUPACREE I record everything. Srsly?! SUPACREE Except lovemaking. … SUPACREE That is private. … SCARY TERRY SEX IS SACRED, BITCH. SUPACREE don't cal me a bitch. … go watch TV. CUT BACK TO: INT. A FIREY PLANE CRASH. DAY [Terror has stricken the passengers of flight 626, as the BOEING 747 plunges rapidly, falling from the sky at an alarming speed, as the airplane decentigrates, falling into pieces] SHIA LABEOUF Does this character not have a name? No, it's literally Shia LaBeouf; he's playing himself. CUT TO: SHIA LABEOUF I'M AN AIR MARSHALL WHEN I'M NOT ACTING Why is he still yelling? SHIA LABEOUF ‘CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. CUT BACK TO: Just before: SHIA LABEOUF looks over the rims of his glasses, staring forward at CC/SUPACREE, before lowering his head back down, momentarily pretending to read a magazine from under the brim of his tan cap, obscuring his identity. He places his hand over the gun in his holster, revealing by the golden badge beside it that he is a federal air Marshall (to the audience) before adjusting his brown leather jacket to cover it, squinting conspicuously under his bifocal lenses, peering once more at CC/SUPACREE, and swallowing subtly, licking his lips and flashing away a secondary glimpse of fear in his eyes, before presuming a fierce gaze as he braces for impact, calmly unbuckling his seatbelt. Suddenly, the plane is struck— as the passengers scream and panic in fear, he simply stands up, stabilizing his balance, and moves towards the terrified and hyperventilating SUPACREE. ] Ok. That'll do. What about Drake Bell?! what about Drake Bell!? And Drake And Josh?! AND THE AMANDA SHOW AND ARIANA GRANDE AND ALL THE NICHELODEON KIDS?! It can wait. NO! BUT WHAT ABOUT COSMO + WANDA?! AND SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS AND HEY ARNOLD I never got to Hey Arnold, but I've been thinking about it a lot since I got to New York; but—that's also Nickelodeon, so— BUT WHAT ABOUT DILLON FRANCIS. he's very attractive. WHAt ab0Ut SKriLLeX?! he's also very attractive, And just dropped his album— So we can just assume that the previously mentioned are perhaps both getting their dicks sucked often enough that I don't have to worry about it. Why would you worry about it. CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. This is not kid friendly. AHHHHHHHHHH WHAT ABOUT JIMMY FALLON. Everything naughty he says in this series is censored caused he has a contract with NBC. WHERE'S WHOOPI GOLDBERG?! WHO!? I don't like this. I don't like this at all. Then keep scrolling. What about deadmau5. Probably also presumably getting his dick sucked. W0W. I re-entered the apartment at exactly 1:15. BLŪ Of course. And though I had been filled with nothing but words and heartache, I could do no more than to peel off my layers and tumble into the shower, no longer in tears, but still devastated — and somehow dying to know if the Skrillex album just so happened to mark my Deathwish, or restore my faith in humanity…neither of which actually mattered; I had fallen prey once more to the cycle of poverty's destruction and relentlessness, if even by my own doing—the respective love I held for Sonny, Dillon Francis, or anyone else simply a faction of obsessive fandom, my writings a mere glimpse into the unobstructed world of the fourth dimension, which I undoubtedly still believed and was living in, only hoping that I was indeed not the hopeless protagonist to die, in the end—and perhaps, that even if I did, the worlds and works that I had published on The Legend of Supacree, OWSLA Confidential: The Infinite Skrillifiles, Gerald's World, and Enter The Multiverse would stand as the backbone for an unimaginable flurry of Whatever. The End. ENTER THE MULTIVERSE WAR OF WORLDS LEGENDS HOLY WAR EARTH WORLD WAR WATER (WWIII) {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U. I ain't got nothing but wants for you; I guess I'll thicken the plot, like a cannonball holy where are you? man, Angel, or martyr? I have still a heart, but halfheartedly departed, Your honorable marker, a son, for the sonnet: a song for the road- and a bun, for a bonnet I saw you more often then mom, the bombshell forgot what you called it I've got to run off, And run on to go faux at the faucet i saw you once and You've got all the love, I've got none left- well some-- but it's not the kind I wanted; i gues I'm just a mom, And you're the son; you're the Sun, then. love you, Sonny.

I fell into a dream with you last night And when I woke I had to cry And when I looked inside your eyes I had to realize they were mine Now I'm alive And in alignment Something like a diamond shines inside It's just another night Our love is just inside my mind I had to hide it Your highness Right on time. As expected. Hey, I just wanted you to know: Your evil shamanic curse worked( I've been homeless since I left you and demonic forces follow me everywhere So I'm going to kill myself eventually Just the way you hoped I would So no one will have to know that you hit me so hard it made me lose my mind You have an evil spirit and a heartless soul and nobody will ever love you except for our son— So just tell him I love him You fucking win Your curse worked Every single person you ever try to love will cheat and lie to you Just like you did to me And the only reason I don't wish homelessness and suicide onto you Like you wished onto me Is because you have our son Thanks for ruining my life I hope there's heaven on the other side I fucking hate you You're fucking evil You fat stupid retarded motherfucker —but I didn't text him that, of course I wanted to; But in my heart and soul, I knew it would be the end of me, And that he'd know he really had won— And though I didn't want to give him the power or the light of day, I knew I was cursed, Followed by coughing demons, pretty, skinny women, mindfucked by Skrillex and Dillon Francis and set to die in the streets with nothing to eat, nowhere to go, and nothing to lose but myself, not that it mattered— It would be a quiet suicide, And my son might never know I died alone and homeless in New York City; But i loved him the most And the hole in my heart that made me a ghost was shaped just like him ; And though I had nothing left but love to give, Which meant nothing in a cruel and loveless world made of money, The best that I could do was just to love him, And hope that on the other side would be heaven, Where I could know him again I just passed the white rabbit; I'd laugh at it, if I weren't rabid with absolute madness I've had it! I can't stand it I mismanaged My finances, It's fine, actually; I've got enough time (Money) To climb the Empire The Devil's a Liar, But so am I, And God's a bird on a wire How inspiring I'm one off of everything, I can't run, when I'm too busy thinking “Where the fuxk am I gonna sleep” Tomorrow, I can pawn my drum machine— That buys me one more night in a nice dream A nice clean apartment in Brooklyn, Some rice and beans; Another dream… ‘Is it supposed to be a secret?' I really had fallen in love with Sonny, but it didn't seem to matter anymore about anything—I didn't have what I needed at all—and the irony and reality was setting in that the Sonny was dropping his album on the exact day that I would run out of everything—out of money for food, a place to sleep…everything. I had loved him so wholehearly that I had recorded ïambīc; only to be devastated in the following weeks with the discovery that he had been spending time with Kayla Laurenc who I didn't exactly despise, as much as I resented—as in all of my life, girls like her had always gotten ahead and gotten everything I wanted, without even trying—just because they looked the way they did—and, at least by all the people I had been around, even my mother—I was ugly, fat, and retarded. Perhaps he did operate on the Devil's power, with my ex husband; I was homeless, at least not yet hungry, but on my way to it—and finally, out of “nowhere”, Sonny being Skrillex was in New York, releasing the album we had all been waiting for. I was either being cruicified or… Connected to a greater purpose, but it hurt either way—and either way I wanted to end it. Every time I dreamt of Dillon, it was of his entire family—in fact, I had almost forgotten that he had a brother at all; it didn't make sense to me, actually I had stopped breathing. I was crying quietly from the moment I left Equinox—I had done my best not to, but couldn't help it entirely. It had been too long since I had any sense of security. I tossed my head back to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks, staring up with widened eyes, which suddenly focused on the digital LCD screen, flashing the streets at which the train would stop; I was of course sitting directly beneath the stop for 88th street—Sonny's birth year, and a number that had repeatedly jumped out to me since our “meeting”. ‘Why would he do this to me?' Maybe this is all supposed to murder me. My ex husband had been tied to White Supremacy; “I belong to an organization that will kill you and bury you somewhere no one will ever find you.” He once said—one of the things which lead to my attempt—or completing, alternatively, suicide. “You know why I have the power to control demons?” Another notion which had the tendency to repeat itself in my mind, whenever a demonic energy found its way to me, in the form of a skinny, attractive woman or a coughing homeless person, in the form of Kayla Lauren, Dillon Francis, or even Sonny—and though none of the latter two actually ever seemed like actual demons, at least to me—the demonic energy was in knowing that someone like me, in reality, could never deserve or afford someone like Sonny, or Dillon respectively—and although the attraction that I felt to either of them was extreme wrnough to me, and could even be called love, the truth was that the effect of fame meant that it wasn't just me, but hundreds of thousands of other human beings like me, better than me, more attractive than me—and with a better perception of reality that would make more ideal partners, mates, and lovers, and that my own perception of beauty and self love had been shattered by Society. Maybe don't post this. What does it matter? What am I supposed to believe? That Sonny's come to New York to rescue me and take me to freedom—that with someone like me he'd be actually happy? That everything in my head, in my heart, in my mind—the belief that we were meant to be is actually reality? He has every reason and every right to be wary of me. I had read about the teenaged girl that had become obsessed with Drake Bell, following him to all his shows and eventually, even becoming close with him; texting back and forth, and from the looks of it—probably even meeting, hanging out together and who knows what else exactly, besides the man himself and God, on whose behalf it sometimes seeemed I was acting, however— “New York Or Nowhere” Oh shit. The orange and blue basketballs on the fabric clutch held under the arm of the man in front of me distracted my mind for a moment from my writing; the color orange had always reminded me of Dillon, because it was so prevalent in the music which had first captivated me, even before I knew who Dillon Francis was exactly, and had somehow managed to have implanted the notion —especially after the realization that he was, in fact, using magic— that perhaps such a gifted shapeshifter had learned to even transform himself into an object that was inanimate; a traffic cone, whatever that meant. [DON'T HIT ME.] Years had passed since the idea had been established, and though I couldn't seem to remember how I had first actually imagined it, besides listening to what probably may have been ‘too much' Dillon Francis, an entire storyline had been written, as Dillon Francis, having become at some point captain of The Bampheraphs, had instructed the other Insomniacs, Bampheramphs, Motherfuckers, and DJs to also transform into the very simple, very inanimate traffic cones— and though Skrillex, or Sonny—was also given an extreme amount of power and magic, especially even the ability to become inanimate himself, or, “The Inanimate Skrillex”, as it had once been written—as it remarkably turned out, Skrillex would find that he could be every color traffic cone besides Neon Orange—which, as the curator of such an idea, had, over time, become both comedic and tragic—as everywhere I seemed to go, tended to produce strangely colored tragic cones at random. ‘That did happen' Maybe all this means Is when I find the bravery To finally fly, or something… INT. AIRPLANE. DAY BLŪ is seated in a window seat towards the back of a BOEING 747. Oh man, this scene. Sometimes my worst nightmares are airplane crashes, actually. Since I could remember, maybe from the age of about two or three—I would dream awful tragedies—‘nightmares, or night terrors, actually—tornadoes, horrible fires and burning buildings and sometimes, airplane crashes, which even to this day, haunt me when I sleep. You know, nobody has a ticket to the soul train. What. You just jump. Trains in New York do come suicide fast. I was on the platform and still almost got hit! Okay, this isn't really funny anymore, is it? No. Suddenly, a sound rang out into my ears and Ugh, it's hard to write when you want to die this much ‘Why do you want to die this much? I had extended my air bnb for one more night, but it meant giving up one of my drum machines go to the pawn shop—the one which I had just reclaimed from the pawn shop in Las Vegas, and seemed an entire waste, as it was the heaviest thing in all my luggage, and I had dragged it across the country in order to use it as a performance piece to give myself an edge over the other DJs who simply mixed—But, as it turned out, of course, the world, “especially New York”, was over saturated with DJs— though I had done what I could, or most of what I could, to get a head start, I had so much work backed up that in the two weeks since I had left my job in LA, that it didn't matter now that I even had my drum machine with me—I was scrambling to gather money to keep a place to sleep, and so the drum machine would have to go in the morning, in exchange for one or two more nights of housing—and with any luck or by the grace or God I could somehow fish it back out of the pawn shop in some weeks or months time—not that I enjoyed the idea of going back into the workforce as anything but an artist—but so far, this artist that I was had been the lowest of all the low paying jobs I had ever had. ‘What is that?' I had heard the album over and over—it had infinite replay value, of course, and I was using its tones and auras to dry my tears on the long train back to Brooklyn from Manhattan—but, in this moment, as I exited the subway station and made my way down my usual route back to the flat I had depleted my entire savings on staying in—the sound shook through my entirety, rumbling strangely into the arcs of my feet and even stopping me dead in my tracks for a moment, ringing strangely in my chest and into the palms of my hands, up my shoulders and into my hollow lungs, wrapping around my heart, and colliding with the very odd thought “I gotta stay alive to ask Joel what that was.” How bizarre. It was past midnight—and now that I was above ground, I hadn't thought to check again if the new Skrillex album was being released on East Coast time, where Sonny supposedly still was, or if it might not be available until later; and I hadn't thought to look or try to check Instagram again—I had only been on Instagram anyway in hopes of finding a job—and had only checked the Skrillex Instagram hoping that I would see something that would make the way I felt about Sonny stop, by now, suddenly realizing that it never would until he married or procreated with someone else, (or I did) once and for all wiping out any dillusions I had dreamt up or summoned in the wake of our crossing paths. As quickly as he had come to New York, he could have left and probably may have—but I didn't know, and didn't care; it would be futile to believe he would come to rescue me, even if it was what I wanted and needed so much that I couldn't bear the thought of anything more than just departing the entire world. Earlier, even though I had been pressed for time to make it to the gym, having spent the day of course collecting my things and trying to figure a way out ot the homeless box I had built my way into, still stressing the somehow ‘need' to publish the entirety or the 6th season so that I could go on hiatus— It really hadn't occurred to me for more than a moment that Sonny might be listening to my podcast at all, besides listening to Renaissance which I had briefly vaulted, having worked out to it too much and beyond honestly hating myself for not being either Skrillex, or perhaps even more disappointingly, Beyoncè—and either one would have done— I retracted my last couple steps, doubling back to the discotheque—All Night Skate—where I had already asked for a job one of my first nights in Brooklyn, collecting the number of the manager but having lost it, deleting it by accident— INT. ALL NIGHT SKATE. 12:56 AM I realized it was nearly closing time; I had stopped back by after Equinox to write, hoping to music mine whatever the DJ was playing, my body strangely acting and writing quite automatically, with reason to live, shaken suddenly alive by an unidentifiable bass sound seated safely on While 1>2, and still seeking purpose Bryan eno complex heaven Terrors in my head The two songs mixed perfectly into my minds eye as I left, snapping photos for albums yet to be written, and wondering whether or not I would live long enough to write them, or to mix the two songs which had so perfectly mixed—one playing in my headphones and the other over the PA system—and wondering how less than an hour earlier I had experienced a sound I had heard at least a hundred times under the arches of my feet. Oh, wow. ‘Errors In My Bread' The numbers 404 had always triggered the thought: Error, perhaps suggesting even I myself was nothing more than just a simulation or computer of some sort, a robotic formulation of all that had been programmed and crated to exist in the way that I had, a short circuit or some kind of malfunction; I'd trickled into Equinox at precisely 9:52, which allowed me exactly 8 minutes to prepare to record the beginning of the closing announcements at 10:00 for the Equinox + EP, peel off my outer layer of clothes, and pour into the sauna for at least 15 minutes, squeezing in a light workout—warranted, considering I had spent the entirety of the day before at the club, auditioning the rest of the 6th season between the sauna and steamroom, Suffering the Skrillex that had descended onto the city I neither loved nor lived in—which might have totaled altogether about 4 hours in the sauna alone, and what seemed like 56 gallons of sweat—but I was grasping at straws, searching for random numbers to complete my thoughts. I had left Manhattan, as usual, at 11:00 PM as Sports Club closed—pulling my belongings from locker 403, with locker number 404 catching my attention from out of the corner or my eye—and as tears gushed from my face, blasted through the revolving doors—-there was indeed an Error in my Bread, and so to self soothe as usual only seemed fitting, as the words began to pour from my fingertips once more. ‘Not Your Mother's Drag Night' had ended, and the either irony or synchronicity subtly toyed with my inherent need for survival and awestruck emotions, as the last and final episode of the 6th season, which I had already named [Not Your Mother's Episode] before arriving to my Equinox venture at the party — the episode in which everything I had written, assembled with every entry for the 6th season, to be left in its description —was yet still unreleased; it had been a grueling train ride full of tears, and I had yet to neatly tie together the Jimmy Fallon timeline—the Timmy Turner Timeline, which of course connected the Amanda Bynes timelines and all of the Nickelodeon timelines respectively—and though the Skrillex and Dillon Francis timelines had driven nearly every series in their entireties in one way or another, Sonny's sudden arrival into New York City mere hours after Act III, Part IIhad been posted —indicating that either he himself or someone on his campaign had been listening and reading along with my series, jolting me into a frenzy, of course… (though I had already planned to release the end of the season concurrently—as I had with a majority of the previous seasons, taking a hiatus to regroup after each season conclusion or finale) my homeless-suicidal pattern had shown itself to be cyclical, by now—not that one thing hadn't anything to do with the other, and though someone or something may have found it interesting and entertaining, I myself was growing tired of making a mockery of my own self, remaining unloved, unhoused, and unfelt enough so much so that nothing had really changed—and although the 3rd season's hiatus had warranted the 4th season's Anandar, the 4th seasons return to the United States had of course warranted more racism, capitalistic greed, hereditary confinement, algorithmic condemnation, corporate slavery, and an interesting series of mixtapes—which of course had resulted in the 6th season's hope for a better future, my almost-return to Hollywood via the actual real-life Drake Bell and his man-habits, my mental degradation via lack of privacy, and of course, the empathic enforcement or feeling everything at once besides love, human connection or trust. My ex had texted me some weeks earlier, finally having apologized for cheating and assuring me that his karma had been paid in full—without responding, I simply screenshotted the message for future use on an album cover, deleted Google voice, and reassured myself that if his long-overdue karma for cheating had just now been ‘paid-in-full', that it surely had not been paid in full at all and was only just beginning—as he had never apologized or admitted to anything else he'd done—of course, as our relationship had ended, my re-awakening of creativity had been flourishing; I was always recording, taking samples, and writing down ideas for music I wanted to make—and besides that—openly admitting that he had hit me would probably open a disastrous wormhole of self-realization and shame no true narcissist could take—that which he was, not that I at this point had resented it, besides of course the scarring on my lower lip that had come as a result, the estrangement from my son, or the mental anguish I had suffered—and, looking back, I still could never recount whether I had… Just then, I realized that there was an error in my thinking; I had already been running off my weight at a tremendously rapid pace, working out to Recess in the living room between shifts at the veterinary clinic, where I took pride and joy in running with the greyhounds at then-top speed, racing to Diplo, Doctor P, and Rusko—of course, only stopping to express, my breasts still heavy from lactation, and realizing that it was painful to run with boobs full of anything—let alone, milk—which sometimes I pumped for Annie once her glands had gone dry, donated to the NICU, or winded up in my ex's coffee, because it gave him “superpowers.” This is a weird story. Well, if I tell some of it I have to tell all of it. Why are you even telling some of it? Because someone threw Skrillex in my tent and I should have raped him. You can't rape the willing. This is a sick bitch we're dealing with. How do you know he was willing? (He was wiling.) Idk,bro. He looked sick. Or scared. Or Ill. “ill” Get it. I put the ill in Skrillex Better fix my will forreal This could be my last meal Cause I feel like jumping off a building Or a cliff, Like dead horse point— We're beating/being a dead horse, Aren't we? Or an F'n Pig: Oink Oink! Boisterous, Aren't we boys? Let me annoint you all with oil, On upholstery You want a half, Or a whole thing? I want you to hold— I want you to know me I want you to love me I love you Are you happy? Oh, you fucked up. Oh, you think?! I barely sleep, Then you start showing up in my dreams? I don't believe you, I don't believe in anything but me, And I could be you, maybe Maybe there's a sequel, If we're equal— Or if he isn't evil; Maybe I'll just Evil Kinivel Fuck you people! Maybe I'll go fuxkin sleep with Lil Peep I'll call the reaper, Jesus Weeps, But probably not as much as _________ He's a keeper. Fun fact: when you cry, I cry. Plz. Stop crying. I can't. INT. A FIREY PLANE CRASH Wait. THE BILDERBERG MEETING. Jesus Christ, why is Shia Labouf so fuckin ripped. Ew. Who feeds him. CHICKEN. gross. BEFORE: SHIA LABEOUF ITS ME, I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. Ū Oh noooo… SHIA LABEOUF THE FESTIVAL PROJECT Ū … What. SHIA LABEOUF THE FESTIVAL PROJECT Ū k. SHIA LABEOUF NOW WAKE UP, Ū What? SHIA LABEOUF WAKE—UP. Narcissistic Cannibal- Korn, Skrillex. UP. [C.C. Wakes up, drenched in sweat. ] … … … C.C. …Shia LaBeouf…? (That was an actual dream I had once—give or take a few parts.) Yeah, give or take. Ahem. I probably would have forgotten he existed, too, were it not for that dream—and shortly thereafter… FLASHBACK: C.C. Is binge watching Hot Ones. I want—all the sauce. What's that dudes name. Sean. He seems a little off. Yeah, I bet he's off. E Q U I N O X huh. …huh. INT. THE BILDERBERG MEETING SHIA LABEOUF I DONT GIVE A SINGLE FUCK. ILLUMINATI perfect. SECURITY GET OUT. SHIA LABEOUF I WAS NEVER IN. CHICKEN. Ew. ILLUMINATI SEQUENCE C - GREENLIGNT. Wtf is happening in this show. Idk, but I like it. Where's — CHAL (From season 4) IT DOESNT MAAAAAAATER. Right. CUT BACK TO: INT. A FIREY PLANECRASH. DAY. QUEST FOR FIRE. LOOK TO THE SKIES, YOUNG PADOWAN. oh my god. It's a fire breathing dragon! No, dude, that's a firey plane crash. Fuck. FIRE BREATHING DRAGON. That's a fire breathing dragon. W0W. Which do you think is gonna be more interesting? Neither, I'd rather watch The Legend of SupaCree What time is it on? SUPACREE it's always on. How is that even possible! SUPACREE you're on it, Are you recording me? SUPACREE I record everything. Srsly?! SUPACREE Except lovemaking. … SUPACREE That is private. … SCARY TERRY SEX IS SACRED, BITCH. SUPACREE don't cal me a bitch. … go watch TV. CUT BACK TO: INT. A FIREY PLANE CRASH. DAY [Terror has stricken the passengers of flight 626, as the BOEING 747 plunges rapidly, falling from the sky at an alarming speed, as the airplane decentigrates, falling into pieces] SHIA LABEOUF Does this character not have a name? No, it's literally Shia LaBeouf; he's playing himself. CUT TO: SHIA LABEOUF I'M AN AIR MARSHALL WHEN I'M NOT ACTING Why is he still yelling? SHIA LABEOUF ‘CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. CUT BACK TO: Just before: SHIA LABEOUF looks over the rims of his glasses, staring forward at CC/SUPACREE, before lowering his head back down, momentarily pretending to read a magazine from under the brim of his tan cap, obscuring his identity. He places his hand over the gun in his holster, revealing by the golden badge beside it that he is a federal air Marshall (to the audience) before adjusting his brown leather jacket to cover it, squinting conspicuously under his bifocal lenses, peering once more at CC/SUPACREE, and swallowing subtly, licking his lips and flashing away a secondary glimpse of fear in his eyes, before presuming a fierce gaze as he braces for impact, calmly unbuckling his seatbelt. Suddenly, the plane is struck— as the passengers scream and panic in fear, he simply stands up, stabilizing his balance, and moves towards the terrified and hyperventilating SUPACREE. ] Ok. That'll do. What about Drake Bell?! what about Drake Bell!? And Drake And Josh?! AND THE AMANDA SHOW AND ARIANA GRANDE AND ALL THE NICHELODEON KIDS?! It can wait. NO! BUT WHAT ABOUT COSMO + WANDA?! AND SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS AND HEY ARNOLD I never got to Hey Arnold, but I've been thinking about it a lot since I got to New York; but—that's also Nickelodeon, so— BUT WHAT ABOUT DILLON FRANCIS. he's very attractive. WHAt ab0Ut SKriLLeX?! he's also very attractive, And just dropped his album— So we can just assume that the previously mentioned are perhaps both getting their dicks sucked often enough that I don't have to worry about it. Why would you worry about it. CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. This is not kid friendly. AHHHHHHHHHH WHAT ABOUT JIMMY FALLON. Everything naughty he says in this series is censored caused he has a contract with NBC. WHERE'S WHOOPI GOLDBERG?! WHO!? I don't like this. I don't like this at all. Then keep scrolling. What about deadmau5. Probably also presumably getting his dick sucked. W0W. I re-entered the apartment at exactly 1:15. BLŪ Of course. And though I had been filled with nothing but words and heartache, I could do no more than to peel off my layers and tumble into the shower, no longer in tears, but still devastated — and somehow dying to know if the Skrillex album just so happened to mark my Deathwish, or restore my faith in humanity…neither of which actually mattered; I had fallen prey once more to the cycle of poverty's destruction and relentlessness, if even by my own doing—the respective love I held for Sonny, Dillon Francis, or anyone else simply a faction of obsessive fandom, my writings a mere glimpse into the unobstructed world of the fourth dimension, which I undoubtedly still believed and was living in, only hoping that I was indeed not the hopeless protagonist to die, in the end—and perhaps, that even if I did, the worlds and works that I had published on The Legend of Supacree, OWSLA Confidential: The Infinite Skrillifiles, Gerald's World, and Enter The Multiverse would stand as the backbone for an unimaginable flurry of Whatever. The End. ENTER THE MULTIVERSE WAR OF WORLDS LEGENDS HOLY WAR EARTH WORLD WAR WATER (WWIII) I fell into a dream with you last night And when I woke I had to cry And when I looked inside your eyes I had to realize they were mine Now I'm alive And in alignment Something like a diamond shines inside It's just another night Our love is just inside my mind I had to hide it Your highness Right on time. As expected. Hey, I just wanted you to know: Your evil shamanic curse worked( I've been homeless since I left you and demonic forces follow me everywhere So I'm going to kill myself eventually Just the way you hoped I would So no one will have to know that you hit me so hard it made me lose my mind You have an evil spirit and a heartless soul and nobody will ever love you except for our son— So just tell him I love him You fucking win Your curse worked Every single person you ever try to love will cheat and lie to you Just like you did to me And the only reason I don't wish homelessness and suicide onto you Like you wished onto me Is because you have our son Thanks for ruining my life I hope there's heaven on the other side I fucking hate you You're fucking evil You fat stupid retarded motherfucker —but I didn't text him that, of course I wanted to; But in my heart and soul, I knew it would be the end of me, And that he'd know he really had won— And though I didn't want to give him the power or the light of day, I knew I was cursed, Followed by coughing demons, pretty, skinny women, mindfucked by Skrillex and Dillon Francis and set to die in the streets with nothing to eat, nowhere to go, and nothing to lose but myself, not that it mattered— It would be a quiet suicide, And my son might never know I died alone and homeless in New York City; But i loved him the most And the hole in my heart that made me a ghost was shaped just like him ; And though I had nothing left but love to give, Which meant nothing in a cruel and loveless world made of money, The best that I could do was just to love him, And hope that on the other side would be heaven, Where I could know him again I just passed the white rabbit; I'd laugh at it, if I weren't rabid with absolute madness I've had it! I can't stand it I mismanaged My finances, It's fine, actually; I've got enough time (Money) To climb the Empire The Devil's a Liar, But so am I, And God's a bird on a wire How inspiring I'm one off of everything, I can't run, when I'm too busy thinking “Where the fuxk am I gonna sleep” Tomorrow, I can pawn my drum machine— That buys me one more night in a nice dream A nice clean apartment in Brooklyn, Some rice and beans; Another dream… ‘Is it supposed to be a secret?' I really had fallen in love with Sonny, but it didn't seem to matter anymore about anything—I didn't have what I needed at all—and the irony and reality was setting in that the Sonny was dropping his album on the exact day that I would run out of everything—out of money for food, a place to sleep…everything. I had loved him so wholehearly that I had recorded ïambīc; only to be devastated in the following weeks with the discovery that he had been spending time with Kayla Laurenc who I didn't exactly despise, as much as I resented—as in all of my life, girls like her had always gotten ahead and gotten everything I wanted, without even trying—just because they looked the way they did—and, at least by all the people I had been around, even my mother—I was ugly, fat, and retarded. Perhaps he did operate on the Devil's power, with my ex husband; I was homeless, at least not yet hungry, but on my way to it—and finally, out of “nowhere”, Sonny being Skrillex was in New York, releasing the album we had all been waiting for. I was either being cruicified or… Connected to a greater purpose, but it hurt either way—and either way I wanted to end it. Every time I dreamt of Dillon, it was of his entire family—in fact, I had almost forgotten that he had a brother at all; it didn't make sense to me, actually I had stopped breathing. I was crying quietly from the moment I left Equinox—I had done my best not to, but couldn't help it entirely. It had been too long since I had any sense of security. I tossed my head back to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks, staring up with widened eyes, which suddenly focused on the digital LCD screen, flashing the streets at which the train would stop; I was of course sitting directly beneath the stop for 88th street—Sonny's birth year, and a number that had repeatedly jumped out to me since our “meeting”. ‘Why would he do this to me?' Maybe this is all supposed to murder me. My ex husband had been tied to White Supremacy; “I belong to an organization that will kill you and bury you somewhere no one will ever find you.” He once said—one of the things which lead to my attempt—or completing, alternatively, suicide. “You know why I have the power to control demons?” Another notion which had the tendency to repeat itself in my mind, whenever a demonic energy found its way to me, in the form of a skinny, attractive woman or a coughing homeless person, in the form of Kayla Lauren, Dillon Francis, or even Sonny—and though none of the latter two actually ever seemed like actual demons, at least to me—the demonic energy was in knowing that someone like me, in reality, could never deserve or afford someone like Sonny, or Dillon respectively—and although the attraction that I felt to either of them was extreme wrnough to me, and could even be called love, the truth was that the effect of fame meant that it wasn't just me, but hundreds of thousands of other human beings like me, better than me, more attractive than me—and with a better perception of reality that would make more ideal partners, mates, and lovers, and that my own perception of beauty and self love had been shattered by Society. Maybe don't post this. What does it matter? What am I supposed to believe? That Sonny's come to New York to rescue me and take me to freedom—that with someone like me he'd be actually happy? That everything in my head, in my heart, in my mind—the belief that we were meant to be is actually reality? He has every reason and every right to be wary of me. I had read about the teenaged girl that had become obsessed with Drake Bell, following him to all his shows and eventually, even becoming close with him; texting back and forth, and from the looks of it—probably even meeting, hanging out together and who knows what else exactly, besides the man himself and God, on whose behalf it sometimes seeemed I was acting, however— “New York Or Nowhere” Oh shit. The orange and blue basketballs on the fabric clutch held under the arm of the man in front of me distracted my mind for a moment from my writing; the color orange had always reminded me of Dillon, because it was so prevalent in the music which had first captivated me, even before I knew who Dillon Francis was exactly, and had somehow managed to have implanted the notion —especially after the realization that he was, in fact, using magic— that perhaps such a gifted shapeshifter had learned to even transform himself into an object that was inanimate; a traffic cone, whatever that meant. [DON'T HIT ME.] Years had passed since the idea had been established, and though I couldn't seem to remember how I had first actually imagined it, besides listening to what probably may have been ‘too much' Dillon Francis, an entire storyline had been written, as Dillon Francis, having become at some point captain of The Bampheraphs, had instructed the other Insomniacs, Bampheramphs, Motherfuckers, and DJs to also transform into the very simple, very inanimate traffic cones— and though Skrillex, or Sonny—was also given an extreme amount of power and magic, especially even the ability to become inanimate himself, or, “The Inanimate Skrillex”, as it had once been written—as it remarkably turned out, Skrillex would find that he could be every color traffic cone besides Neon Orange—which, as the curator of such an idea, had, over time, become both comedic and tragic—as everywhere I seemed to go, tended to produce strangely colored tragic cones at random. ‘That did happen' Maybe all this means Is when I find the bravery To finally fly, or something… INT. AIRPLANE. DAY BLŪ is seated in a window seat towards the back of a BOEING 747. Oh man, this scene. Sometimes my worst nightmares are airplane crashes, actually. Since I could remember, maybe from the age of about two or three—I would dream awful tragedies—‘nightmares, or night terrors, actually—tornadoes, horrible fires and burning buildings and sometimes, airplane crashes, which even to this day, haunt me when I sleep. You know, nobody has a ticket to the soul train. What. You just jump. Trains in New York do come suicide fast. I was on the platform and still almost got hit! Okay, this isn't really funny anymore, is it? No. Suddenly, a sound rang out into my ears and Ugh, it's hard to write when you want to die this much ‘Why do you want to die this much? I had extended my air bnb for one more night, but it meant giving up one of my drum machines go to the pawn shop—the one which I had just reclaimed from the pawn shop in Las Vegas, and seemed an entire waste, as it was the heaviest thing in all my luggage, and I had dragged it across the country in order to use it as a performance piece to give myself an edge over the other DJs who simply mixed—But, as it turned out, of course, the world, “especially New York”, was over saturated with DJs— though I had done what I could, or most of what I could, to get a head start, I had so much work backed up that in the two weeks since I had left my job in LA, that it didn't matter now that I even had my drum machine with me—I was scrambling to gather money to keep a place to sleep, and so the drum machine would have to go in the morning, in exchange for one or two more nights of housing—and with any luck or by the grace or God I could somehow fish it back out of the pawn shop in some weeks or months time—not that I enjoyed the idea of going back into the workforce as anything but an artist—but so far, this artist that I was had been the lowest of all the low paying jobs I had ever had. ‘What is that?' I had heard the album over and over—it had infinite replay value, of course, and I was using its tones and auras to dry my tears on the long train back to Brooklyn from Manhattan—but, in this moment, as I exited the subway station and made my way down my usual route back to the flat I had depleted my entire savings on staying in—the sound shook through my entirety, rumbling strangely into the arcs of my feet and even stopping me dead in my tracks for a moment, ringing strangely in my chest and into the palms of my hands, up my shoulders and into my hollow lungs, wrapping around my heart, and colliding with the very odd thought “I gotta stay alive to ask Joel what that was.” How bizarre. It was past midnight—and now that I was above ground, I hadn't thought to check again if the new Skrillex album was being released on East Coast time, where Sonny supposedly still was, or if it might not be available until later; and I hadn't thought to look or try to check Instagram again—I had only been on Instagram anyway in hopes of finding a job—and had only checked the Skrillex Instagram hoping that I would see something that would make the way I felt about Sonny stop, by now, suddenly realizing that it never would until he married or procreated with someone else, (or I did) once and for all wiping out any dillusions I had dreamt up or summoned in the wake of our crossing paths. As quickly as he had come to New York, he could have left and probably may have—but I didn't know, and didn't care; it would be futile to believe he would come to rescue me, even if it was what I wanted and needed so much that I couldn't bear the thought of anything more than just departing the entire world. Earlier, even though I had been pressed for time to make it to the gym, having spent the day of course collecting my things and trying to figure a way out ot the homeless box I had built my way into, still stressing the somehow ‘need' to publish the entirety or the 6th season so that I could go on hiatus— It really hadn't occurred to me for more than a moment that Sonny might be listening to my podcast at all, besides listening to Renaissance which I had briefly vaulted, having worked out to it too much and beyond honestly hating myself for not being either Skrillex, or perhaps even more disappointingly, Beyoncè—and either one would have done— I retracted my last couple steps, doubling back to the discotheque—All Night Skate—where I had already asked for a job one of my first nights in Brooklyn, collecting the number of the manager but having lost it, deleting it by accident— INT. ALL NIGHT SKATE. 12:56 AM I realized it was nearly closing time; I had stopped back by after Equinox to write, hoping to music mine whatever the DJ was playing, my body strangely acting and writing quite automatically, with reason to live, shaken suddenly alive by an unidentifiable bass sound seated safely on While 1>2, and still seeking purpose Bryan eno complex heaven Terrors in my head The two songs mixed perfectly into my minds eye as I left, snapping photos for albums yet to be written, and wondering whether or not I would live long enough to write them, or to mix the two songs which had so perfectly mixed—one playing in my headphones and the other over the PA system—and wondering how less than an hour earlier I had experienced a sound I had heard at least a hundred times under the arches of my feet. Oh, wow. ‘Errors In My Bread' The numbers 404 had always triggered the thought: Error, perhaps suggesting even I myself was nothing more than just a simulation or computer of some sort, a robotic formulation of all that had been programmed and crated to exist in the way that I had, a short circuit or some kind of malfunction; I'd trickled into Equinox at precisely 9:52, which allowed me exactly 8 minutes to prepare to record the beginning of the closing announcements at 10:00 for the Equinox + EP, peel off my outer layer of clothes, and pour into the sauna for at least 15 minutes, squeezing in a light workout—warranted, considering I had spent the entirety of the day before at the club, auditioning the rest of the 6th season between the sauna and steamroom, Suffering the Skrillex that had descended onto the city I neither loved nor lived in—which might have totaled altogether about 4 hours in the sauna alone, and what seemed like 56 gallons of sweat—but I was grasping at straws, searching for random numbers to complete my thoughts. I had left Manhattan, as usual, at 11:00 PM as Sports Club closed—pulling my belongings from locker 403, with locker number 404 catching my attention from out of the corner or my eye—and as tears gushed from my face, blasted through the revolving doors—-there was indeed an Error in my Bread, and so to self soothe as usual only seemed fitting, as the words began to pour from my fingertips once more. ‘Not Your Mother's Drag Night' had ended, and the either irony or synchronicity subtly toyed with my inherent need for survival and awestruck emotions, as the last and final episode of the 6th season, which I had already named [Not Your Mother's Episode] before arriving to my Equinox venture at the party — the episode in which everything I had written, assembled with every entry for the 6th season, to be left in its description —was yet still unreleased; it had been a grueling train ride full of tears, and I had yet to neatly tie together the Jimmy Fallon timeline—the Timmy Turner Timeline, which of course connected the Amanda Bynes timelines and all of the Nickelodeon timelines respectively—and though the Skrillex and Dillon Francis timelines had driven nearly every series in their entireties in one way or another, Sonny's sudden arrival into New York City mere hours after Act III, Part IIhad been posted —indicating that either he himself or someone on his campaign had been listening and reading along with my series, jolting me into a frenzy, of course… (though I had already planned to release the end of the season concurrently—as I had with a majority of the previous seasons, taking a hiatus to regroup after each season conclusion or finale) my homeless-suicidal pattern had shown itself to be cyclical, by now—not that one thing hadn't anything to do with the other, and though someone or something may have found it interesting and entertaining, I myself was growing tired of making a mockery of my own self, remaining unloved, unhoused, and unfelt enough so much so that nothing had really changed—and although the 3rd season's hiatus had warranted the 4th season's Anandar, the 4th seasons return to the United States had of course warranted more racism, capitalistic greed, hereditary confinement, algorithmic condemnation, corporate slavery, and an interesting series of mixtapes—which of course had resulted in the 6th season's hope for a better future, my almost-return to Hollywood via the actual real-life Drake Bell and his man-habits, my mental degradation via lack of privacy, and of course, the empathic enforcement or feeling everything at once besides love, human connection or trust. My ex had texted me some weeks earlier, finally having apologized for cheating and assuring me that his karma had been paid in full—without responding, I simply screenshotted the message for future use on an album cover, deleted Google voice, and reassured myself that if his long-overdue karma for cheating had just now been ‘paid-in-full', that it surely had not been paid in full at all and was only just beginning—as he had never apologized or admitted to anything else he'd done—of course, as our relationship had ended, my re-awakening of creativity had been flourishing; I was always recording, taking samples, and writing down ideas for music I wanted to make—and besides that—openly admitting that he had hit me would probably open a disastrous wormhole of self-realization and shame no true narcissist could take—that which he was, not that I at this point had resented it, besides of course the scarring on my lower lip that had come as a result, the estrangement from my son, or the mental anguish I had suffered—and, looking back, I still could never recount whether I had… Just then, I realized that there was an error in my thinking; I had already been running off my weight at a tremendously rapid pace, working out to Recess in the living room between shifts at the veterinary clinic, where I took pride and joy in running with the greyhounds at then-top speed, racing to Diplo, Doctor P, and Rusko—of course, only stopping to express, my breasts still heavy from lactation, and realizing that it was painful to run with boobs full of anything—let alone, milk—which sometimes I pumped for Annie once her glands had gone dry, donated to the NICU, or winded up in my ex's coffee, because it gave him “superpowers.” This is a weird story. Well, if I tell some of it I have to tell all of it. Why are you even telling some of it? Because someone threw Skrillex in my tent and I should have raped him. You can't rape the willing. This is a sick bitch we're dealing with. How do you know he was willing? (He was wiling.) Idk,bro. He looked sick. Or scared. Or Ill. “ill” Get it. I put the ill in Skrillex Better fix my will forreal This could be my last meal Cause I feel like jumping off a building Or a cliff, Like dead horse point— We're beating/being a dead horse, Aren't we? Or an F'n Pig: Oink Oink! Boisterous, Aren't we boys? Let me annoint you all with oil, On upholstery You want a half, Or a whole thing? I want you to hold— I want you to know me I want you to love me I love you Are you happy? Oh, you fucked up. Oh, you think?! I barely sleep, Then you start showing up in my dreams? I don't believe you, I don't believe in anything but me, And I could be you, maybe Maybe there's a sequel, If we're equal— Or if he isn't evil; Maybe I'll just Evil Kinivel Fuck you people! Maybe I'll go fuxkin sleep with Lil Peep I'll call the reaper, Jesus Weeps, But probably not as much as _________ He's a keeper. Fun fact: when you cry, I cry. Plz. Stop crying. I can't. INT. A FIREY PLANE CRASH Wait. THE BILDERBERG MEETING. Jesus Christ, why is Shia Labouf so fuckin ripped. Ew. Who feeds him. CHICKEN. gross. BEFORE: SHIA LABEOUF ITS ME, I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. Ū Oh noooo… SHIA LABEOUF THE FESTIVAL PROJECT Ū … What. SHIA LABEOUF THE FESTIVAL PROJECT Ū k. SHIA LABEOUF NOW WAKE UP, Ū What? SHIA LABEOUF WAKE—UP. Narcissistic Cannibal- Korn, Skrillex. UP. [C.C. Wakes up, drenched in sweat. ] … … … C.C. …Shia LaBeouf…? (That was an actual dream I had once—give or take a few parts.) Yeah, give or take. Ahem. I probably would have forgotten he existed, too, were it not for that dream—and shortly thereafter… FLASHBACK: C.C. Is binge watching Hot Ones. I want—all the sauce. What's that dudes name. Sean. He seems a little off. Yeah, I bet he's off. E Q U I N O X huh. …huh. INT. THE BILDERBERG MEETING SHIA LABEOUF I DONT GIVE A SINGLE FUCK. ILLUMINATI perfect. SECURITY GET OUT. SHIA LABEOUF I WAS NEVER IN. CHICKEN. Ew. ILLUMINATI SEQUENCE C - GREENLIGNT. Wtf is happening in this show. Idk, but I like it. Where's — CHAL (From season 4) IT DOESNT MAAAAAAATER. Right. CUT BACK TO: INT. A FIREY PLANECRASH. DAY. QUEST FOR FIRE. LOOK TO THE SKIES, YOUNG PADOWAN. oh my god. It's a fire breathing dragon! No, dude, that's a firey plane crash. Fuck. FIRE BREATHING DRAGON. That's a fire breathing dragon. W0W. Which do you think is gonna be more interesting? Neither, I'd rather watch The Legend of SupaCree What time is it on? SUPACREE it's always on. How is that even possible! SUPACREE you're on it, Are you recording me? SUPACREE I record everything. Srsly?! SUPACREE Except lovemaking. … SUPACREE That is private. … SCARY TERRY SEX IS SACRED, BITCH. SUPACREE don't cal me a bitch. … go watch TV. CUT BACK TO: INT. A FIREY PLANE CRASH. DAY [Terror has stricken the passengers of flight 626, as the BOEING 747 plunges rapidly, falling from the sky at an alarming speed, as the airplane decentigrates, falling into pieces] SHIA LABEOUF Does this character not have a name? No, it's literally Shia LaBeouf; he's playing himself. CUT TO: SHIA LABEOUF I'M AN AIR MARSHALL WHEN I'M NOT ACTING Why is he still yelling? SHIA LABEOUF ‘CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. CUT BACK TO: Just before: SHIA LABEOUF looks over the rims of his glasses, staring forward at CC/SUPACREE, before lowering his head back down, momentarily pretending to read a magazine from under the brim of his tan cap, obscuring his identity. He places his hand over the gun in his holster, revealing by the golden badge beside it that he is a federal air Marshall (to the audience) before adjusting his brown leather jacket to cover it, squinting conspicuously under his bifocal lenses, peering once more at CC/SUPACREE, and swallowing subtly, licking his lips and flashing away a secondary glimpse of fear in his eyes, before presuming a fierce gaze as he braces for impact, calmly unbuckling his seatbelt. Suddenly, the plane is struck— as the passengers scream and panic in fear, he simply stands up, stabilizing his balance, and moves towards the terrified and hyperventilating SUPACREE. ] Ok. That'll do. What about Drake Bell?! what about Drake Bell!? And Drake And Josh?! AND THE AMANDA SHOW AND ARIANA GRANDE AND ALL THE NICHELODEON KIDS?! It can wait. NO! BUT WHAT ABOUT COSMO + WANDA?! AND SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS AND HEY ARNOLD I never got to Hey Arnold, but I've been thinking about it a lot since I got to New York; but—that's also Nickelodeon, so— BUT WHAT ABOUT DILLON FRANCIS. he's very attractive. WHAt ab0Ut SKriLLeX?! he's also very attractive, And just dropped his album— So we can just assume that the previously mentioned are perhaps both getting their dicks sucked often enough that I don't have to worry about it. Why would you worry about it. CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. This is not kid friendly. AHHHHHHHHHH WHAT ABOUT JIMMY FALLON. Everything naughty he says in this series is censored caused he has a contract with NBC. WHERE'S WHOOPI GOLDBERG?! WHO!? I don't like this. I don't like this at all. Then keep scrolling. What about deadmau5. Probably also presumably getting his dick sucked. W0W. I re-entered the apartment at exactly 1:15. BLŪ Of course. And though I had been filled with nothing but words and heartache, I could do no more than to peel off my layers and tumble into the shower, no longer in tears, but still devastated — and somehow dying to know if the Skrillex album just so happened to mark my Deathwish, or restore my faith in humanity…neither of which actually mattered; I had fallen prey once more to the cycle of poverty's destruction and relentlessness, if even by my own doing—the respective love I held for Sonny, Dillon Francis, or anyone else simply a faction of obsessive fandom, my writings a mere glimpse into the unobstructed world of the fourth dimension, which I undoubtedly still believed and was living in, only hoping that I was indeed not the hopeless protagonist to die, in the end—and perhaps, that even if I did, the worlds and works that I had published on The Legend of Supacree, OWSLA Confidential: The Infinite Skrillifiles, Gerald's World, and Enter The Multiverse would stand as the backbone for an unimaginable flurry of Whatever. The End. ENTER THE MULTIVERSE WAR OF WORLDS LEGENDS HOLY WAR EARTH WORLD WAR WATER (WWIII) {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U. I love You.

In this 1165th episode of Toronto Mike'd, Mike is joined by actress Rae Dawn Chong as they discuss her career from Quest For Fire to Commando and beyond, her father Tommy Chong, Mick Jagger, Ex's and Uh-Oh's and so much more. Toronto Mike'd is proudly brought to you by Great Lakes Brewery, Palma Pasta, Yes, We Are Open, The Advantaged Investor, Canna Cabana, StickerYou, Ridley Funeral Home and Electronic Products Recycling Association.

Her snakker vi gjest som tikker av på de fleste R.E.S.P.E.K.T.-boksene hos en radiomann/musikknerd. Totto har jeg hørt på i utallige timer på NRK P13/P3 og endelig fikk Stjernepose/Gitar/Pyro-stjerna tatt turen innom nostalgi-bula mi. På fredag skal radiobransjen dele ut årets Prix Radio-priser, og hvis Stjernepose ikke får pris denne gangen skal jeg egenhendig ramponere hele galla-showet. Her er det flere spørsmål som krever svar: Har dinosaurer og mennesker vandret på jordkloden samtidig? Foretrekker Bruce Dickinson bil, eller tar han heller T-banen? Hva er meningen med livet? Klarer Tarjei Strøm å identifisere en KISS-låt på et halvt sekund? Hvorfor er Dave Murray favoritten? Totto Mjelde har svaret på det meste!

Depending on which side of the pond you're on, PIECE OF MIND, the fourth offering from NWOBHM legends IRON MAIDEN, was released on May 16 and/or May 28, 1983, and irregardless of which side of the pond you're on, the worldwide multitudes of metal fans rejoiced with gladness. As an homage to Nicko McBrain's “maiden voyage” as the “drum-shaman” for this, his first album behind the kit with the mighty Maiden, we generated and recorded a vast assortment of quality on-mic burps with embedded, backwards messages encouraging you to belch your way into a state of blissful absurdity which, when played backwards, actually sounds WAY eviler than when played forwards (which should give everyone “pizza mind”).  It's high time to get literary, historical, and downright Biblical. Get ready to bear witness to our newly updated “Black Album Reference” (which is directly due to “the most amazing idea” we've ever had) before you answer the call of “The Ball Master” and ask, “What Ho said the t'ing?” (if you know what “Amin”) and for God's sake, take some precautionary measures to ensure you “don't let the hog slip out” when you “steal some maneurysms” and JOIN US to celebrate the progressive metal, NWOBHM genius of IRON MAIDEN's PIECE OF MIND.   Visit www.metalnerdery.com/podcast for more on this episode Leave us a Voicemail to be played on a future episode: 980-666-8182 Metal Nerdery Tees and Hoodies – metalnerdery.com/merch and kindly leave us a review and/or rating on the iTunes/Apple Podcasts - Spotify or your favorite Podcast app Listen on iTunes, Spotify, Podbean, Google Podcasts or wherever you get your Podcasts. Follow us on the Socials: Facebook - Instagram - Twitter Email: metalnerdery@gmail.com Can't be LOUD Enough Playlist on Spotify Metal Nerdery Munchies on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCN2NrnCuSrAaLcIzI2wpaiQ?sub_confirmation=1  Show Notes: (00:01):  #theredbutton #markthetime #oral #rightinthefront #notbragging #manneurysms and #crickets / #decisiontime #cleaningoutthecloset #orangepanilla / “Not only is #FoodPorn my #favoriteporn” #oralfixation and #fooderoticism / #firstworldproblems (and a re-review of our initial #restaurantreview) / #motivationalfoodporn #embracefoodtechnology ***WARNING!!! #listenerdiscretionadvised ***WELCOME BACK TO THE METAL NERDERY PODCAST WITH ABSOLUTELY SO MUCH ANESTHESIA!!!*** #thisepisodesclinkyoftheepisode #captainmorgan #vanillaandorangetwist #upcomingepisodealert #themostamazingidea #ablaughterworkout #metalbeatbox / “This is beginning to be like #TheBlackAlbumReference” / #bolth #fansandfriends and #thepowerofsuggestion / #onmicburpASMR ***IF YOU'D LIKE TO LEAVE US A VOICEMAIL GIVE US A CALL AND LEAVE US ONE AT 980-666-8182 OR EMAIL US AT metalnerdery@gmail.com and check us out on the socials, #instagram and #facebook at #metalnerderypodcast / WE'LL PLAY YOUR SHIT-TAH! #ooh   (11:41): “Confession time…”(Insert #momentoftwanglification here) /  #IronMaiden #albumcovers and #mindblowingness #recordscratch / #dontturnitover #waitwhat #thisepisodesbeeroftheepisode #overlytwanglified #dontturnitover #itsopen #rerun #BrewDogBrewery #IronMaidensHellcatIPA #sixpointzeropercentABV / “And we're back…” / #TheDocket Iron Maiden's PIECE OF MIND / “Shaved heads used to be a serious issue…” / ***Go check out ALL of our #tangentional Iron Maiden episodes and #albumdives !!!***  #inaugurallivedive / “I love all versions of #NoQuarter” and also go check out our #LedZeppelin #InsideTheMetal episode / #alittletoofar / Released on 05/16/1983 ***How many people remember hearing Iron Maiden on #WKLS96Rock in #Atlanta back in the day!?*** / How cool would it be to record an album in Nassau, Bahamas #shortshorts #markthetime #thehogmightslipout /  ***Go check out our #JustTalkinShittah series!!!*** “A renaissance of metal…” / “The first track you ever heard in your life from Piece of Mind…” / Comparing “Number of the Beast” to “Piece of Mind” / #pizzamind / “What was the big selling point for the album?” #itsnotthateasy ***Our #Killers episode will be forthcoming, probably after our #hairmetalspectacular ***   (24:40):  The new #nationalanthem for #theworld #worldanthem WHERE EAGLES DARE #killeropener #waitforit (Kind of a segue to Aces High…) / #maidenbone / “Piece of Mind” relative to many other #1983 releases (which we may or may not have already discussed, and if we have, you should go check those episodes out at metalnerdery.com/podcast)  / REVELATIONS (***Is it equally impossible for everyone else to NOT hear the #LiveAfterDeath version of this whenever you hear ANY version of this?***) #heavy #barneymillerbass and #killerharmonies / #scripturereference and Revelations 21:4 #remixedition / First album with Nicko McBrain the #drumshaman who followed Clive Burr / #dontdenythepowerof #LiveAfterDeath #motherfuckerASMR   (33:00):  FLIGHT OF ICARUS and a #longdistancededication to the kid with #waxwings / “In the name of God my Father, I'll fly!” / “If you're gonna die…” / Also found on the album/cassette version of “Live After Death” that did not make the CD release… / DIE WITH YOUR BOOTS ON “No point asking…” / “Evolving beyond the ‘sides' of #cassettes and #albums and moving straight to #compactdiscs (All WAY before #streaming)   (38:38):  Side 2 #killeropener THE TROOPER (And YES, they DID play this on the radio #backinthedaylightoftheday !!!) #killerharmonies #justatouch / Hellbeast intrusion and #theladiesareback (and so are we) / #backmasking and #devilworshippingnonsense “What Nicko ACTUALLY said…” / #ListenWithNickoTracks #TheFirstTenYears and #cynicalbritishness and a call from #theballmaster / STILL LIFE #backmasking and #regularmasking #nickointro and #oceanmetal (“Did y'all switch it to #DefLeppard ???”) / “There's definitely some 80's in that metal…” / “What's the freakiest #nightmare you've ever had?” / “All my wife's favorite words” and #marriagelingo / The #deepcuts on this album relative to other Maiden releases   (51:20):  The differences between “Piece of Mind” and “Powerslave” and the great #IronMaidenBinge of 1995 / QUEST FOR FIRE and #dinosaurs #earlypowermetal / Definitely NOT an #andjusticeforallbassmix #ThankYou to #MartinBirch for #makingeverythinglouder #MotorheadingTheMix / SUN AND STEEL #earlythrash / #killercloser #theoriginal #whisperthonASMR / TO TAME A LAND (and some related #DreamTheater #tangentionalality) aka #Dune / #Phatoor / #RussellsReflections and some classic #horrorcinema #markthetime #dotheneedful #shovein / “Any tracklisting changes and/or side switching?” / THANK YOU ALL FOR JOINING US FOR THIS EPISODE OF METAL NERDERY PODCAST!!! ***You can BUY OUR SHIT at metalnerdery.com/merch *** #untilthenext #thelastword #gotouchyourself #gopurchsomemerch #outrosection #blooperreel #longlivemetalnerdery #hehahuh #bonusbrain  

Hello ladies and gentlemen welcome back to inside movies galore where we decided to go on about this 1981 classic feature why don't you join us and see what we had to say shall we? --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/inside-movies-galore/support

Berührungsängste mit elektronischer Musik weil oft zu steril und zu kühl? Dieses Album ist das Gegenmittel! Fast 10 Jahre nach seinem letzten «richtigen» Album veröffentlicht der Stockholmer Produzent Axel Boman sein neues Werk «LUZ / Quest For Fire». Ein Doppelalbum – und ein Riesenwurf. Ähnlich wie sein langjähriger Weggefährte DJ Koze schafft es auch Boman immer wieder, in seine Produktionen Quäntchen von Sehnsucht, Melancholie oder Nostalgie einzubauen. Das verleiht seinem minimalen und house-igen Sound einen Touch von Menschlichkeit. Etwas, das in der Electronica-Welt oft zu kurz kommt. Auf den Geschmack gekommen? Dann empfehlen wir ein Abo unseres «Sounds! Mixtapes» – Woche für Woche elektronische Highlights im Mix.

Have you ever wondered when the first people ever came to the Americas? Who were they? Where did they come from? What evidence do we have? What happened to them? Why did they go there? What kind of modern pop culture references might there be? Come find out on this weeks podcastEmail diggingdeeperwiththeancients@gmail.comInstagram @diggingdeeperwiththeancientsFacebook @diggingdeeperwithteancientsTwitter @DiggingDeepPodIce Age moviesNight At The Museum movies10000 BC (2008)Brother Bear (2003)Quest For Fire (1981)Cro (1993-1994) Transformers: Dinobot Island Parts 1 and 2 (1985)Black Robe (1991)Atanarjuat: The Fast Runner (2001)

In this episode of Trampled Underfoot Podcast, Mark Lindsay presents a review of a video titled The 1751 Machine That Made Everything. This is the true account of the development of the metal lathe that made the industrial revolution possible. The hosts explore the history of the machine tool that made the invention of machines and other machine tools possible.Eloy Escagedo then introduces a discussion of the Roman aqueducts and roads that spread all over Europe, and made the Roman Empire what it was. What caused these technological advances to fall into disuse? Why were so many of them abandoned? Ancient technologies, ancient civilizations, antique tools, archaeology, and our process of creating the electricity that drives out comfortable modern lives are discussed and commented on in the way that only the Trampled crew can. Relax and enjoy!We have a website and there is a Contact Us section there. If you have show ideas or think we got something wrong, send us a message.Contact Us - https://trampledunderfootpodcast.com/TrampledUnderfootPodcast.com is sponsored by Harneal Media - Web design and hosting for Makers and the Maker Community. For more information, visit their website at: https://harnealmedia.com/Show Info:"Two guys from different decades, backgrounds, and opposite sides of the continent discuss life, the universe, and everything. What's the show about? About an hour…"The views expressed in this podcast do not reflect the views of our sponsors - so there.

The movie Quest for Fire is probably one of the funniest movies I recall seeing within the... The post What is your Quest for Fire? appeared first on Spotter Up.

The Salty Nerds talk about terrible Caveman movies, and probably have their funniest episode ever - or at least an episode so raunchy it would get them banned.If you like this content and want more exclusive episodes, check out our members area here: http://www.saltynerdclub.com

What Did Director Do?'nun bu bölümünde yazarımız Rabia Elif, "Quest for Fire" filmini analiz ediyor. Keyifli dinlemeler dileriz!

This week it's Gidgit's 80s movie birthday choice. Gidgit and Angry travel back 80,000 years to Paleolithic Europe to podcast Jean-Jacques Annaud's 1981 film Quest for Fire. A film every Homo Erectus should enjoy! … Read more

This Week on Home Improvement… In the season 7 premiere of Home Improvement, the Taylors are heading up to their cabin at the lake for some rest and relaxation – but Tim (Tim Allen) is acting strange. He's using five dollar words like “vis a vis” and “quid pro quo” while dropping constant hints about […] The post Quest for Fire first appeared on Grunt Work Podcast.

The first installment of A Historian Ruins Heavy Metal: discussing potentially the worst IRON MAIDEN song, "Quest for Fire" from 1983's Piece of Mind album. PODCAST THEM DOWN https://open.spotify.com/show/1iLWQaU7M9z18yCgR7dodF https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCYRKidA1bP9Vl5TYF6xjMzA https://twitch.tv/podcastthemdown https://facebook.com/podcastthemdown https://discord.gg/B5AAuEarHJ https://anchor.fm/podcastthemdown BURNING SHADOWS - American Power Metal https://burningshadows.bandcamp.com https://facebook.com/bsmetal http://burningshadows.com FADE TO BLACK - Metallica Tribute https://www.facebook.com/FadeToBlackTributeBand/ http://www.fadetoblacktribute.com/ ISENMOR - Dual-Violin Folk Metal https://isenmor.bandcamp.com https://facebook.com/isenmor http://isenmor.com RECENTLY VACATED GRAVES: TRUE ZOMBIE METAL https://rvgtzm.bandcamp.com https://facebook.com/rvgtzm http://zombiemetal.com

14/08/2021: Platicamos de esta película con Armando Paz, Quest on Fire un film del director Jean-Jacques Annuaud. Una divertida charla con fuego y candela incluida. Tronco Común se transmite todos los sábados al medio día por Icónica Urbana.

‘Family Matters’ star Jaleel White has his own strain of marijuana called "ItsPurpl." He developed it during the pandemic, and it's loosely based on the bootleg "Purple Urkel," which has been around for years. Damnit Maurie finally made it onto the Instagram account @HotDudesWithDogs. Everyone is wanting LeVar Burton to be the new host of Jeopardy, he joined Roz & Mocha to chat about the petition and if he wants to do it. Lil Nas X explains to kids what “coming out of the closet” means. Food Network Star Molly Yeh’s ‘Popcorn Salad’ Video Goes Viral . Taylor Swift fans are convinced her next re-release will be ‘1989’, we’ll explain how they figured that out. Plus, Kardinal Offishall joins us to chat about the 20 year anniversary of released ‘Quest for Fire: Firestarter Vol. 1’

One VA Away Challenge leads to us working together faster so we all get the support needed ... to to this ... --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/alma-myers/message

Wayne tries to reflect on the positives and recalls how he adapted the lyrics for a fire safety message which had mixed results.  Trevor also digs into the past to get inspiration for his poem.Support the show (https://ko-fi.com/wimp)

Bobby finishes A Link to the Past and dives deeper into the world of emulation with Retroarch. Emilio plays the new hit game, Among Us, and catches up on some Netflix shows. The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past, Retroarch, Super Metroid, Swords and Serpents, Among Us, Taco Chronicles, Away, The Legend of...

From Cavemen to the Current rap game, the boys talk about evolution, and how everything is in a constant state of change. Today's episode is a wide-reaching arc of conversation that discusses everything from one of my (Jon) personal favorite films "A Quest For Fire" to how Rae Stremmurd pile drove Vic Mensa's career, and more! Don't miss out, dear listener. Instagram: @jon_sherburne @justindcha --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/tuned-in/support

On this Chad Ross Interview, Chad talks about the differences between his 3 bands, how Canada is coming together to address Covid, growing up in a rural town on a horse farm and how this influenced his music & his life... making the decision to stop partying and start enjoying the things that are truly meaningful in life… guitars, effects, amps, pulling your own weight, camping, nature and leaving the city Chad Ross is a guitarist, singer and songwriter, most well known for his work with the Psychedelic bands Quest for Fire, Comet Control & Nordic Nomadic. He grew up in rural Ontario and originally started his career in a variety of punk bands. With these 3 bands he has released 6 LPs and done numerous tours of Canada, Europe and the states. Chad and his wife Nicole live in the country outside of Toronto with their new baby and dog. Support this Show: http://www.everyonelovesguitar.com/support  Subscribe https://www.everyonelovesguitar.com/subscribe/  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/EveryoneLovesGuitar/ Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/everyonelovesguitar/ 

Show 21 sees Midnight Video come of age and to help us celebrate our legal quaffing of lite beers in the ol' US of A we have ushered in some distinguished guests.Ladies and gentlemen please raise a bottle and/or glass to the talents of Mr Marlon Brando, Mr George C. Scott and (blink or you'll miss him) Sir John Gielgud in John G Avildsen's fossil fuelled (or is it?) The Formula.And behind those titans of the silver screen donning their bespoke furs, custom daub designs and downing flaming sambucas: Mr Ron Perlman, Mr Everett McGill and (stark naked) Ms Rae Dawn Chong - put your lighters in the air for Quest For Fire.Finally pulling up the rear and drinking out of a skull we have Mr Victor Sjostrom: watch that scythe and whatever you do, don't be the last to die before midnight on New Year's Eve or else you'll be going home in The Phantom Carriage.

John Caglione, Jr. is an Academy Award and Emmy Award-Winning Makeup Artist. Obsessed with monster movies as a kid, he began studying makeup and special effects. A not-so-chance meeting with makeup legend, Dick Smith, turned him from a fan into a devotee of the craft. Graduating high-school, Smith then recommended John to the NBC Makeup Program where he ended up working with the original cast of "Saturday Night Live" for six years, before going out on his own. Having now built a decades-long career in film and TV, John's work includes "Quest For Fire", "Zelig", "Cotton Club", "Heat", "Dick Tracy" (for which he won the Oscar and British Academy Award). John also designed and applied Heath Ledger's 'Joker' character makeup in "The Dark Knight," and he's been Personal Makeup Artist to Al Pacino for 30 years. John's most current work with Al Pacino was "The Irishman" and "Hunters".You can find John Caglione, Jr. at: Website: https://www.johncaglionejr.net/ Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/johnny_cags/Check out our offerings & partners: Seed: Start your path to a healthy gut: Visit seed.com/GOODLIFE or use code GOODLIFE for 15% off your first month of the Daily Synbiotic.Lamps Plus is offering up to 50% off hundreds of lights, furniture, and décor from now until May 25th. Go to lampsplus.com/goodlife

Wherein I discuss, in brief, my quest for the "perfect" RPG system for my next campaign. Then the show gets better because I have lots of call in's! Messages from: Che Webster: Roleplay Rescue Jason: Nerd's RPG Varsity Cast John Large: Red Dice Diaries Josh: JB Publishing Evil Jeff: Minions & Musings Darren Green: RFED (Rocks Fall Everyone Dies)

On this podcast, Seth Abramovitch, senior writer at The Hollywood Reporter, and Chip Pope, an Emmy-winning TV writer and comic, take you behind the scenes of the indelible pop culture moments that shaped Hollywood history — with special guests who were actually there. In a town where everything old is eventually new again, Seth and Chip give listeners a front-row seat to the way things were. Welcome to IT HAPPENED IN HOLLYWOOD!Hosted by: Seth Abramovitch and Chip PopeProduced by: Matthew Whitehurst and Joshua FarnhamTheme music composed by: Paul Masvidal and Sean Malone

On this episode of Home Impodcast, the boys kick of season 7 with The Quest for Fire. Topics discussed include: season 7 ratings/changes, Adam’s interaction with the cast, Traverse City, and breaking up. The episode is available for download here. It is also accessible via Apple Podcasts.

We delve into the pseudo-prehistorical movie Quest for Fire and, among other things, admire Ron Perlman's hairdo. Episode edited by Linnea Intro remixed by Linnea Starcrashed logo designed by Ebba Music: Polyphonic Congas by Unicorn Heads

Nick is back in Montreal, and it’s another nice time although he’s mostly stayed in. Luckily, his friend and bandmate in Wrong Hole Andrew Moszynski (drummer in Deadly Snakes and guitarist in Tee Pee recording artists Comet Congtrol & Quest For Fire) came by and backed up a stream-of-consciousness and highly silly podcast that mentions Avengers: Endgame, Game Of Thrones, houses with no TVs, Patreon perks, various weird email addresses and much more in a very short amount of time. Write NFW at weaklypodcast@gmail.com Check out Nick and Andrew's band Wrong hole at wrongholemusic.bandcamp.com.

This week it's the dynamic duo of Jon and Kevin talking Jon's pick, Quest for Fire. We also discuss a trailer or two, along with some of the movies we've watched like Batman V Superman, Black Angel, Blow Out, Blood Simple, I Need You to Kill, The Interview, Mid90s, Quigley Down Under, Mad Dog Morgan, and Dirty Little Billy. We also discuss some of the best directors with only 5 films or less under their belt. As always, we'd love to hear any feedback from our listeners: filmyakpodcast@gmail.com Thanks for listening!

This week it's the dynamic duo of Jon and Kevin talking Jon's pick, *Quest for Fire*. We also discuss a trailer or two, along with some of the movies we've watched like *Batman V Superman*, *Black Angel*, *Blow Out*, *Blood Simple*, *I Need You to Kill*, *The Interview*, *Mid90s*, *Quigley Down Under*, *Mad Dog Morgan*, and *Dirty Little Billy*. We also discuss some of the best directors with only 5 films or less under their belt. As always, we'd love to hear any feedback from our listeners: filmyakpodcast@gmail.com Thanks for listening!

EP#1. F.l.a.me introduces you to his existence in the underground world of exotic dance. The who, what,when,where, and why get answered along with a few ill situations as a rookie that he encountered at local weekly clubs.

On today’s show we are chatting Roseanne’s cancellation, Jamie Fox being cast in the new Spawn reboot, Sesame Workshop suing Sony Pictures, porn being blamed for school shootings, and other news. Also, Raptors quest for the tang has begun. Good day!!--- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/insideyoupodcast/messageSupport this podcast: https://anchor.fm/insideyoupodcast/support

Platypus Revenge plays along to Quest For Fire. Demian Richardson, Rev John Henry Maiorino, Steven Bartashev, Ayumi Ishito, Charly Couture, John Simonelli

Today we look at our prehistoric ancestors as they attempt to master the element of fire. Ron Perlman co-stars. The post W001: Quest for Fire (1981) appeared first on .

Erin and Paul review two films about cavemen and cavewomen: Jean-Jacques Annaud's 1981 drama QUEST FOR FIRE, and the 1966 Ray Harryhausen production ONE MILLION YEARS B.C. Plus: our quick takes on SONG TO SONG, A QUIET PASSION, GET ME ROGER STONE, THE KEEPERS and Showtime's new TWIN PEAKS revival.

Em homenagem a todos os professores de História dos 80 e 90, apresentamos A Guerra do Fogo, o filme que fez parte da sala de aula de toda uma geração e que, para muitos de nós, terá sido o primeiro contacto com as maravilhas do animalesco sexo à canzana.Uma ambiciosa produção franco-canadiana passada há 80.000 anos no tempo dos neandertais e que só no videoclube ganhou lugar de culto.No final, o Paulo regressa com o 4º capítulo do "Eish" para lembrar a carreira naturista do realizador Jean-Jacques Annaud (calma, o homem não anda nu) e ainda para lembrarmos que outros filmes de escola passaram pela nossa adolescência.

This week we’ve overcome an unfortunate recording mishap to talk about public school blues! Uncuriosity! Standing in silence! Unselfconsciousness! Rabbit, Run! Brendan’s gladiator fetish! Smart choices! Virtual assistants! 

It's our first episode! We discuss our introduction to kink, being members of the Long Island BDSM community, and have a brief discussion with fellow kinkster Suzie_Sassafras.  Join us, Dick and max, as we start our journey into the world of podcasting. Don't forget to check out our friend's podcasts: Will Sean Podcast? Kill by Kill RISK!

Tired of indirect learning, Sarah left her studies of anthropology to get tangible life experience. She left home with little more than backpack and its contents to her name, spent a year traveling, working on farms, and visiting homesteads before deciding to come home to the Pacific Northwest. Five years later, she works as a primitive skills instructor, connecting homeschoolers and summer campers to the wilderness. Sarah’s story explores themes of identity, failure and perseverance on her quest for fire. URBAN TELLERS May 9, 2015 THE CHOICES WE MAKE Sarah Schoenfeld on stage at Alberta Abbey for live storytelling with Portland Story Theater Hosted by Lynne Duddy and Lawrence Howard www.portlandstorytheater.com

This week Damian is joined by his practice space roomie, Chris Slorach of Metz. Grab a seat on a combo amp and listen in as the two talk about Chris’ journey from reluctant zinester to being in one of Canada’s greatest power trios. Also covered: - Punk and dentists - Being neighbors with Toronto punk/ hardcore/ metal legend Al Biddle - Eric’s Trip and The Doughboys at the Palladium - Project 9 and Grasshopper - Meeting Headcleaner: the pre-Deadly Snakes and Teen Crud Combo band -Doing the zine Justy - “Winning” two years of a classified ads in Chart Magazine and having to keep doing zines because of it. -The importance of the Toronto zine community -Hockey Teeth and Politikill Incorrect - Los Crudos -The brilliance of Ink and Dagger -The awesomeness of Sam from the Obliterations -The upside of SXSW -Getting into Sebadoh and home recording -Walking down the street and finding a teenage Mike Duffield to be your band’s drummer -The amazingness of promoter Dan Burke…. and explaining the 4am phone calls to your parents -Having to fill in on a bill for Strife with your high school “wimpy music” band -Scaring off Teenage USA with a 30 song demo -Doing Acid at 17 a seeing Peeches perform at a Booze-Can -Adam Gill and Jordon from No Warning: inseparable -The new Career Suicide line-up -The Sadies: the band that could take any band’s slot on a bill -Working at a used cd store -Getting recruited into Moneen through a friend -Abandoned Hearts Club -Spread The Disease: the go Hardcore Black Metal appropriators -Mare -“Retiring” from music at 24 -The Toronto HMV Yonge Street staff: Canadian music’s future who’s who -A Barbecue for one and an invite to join Metz -Quest For Fire -Touring with Coliseum -Hayden and Three Penny Opera -And more!!!!!

Welcome back to Live! Cultures Cast. The show where three siblings take turns picking a cultural object, and then discuss it. For our second episode we discuss Malcolm's pick...the 1982 movie Quest for Fire. Warning: Spoilers for Battlestar Galactica Notes: 0:00-3:30 Intro 3:30-42:00  Summary, Discussion and Judgements 42:00-48:00 Recommendations 48:00-55:00 On Next Time!  

In this episode (recorded on the day of the 51st anniversary) Daniel and Shana discuss the very first episode of Doctor Who: An Unearthly Child. Are the caveman sequences worth it? Is Barbara really as awesome as fandom thinks? (Yes.) Should the Doctor always be a hero? All this and much more. Main Topic: An Unearthly Child. Meeting three new companions. The Susan Scream. Parks and Recreation reference. Explaining "received fan wisdom." Going to Chicago TARDIS. Talkin' about Susan Foreman. Doctor Who Hair Trivia. "I Don't Like This Century." Shana Impersonates Susan. Doing Barbara. Coal Hill Schoolteachers in Season One and Series Eight. Eyefuckery. The first episode of An Unearthly Child as the beginning of a horror movie. Practical Barbara. Empathy. Blockhead Ian. "Courtney Trouble." The First Doctor is an officious prick. Moral ambiguity. Shana gives her quote. Skeptical Ian. Never show this to an anthropologist. Expectations of the BBC. Production values. Lots of Man-Thigh. Hur's agency. "Savages." Kyriarchy. Class structure. Doctor Who as Degrassi. The M-word. Worldbuilding. Shipping Ian and Barbara. Homoerotic fight sequences. Verity Lambert: one of the coolest women in history. Love for "An Adventure in Space and Time." A long aside about the Beatles. Would you recommend An Unearthly Child to a new fan? Leaving Barbara to die. Fear Makes Companions of All of Us. Bashing a caveman with a rock. An unheroic Doctor. Next Week: The Romans.    Find us on iTunes! Or Facebook! We love email (oispacemanpodcast@gmail.com)! And all our episodes are on oispaceman.libsyn.com. Daniel's Tumblr Twitter Shana's Tumblr Twitter 

This week on Alcohollywood, we get in touch with our primitive side with returning guest Theo as we check out the stark prehistoric film Quest for Fire! A strange blend of speculative historical documentary and hero’s journey, the film follows a small group of Neanderthals (including Silver Bullet’s Everett McGill and Bunraku’s Ron Perlman) who must travel to find a new source for fire after it is lost. Along the way, they encounter apelike homo erectus, advanced homo sapiens (including a mesmerizing Rae Dawn Chong) and prehistoric animals of varying levels of terror. The film itself is a fascinating watch that’s difficult to quantify, but we certainly give it our shot. Also be sure to check out our drinking rules and custom cocktail below!

Quest For Fire10,000 B.C.What We WatchedMiscellaneous BanterDownload the episode here. (right click to save)

The Perks of Being A Wallflower ReviewBeasts of the Southern Wild ReviewWhat We WatchedDownload Episode 15 here. (right click to save) Next episode is our Caveman episode. We will be discussing Quest For Fire, 10,000 B.C. and Ice Man.