Podcasts about Stilo

Recomendación Musical - Stilo by Radiotelevisión de Veracruz

Recomendación Musical - Entrevista a Stilo by Radiotelevisión de Veracruz

Penshow en Madrid, muy buena localización, pero eché de menos a algunos vendedores que en estas fechas han probado en otros penshows, como el de Turquia el año pasado y este le ha tocado a Hungría, creo. Así todo me vine a casa con un cuaderno, tintas y abrazos. Black Friday, si pero no en algunos casos. Antigua's ofrece un descuento que siempre se agradece. También Stilo e Stile. Otras tiendas descuentos en algunas cosas y descuentos regulines, así que ni los nombro.

"The energy is just so palpable. Even though it's the crack of dawn, we are all abuzz and going. You have to be able to get it going." The next time you're watching the Today Show and you see the anchors eating or drinking something delicious, that's the work of Katie Stilo. As Today's food stylist and culinary producer, it's Katie's job to prepare segments, write scripts based on guest-submitted recipes, cook those recipes (often from world-renowned chefs), and artfully arrange all the food and tablescapes on screen. Plus, she's often on camera, whipping up masterpieces for Savannah, Hoda, Al, Craig, Carson, and the crew. In this conversation, Katie talks about her Emmy Award-winning career, and about the road to landing her dream job. She also talks about becoming a runner two years ago. Katie's goal to see if she could finish a 10K turned into seeing if she could finish a half marathon, which turned into seeing if she could go sub-2:00 in the half marathon. (Spoiler: She did, running a 39-minute half-marathon personal best at this year's Brooklyn Half.) Katie is currently training for this year's TCS New York City Marathon. FOLLOW KATIE @katie.stilo SPONSOR:  UCAN: Click here to get a FREE UCAN training essentials pack (you'll just pay the cost of shipping), and use code ALI for 20% off your next UCAN order. What you'll get on this episode: On *not* being in Paris for the Olympics with the Today team (2:30) What, exactly, Katie's job entails (8:00) On cooking for the Today anchors and feeding their preferences (15:45) Katie's most memorable live television bloopers and mishaps (17:50) How Katie got her dream job (27:00) How Katie became on-air talent for Today (43:45) Katie's favorite Today guests (49:00) What it was like being a food stylist for M&Ms (51:45) How, when, and why Katie became a runner (53:25) How Katie is feeling at the start of New York City Marathon training (1:01:10) Follow Ali: Instagram @aliontherun1 Join the Facebook group Twitter @aliontherun1 Support on Patreon Subscribe to the newsletter SUPPORT the Ali on the Run Show! If you're enjoying the show, please subscribe and leave a rating and review on Apple Podcasts. Spread the run love. And if you liked this episode, share it with your friends!

Offerta di ESCLUSIVA NORDVPN: Vai su https://nordvpn.com/dentrolastoria per acquistare 2 anni + 4 mesi extra di NordVPN con uno sconto esclusivo + fino a 20 GB gratis su Saily - l'app eSIM per viaggiatori! Il nostro canale Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC1vziHBEp0gc9gAhR740fCw Sostieni DENTRO LA STORIA su Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/dentrolastoria Abbonati al canale: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC1vziHBEp0gc9gAhR740fCw/join Il nostro store in Amazon: https://www.amazon.it/shop/dentrolastoria Sostienici su PayPal: https://paypal.me/infinitybeat Dentro La Storia lo trovi anche qui: https://linktr.ee/dentrolastoria Il 9 luglio 1940 avviene il primo dei rari scontri tra navi da battaglia della Seconda Guerra Mondiale. Al largo delle coste calabresi si misurano la Regia Marina italiana e la Mediterranean Fleet inglese. Lo scontro dura meno di un'ora e si conclude con un pareggio tattico che in realtà è una occasione mancata per la flotta italiana. La decisione di ricostruire (a caro prezzo) vecchie navi, l'imprecisione delle artiglierie, la mancanza di coordinazione con l'Aeronautica saranno gli elementi critici evidenziati in uno scontro accidentale ma che avrebbe segnato l'inizio della fine per le corazzate, a vantaggio dell'arma aeronavale. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

„Premiérovi želám vnútornú silu, aby sa zotavil a vedel prinášať spoločnosti zmierenie. Má totiž moc a s ňou prichádza aj zodpovednosť“, tvrdí analytik Hugo Gloss. V Dekk inštitúte pripravili analytickú správu o polarizácii, spoločenských náladách a populárnych naratívoch po pokuse o atentát na slovenského premiéra.Keď nezdravá polarizácia vedie k tragédiám. Dokonaným a aj tým v zárodku. Slovensko je už dvadsaťjeden dní zranené. V našich končinách doteraz bezprecedentným pokusom o atentát na predsedu vlády. Útočník krátko po svojom čine hovoril o „nesúhlase s politikou vlády“, hlavy štátu – dosluhujúca i zvolená – volali po zmierujúcom okrúhlom stole politických lídrov, tí koaliční však prstom ukazovali a stále ukazujú na médiá a opozíciu. A čaká sa na slovo obete – Roberta Fica, ktorý sa doliečuje v domácom prostredí. Existuje východisko zo zničujúcej polarizácie? Dekk inštitút prichádza so štúdiou, v ktorej hovorí že áno. A ukazuje na skúsenosti napríklad Nemcov, ktorí sa museli vysporiadať aj s tým, že ich vlastní organizovali masové vraždy; či skúsenosťou „odpúšťania“ na Balkáne či Severnom Írsku.Pozrieme sa na to so spoluautorom štúdie Hugom Glossom.„Aké Slovensko chceme nechať našim deťom? Lebo to nie je o tom, v akej krajine žijem ja tu a teraz. O dvadsať rokov tu budú dospelé aj moje deti a je v našom záujme a verím, že aj v záujme politických elít naprieč celým spektrom, aby tu naše deti nemuseli nosiť balistické vesty a samopal na pleci. Takéto Slovensko nechce nik z nás. Preto musíme pracovať na odstraňovaní nezdravej polarizácie“, tvdí analytik Hugo Gloss.Aj za vznikom Dekk inštitútu je podľa Glossa skúsenosť z rozdeleného Iraku. „Pôsobili sme v Iraku a Sýrii, kde polarizácia priviedla až k masovým hrobom“, tvrdí. „Tam už nie víťazov a porazených. Tam sú porazení všetci. To na Slovensku nechceme vidieť“, dodáva. „Je kľúčové, ako sa k atentátu postaví samotný Robert Fico“, tvrdí Gloss. „Prajem mu vnútornú silu, aby sa zotavil a vedel prinášať do spoločnosti zmierenie. Má totiž moc a s ňou prichádza aj zodpovednosť“, dodáva. Podcast pripravil Jaroslav Barborák.

„Premiérovi želám vnútornú silu, aby sa zotavil a vedel prinášať spoločnosti zmierenie. Má totiž moc a s ňou prichádza aj zodpovednosť“, tvrdí analytik Hugo Gloss. V Dekk inštitúte pripravili analytickú správu o polarizácii, spoločenských náladách a populárnych naratívoch po pokuse o atentát na slovenského premiéra.Keď nezdravá polarizácia vedie k tragédiám. Dokonaným a aj tým v zárodku. Slovensko je už dvadsaťjeden dní zranené. V našich končinách doteraz bezprecedentným pokusom o atentát na predsedu vlády. Útočník krátko po svojom čine hovoril o „nesúhlase s politikou vlády“, hlavy štátu – dosluhujúca i zvolená – volali po zmierujúcom okrúhlom stole politických lídrov, tí koaliční však prstom ukazovali a stále ukazujú na médiá a opozíciu. A čaká sa na slovo obete – Roberta Fica, ktorý sa doliečuje v domácom prostredí. Existuje východisko zo zničujúcej polarizácie? Dekk inštitút prichádza so štúdiou, v ktorej hovorí že áno. A ukazuje na skúsenosti napríklad Nemcov, ktorí sa museli vysporiadať aj s tým, že ich vlastní organizovali masové vraždy; či skúsenosťou „odpúšťania“ na Balkáne či Severnom Írsku.Pozrieme sa na to so spoluautorom štúdie Hugom Glossom.„Aké Slovensko chceme nechať našim deťom? Lebo to nie je o tom, v akej krajine žijem ja tu a teraz. O dvadsať rokov tu budú dospelé aj moje deti a je v našom záujme a verím, že aj v záujme politických elít naprieč celým spektrom, aby tu naše deti nemuseli nosiť balistické vesty a samopal na pleci. Takéto Slovensko nechce nik z nás. Preto musíme pracovať na odstraňovaní nezdravej polarizácie“, tvdí analytik Hugo Gloss.Aj za vznikom Dekk inštitútu je podľa Glossa skúsenosť z rozdeleného Iraku. „Pôsobili sme v Iraku a Sýrii, kde polarizácia priviedla až k masovým hrobom“, tvrdí. „Tam už nie víťazov a porazených. Tam sú porazení všetci. (…) To na Slovensku nechceme vidieť“, dodáva. „Je kľúčové, ako sa k atentátu postaví samotný Robert Fico“, tvrdí Gloss. „Prajem mu vnútornú silu, aby sa zotavil a vedel prinášať do spoločnosti zmierenie. Má totiž moc a s ňou prichádza aj zodpovednosť“, dodáva. Podcast pripravil Jaroslav Barborák.

Collins and Frank Catching up on current event of their lives and jump back into discussing recent pen release and designs. Mean while, Frank felt obligated to point out a unfortunate color and naming scheme on some of the pens as discussion went on…Goods covered:Otto Hutt - Fountain pensTailored Pen Company - Kentucky DerbyVinta inks Afterglow - PusanPelikan Maki-e Ivy and Komon M1000Ancora - Melon SodaLeonardo x Stilo&Stile - Desert NightVisconti - Iris GardenIkkaku - Butterfly???Laban - Snow

L’infanzia dei millenials si basava sulle batterie. D’altronde erano il motore dell’intrattenimento, ma ovviamente prima o poi si scaricavano e iniziavano pomeriggi interminabili di noia. In questa puntata tratteremo il falso mito delle batterie messe in frigorifero per conservarne la carica o addirittura per ricaricarle, sebbene tutti almeno una volta abbiamo tentato il tutto per tutto per salvarci la giornata.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Here's my conversation with Shawn Adrian, co-founder of Input Logic, a product design and development agency.  They're also launching their own product in 2024 in the AI journaling space, called Stilo.ai.This conversation was recorded on March 5th, 2024.{{ campaign_start }}

Intervista ad Adele Lavorata, Presidente del “Consorzio di Tutela e Valorizzazione delle Viti e del Vino Doc Bivongi”. L'area geografica ricadente sotto l'egida del Consorzio, è costituita da dieci borghi: Bivongi, Camini, Caulonia, Monasterace, Pazzano, Placanica, Riace, Stignano, Stilo e Guardavalle. giovannicertoma.it --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/giovanni-certom/message

En este episodio, hablamos con la emprendedora María Ulloa; fundadora de Stilo by MJ, The Learning Garden y The Wonder Box, sobre su experiencia emprendiendo dentro de su empresa familiar, y en su pasión como psicóloga. Y como la conversación no se acaba cuando se termina el episodio, te esperamos en nuestras Redes Sociales para conocer tu opinión:

Mais Profundo - 09/09/2023 Pr Fellipe Ministério Vida Pura SP @ministeriovidapura

Jeffrey y Juan Pedro discuten los últimos lanzamientos y hablan de ser principiantes en el mundo estilográfico. ¿Qué estamos usando hoy?: Juan Pedro: Lanbitou 3092 (EF) Lamy Crystal Obsidian Jeffrey: Pilot Custom Heritage 92 (B) Van Dieman's My Fair Audrey Tinterías Pelikan ha sido vendido al Grupo Hamelin Diamine 2023 Calendario Inkvent  J Herbin Fuchsia de Magellan Van Dieman's Feline Collection Wearingeul Romeo y Julieta Diplomat Elox Matrix Orange Leonardo x Stilo & Stile Momento Zero Micarta Nahvalur Voyage Vacation Tromsø Platinum #3776 Fuji Unkei Uroko-Gumo Tintería del episodio: DRAMA

Estamos en julio y ya anuncian el calendario de adviento de tintas de Diamine, esta vez la caja es de color violeta. Ya vessss! Stilo e Stile pone a la venta una pluma Leonardo con material Micarta, se llama así, muy bonita y elegante, con un modelo asequible con plumín. de acero a 160€ y otra con plumín de oro a 400€. Se viene una de las "baratas" a casa. Y un dragón rayado sale de la cueva. --- Podcast asociado a la red de SOSPECHOSOS HABITUALES. Suscríbete con este feed: https://feedpress.me/sospechososhabituales

Jaguar worst car maker to represent in UK – and Land Rover not much better Car Dealer Power 2023: Who won what at this year's awards? Fiat announces it will no longer sell grey cars as it wants to be known as ‘brand of joy, colours, and optimism' Hyundai and Toyota handed slap on the wrist by advertising watchdog over ‘misleading' charging claims Wheeler Stealers: Thieves pinch Mike Brewer's star Ford Fiesta from hotel car park Ex-Audi boss fined and handed suspended jail sentence over emissions test fraud Used car prices drop 1.4 per cent in June – but there's definitely no crash coming EVs dominate list of biggest price drops seen this year as seven of biggest annual fallers are electric --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/car-dealer-magazine/message

Stando a recenti dichiarazioni il governo degli Stati Uniti sarebbe in possesso di resti di una nave spaziale extraterrestre e addirittura dei corpi dei piloti di questo veicolo. Ma sarà vero? con Giuseppe Stilo, membro del CISU - Centro Italiano Studi Ufologici, parliamo di come affrontare l'argomento analizzando razionalmente le fonti ed i contenuti, volgendo anche uno sguardo ai recenti casi che hanno rinvigorito la narrazione ufologica degli ultimi anni.Ospiti: Giuseppe StiloRedazione: Elisa Baioni, Diego Martin, Alex Ordiner, Chiara Vitaloni, Dasara Shullani, Enrico Zabeo, Cecilia Penelope ZambelliAltri riferimentihttps://www.cicap.org/new/prodotto.php?id=3905 Alieni ma non troppo di Giuseppe Stilohttp://www.cisu.org/ sito del CISUhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lN6nVNvgako video di Michael Shermer sulle ultime dichiarazionihttps://www.fanpage.it/innovazione/scienze/ex-agente-intelligence-dice-che-gli-usa-hanno-navi-aliene-cicap-nessuna-prova-non-e-il-primo/ intervista di Fanpage a Giuseppe Stilo sull'argomentoSigla ed effetti: https://www.zapsplat.com/ ZapsplatMusiche: https://www.epidemicsound.com/ Epidemic SoundSeguiteci sui profili social del CICAP:Facebook: @cicap.orgTwitter: @cicapInstagram: cicap_it

Jeffrey explora paisajes estadounidenses antes de subir hacia las estrellas. ¿Qué estoy usando hoy?: Super T Gester 40 (M) Ñ Posidonia Tinterías

I now had two jobs and a budding music career, that at times seemed to be skyrocketing me towards a higher dimension at every moment— I hear my city callin me; Off the 25th balcony, A falcon with a crown on Coming down on ya; It really rained on us, LA ain't playing Really making it out here, I bet you're proud of me now, huh—? Bet they play this for you at my funeral Do it, I'm the new confucius, No confusion, dude I'm supa dupe Blū about it I blew up out here; I grew up out here I knew such actions would speak Louder than words could— the fuck up out of here with that— Ssshh! He spoke of being behind hit singles for Beyoncé and other big names I could only dream about ever being in a room with—but I had never heard of him, of course—and just as well, as it didn't seem to matter. I simply wasn't attracted to him, nor was I going to pretend to be just to get ahead in music, or in any other way. At this point, all I really wanted to do was spit the verse I had written and eat; the hunger for some reason was ravishing through me, but it might have been my nerves—he put me on edge and made me nervous, not because we were in a 25th story 2-bedroom luxury apartment overlooking the Downtown LA skyline, or because his productions were high-quality and top of the line—not because the tracks he played me boasted Grammy winners like Usher and Nicki Minaj—but because of his attraction to me, his forward geatures and unwanted touches, and of course, his over masculinity. My Sunnï Blū persona was a bit too overwhelming for his taste—he wanted something more soft, and feminine—sexy. “Not like a skateboarder,” he said, to which I responded “but I'm a skateboarder.” His rebuttal, “yeah, but a sexy, feminine, female skateboarder!” He kept using the word “feminine”, and though I still considered myself broadly female, and certainly straight—he had himself put the nail in the coffin on even considering dating a black man, as he bickered and argued his creative direction, calling me retarded in the process, just as my mother's boyfriend had—apparently, I was “retarded” to most black men, and became “gay” as my cellibacy stood unturned even in the face of any benefit. It wasn't about the money—though I needed and wanted it, the money wouldn't be the thing to control me—it would always be music. I could consider myself to enjoy constructive criticism, typically—but his was demeaning and harsh. He wanted to change my lyrics, move words around and add statements I myself would never really say—to add Ebonics and slang to my verses that didn't sound natural coming out of or from me, or even Sunni Blū, and though I was partitioning simply as Blū, a more feminine aspect or counterpart of Sunni Blū, the direction to be more “feminine” and “sexy”—I suppose, the illusion that my body gave way to the actually more non-Bianary personality that lived within the now-veliptuous-leaning-athletic physique. I never asked him directly not to touch me—I wouldn't be another overly-offended “#me too” girl. I would never accuse a man of “rape” or “harassment”, and I knew better—but I also knew better than to fall asleep at the wrong time or place, opting for the couch in an open space, close to the door, in the studio, where I felt safe. However, his gestures alone made me uncomfortable, and, after running out of every ounce of energy white waiting to spit my verse the night before, I had spent the night curled up on the couch in the entryway—after a failed attempt to get into the bed and relax comfortably without him trying to cuddle up next to me, and not wanting to risk him waking up on top of me, perhaps even only allowing myself to sleep in a new and strange albeit luxurious space, because of the presence of a woman and her young child there. I had established by now that I was secure in my singularity—that after Sonny, and especially after Dillon, that giving and sharing myself, or my love would be different—and though I had freely given Oleg a relaxing and therapeutic back massage in his drunken stupor just a few nights before, (which I supposed he would never remember—) I was upset when this man asked for one, and though he had been so kind as to feed me rather than let me leave into the pouring rain the night before ( as, I, before falling asleep on the couch, had actually attempted to leave back to my own bed—without spitting my verse and not giving a single shit about the song, whether it was going to be a hit or not, how grand the apartment was, or who he had worked with—how many plaques he was going to hang up, or what perks might come with being a woman like my mother and pretending I was interested in order to get what I wanted.) he stopped me short in the elevator, persuading me to come back with the promise of a good meal and that he would finish his verse so that I could start mine. “I just want you to knock this verse out.” I sighed, tiredly, nodding “while i'm here”, somehow knowing that once I left The Circa, I wouldn't return—possibly ever, but at least for a long while. Fatefully so, in the time the food was ordered and delivered, I was still resting sleepily on the couch as he ‘perfected' his verse; I downed the Breakfast a burrito and Vegan Smoothie from LA Cafe in record time, curling back into an exhausted ball on the couch beside the studio, nestled in a warm and heavy blanket; it was somewhere around 4:00 AM, and i promised myself I would leave by 7, in time to catch the Whole Foods for fresh vegan muffins and some bananas—which for some reason, i couldn't stop thinking about. The couch was safe, at least—I wasn't going to risk my celibacy by falling asleep near any man, and though I had left Gerald safe and sound in my bunk back at The Freehand, I at least still had Dillon's Amethyst and Sonny's Rose Quartz tucked next to my heart, as I slept soundly in the studio, any noise of the room fading away into just a thought as I drifted into a heavy and dreamless sleep, the warmth of the best Vegan breakfast burrito I'd had to date resting on my tummy, shielded by my Stilo-de-Chiapas Harem pants and tie dye blue sweater, my Fanny pack still wrapped securely around my waist, and my custom chuck Taylor's sitting at the foot of the couch. I slept at least an hour past seven, waking up to the sunlight through the panoramic windows of the Los Angeles skyline—now, suddenly, I remembered this place, as I had dreamed or had built it long ago, taking a fresh dose of nicotine from my Smok vaporizer, a habit I had picked back up in my one week working at Higher Livin', which I actually hated, but no more than working any other job that wasn't music, and didn't pay me enough to be satisfied with. My uppity coworkers made it a little less enjoyable than it might have been on its own, a majority of my time spent with a classic stoner redhead who couldn't stop talking about getting laid by the new girl he was seeing, and a chubby Latina who scowled too much and rolled her eyes at everything, obviously disliking me for whatever reason , but still coy enough to dress in blue enough of the time and do her nails to match, which I just took as sign from God that things are not always what they seemed. Either way, I didn't care much about anything, but especially about music, which I still somehow loved—working all the time was exhausting me, and, having very little time to myself or at all to recover my own energy was taking enough of a toll that I began the cycle of self-destruction, devastating as it was to admit that I just wasn't a Kayla Lauren, or even a Skrillex, but just the hybrid honest-to-God wannabe hybrid of either one of them, whichever would work out for me—and as it was turning out, neither thing was. I wasn't priveleged or white enough to have all the time in the world to work out, or to produce music—I was stuck literally working for the cost of my bed and food, which evened out to just better than sleeping on the train or on busses in filth, which all seemed to be black people of course that nobody gave a fuck about. The more I worked, the less I gave a fuck about myself—but I at least kept doing it out of fear of whatever else was going on in this city—black people were running around everywhere smelling like piss, screaming at themselves and other people, and reminding me of everything that I wanted to deny: people didn't care about black people. I would have rather considered myself a neutral, but—whites would always see me as black, and black people would always see me as black, so I figured I would have to find a solution sooner or later, as with the more time I spent around either white people or black people, the less black I felt at all. After a terrible Will Smith movie, a shower, and a fresh set of clothes, I was studio-ready—I jumped on the hot mic with gusto and flavor, adding my genuine Sunnï Blū pizzazz to the upbeat, almost jumpstyle-tempo track, which I knew already mixed with a few songs from my own library and would be eager to mix as soon as the master was finished, however, a funny thing happened during the first live take of the verse: though I had written it the night before and had spit it perfectly beforehand, I stumbled, mispronouncing words and misreading them, skewing off from my usual 1-take perfection: something in my energy wasn't right—and even once I had spit it perfectly straight, he didn't like it. He wanted a “sexy and more feminine” approach, and not “a female who sounds like a nigga”. I wasn't trying to sound like anything, of course, just being myself—which he didn't seem to like, and over time it became clearer that he didn't see me for me, but just my body—which had become curvy and veluptuous, after a week of not enough gym and too much anxiety-filled Whole Foods quests, and all around fucklessness of putting my income before my actual needs, which everyone in LA seemed to do, and though I still fit my extra smalls, mediums weren't altogether unwearable anymore, one week ago falling off me even with a drawstring, and now fitting almost just right, my ass growing uncomfortably large with every trip to LA Cafe. It's a trip, Trip— Bout to take a rip On my drip tip Like ‘Drip, drip' I get tips, It's business— Spinin in the middle When I drift — in I'm lift—ed, So gifted— Thick chick Lips: bliss Swiss, miss On chistmas Dismiss this,— —then get— dissed! — (Bitch) Whatcha think about the friend? What you think about the bands What you think about the dance What you think about the stance What you think about the bounce Just bought a new house Fresh bra, new blouse Not worried bout the clout Just a little thizz You know what it is— Flipped another whip? —you should quit whippets! This is being chivalrous Imma put some drizzle in it I'ma bring my whistle in this festival for rizzle It seemed there was no place for my non-bianary, post-racial self in the world of music—at least on this track—and though I wanted and needed a place just like the place I had come to at The Circa to record what would supposedly be a hit song, I wanted and needed the place to be my own, somehow someway. God showing itself more and more broadly with each passing day, I swallowed my pride and after hours of work at the mic I finished the verse as requested, and rather than waiting for lunch (or by that, time, what would have been dinner, as we had been in the studio all day) I thanked the professional musician as he walked me into the elevator, opting for Whole Foods with the little money I had rather than to wait for another free meal. I figured I had been paid in the change of clothes I was wearing, and The LA Cafe I had scarfed down in my half-sleep; arguably, the most I had ever been paid for any music I had done. I thought to myself, “It doesn't matter if I ever hear this song again.” At least it was done. The elevator dropped 25 floors to the lobby, a perfect triangle formed between two well-dressed men and myself, as we stood in silence waiting to exit into the great city of Los Angeles. All I wanted was a banana and my own bed—the gym, now closed from the past-due balance would have to wait; I needed healing and love. Gerald greeted me at the top of my bunk, as I slammed down a Whole Foods bag containing a salad, pizza, and of course—two bunches of bananas; some regular organic, and even some of the rare red ones I loved. The contrast of my shared 4-bed dorm to the opulent 25th-story luxury apartment equipped with top-of-the-line studio didn't seem to matter at all. I had pizza and a piñata: that was good enough for me. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.

I now had two jobs and a budding music career, that at times seemed to be skyrocketing me towards a higher dimension at every moment— I hear my city callin me; Off the 25th balcony, A falcon with a crown on Coming down on ya; It really rained on us, LA ain't playing Really making it out here, I bet you're proud of me now, huh—? Bet they play this for you at my funeral Do it, I'm the new confucius, No confusion, dude I'm supa dupe Blū about it I blew up out here; I grew up out here I knew such actions would speak Louder than words could— the fuck up out of here with that— Ssshh! He spoke of being behind hit singles for Beyoncé and other big names I could only dream about ever being in a room with—but I had never heard of him, of course—and just as well, as it didn't seem to matter. I simply wasn't attracted to him, nor was I going to pretend to be just to get ahead in music, or in any other way. At this point, all I really wanted to do was spit the verse I had written and eat; the hunger for some reason was ravishing through me, but it might have been my nerves—he put me on edge and made me nervous, not because we were in a 25th story 2-bedroom luxury apartment overlooking the Downtown LA skyline, or because his productions were high-quality and top of the line—not because the tracks he played me boasted Grammy winners like Usher and Nicki Minaj—but because of his attraction to me, his forward geatures and unwanted touches, and of course, his over masculinity. My Sunnï Blū persona was a bit too overwhelming for his taste—he wanted something more soft, and feminine—sexy. “Not like a skateboarder,” he said, to which I responded “but I'm a skateboarder.” His rebuttal, “yeah, but a sexy, feminine, female skateboarder!” He kept using the word “feminine”, and though I still considered myself broadly female, and certainly straight—he had himself put the nail in the coffin on even considering dating a black man, as he bickered and argued his creative direction, calling me retarded in the process, just as my mother's boyfriend had—apparently, I was “retarded” to most black men, and became “gay” as my cellibacy stood unturned even in the face of any benefit. It wasn't about the money—though I needed and wanted it, the money wouldn't be the thing to control me—it would always be music. I could consider myself to enjoy constructive criticism, typically—but his was demeaning and harsh. He wanted to change my lyrics, move words around and add statements I myself would never really say—to add Ebonics and slang to my verses that didn't sound natural coming out of or from me, or even Sunni Blū, and though I was partitioning simply as Blū, a more feminine aspect or counterpart of Sunni Blū, the direction to be more “feminine” and “sexy”—I suppose, the illusion that my body gave way to the actually more non-Bianary personality that lived within the now-veliptuous-leaning-athletic physique. I never asked him directly not to touch me—I wouldn't be another overly-offended “#me too” girl. I would never accuse a man of “rape” or “harassment”, and I knew better—but I also knew better than to fall asleep at the wrong time or place, opting for the couch in an open space, close to the door, in the studio, where I felt safe. However, his gestures alone made me uncomfortable, and, after running out of every ounce of energy white waiting to spit my verse the night before, I had spent the night curled up on the couch in the entryway—after a failed attempt to get into the bed and relax comfortably without him trying to cuddle up next to me, and not wanting to risk him waking up on top of me, perhaps even only allowing myself to sleep in a new and strange albeit luxurious space, because of the presence of a woman and her young child there. I had established by now that I was secure in my singularity—that after Sonny, and especially after Dillon, that giving and sharing myself, or my love would be different—and though I had freely given Oleg a relaxing and therapeutic back massage in his drunken stupor just a few nights before, (which I supposed he would never remember—) I was upset when this man asked for one, and though he had been so kind as to feed me rather than let me leave into the pouring rain the night before ( as, I, before falling asleep on the couch, had actually attempted to leave back to my own bed—without spitting my verse and not giving a single shit about the song, whether it was going to be a hit or not, how grand the apartment was, or who he had worked with—how many plaques he was going to hang up, or what perks might come with being a woman like my mother and pretending I was interested in order to get what I wanted.) he stopped me short in the elevator, persuading me to come back with the promise of a good meal and that he would finish his verse so that I could start mine. “I just want you to knock this verse out.” I sighed, tiredly, nodding “while i'm here”, somehow knowing that once I left The Circa, I wouldn't return—possibly ever, but at least for a long while. Fatefully so, in the time the food was ordered and delivered, I was still resting sleepily on the couch as he ‘perfected' his verse; I downed the Breakfast a burrito and Vegan Smoothie from LA Cafe in record time, curling back into an exhausted ball on the couch beside the studio, nestled in a warm and heavy blanket; it was somewhere around 4:00 AM, and i promised myself I would leave by 7, in time to catch the Whole Foods for fresh vegan muffins and some bananas—which for some reason, i couldn't stop thinking about. The couch was safe, at least—I wasn't going to risk my celibacy by falling asleep near any man, and though I had left Gerald safe and sound in my bunk back at The Freehand, I at least still had Dillon's Amethyst and Sonny's Rose Quartz tucked next to my heart, as I slept soundly in the studio, any noise of the room fading away into just a thought as I drifted into a heavy and dreamless sleep, the warmth of the best Vegan breakfast burrito I'd had to date resting on my tummy, shielded by my Stilo-de-Chiapas Harem pants and tie dye blue sweater, my Fanny pack still wrapped securely around my waist, and my custom chuck Taylor's sitting at the foot of the couch. I slept at least an hour past seven, waking up to the sunlight through the panoramic windows of the Los Angeles skyline—now, suddenly, I remembered this place, as I had dreamed or had built it long ago, taking a fresh dose of nicotine from my Smok vaporizer, a habit I had picked back up in my one week working at Higher Livin', which I actually hated, but no more than working any other job that wasn't music, and didn't pay me enough to be satisfied with. My uppity coworkers made it a little less enjoyable than it might have been on its own, a majority of my time spent with a classic stoner redhead who couldn't stop talking about getting laid by the new girl he was seeing, and a chubby Latina who scowled too much and rolled her eyes at everything, obviously disliking me for whatever reason , but still coy enough to dress in blue enough of the time and do her nails to match, which I just took as sign from God that things are not always what they seemed. Either way, I didn't care much about anything, but especially about music, which I still somehow loved—working all the time was exhausting me, and, having very little time to myself or at all to recover my own energy was taking enough of a toll that I began the cycle of self-destruction, devastating as it was to admit that I just wasn't a Kayla Lauren, or even a Skrillex, but just the hybrid honest-to-God wannabe hybrid of either one of them, whichever would work out for me—and as it was turning out, neither thing was. I wasn't priveleged or white enough to have all the time in the world to work out, or to produce music—I was stuck literally working for the cost of my bed and food, which evened out to just better than sleeping on the train or on busses in filth, which all seemed to be black people of course that nobody gave a fuck about. The more I worked, the less I gave a fuck about myself—but I at least kept doing it out of fear of whatever else was going on in this city—black people were running around everywhere smelling like piss, screaming at themselves and other people, and reminding me of everything that I wanted to deny: people didn't care about black people. I would have rather considered myself a neutral, but—whites would always see me as black, and black people would always see me as black, so I figured I would have to find a solution sooner or later, as with the more time I spent around either white people or black people, the less black I felt at all. After a terrible Will Smith movie, a shower, and a fresh set of clothes, I was studio-ready—I jumped on the hot mic with gusto and flavor, adding my genuine Sunnï Blū pizzazz to the upbeat, almost jumpstyle-tempo track, which I knew already mixed with a few songs from my own library and would be eager to mix as soon as the master was finished, however, a funny thing happened during the first live take of the verse: though I had written it the night before and had spit it perfectly beforehand, I stumbled, mispronouncing words and misreading them, skewing off from my usual 1-take perfection: something in my energy wasn't right—and even once I had spit it perfectly straight, he didn't like it. He wanted a “sexy and more feminine” approach, and not “a female who sounds like a nigga”. I wasn't trying to sound like anything, of course, just being myself—which he didn't seem to like, and over time it became clearer that he didn't see me for me, but just my body—which had become curvy and veluptuous, after a week of not enough gym and too much anxiety-filled Whole Foods quests, and all around fucklessness of putting my income before my actual needs, which everyone in LA seemed to do, and though I still fit my extra smalls, mediums weren't altogether unwearable anymore, one week ago falling off me even with a drawstring, and now fitting almost just right, my ass growing uncomfortably large with every trip to LA Cafe. It's a trip, Trip— Bout to take a rip On my drip tip Like ‘Drip, drip' I get tips, It's business— Spinin in the middle When I drift — in I'm lift—ed, So gifted— Thick chick Lips: bliss Swiss, miss On chistmas Dismiss this,— —then get— dissed! — (Bitch) Whatcha think about the friend? What you think about the bands What you think about the dance What you think about the stance What you think about the bounce Just bought a new house Fresh bra, new blouse Not worried bout the clout Just a little thizz You know what it is— Flipped another whip? —you should quit whippets! This is being chivalrous Imma put some drizzle in it I'ma bring my whistle in this festival for rizzle It seemed there was no place for my non-bianary, post-racial self in the world of music—at least on this track—and though I wanted and needed a place just like the place I had come to at The Circa to record what would supposedly be a hit song, I wanted and needed the place to be my own, somehow someway. God showing itself more and more broadly with each passing day, I swallowed my pride and after hours of work at the mic I finished the verse as requested, and rather than waiting for lunch (or by that, time, what would have been dinner, as we had been in the studio all day) I thanked the professional musician as he walked me into the elevator, opting for Whole Foods with the little money I had rather than to wait for another free meal. I figured I had been paid in the change of clothes I was wearing, and The LA Cafe I had scarfed down in my half-sleep; arguably, the most I had ever been paid for any music I had done. I thought to myself, “It doesn't matter if I ever hear this song again.” At least it was done. The elevator dropped 25 floors to the lobby, a perfect triangle formed between two well-dressed men and myself, as we stood in silence waiting to exit into the great city of Los Angeles. All I wanted was a banana and my own bed—the gym, now closed from the past-due balance would have to wait; I needed healing and love. Gerald greeted me at the top of my bunk, as I slammed down a Whole Foods bag containing a salad, pizza, and of course—two bunches of bananas; some regular organic, and even some of the rare red ones I loved. The contrast of my shared 4-bed dorm to the opulent 25th-story luxury apartment equipped with top-of-the-line studio didn't seem to matter at all. I had pizza and a piñata: that was good enough for me. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.

I now had two jobs and a budding music career, that at times seemed to be skyrocketing me towards a higher dimension at every moment— I hear my city callin me; Off the 25th balcony, A falcon with a crown on Coming down on ya; It really rained on us, LA ain't playing Really making it out here, I bet you're proud of me now, huh—? Bet they play this for you at my funeral Do it, I'm the new confucius, No confusion, dude I'm supa dupe Blū about it I blew up out here; I grew up out here I knew such actions would speak Louder than words could— the fuck up out of here with that— Ssshh! He spoke of being behind hit singles for Beyoncé and other big names I could only dream about ever being in a room with—but I had never heard of him, of course—and just as well, as it didn't seem to matter. I simply wasn't attracted to him, nor was I going to pretend to be just to get ahead in music, or in any other way. At this point, all I really wanted to do was spit the verse I had written and eat; the hunger for some reason was ravishing through me, but it might have been my nerves—he put me on edge and made me nervous, not because we were in a 25th story 2-bedroom luxury apartment overlooking the Downtown LA skyline, or because his productions were high-quality and top of the line—not because the tracks he played me boasted Grammy winners like Usher and Nicki Minaj—but because of his attraction to me, his forward geatures and unwanted touches, and of course, his over masculinity. My Sunnï Blū persona was a bit too overwhelming for his taste—he wanted something more soft, and feminine—sexy. “Not like a skateboarder,” he said, to which I responded “but I'm a skateboarder.” His rebuttal, “yeah, but a sexy, feminine, female skateboarder!” He kept using the word “feminine”, and though I still considered myself broadly female, and certainly straight—he had himself put the nail in the coffin on even considering dating a black man, as he bickered and argued his creative direction, calling me retarded in the process, just as my mother's boyfriend had—apparently, I was “retarded” to most black men, and became “gay” as my cellibacy stood unturned even in the face of any benefit. It wasn't about the money—though I needed and wanted it, the money wouldn't be the thing to control me—it would always be music. I could consider myself to enjoy constructive criticism, typically—but his was demeaning and harsh. He wanted to change my lyrics, move words around and add statements I myself would never really say—to add Ebonics and slang to my verses that didn't sound natural coming out of or from me, or even Sunni Blū, and though I was partitioning simply as Blū, a more feminine aspect or counterpart of Sunni Blū, the direction to be more “feminine” and “sexy”—I suppose, the illusion that my body gave way to the actually more non-Bianary personality that lived within the now-veliptuous-leaning-athletic physique. I never asked him directly not to touch me—I wouldn't be another overly-offended “#me too” girl. I would never accuse a man of “rape” or “harassment”, and I knew better—but I also knew better than to fall asleep at the wrong time or place, opting for the couch in an open space, close to the door, in the studio, where I felt safe. However, his gestures alone made me uncomfortable, and, after running out of every ounce of energy white waiting to spit my verse the night before, I had spent the night curled up on the couch in the entryway—after a failed attempt to get into the bed and relax comfortably without him trying to cuddle up next to me, and not wanting to risk him waking up on top of me, perhaps even only allowing myself to sleep in a new and strange albeit luxurious space, because of the presence of a woman and her young child there. I had established by now that I was secure in my singularity—that after Sonny, and especially after Dillon, that giving and sharing myself, or my love would be different—and though I had freely given Oleg a relaxing and therapeutic back massage in his drunken stupor just a few nights before, (which I supposed he would never remember—) I was upset when this man asked for one, and though he had been so kind as to feed me rather than let me leave into the pouring rain the night before ( as, I, before falling asleep on the couch, had actually attempted to leave back to my own bed—without spitting my verse and not giving a single shit about the song, whether it was going to be a hit or not, how grand the apartment was, or who he had worked with—how many plaques he was going to hang up, or what perks might come with being a woman like my mother and pretending I was interested in order to get what I wanted.) he stopped me short in the elevator, persuading me to come back with the promise of a good meal and that he would finish his verse so that I could start mine. “I just want you to knock this verse out.” I sighed, tiredly, nodding “while i'm here”, somehow knowing that once I left The Circa, I wouldn't return—possibly ever, but at least for a long while. Fatefully so, in the time the food was ordered and delivered, I was still resting sleepily on the couch as he ‘perfected' his verse; I downed the Breakfast a burrito and Vegan Smoothie from LA Cafe in record time, curling back into an exhausted ball on the couch beside the studio, nestled in a warm and heavy blanket; it was somewhere around 4:00 AM, and i promised myself I would leave by 7, in time to catch the Whole Foods for fresh vegan muffins and some bananas—which for some reason, i couldn't stop thinking about. The couch was safe, at least—I wasn't going to risk my celibacy by falling asleep near any man, and though I had left Gerald safe and sound in my bunk back at The Freehand, I at least still had Dillon's Amethyst and Sonny's Rose Quartz tucked next to my heart, as I slept soundly in the studio, any noise of the room fading away into just a thought as I drifted into a heavy and dreamless sleep, the warmth of the best Vegan breakfast burrito I'd had to date resting on my tummy, shielded by my Stilo-de-Chiapas Harem pants and tie dye blue sweater, my Fanny pack still wrapped securely around my waist, and my custom chuck Taylor's sitting at the foot of the couch. I slept at least an hour past seven, waking up to the sunlight through the panoramic windows of the Los Angeles skyline—now, suddenly, I remembered this place, as I had dreamed or had built it long ago, taking a fresh dose of nicotine from my Smok vaporizer, a habit I had picked back up in my one week working at Higher Livin', which I actually hated, but no more than working any other job that wasn't music, and didn't pay me enough to be satisfied with. My uppity coworkers made it a little less enjoyable than it might have been on its own, a majority of my time spent with a classic stoner redhead who couldn't stop talking about getting laid by the new girl he was seeing, and a chubby Latina who scowled too much and rolled her eyes at everything, obviously disliking me for whatever reason , but still coy enough to dress in blue enough of the time and do her nails to match, which I just took as sign from God that things are not always what they seemed. Either way, I didn't care much about anything, but especially about music, which I still somehow loved—working all the time was exhausting me, and, having very little time to myself or at all to recover my own energy was taking enough of a toll that I began the cycle of self-destruction, devastating as it was to admit that I just wasn't a Kayla Lauren, or even a Skrillex, but just the hybrid honest-to-God wannabe hybrid of either one of them, whichever would work out for me—and as it was turning out, neither thing was. I wasn't priveleged or white enough to have all the time in the world to work out, or to produce music—I was stuck literally working for the cost of my bed and food, which evened out to just better than sleeping on the train or on busses in filth, which all seemed to be black people of course that nobody gave a fuck about. The more I worked, the less I gave a fuck about myself—but I at least kept doing it out of fear of whatever else was going on in this city—black people were running around everywhere smelling like piss, screaming at themselves and other people, and reminding me of everything that I wanted to deny: people didn't care about black people. I would have rather considered myself a neutral, but—whites would always see me as black, and black people would always see me as black, so I figured I would have to find a solution sooner or later, as with the more time I spent around either white people or black people, the less black I felt at all. After a terrible Will Smith movie, a shower, and a fresh set of clothes, I was studio-ready—I jumped on the hot mic with gusto and flavor, adding my genuine Sunnï Blū pizzazz to the upbeat, almost jumpstyle-tempo track, which I knew already mixed with a few songs from my own library and would be eager to mix as soon as the master was finished, however, a funny thing happened during the first live take of the verse: though I had written it the night before and had spit it perfectly beforehand, I stumbled, mispronouncing words and misreading them, skewing off from my usual 1-take perfection: something in my energy wasn't right—and even once I had spit it perfectly straight, he didn't like it. He wanted a “sexy and more feminine” approach, and not “a female who sounds like a nigga”. I wasn't trying to sound like anything, of course, just being myself—which he didn't seem to like, and over time it became clearer that he didn't see me for me, but just my body—which had become curvy and veluptuous, after a week of not enough gym and too much anxiety-filled Whole Foods quests, and all around fucklessness of putting my income before my actual needs, which everyone in LA seemed to do, and though I still fit my extra smalls, mediums weren't altogether unwearable anymore, one week ago falling off me even with a drawstring, and now fitting almost just right, my ass growing uncomfortably large with every trip to LA Cafe. It's a trip, Trip— Bout to take a rip On my drip tip Like ‘Drip, drip' I get tips, It's business— Spinin in the middle When I drift — in I'm lift—ed, So gifted— Thick chick Lips: bliss Swiss, miss On chistmas Dismiss this,— —then get— dissed! — (Bitch) Whatcha think about the friend? What you think about the bands What you think about the dance What you think about the stance What you think about the bounce Just bought a new house Fresh bra, new blouse Not worried bout the clout Just a little thizz You know what it is— Flipped another whip? —you should quit whippets! This is being chivalrous Imma put some drizzle in it I'ma bring my whistle in this festival for rizzle It seemed there was no place for my non-bianary, post-racial self in the world of music—at least on this track—and though I wanted and needed a place just like the place I had come to at The Circa to record what would supposedly be a hit song, I wanted and needed the place to be my own, somehow someway. God showing itself more and more broadly with each passing day, I swallowed my pride and after hours of work at the mic I finished the verse as requested, and rather than waiting for lunch (or by that, time, what would have been dinner, as we had been in the studio all day) I thanked the professional musician as he walked me into the elevator, opting for Whole Foods with the little money I had rather than to wait for another free meal. I figured I had been paid in the change of clothes I was wearing, and The LA Cafe I had scarfed down in my half-sleep; arguably, the most I had ever been paid for any music I had done. I thought to myself, “It doesn't matter if I ever hear this song again.” At least it was done. The elevator dropped 25 floors to the lobby, a perfect triangle formed between two well-dressed men and myself, as we stood in silence waiting to exit into the great city of Los Angeles. All I wanted was a banana and my own bed—the gym, now closed from the past-due balance would have to wait; I needed healing and love. Gerald greeted me at the top of my bunk, as I slammed down a Whole Foods bag containing a salad, pizza, and of course—two bunches of bananas; some regular organic, and even some of the rare red ones I loved. The contrast of my shared 4-bed dorm to the opulent 25th-story luxury apartment equipped with top-of-the-line studio didn't seem to matter at all. I had pizza and a piñata: that was good enough for me. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.

I now had two jobs and a budding music career, that at times seemed to be skyrocketing me towards a higher dimension at every moment— I hear my city callin me; Off the 25th balcony, A falcon with a crown on Coming down on ya; It really rained on us, LA ain't playing Really making it out here, I bet you're proud of me now, huh—? Bet they play this for you at my funeral Do it, I'm the new confucius, No confusion, dude I'm supa dupe Blū about it I blew up out here; I grew up out here I knew such actions would speak Louder than words could— the fuck up out of here with that— Ssshh! He spoke of being behind hit singles for Beyoncé and other big names I could only dream about ever being in a room with—but I had never heard of him, of course—and just as well, as it didn't seem to matter. I simply wasn't attracted to him, nor was I going to pretend to be just to get ahead in music, or in any other way. At this point, all I really wanted to do was spit the verse I had written and eat; the hunger for some reason was ravishing through me, but it might have been my nerves—he put me on edge and made me nervous, not because we were in a 25th story 2-bedroom luxury apartment overlooking the Downtown LA skyline, or because his productions were high-quality and top of the line—not because the tracks he played me boasted Grammy winners like Usher and Nicki Minaj—but because of his attraction to me, his forward geatures and unwanted touches, and of course, his over masculinity. My Sunnï Blū persona was a bit too overwhelming for his taste—he wanted something more soft, and feminine—sexy. “Not like a skateboarder,” he said, to which I responded “but I'm a skateboarder.” His rebuttal, “yeah, but a sexy, feminine, female skateboarder!” He kept using the word “feminine”, and though I still considered myself broadly female, and certainly straight—he had himself put the nail in the coffin on even considering dating a black man, as he bickered and argued his creative direction, calling me retarded in the process, just as my mother's boyfriend had—apparently, I was “retarded” to most black men, and became “gay” as my cellibacy stood unturned even in the face of any benefit. It wasn't about the money—though I needed and wanted it, the money wouldn't be the thing to control me—it would always be music. I could consider myself to enjoy constructive criticism, typically—but his was demeaning and harsh. He wanted to change my lyrics, move words around and add statements I myself would never really say—to add Ebonics and slang to my verses that didn't sound natural coming out of or from me, or even Sunni Blū, and though I was partitioning simply as Blū, a more feminine aspect or counterpart of Sunni Blū, the direction to be more “feminine” and “sexy”—I suppose, the illusion that my body gave way to the actually more non-Bianary personality that lived within the now-veliptuous-leaning-athletic physique. I never asked him directly not to touch me—I wouldn't be another overly-offended “#me too” girl. I would never accuse a man of “rape” or “harassment”, and I knew better—but I also knew better than to fall asleep at the wrong time or place, opting for the couch in an open space, close to the door, in the studio, where I felt safe. However, his gestures alone made me uncomfortable, and, after running out of every ounce of energy white waiting to spit my verse the night before, I had spent the night curled up on the couch in the entryway—after a failed attempt to get into the bed and relax comfortably without him trying to cuddle up next to me, and not wanting to risk him waking up on top of me, perhaps even only allowing myself to sleep in a new and strange albeit luxurious space, because of the presence of a woman and her young child there. I had established by now that I was secure in my singularity—that after Sonny, and especially after Dillon, that giving and sharing myself, or my love would be different—and though I had freely given Oleg a relaxing and therapeutic back massage in his drunken stupor just a few nights before, (which I supposed he would never remember—) I was upset when this man asked for one, and though he had been so kind as to feed me rather than let me leave into the pouring rain the night before ( as, I, before falling asleep on the couch, had actually attempted to leave back to my own bed—without spitting my verse and not giving a single shit about the song, whether it was going to be a hit or not, how grand the apartment was, or who he had worked with—how many plaques he was going to hang up, or what perks might come with being a woman like my mother and pretending I was interested in order to get what I wanted.) he stopped me short in the elevator, persuading me to come back with the promise of a good meal and that he would finish his verse so that I could start mine. “I just want you to knock this verse out.” I sighed, tiredly, nodding “while i'm here”, somehow knowing that once I left The Circa, I wouldn't return—possibly ever, but at least for a long while. Fatefully so, in the time the food was ordered and delivered, I was still resting sleepily on the couch as he ‘perfected' his verse; I downed the Breakfast a burrito and Vegan Smoothie from LA Cafe in record time, curling back into an exhausted ball on the couch beside the studio, nestled in a warm and heavy blanket; it was somewhere around 4:00 AM, and i promised myself I would leave by 7, in time to catch the Whole Foods for fresh vegan muffins and some bananas—which for some reason, i couldn't stop thinking about. The couch was safe, at least—I wasn't going to risk my celibacy by falling asleep near any man, and though I had left Gerald safe and sound in my bunk back at The Freehand, I at least still had Dillon's Amethyst and Sonny's Rose Quartz tucked next to my heart, as I slept soundly in the studio, any noise of the room fading away into just a thought as I drifted into a heavy and dreamless sleep, the warmth of the best Vegan breakfast burrito I'd had to date resting on my tummy, shielded by my Stilo-de-Chiapas Harem pants and tie dye blue sweater, my Fanny pack still wrapped securely around my waist, and my custom chuck Taylor's sitting at the foot of the couch. I slept at least an hour past seven, waking up to the sunlight through the panoramic windows of the Los Angeles skyline—now, suddenly, I remembered this place, as I had dreamed or had built it long ago, taking a fresh dose of nicotine from my Smok vaporizer, a habit I had picked back up in my one week working at Higher Livin', which I actually hated, but no more than working any other job that wasn't music, and didn't pay me enough to be satisfied with. My uppity coworkers made it a little less enjoyable than it might have been on its own, a majority of my time spent with a classic stoner redhead who couldn't stop talking about getting laid by the new girl he was seeing, and a chubby Latina who scowled too much and rolled her eyes at everything, obviously disliking me for whatever reason , but still coy enough to dress in blue enough of the time and do her nails to match, which I just took as sign from God that things are not always what they seemed. Either way, I didn't care much about anything, but especially about music, which I still somehow loved—working all the time was exhausting me, and, having very little time to myself or at all to recover my own energy was taking enough of a toll that I began the cycle of self-destruction, devastating as it was to admit that I just wasn't a Kayla Lauren, or even a Skrillex, but just the hybrid honest-to-God wannabe hybrid of either one of them, whichever would work out for me—and as it was turning out, neither thing was. I wasn't priveleged or white enough to have all the time in the world to work out, or to produce music—I was stuck literally working for the cost of my bed and food, which evened out to just better than sleeping on the train or on busses in filth, which all seemed to be black people of course that nobody gave a fuck about. The more I worked, the less I gave a fuck about myself—but I at least kept doing it out of fear of whatever else was going on in this city—black people were running around everywhere smelling like piss, screaming at themselves and other people, and reminding me of everything that I wanted to deny: people didn't care about black people. I would have rather considered myself a neutral, but—whites would always see me as black, and black people would always see me as black, so I figured I would have to find a solution sooner or later, as with the more time I spent around either white people or black people, the less black I felt at all. After a terrible Will Smith movie, a shower, and a fresh set of clothes, I was studio-ready—I jumped on the hot mic with gusto and flavor, adding my genuine Sunnï Blū pizzazz to the upbeat, almost jumpstyle-tempo track, which I knew already mixed with a few songs from my own library and would be eager to mix as soon as the master was finished, however, a funny thing happened during the first live take of the verse: though I had written it the night before and had spit it perfectly beforehand, I stumbled, mispronouncing words and misreading them, skewing off from my usual 1-take perfection: something in my energy wasn't right—and even once I had spit it perfectly straight, he didn't like it. He wanted a “sexy and more feminine” approach, and not “a female who sounds like a nigga”. I wasn't trying to sound like anything, of course, just being myself—which he didn't seem to like, and over time it became clearer that he didn't see me for me, but just my body—which had become curvy and veluptuous, after a week of not enough gym and too much anxiety-filled Whole Foods quests, and all around fucklessness of putting my income before my actual needs, which everyone in LA seemed to do, and though I still fit my extra smalls, mediums weren't altogether unwearable anymore, one week ago falling off me even with a drawstring, and now fitting almost just right, my ass growing uncomfortably large with every trip to LA Cafe. It's a trip, Trip— Bout to take a rip On my drip tip Like ‘Drip, drip' I get tips, It's business— Spinin in the middle When I drift — in I'm lift—ed, So gifted— Thick chick Lips: bliss Swiss, miss On chistmas Dismiss this,— —then get— dissed! — (Bitch) Whatcha think about the friend? What you think about the bands What you think about the dance What you think about the stance What you think about the bounce Just bought a new house Fresh bra, new blouse Not worried bout the clout Just a little thizz You know what it is— Flipped another whip? —you should quit whippets! This is being chivalrous Imma put some drizzle in it I'ma bring my whistle in this festival for rizzle It seemed there was no place for my non-bianary, post-racial self in the world of music—at least on this track—and though I wanted and needed a place just like the place I had come to at The Circa to record what would supposedly be a hit song, I wanted and needed the place to be my own, somehow someway. God showing itself more and more broadly with each passing day, I swallowed my pride and after hours of work at the mic I finished the verse as requested, and rather than waiting for lunch (or by that, time, what would have been dinner, as we had been in the studio all day) I thanked the professional musician as he walked me into the elevator, opting for Whole Foods with the little money I had rather than to wait for another free meal. I figured I had been paid in the change of clothes I was wearing, and The LA Cafe I had scarfed down in my half-sleep; arguably, the most I had ever been paid for any music I had done. I thought to myself, “It doesn't matter if I ever hear this song again.” At least it was done. The elevator dropped 25 floors to the lobby, a perfect triangle formed between two well-dressed men and myself, as we stood in silence waiting to exit into the great city of Los Angeles. All I wanted was a banana and my own bed—the gym, now closed from the past-due balance would have to wait; I needed healing and love. Gerald greeted me at the top of my bunk, as I slammed down a Whole Foods bag containing a salad, pizza, and of course—two bunches of bananas; some regular organic, and even some of the rare red ones I loved. The contrast of my shared 4-bed dorm to the opulent 25th-story luxury apartment equipped with top-of-the-line studio didn't seem to matter at all. I had pizza and a piñata: that was good enough for me. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.

We covered so many topics in this episode, from zentangling to tools, to recapping the Pelikan Hubs, and more!ZentaglingZentangling primer booksZentangling project packsPaper Plus Cloth 5th AnniversaryPelikan Hubs Toronto at the MadisonShout out to Wonderpens and Stylo.ca for helping to sponsor Toronto's pelikan hubsAzizah's favorite lip balm (Creamy Cocoa)Figboot on Pens Leonardo CometaCandace wants a Leonardo x Stilo&Stile Prisma if anyone has one to sell. Please email us!Tactile Turn NexusGalen Leather Magnum Opus CasesPhilly Pen ShowPennonia Csontváry's Blue Csontváry-kék

Jeffrey habla de lanzamientos navideños, celestiales, naturales y refrescantes. ¿Qué estoy usando hoy?: Y Studio Classic Revolve (M) Van Dieman's Huon Pine Tinterías Papier Plume Tintas navideñas Colorverse Butterfly Nebula y NGC6302 Van Dieman's Birds of a Feather Esterbrook JR Beleza Esterbrook Estie COLA Leonardo x Stilo&Stile Momento Zero Cometa Leonardo x Endless Pens Momento Zero Paradiso Tintería del episodio: CAIMÁN

Tasty Tuesday's “Talk” welcomes back music producer and hip hop artist Dope Stilo (Stilo Music Group) who now is a Metaverse advisor and influencer.  Also, we welcome DJ Mackey, DJ Mackey has been in the music industry for the past 25 years, DJ'n, throwing events, music producing  for artists such as; Mickey Avalon, Simon Rex, Beardo, Kesha, Fluee, to name a few. Together, Stilo and Mackey have teamed up and making a huge impact in the Metaverse community. They are also teaming up with several others to start the company Realm3. In this episode we delve deeper in this continued conversation about the Metaverse. There is so much you will learn in this Tasty Tuesday Talk! For more information or inquires  regarding anything about Metaverse contact either Dope Stilo @dopestilo or DJ Mackey  @djmackey on Twitter. Learn more about Dope Stilo : https://dopestilo.shop/Learn more about DJ Mackey: spatial.io/s/MACKEYs-Virtual-Hangout-62dc770c119dbc00014af7d5?share=2838660027037986188FOLLOW @https://www.instagram.com/zmanzbrahhttps://www.instagram.com/stilomusicgrouphttps://www.instagram.com/dj.mackeyhttps://www.instagram.com/tastemakers_tastytuesdays

Hoda Kotb and Jenna Hager catch up with Anthony Mackie. Also, speaking to experts and parents about kids and cell phones. Plus, it's National Queso Day! Hoda Kotb and Jenna Hager get to try some of their favorite's.

Zapraszamy nad morze! Specjalnie dla was nagraliśmy kojący szum bałtyckich fal pewnej szczególnej letniej nocy. Niech łagodne fale przyniosą Wam spokojne sny! Czyta: Kasia Molęda Rysunek: Ewa Engler-Herer

Today on the Ether we have the DCentralize space dropping some big alpha about what the team has been up to. You'll hear from IanDCentralize, Sarah Main, Stilo, Danny Savage, Astral Projekt, Rosa Cecilia, Ms. Barbara Tucker, DJG, and more! Recorded on August 17th 2022. If you enjoy the music at the end of the episodes, you can find the albums streaming on Spotify, and the rest of your favorite streaming platforms. Check out Project Survival, Virus Diaries, and Plan B wherever you get your music. Thank you to everyone in the community who supports TerraSpaces.

Today on the Ether we have OmniFlix In the Studio 12 hosted by Chev with music by Stilo. You'll hear from Dope Stilo Music Club, How Rare Is Your Cosmos, m!lo, Tokyo White International, antoine, CryptoGodLui, Sandytoes2211, midas.ngmi, SongsOfΞden.eth, and more! Recorded on August 5th 2022. If you enjoy the music at the end of the episodes, you can find the albums streaming on Spotify, and the rest of your favorite streaming platforms. Check out Project Survival, Virus Diaries, and Plan B wherever you get your music. Thank you to everyone in the community who supports TerraSpaces.

Hoy platicamos con Stilo sobre su música y nos trae una sorpresa que no te puedes perder, además en las tardes de juegos llega el miénteme que me gusta y los chismes del día, sin olvida nuestra plática con Ferka Quiroz, sólo aquí con Roger en exa.

Stilo nos presenta su nuevo sencillo y nos cuenta sobre el álbum que lanzará hoy en Bajo Circuito, sólo aquí con Roger en exa.

Gli Ufo e la sterminata galassia di leggende e teorie che gira loro intorno sono uno dei grandi miti della cultura di massa contemporanea. Il 2 luglio, in occasione del World Ufo Day, il CICAP pubblica una serie di contenuti dedicati a questo tema.Tra le varie iniziative ripropone, sia su YouTube sia in formato podcast, la presentazione del nuovo libro di Giuseppe Stilo, "Alieni ma non troppo. Guida scettica all'ufologia", avvenuta a Padova lo scorso 4 giugno durante il CICAP Fest 2022.Come sono sorti i miti degli Ufo e degli extraterrestri? A quali movimenti collettivi hanno dato origine queste convinzioni? E gli “avvistamenti” dei presunti Ufo sono sempre spiegabili con facilità, oppure c'è ancora spazio per una legittima controversia scientifica sulle cause di alcuni fenomeni? Questi sono alcuni degli interrogativi affrontati da Giuseppe Stilo in quella che è, a tutti gli effetti, un'esaustiva rassegna degli elementi centrali dell'ufologia, scritta nel rispetto della realtà dei fatti e del convincimento di chi continua a credere negli Ufo, nonostante la mancanza di chiare evidenze documentali.Ospiti: Giuseppe StiloModera: Francesco Grassi Redazione: Elisa Baioni, Sonia Ciampoli, Diego Martin, Dasara Shullani, Enrico Zabeo, Cecilia Penelope ZambelliGrafica e Logo: Fabio MialichAltri riferimenti: Alieni ma non troppo di Giuseppe Stilo https://www.cicap.org/new/prodotto.php?id=3905Sigla ed effetti: https://www.zapsplat.com/ ZapsplatMusiche: https://www.epidemicsound.com/ Epidemic SoundSeguiteci sui profili social del CICAP:Facebook: @cicap.orgTwitter: @cicapInstagram: cicap_it

Erick y Jeffrey contestan unas preguntas muy difíciles. Tinterías Plus adquiere a Sailor Reabre la tienda de PenBBS Sailor Serie Estatal Tennessee y Kentucky SchonDSGN Lanzamientos de junio Leonardo x Stilo&Stile Momento Zero Prisma Platinum Plaisir Aura Dejar un mensaje de audio para Episodio 100 Tintería del episodio: MEDUSA

Tasty Tuesday's “Talk” had the pleasure to sit down with music producer and hip hop artist Dope Stilo (Dope Stilo Music Group) who now is getting heavily involved in the Metaverse.In this episode Dope Stilo gives TT Talk an inside of everything is he doing in  Metaverse. He has been throwing parties and events for the past few months and building a community. We also discuss NFT's, VR, and his music and how all of it has been helping his career move forward to above and beyond.  Finally, in the end of the show he performs two of his most recent songs live in our Dash Radio Studio. After this episode you'll for sure be a fan of Dope Stilo and will be dying to strap up and get into the Metaverse.To learn more about Dope Stilo Music Group visit his website at:  https://dopestilo.shop/FOLLOW @https://www.instagram.com/zmanzbrahhttps://www.instagram.com/stilomusicgroup https://www.instagram.com/tastemakers_tastytuesdays

https://youtu.be/8VcfmwMmtkUYz Guy Q, Soufside

Welcome to Episode 8 of Season 2! This week we're joined by San Antonio Artist and Producer Stilo Jordan! Listen in as we discuss his biggest influences! The current state of the music scene in San Antonio! X is a fireman now? Social Media Questions! Plus so much more! Make sure to check out Stilo Jordan's newest album "From The Wayside" on all streaming platforms! *I do not own the rights to any music used in this episode*

In this week's edition of Bangers & Classics, the Fiat Stilo is hauled from the shadows of obscurity and into the Banger or Classic courtroom. But will it finally be vindicated or sent back to obscurity? Speaking of obscurity, the challenge for this week sees the lads wade through fields of broken dreams and rivers of rust in search of coupe versions of 1970s British-built saloons. And when they find their respective choices, controversy ensues... And no sooner than the dust has settled, cudgels are taken up on behalf of (or not) this week's Dangermobile, Citroen's penultimate tilt at the big car market: the beautiful but flawed XM.

“Babel Songs” è il primo spazio sonoro di Roma Tre Radio curato dalle aree linguistico-culturali anglofone, francofone, ispaniche, lusitane, slave e germaniche del Dipartimento di Lingue e Letterature Straniere dell'Università Roma Tre. Un programma ideato da Maddalena Pennacchia (Dip. LLCS) e Marta Perrotta (Dip. FilCoSpe). Oriella Esposito (Roma Tre Radio) in regia. Con le studentesse e gli studenti del Dip. di LLCS. Puntata 10 - “Un viaggio tra note e parole della Bossa Nova”. La bossa nova è un genere musicale che nasce alla fine degli anni '50 a Rio de Janeiro e fonde le sonorità del jazz nordamericano con il ritmo del samba carioca. Il percorso proposto vi porterà a riflettere sulle tematiche esistenziali, che si celano dietro ritmi suadenti di queste canzoni. Ai microfoni Sara Altoni e Rossana D'Onofrio. Podcast editing a cura di Luca Settel. Social media: Luca Settel. Redazione: Sara Altoni, Rossana D'Onofrio e Luca Settel coadiuvati dai proff. Salvador Pippa e Luigia De Crescenzo. I brani che abbiamo ascoltato e analizzato in puntata: 1. Maria Creuza – Chega de Saudade [1'51”] (Versione originale, 1957) 2. Madalena (feat. N. Stilo, S. Nencha, S. Nunzi, A. Marzi) – Samba e amor [4'39”] (2021) 3. Nara Leão – Samba de uma nota só [2'09”] (1971) 4. Elis Regina e Tom Jobim - Águas de Março [3'31”] (1972) 5. Maria Bethânia – Samba da bênção [3'02”] (versione originale, 1967) 6. Tom Jobim e Miúcha - Samba do avião [2'46”] (1962) 7. Tom Jobim e Vinícius de Moraes - Garota de Ipanema [3'37”] (1962) 8. Tom Jobim, Vinícius de Moraes, Miúcha e Toquinho - Sei Lá (A Vida Tem Sempre Razão) [2'12”] (1977)

Pelikan desborda imaginación y saca una pluma que ya sacó a la venta hace años, mismo modelo, mismo tamaño. Si Lamy y Kaweco y otras sacan cada año el mismo modelo una y otra vez pero en color diferente, Pelikan riza el rizo. Stilo e Stile vende plumines elásticos de Leonardo, un poco menos de 30€. Las plumas Dollar: desde Pakistan, una caja de 10 plumas de pistón por 10€. Y aquí ya hace sol y los días tienen más horas de luz. Revivo como una planta. --- Podcast asociado a la red de SOSPECHOSOS HABITUALES. Suscríbete con este feed: https://feedpress.me/sospechososhabituales

In questa puntata di Sul Divano di Ale: Ci sediamo sul divano tutti in ghingheri, perché siamo arrivati alla puntata 100 e io non posso che porgervi i miei più sentiti ringraziamenti per il percorso del Divano fino a oggi. Per Kiki Wolfkill è necessario mostrare il volto di Master Chief nella serie di Halo. Ne siamo sicuri? Amy Sherman-Palladino e la sua signora Maisel sono tornate su Amazon e la loro irriverenza riverbera tra streaming e i classici network televisivi: per la Palladino le sitcom sono ancora importanti e le reti non dovrebbero restare a guardare la streaming war. Come può il pubblico capire quando una sceneggiatura fa acqua? Me lo avete chiesto e vengo in vostro soccorso. Stilo una piccola e pratica guida all'uso e me la prendo con le scuole italiane! Su Netflix è arrivato il documentario Django&Django dedicato a Sergio Corbucci e che vede Quentin Tarantino come cicerone e fan assoluto del regista italiano. Ho finalmente recuperato The King's Man - Le origini, terzo film della saga di Matthew Vaughn tratta dai fumetti di Mark Millar. Cosa ne penso? Si ripete la magia?Chiudo con la recensione di Uncharted, trasposizione della famosa e celebrata IP di Naughty Dog. Siamo al calcio d'inizio della wave videoludica o è una falsa partenza? Chiacchiere, domande e argomenti frizzantini vi aspettano in questa puntata di Sul Divano di Ale. Buon ascolto!Support the show (https://www.buymeacoffee.com/suldivanodiale)

Kaweco saca un modelo iridiscente para principios de marzo. También un modelo Liliput en verde, y un dispensador nuevo de cartuchos. Antigua's va a presentar plumas nuevas en homenaje a varias ciudades y hay un sorteo en su Instagram. Fontoplumo tiene ya en su web las tintas Wearingeul. Stilo e Stile tienes las Sailor nuevas, también con sombreado. No me han emocionado. Supuestamente mi pluma Galen Leather/Franklin-Christoph llega el lunes, pero veremos... --- Podcast asociado a la red de SOSPECHOSOS HABITUALES. Suscríbete con este feed: https://feedpress.me/sospechososhabituales

This episode we're drinking Friends & Allies Brewing called "Govalle Tropical IPA". We have Stilo Jordan in this episode. He is discussing his latest album that is dropping on Feb. 5th, 2022 titled "From the Wayside". We discuss the process of making the album and the inspirations behind it. Working with Ominous the Monster and learning from his mentor Mack Damon. Follow Stilo Jordan IG - https://www.instagram.com/stilo_jordan/ Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/jeremiah.castillo.52 Twitter - https://twitter.com/Stilo_Jordan Tik Tok - https://www.tiktok.com/@stilo_jordan Spotify - https://open.spotify.com/artist/0LWGisMis1SCUVh4rDLL9o?si=rX4AsARmQXWCm0NytuB49w&nd=1 Apple - https://music.apple.com/us/artist/stilo-jordan/1459957552 https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/stilojordan/from-the-wayside Follow Open Bar IG - https://www.instagram.com/openbarpod/ Youtube - https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCcDwVTHxFDb2PIgn-mwyUgg https://drum.io/productionsbds

Mazi is joined by Stilo Jordan. A 'ONE MAN' wrecking crew when it comes to the production of music and or visual content. Tune is as they talk about everything from producers vs beatmakers, multi tasking, mental health to STILO's NEWEST PROJECT titled "FROM THE WAYSIDE' available to stream on February 5th. 

DISCLAIMER: The view(s) and opinions expressed on this show by the host(s) do not necessarily reflect those of the channel. Furthermore, the views and the opinions of the guest(s) do not reflect those of the host(s) and the channel.---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Everything SA Music Premium South African Music Content The Rea & Blvck Steph Podcast Episode 11Shot by: @whoistshepo_saEdited: @blvckstephIntro & Outro song by : NatorDeep - Best FriendStudio: @fo8productionsSound by : NkhaoticFollow Everything SA Music : @everythingsamusic@esamofficial_​Follow Rea : @reagopane_@reagopane​Follow Blvck Steph : @blvcksteph@officialblvcksteph

#WitziTeve con #LoMásEspectacular Tiene de invitados a @purostilooficial y a @alexmontoficial ¡SINTONÍZANOS EN PUNTO DE LAS 13:00 HRS! #EstoyenMmood #MMGroup #Soymm

Ian Woodley of Worcestershire based design agency Stilo quickly realised he wanted to run his own business, after being employed as a graduate for just 18 months. He and a colleague realised they could provide a better service than was being offered to their clients through the agency they worked for back then. It took a week for the phone to ring, but when it did, it was Cadbury's and they were off! 25 years later, Ian runs his own design agency, focussing on the clients he enjoys serving. After various phases of development, they're now having the most interesting conversations they've ever had, producing their best ever work and crucially, making a difference to the businesses they serve. Connect with Ian here: www.brandstilo.co.uk www.linkedin.com/in/ian-woodley