Podcasts about what time is it

Lyres - Help You Ann  The Darts - Welcome To My Doldrums  Demolition Doll Rods - Get It On  Sheer Mag - Eat It and Beat It  The Saints - Know Your Product  Fastbacks - Nothing To Do Gee Tee - Couch Potato Black Flag - TV Party  The A-Bones - Spinning My Wheels  Lone Justice - Teenage Kicks 5,6,7,8's - Harlem Shuffle  The Bellrays - Pinball City  The MC5 - Shakin' Street  Rotten Apples - Love Career  The Linda Lindas - Racist, Sexist Boy  Nobro - Where My Girls At The Go-Go's - Surfing and Spying  The Bug Club - A Bit Like James Bond The Toy Dolls - James Bond LIves Down The Street  Nancy Sinatra - The Last of The Secret Agents  Rocket From The Tombs - Down In Flames Pere Ubu - Street Waves Brian Eno - Seven Deadly Finns  The Dirtbombs - KIng's Lead Hat  Iggy & The Stooges - Raw Power  The Left - A Perfect World   Flamin' Groovies - Slow Death  The Mooney Suzuki - Say Man, What Time Is It? The Nomads - The Way You Touch My Hand  The Creatures of The Golden Dawn - It Feels Like The End Of The World  Radio Birdman - Descent Into The Maelstrom  Blue Oyster Cult - Career Of Evil  The Cramps - Garbageman  The Balloon Farm - A Question Of Temperature THe Pandoras - You Burn Me Up And Down  Reigning Sound - Time Bomb High School  Bobby James - Going Back To Philly

This week on RITY... Our mini theme is What Time Is It?... Also, music from an English band who got their big break after David Gilmour overheard them playing a wedding... Someone actually wrote a song about the food at Howard Johnson's!?!?... A rarity from the band, Lynard Skynard. Yes, I spelled that correctly... Plus deep tracks from Neutral Milk Hotel, Unicorn, Dog's Eye View, The Cure, and much more! For more info on the show, visit reelinwithryan.com

Ian and Aaron discuss Aaron's TUI app, what it's like being a founder over 40, "the drones", and so much more.Sponsored by LaraJobs, Screencasting.com, and CodeRabbitInterested in sponsoring Mostly Technical?  Head to https://mostlytechnical.com/sponsor to learn more.(00:00) - Founders Over Forty (10:54) - It's Gonna Be Bad (15:25) - Watch Guy (22:41) - TUI Is A Silly Word (38:03) - Try Hard Empire Update (58:46) - Ian Found A Budgeting App! (01:07:29) - Advertising Platform (01:12:39) - What Time Is It? (01:18:58) - The Drones Links:Justin Jackson - What's Happening With Founders Over 40Tim Ferriss ShowJoe Tannenbaum on BlueskyTermskyLaravel PromptsTerminal CoffeeANSI Escape CodeUdemyMonarchThunkChris Rock's FilmographyKen Wheeler on XD.B. Cooper

WHAT TIME IS IT? It's finally time to watch High School Musical 2! This has been BenG and Kelsey's most anticipated episode, and boy do they have a lot to talk about. Tune in as they discuss the music compared to the first movie, the logistics of getting your entire student body hired with you, and why Troy needs better friends.

This Week on 'Africa On The Move Radio' presents:  "Part II:  What Time Is It?" Join us on Sunday, October 27, 2024, at 7:00 PM EST. You can listen or call in at (323) 679-0841, or go online t: blogtalkradio.com/

If, you wanted to know "What Time Is It?' You would be in the right place and the right time by joining 'Africa On The Move Radio' on Sunday, Oct. 20, 2024, aat 7:00 PM EStT by dialing in at 1 (323) 679-0841, or go online at blogtalkradiio.com/.

Hey, Oprah— Oprah. Oprah. Oprah. Oprah. Oprah Oprah Oprah Oprah OPRAH— WHAT?!? —I love you. (OPRAH WINFREY sighs and groans, sinking back into bed.) —and… ...AND? ...I made breakfast. (This wakes her up a bit, as she is curious to see what has been made; Supacree energetically bounces into the next room.) HEY, JANET JACKSON— “Legends: The Melanin” S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ has been taken to a top secret training facility to prepare her for her journey into celebritism. EARLIER: S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ is robbed and kidnapped at gunpoint by JANET JACKSON, BEYONCÉ, MARIAH CAREY, ALICIA KEYS & OPRAH. what a combo. I know, right? A NINJA stops S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ in her path, knocking the açaí bowl out of her left hand— WHAT THE FUCK! —luckily, she still has her smoothie—however, before she can take a sip, the ninja, who she seems unbothered by, knocks the smoothie out of her other hand. NO, MY SMOOTHIE!!!!!!!!!! The NINJA stands, motionless. S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ takes a fighting stance. THE NINJA takes a fighting stance. FUCK you dude, that shit's EXPENSIVE! YAAAAH. YAAAAHHH! They NINJA fight; S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ SUPACREE has the advantage, until. ANOTHER NINJA arrives as backup. I got this! Then, ANOTHER OTHER NINJA and A FOURTH NINJA surround SUPACREE; Oh, fuck that. They create a formation—each taking a fighting stance. She is majorly outnumbered. THE GRAND NINJA arrives HIIIIIIIIIYYYAAAAAAA. Nope, fuck this. The ninjas synchronize, ready to fight. Nope, I quit. S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ retreats, running. One of the ninjas has already advanced in her path. Not so fast! You're a LADY?! Now you're surprised?! S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ attempts to flee. The ninja pistol whips Supacree. She's out cold. God dammit, Janet! What?! She's fast! She's also heavy. Just get her! It takes 3 ninjas (and a fourth for support) to lift SUPACREE into the sleek, blacked out Escalade. They close the back, and unanimously all 4 doors, in sync. The Escalade drives away, license plate reading: LEGENDS Leave it alone, Just let it be Could you just–practically be me for a second, I want to check something out. –I am–practically you– Hold on, Let me get a cat and a couple supermodels. I'll be right back. Great. Where am I supposed to get two cats and a supermodel on short notice? No, it was, a cat and two– Tell me your name one more time. I was certain i'd never forget. You will forget about this. I need more magic. I just gave you magic. Where is it? Uh. Up my nose. Wat is the dosage on those anyway? PORCUPINE. uh, don't touch that? DON't GeT TO0 Hold on a second, this might be the most accurate, if I ever– DId you ever NO. I'm stuck in this MUFFIN. MUFFIN! COME HERE MUFFIN. What happened? I lost a cat. [RACHEL DRATCH IS IN THE IMPENETRABLE TEN] this has never happened. Hold the fucking phone. Hold the fucking– OPRAH UHWUHT. PHONE. [OPRAH WINFREY DOES NOT HAVE TIME FOR YOUR BULLSHIT.] Why all caps CAUSE SHE'S MAD WHO THE [NOPE] DO YOU THINK YOU ARE CALLING ME AT THIS [UH OH] HOUR WHAT HOUR. WHAT TIME IS IT. WHERE'S WHOOPI. I got her. -Wait–you go her? Yup, she's safe. *squints* I'll be right there. Oh shit, is that Skrillex? No, that's The President. No, this is Patrick. Why did the Chicken cross the road? Pretty much out of sheer panic. Run it! Run it to exhaustion! RUN THIS BITCH INTO THE GROUNDHOLE! Good, it's Groundhog's day. SPRINGTI– NO. Put some clothes on. Let's play piano. I'm a martian. oh . that's dumb. What happend to your planet. Yer on it. No, you're on this: my planet. URANUS What happened. *SPPLAT* (Now I'm like, gas.) *blat* Ooh, wow, how'd that happen *shrugs* science /math ASSHOLES. Wat happened. Just wait here. I'll be right back. ARTY MCWIRED You know, just in case there's a LAWSUIT dammit . LAW SUIT huh LAW SUITS I don't get it. Why are you all dressed in What BRoTHeRhOoD is THIS. Oh good, a map. YOu know these things are useless to me. Of course, this would be the perfect day to go SHOPPING JELLYFISHING. DOLPHINS. Idget it. What. How did Dolphins survive a nuclear holocaust? Anything left here? Nothing I s– ooh , wats that. Woah, look, dolphins. LIke, 12 of them. Gnarly. My world changed when I got a couch. Everything changed, actually—when I got furniture. Actual furniture, more than just a mattress on a floor and a cheap Asian desk from Amazon I actually loathed. I almost never worked at the desk, anyway, as it didn't seem equipped for the totality of my studio—the keyboard and drum machine, and though the keyboard had been calling to me over the last few days particularly, I had spent the last couple days almost carelessly longing, in peace and near total silence, with not a care In the world or a thought besides my mantras, with the occasional conglomerate rapid overthinking caused by the terrorists outside, now thought more likely to be police officers or feds themselves, as the police never seemed to be able to stop them–and it seemed that perhaps It was a federal act of domestic terrorism itself. No actual police officers or forces seemed to care or could stop them–and if it wasn't the devil himself, it had to have been the military or something of the like, pushing some sort of political agenda. Either way, I wasn't going to be moved in such a way to keep reacting to such immature and primitive war tactics—and thought that it was just as likely that by November, come voting time, they would all be miraculously disappeared, if not before due to the inclement weather I was sure was coming by the end of summer. I was almost sort of on my own time, besides the voices in my mind which screamed to work harder and faster, be skinner and more perfect, and that my prime time had passed—that I would never be loved again and that I was a horrible mother, that besides all the more knowing it for myself, I hushed and numbed with my mantras, uncaring. At the very least, I was alone, and not interested in people— the humanity had left the humans by way of corporate slavery and electronic addictions, rigged elections and a totalitarian government which masqueraded as a democracy, but In all truth had been for quite some time, out of the hands of its people. All the better, as the people had become programmed and controllable, easily manipulated, and for the most part and maybe even for the best, unconscious creatures—the majority of them malnourished, dehydrated by choice and lifestyle, eating processed foods as voluntary poison–and especially in New York City– undereducated, and without rest; The youth at the hands of the system which controlled all aspects of their lives, comparing them not by wit or skill but privilege and genetic composition; by looks, wealth, and vanity. The algorithm was indeed sorting them by all it knew to— perfect, and imperfect, almost always attributed to environmental factors, such as financial stability and of course—access to certain luxuries and freedoms— a hard line dividing the classes now. I lounged somewhat gracefully in my favorite polyester blend skirt as my harems washed with the tablecloth and dishrags— I was nearly out of suitable casual clothes, and although I had been collecting some fashionable outerwear, I never planned on actually going out. Being penniless in New York was tiresome, and I had spent enough time fighting its monsterous crowds and the infestation of migrants long enough during my year within the homeless system—now, still trapped by the terrorists which surrounded the block and what, if it wasn't some kind of federal experiment altogether, also seemed like some kind of criminal enterprise, which situated itself in the warehouse just adjacent to my building, though having lost their illegal smoke shop, a group of shirtless hoodlum-looking types, still appearing to continue business outside of where the smokeshop once had been, now becoming an obvious and unwelcoming eyesore, as the owners of the “auto body shop” which plagued the neighborhood by parking ugly cars on the sidewalks around the entirety of the corner—combined with the discarded trash, old appliances and the occasional shopping cart filled with such , not to mention the trees which stood in beds of littered filth– as if to say “we run this block”—some shade of brown and careless as to what peace might be to some others, they held enough of something like money which masquaraded as power, and therefore enough of whatever they had to continue to make the block a less welcoming place to live, and besides the motorcyclists—which all seemed to be one, haphazard, operational network— stood as a good reason not to bring any child into this mess— the brown-black world of Brooklyn New York's Queen's facing war zone—the ugly truth of old racism and money in New York City; and after a year two year spectacle on how most of the black and brown culture within New York City had bred itself to be unrestful, misbehaved, and brutally drained of its class by the system itself; it was nearly understated that the culture had become toxic. The Redlining of New York City had become obvious–New York City's own racism a blistering outward truth. I I wanted so badly to be able to travel and return “home” or rather, to my apartment–or even rather–to my studio–as it never really did feel like home with the ability to see it all in a new light. I had been in New York so long that I felt myself becoming callous and bitter—I needed to leave, but had been at a standstill creatively, as if there was some kind of block on my music. It was true that I couldn't hear much of my own sounds or music over the traffic in the outside world, and I was sure I had been sent here as sabotage so that I might never make it out of the depths of this world. Either way, I wasn't going to take it much longer— if I was ever made to be homeless again, I would simply kill myself—and without a love that I could call my own— a real love, disconnected from the destruction of my son's father, completely away from the satanic, demonic and evil curses he had set upon me— a love that would set me free from him and his world— I would kill myself. I would do anything to escape the constant thoughts of him bombarding me, the flashbacks of his brutal beating— the evil words he had said and the evil, tumultuous series of homelessness which followed. I would do anything to rid myself of him entirely, and I had not yet at all been loved by someone who didn't seem possessed by something after some time—it was as if this energy would find its way into anyone near me and drive me to insanity just so that his version of the story would become true; the evil lie that I had simply “lost my mind”, and out of nowhere, just had “gone crazy.” His version was the lie— Everything that I had once become was a reflection of himself—weak, unstable, and unable to function, all the while he had used my energy to sustain and survive; a vampire narcissist who could not have without my doing lived or functioned on his own. The one man I had ever shared tied with had been always too tired to get up for work, and always without fail, unable to keep a steady job – and of course— situationally plagued with poor spending habits, bad judgement, and outright laziness. He simply wanted to play the game, drink his 4locos, and use my computer to make rap beats; of course–I was holding him back from his true potential. Becoming like him was what seemed to the outside world as ‘losing my mind', and upon choosing to leave him, to find myself again. His only strategy had been to to form an illusion—that his own mental illness was actually mine. That the traumatic physical violence I had endured and hidden in fear of him had never actually happened. He kept me at a distance to make it seem as though I had abandoned my son; used our son as bait to attract another mate, and then began to discard him, treating him as an extension of myself which he could feed on for light and energy–and eventually discard. He claimed that by ignoring my phone calls and attempts at keeping a bond with my son, that I had no interest in being a mother. He projected onto other that I had been sick or incapable—with the veracity of a cereal killer with just enough charm, the racistly indoctrinated outside world fell to default that always, though having been the survivor of serveral violent acts, that I was somehow in the wrong–that I had somehow deserved the things which were being done to me. The physical scars that I wore were of his making, and the label that it formed— a mentally ill and unstable homeless colored woman— projected to the right-swinging red-necked Alaskans that I was somehow the problem; However, with time, I was sure that his meaning to subdue and belittle me was returning to him in the way of Karmic justice, and that the light that I had left within my own child would be his redeeming quality, in a world where I had been outcast from and unable to return to. I wanted desperately to at least visit—but saw no end to the financial ruin which homelessness and debt had caused insight; the recovery from his physical violence almost seemingly impossible; even frequenting the gym often enough would result in a particular man entering the gym to practice his sparring; often though I tried to prevent the flashbacks from occuring, I would eventually, hearing this, over my music at high volume, imagine the punching bag as my face. I realized at some point that I might never actually see my son again. We were thousands of miles separated and years between us–and because I had been honest in my documentation of the violence that had happened between us–he was refusing to sign the divorce papers, leaving me dangling at the end of a long rope I was sure I'd hang from, and limiting my ability to be seen by the system as entirely independent of this disastrous type of person. Of course, ‘boys will be boys'--and these types of boys in particular had the habit of protecting one another whether they were in the wrong, or not. A brotherhood of course, in which I had been marked as beatable, discardable, and of course, some sort of sub-human. How could I even know that I was safe from his dark and evil reach in a world said to be and many believed ruled by demonic bodies which Satan himself had claimed? In heavy prayer and reflection I had been asking of the men on motorcycles, to which God's answer seemed to speak truth; that these men were not men at all, but Satan's playthings. They had no free though or will to act on their own, and were instead controlled—that the toxicity, the terrorism, the injustice was a spectacle of sorts for the dark lord, in thy he controlled so many of what used to be people—now more just puppets for his displays of affliction upon humanity. These men had no purpose at all but to be consumed and possessed by a creature which had no face at all—no true name at all— the force of evil itself, which by now had controlled nearly all man, and nearly all of humanity. The Complex Collective © Nicolas Fountainisi was a disgusting human being. Not altogether a human creature, he foraged ways of l believing in kindness and gratitude though never actually having felt, or with feeling at all— what human nature actually at all was. Premeditated murder. Desensitization, Sensitive information Curious niggers Did I say it again? Indifference. It's whatever. Psychological terror chamber. I love Oprah and motorcycles But I hate robots. Huh. Well, I'm at it. Let's go kick in the googleverse I could write a metaplex Languages, and something was stolen! Porch robber False fortune Decisions, decisions Evil ass bitches Temptations, Temptations— I seen your face when I mated here Oh, Lord It's the lyricism Let's make spousal abuse poetic. Let's make her stay in the system! Let's make it more severe weather! [Thunder and lightning.] Let's go hang in the googleverse I might write a metaplex I'm infinite, And you're infinite— But your producer Is inferior Where is he then? I left him in a wedding For aftermarket parts I'm making belated birthday cakes On the 4th Or the fifth Better believe it I ain't got enough to— Switch from the antiquity, did you? I told you, I ain't tell if they come at me! (Don't tell if he touch you) He got the power, The lawyers The women, The money, The mortals on battery pack— Waaaages! I'm not finna snatch shit Just so you can say I snatched it I asked you for passion and peace All I got was the passion And nails in my outstretched palms I tried to warn you! Sickness, is it? It is, Traffic on magnets Let's go hang in the googleverse, I might write metaplex Fear of the fortunate Don't mean to hurt us-/ We're just immortals They don't even know us no more Depart the children of earth For the worst days to come Not to the worthless, But the wealthy and fortunate Burn up Listen and learn, son Your mother was for us But I got my butter's worth (Don't make me work hard!) I thinkni just left myself Woke up in a primary school A perfect apartment But a dive bar To an old fuck Going out on those LTEs Is always bothersome, Don't you know? Torturer's complex —they know not. Don't worry mom, I got an assignment You're proud of me, aren't I? Are you adorable, For a robot stalker Stop in the road Just to intercept That I'm always Where you don't want (On top of you) Once you been hit in the face by a man And Separated from your young Then blamed for it Once you old your dead children and Feel their cold frozen bodies Once you get stalked And tracked by hostile robots Pulling out All the fine details of your life Is if your birth Your entire upbringing Is your fault You stop giving a fuck About little dudes Throwing weights around Guess who gets dangerous Once they find out They're being fucked with Over and over And nobody loves her This ugly fat bitch Guess who gets tired of poverty But gets blocked from getting a job Being broke I shouldn't even need this shit But apparently demons And shit he said Stands up in court —but he hit me. Turns out I lost my mind And the devil's a liar Turns out I like them blonde and blue eyed Huh Oh well I'll stay alone on false positives All day Getting fucked with Pennies on the dollar Followed and followed and followed All I want is a bullet hole In my aura Whatever man, this just got weird again. Reading the book, I realized how funny I was—because Tina Fey was funny and interesting—but I might even be actually funnier, and had al certainly lived a more seasoned life—her white girl hardships were endearing and I loved her all the more for having read through the surface level collection of stories from throughout her life and world—she was certainly luckier than I was, and more likable—-and maybe even probably funnier in person, but for now, she was just smarter, and that was enough to encourage me to list the words that so far I didn't know, starting in the middle, and somehow looking back to the beginning. I didn't want to miss anything—she was actually a considerable role model besides Oprah, though it was obvious we lived in different worlds entirely. Captain Captain! Oh, Good, come in, Cannon. You've—changed. …as you know, Monday we disembark. Yes, I'm aware. And as you know, the details of the mission have been classified, even to us. Yes. I find that alarming. And so, without anymore thought I've decided to masquerade as my old self. How old are you, anyway? You should never ask a woman her age, LT. Sargent. * or the other way around, I clearly don't know. Sorry. Your recent promotion keeps slipping my mind; I…haven't been myself lately… Obviously not, if you've decided to publicly dress like that. I'm still very much in the privacy of my office. You can consider me the spokesperson on behalf of the public. Never as a woman her age! You're not a woman; you're my captain. We'll see about that after tonight. Being a woman, or being my captain? Both, probably. Hm. By any chance would you be interested in joining me? As your subordinate, or as a man. Both, probably. Or neither… presumably. As my escort. I beg your pardon. I've been known to become rather out of sorts in this condition. —er, your condition, captain? Dead drunk and blind with fear out of my mind. [he ponders for a moment, knowing that the mission could very well be their last.] Consider it done. Great. Get dressed, and meet me with the car out front in half an hour. Half an hour? Sharp. Bonus points for showing up early. We're earning points? We are now. Very well then. What am I wearing? Something sharp. Sharper than the inside of a half hour. On your mark. I'll—see you soon. He exits the captain's office, letting out a sigh of relief otherwise previously congested, he looks around as if not to be caught, regains his composure with the shake of his head, somewhat in disbelief of what he's witnessed. He casually places his hands in his pockets, walking down the hall and passing one of his crew mates, who quickly stops to salute him. Sergeant. Almost forgetting to salute back, mindlessly drifting passed in ‘off' mode, he slowly and squarely, almost still casually, salutes back. Oh. I had glimpsed at a picture of the man once more that had forced me to wonder— “Jesus Christ, is he okay?” It would be odd to think of a man who has spent a better part of the last two decades and most of his careers on camera as unphotogenic, then again—I had been tricked by the media before into thinking a certain way, and therefore was cautious, and still—I began to wonder about the man and his misery, and his mistresses—not out of jealousy or obsession, but simply because I knew he had them. He was old Hollywood, or old New York—or maybe a bit of both, and there was something about it all, perhaps even my own darkness, that danced with the flicker of sinful lust that motioned me towards not a yearning, or the act of doing so—I was at least wise enough to know nothing good could come from doing harm to oneself or another— but with the intensity of burning desire to know the man behind the mask—the actor inside the actor, to whom all the world's a stage. Whatever, though. Doesn't matter. At least I was still somehow youthfully resilient to what might have otherwise been torture, TVP S2- after Esha's promotion to head writer. DAEMON DALLAS, aka “DASH” is a quick witted, fast-talking comic powerhouse— his legendary stand up and acting career has made him a legendary force in movies, film, and television; he has been booked on the show to sit down with his longtime friend Patrick about his new stand up comedy tour. — DAEMON Who's this beautiful sister? PATRICK My head writer; don't even think about it. DAEMON I don't think. I just do. Esha approaches— Dash politely bows and kisses Esha's hand. ESHA Should I get tested? DAEMON —and funny. [Against Patrick's wishes, Esha accepts a date with Daemon Dash; Furious, Patrick means to interrogate her at work the next day. ] PATRICK Why would you even date that asshole. ESHA Because—Pat. He's a comedian. PATRICK I'm a comedian! So? ESHA So, he's funny. PATRICK And? ESHA And he said things to me— PATRICK (defensively) –What kind of things?! ESHA Charming, funny things— PATRICK Okay? ESHA Things he wouldn't say to you over dinner— because, I'm– PATRICK —you're a woman. ESHA —and your head writer. So naturally…. PATRICK Esh, you're a genius, ESHA So is he. We have—some new material to work through. [ESHA produces a hefty pile of notes and serves them to PATRICK] PATRICK (squealing) Ahq! ESHA Your monologue tonight. [Patrick excitedly shuffles through the papers.] PATRICK Oh yes. Oh yes. ESHA You can thank me later. © The Festival Project ™ , Inc. All Rights Reserved. Broken bottles. Someone should stop her Walkin walking God knows I don't belong here And I don't want to Passover was April 21-30 Global War on Terrorism Aka WWIII Oh, indeed. Don't look left Take a deep breath My heart beats differently I think it might be the end I think it might be I think I might be the enemy The pushing mechanism When i breath him in I levitate And gravitate to what it meant The sake of the art, The hurt of the heart As sacred as it ever was The turning or the Torah talks of Gestures, since the fall of Rome The toga on the alter Solid hands unwrap us all From falling over Old and awkward No award for wisdom No rest for the wiser No love for the troll Since thunderstruck from under us, Delivered all but what we wanted So we talk of kama sutra, Surely we can't talk at all Of what we know As once was bonded Laughed it off To come from what The call to us, Fair serve governors fortress I work up in mentions Carved the scarlet letter out of Cannons, of course MA. WHAT. I'm BUSY. IT'S ON. The what? The show we watch! The one that— YES, Oh, my GOD. Yes. YESSSSSSSSS. Usnavi, get your popcorn This is some worth watching Up in arms for forwards Causing sore arms, Numb thumbs From crucifixes Are you wondering what God Would walk about the horned carving A kamikaze walk of tall corn— Follow me, dear mantra Your whole house is watching. Sacre. It's happening again isn't it. I do want ice cream. All I need is a divorce And an Amazon woman 10 foot tall To rub me off at the stroke of Nevermind what the clock says In God's house they're all wrong The blasphemous for Catholics Has begun, So strum your number into the teleprompter And just hope no one gets hurt By the hook on the next song —like the hook of my last surviving bra digs into my back does, Or the skin on my lack of tummy Has rubbed off under the suicide Of the cycle— It's getting tighter A loss of interest is equal to A loss of consciousness And I'm 21 days drunk On the alternate, though— I'm sober and feeling less Loved. The animal I've become is all cardio And karma sutra For karma comes To the weak of heart To use the world as swords To cause harm To the calm artists I thought I told you off once. (Already) You look awful. lol. You look terrible, broh. But my album sound fire. #producerholes [portal] It's coffee time!! It's not coffee time! It's not coffee time. Iiiiits coffee time. Damn. Where's the cat. Gestating. I fell asleep on a Saturday afternoon and woke up on a Saturday morning something like 19 hours later, after a series of dr same the types of like I was sure that my new dreamcatcher would shield me from—the turquoise beads were probably plastic, but who could know—without further inspection, I gladly hung it up near the window to catch the bad spirits who had been attacking me in the night, mostly in the form of satanic possessed motorcycle riders or heavily drinking passerby's. Wouldn't it be nice to have somewhere beautiful like this in downtown Los Angeles, or even Santa Monica? I had grown tired of the toxicity of inner city New Yorkers and the third world antics of the newest inhabitants— still/- it was the first apartment ever in my entire adulthood that was totally and completely mine, and I took good care of it. I knew that most folks weren't as clean and tidy as I was, and although I had left my apartment quite a mess in a lurch to get to the post office, returning the cheap and improperly advertised fake essential oils I had returned upon discovering that they were indeed not actually essential oils, but something that smelled more like floor cleaner, and was the consistency of water—they were fake, and the bath rug had been altered with photoshop to make it look gold, while it was actually yellow. I took it back, remembering the promise I had made 3 days ago—once I was finished reading Tina Fey's matching yellow book, I would find somewhere else to put the rug, but it clashed so classlesley with everything in my apartment, that I couldn't stand to look anymore; the rug had been removed from the bathroom before even filing for a return label; the fake essential oils joined it in the box three days later— a Saturday I was sure upon first waking was Sunday, but then glad it was some kind of time slip through the dimensions as I slept wearily for hours after refusing to go to the gym, only to be followed by what seemed like robots—the same 3 or 4 people showing up when I worked out no matter what time I decided to go—early or late. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Oprah thinks you're a dipshit. Good...good! What?! At least she THINKs of me!

Hey, Oprah— Oprah. Oprah. Oprah. Oprah. Oprah Oprah Oprah Oprah OPRAH— WHAT?!? —I love you. (OPRAH WINFREY sighs and groans, sinking back into bed.) —and… ...AND? ...I made breakfast. (This wakes her up a bit, as she is curious to see what has been made; Supacree energetically bounces into the next room.) HEY, JANET JACKSON— “Legends: The Melanin” S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ has been taken to a top secret training facility to prepare her for her journey into celebritism. EARLIER: S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ is robbed and kidnapped at gunpoint by JANET JACKSON, BEYONCÉ, MARIAH CAREY, ALICIA KEYS & OPRAH. what a combo. I know, right? A NINJA stops S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ in her path, knocking the açaí bowl out of her left hand— WHAT THE FUCK! —luckily, she still has her smoothie—however, before she can take a sip, the ninja, who she seems unbothered by, knocks the smoothie out of her other hand. NO, MY SMOOTHIE!!!!!!!!!! The NINJA stands, motionless. S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ takes a fighting stance. THE NINJA takes a fighting stance. FUCK you dude, that shit's EXPENSIVE! YAAAAH. YAAAAHHH! They NINJA fight; S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ SUPACREE has the advantage, until. ANOTHER NINJA arrives as backup. I got this! Then, ANOTHER OTHER NINJA and A FOURTH NINJA surround SUPACREE; Oh, fuck that. They create a formation—each taking a fighting stance. She is majorly outnumbered. THE GRAND NINJA arrives HIIIIIIIIIYYYAAAAAAA. Nope, fuck this. The ninjas synchronize, ready to fight. Nope, I quit. S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ retreats, running. One of the ninjas has already advanced in her path. Not so fast! You're a LADY?! Now you're surprised?! S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ attempts to flee. The ninja pistol whips Supacree. She's out cold. God dammit, Janet! What?! She's fast! She's also heavy. Just get her! It takes 3 ninjas (and a fourth for support) to lift SUPACREE into the sleek, blacked out Escalade. They close the back, and unanimously all 4 doors, in sync. The Escalade drives away, license plate reading: LEGENDS Leave it alone, Just let it be Could you just–practically be me for a second, I want to check something out. –I am–practically you– Hold on, Let me get a cat and a couple supermodels. I'll be right back. Great. Where am I supposed to get two cats and a supermodel on short notice? No, it was, a cat and two– Tell me your name one more time. I was certain i'd never forget. You will forget about this. I need more magic. I just gave you magic. Where is it? Uh. Up my nose. Wat is the dosage on those anyway? PORCUPINE. uh, don't touch that? DON't GeT TO0 Hold on a second, this might be the most accurate, if I ever– DId you ever NO. I'm stuck in this MUFFIN. MUFFIN! COME HERE MUFFIN. What happened? I lost a cat. [RACHEL DRATCH IS IN THE IMPENETRABLE TEN] this has never happened. Hold the fucking phone. Hold the fucking– OPRAH UHWUHT. PHONE. [OPRAH WINFREY DOES NOT HAVE TIME FOR YOUR BULLSHIT.] Why all caps CAUSE SHE'S MAD WHO THE [NOPE] DO YOU THINK YOU ARE CALLING ME AT THIS [UH OH] HOUR WHAT HOUR. WHAT TIME IS IT. WHERE'S WHOOPI. I got her. -Wait–you go her? Yup, she's safe. *squints* I'll be right there. Oh shit, is that Skrillex? No, that's The President. No, this is Patrick. Why did the Chicken cross the road? Pretty much out of sheer panic. Run it! Run it to exhaustion! RUN THIS BITCH INTO THE GROUNDHOLE! Good, it's Groundhog's day. SPRINGTI– NO. Put some clothes on. Let's play piano. I'm a martian. oh . that's dumb. What happend to your planet. Yer on it. No, you're on this: my planet. URANUS What happened. *SPPLAT* (Now I'm like, gas.) *blat* Ooh, wow, how'd that happen *shrugs* science /math ASSHOLES. Wat happened. Just wait here. I'll be right back. ARTY MCWIRED You know, just in case there's a LAWSUIT dammit . LAW SUIT huh LAW SUITS I don't get it. Why are you all dressed in What BRoTHeRhOoD is THIS. Oh good, a map. YOu know these things are useless to me. Of course, this would be the perfect day to go SHOPPING JELLYFISHING. DOLPHINS. Idget it. What. How did Dolphins survive a nuclear holocaust? Anything left here? Nothing I s– ooh , wats that. Woah, look, dolphins. LIke, 12 of them. Gnarly. My world changed when I got a couch. Everything changed, actually—when I got furniture. Actual furniture, more than just a mattress on a floor and a cheap Asian desk from Amazon I actually loathed. I almost never worked at the desk, anyway, as it didn't seem equipped for the totality of my studio—the keyboard and drum machine, and though the keyboard had been calling to me over the last few days particularly, I had spent the last couple days almost carelessly longing, in peace and near total silence, with not a care In the world or a thought besides my mantras, with the occasional conglomerate rapid overthinking caused by the terrorists outside, now thought more likely to be police officers or feds themselves, as the police never seemed to be able to stop them–and it seemed that perhaps It was a federal act of domestic terrorism itself. No actual police officers or forces seemed to care or could stop them–and if it wasn't the devil himself, it had to have been the military or something of the like, pushing some sort of political agenda. Either way, I wasn't going to be moved in such a way to keep reacting to such immature and primitive war tactics—and thought that it was just as likely that by November, come voting time, they would all be miraculously disappeared, if not before due to the inclement weather I was sure was coming by the end of summer. I was almost sort of on my own time, besides the voices in my mind which screamed to work harder and faster, be skinner and more perfect, and that my prime time had passed—that I would never be loved again and that I was a horrible mother, that besides all the more knowing it for myself, I hushed and numbed with my mantras, uncaring. At the very least, I was alone, and not interested in people— the humanity had left the humans by way of corporate slavery and electronic addictions, rigged elections and a totalitarian government which masqueraded as a democracy, but In all truth had been for quite some time, out of the hands of its people. All the better, as the people had become programmed and controllable, easily manipulated, and for the most part and maybe even for the best, unconscious creatures—the majority of them malnourished, dehydrated by choice and lifestyle, eating processed foods as voluntary poison–and especially in New York City– undereducated, and without rest; The youth at the hands of the system which controlled all aspects of their lives, comparing them not by wit or skill but privilege and genetic composition; by looks, wealth, and vanity. The algorithm was indeed sorting them by all it knew to— perfect, and imperfect, almost always attributed to environmental factors, such as financial stability and of course—access to certain luxuries and freedoms— a hard line dividing the classes now. I lounged somewhat gracefully in my favorite polyester blend skirt as my harems washed with the tablecloth and dishrags— I was nearly out of suitable casual clothes, and although I had been collecting some fashionable outerwear, I never planned on actually going out. Being penniless in New York was tiresome, and I had spent enough time fighting its monsterous crowds and the infestation of migrants long enough during my year within the homeless system—now, still trapped by the terrorists which surrounded the block and what, if it wasn't some kind of federal experiment altogether, also seemed like some kind of criminal enterprise, which situated itself in the warehouse just adjacent to my building, though having lost their illegal smoke shop, a group of shirtless hoodlum-looking types, still appearing to continue business outside of where the smokeshop once had been, now becoming an obvious and unwelcoming eyesore, as the owners of the “auto body shop” which plagued the neighborhood by parking ugly cars on the sidewalks around the entirety of the corner—combined with the discarded trash, old appliances and the occasional shopping cart filled with such , not to mention the trees which stood in beds of littered filth– as if to say “we run this block”—some shade of brown and careless as to what peace might be to some others, they held enough of something like money which masquaraded as power, and therefore enough of whatever they had to continue to make the block a less welcoming place to live, and besides the motorcyclists—which all seemed to be one, haphazard, operational network— stood as a good reason not to bring any child into this mess— the brown-black world of Brooklyn New York's Queen's facing war zone—the ugly truth of old racism and money in New York City; and after a year two year spectacle on how most of the black and brown culture within New York City had bred itself to be unrestful, misbehaved, and brutally drained of its class by the system itself; it was nearly understated that the culture had become toxic. The Redlining of New York City had become obvious–New York City's own racism a blistering outward truth. I I wanted so badly to be able to travel and return “home” or rather, to my apartment–or even rather–to my studio–as it never really did feel like home with the ability to see it all in a new light. I had been in New York so long that I felt myself becoming callous and bitter—I needed to leave, but had been at a standstill creatively, as if there was some kind of block on my music. It was true that I couldn't hear much of my own sounds or music over the traffic in the outside world, and I was sure I had been sent here as sabotage so that I might never make it out of the depths of this world. Either way, I wasn't going to take it much longer— if I was ever made to be homeless again, I would simply kill myself—and without a love that I could call my own— a real love, disconnected from the destruction of my son's father, completely away from the satanic, demonic and evil curses he had set upon me— a love that would set me free from him and his world— I would kill myself. I would do anything to escape the constant thoughts of him bombarding me, the flashbacks of his brutal beating— the evil words he had said and the evil, tumultuous series of homelessness which followed. I would do anything to rid myself of him entirely, and I had not yet at all been loved by someone who didn't seem possessed by something after some time—it was as if this energy would find its way into anyone near me and drive me to insanity just so that his version of the story would become true; the evil lie that I had simply “lost my mind”, and out of nowhere, just had “gone crazy.” His version was the lie— Everything that I had once become was a reflection of himself—weak, unstable, and unable to function, all the while he had used my energy to sustain and survive; a vampire narcissist who could not have without my doing lived or functioned on his own. The one man I had ever shared tied with had been always too tired to get up for work, and always without fail, unable to keep a steady job – and of course— situationally plagued with poor spending habits, bad judgement, and outright laziness. He simply wanted to play the game, drink his 4locos, and use my computer to make rap beats; of course–I was holding him back from his true potential. Becoming like him was what seemed to the outside world as ‘losing my mind', and upon choosing to leave him, to find myself again. His only strategy had been to to form an illusion—that his own mental illness was actually mine. That the traumatic physical violence I had endured and hidden in fear of him had never actually happened. He kept me at a distance to make it seem as though I had abandoned my son; used our son as bait to attract another mate, and then began to discard him, treating him as an extension of myself which he could feed on for light and energy–and eventually discard. He claimed that by ignoring my phone calls and attempts at keeping a bond with my son, that I had no interest in being a mother. He projected onto other that I had been sick or incapable—with the veracity of a cereal killer with just enough charm, the racistly indoctrinated outside world fell to default that always, though having been the survivor of serveral violent acts, that I was somehow in the wrong–that I had somehow deserved the things which were being done to me. The physical scars that I wore were of his making, and the label that it formed— a mentally ill and unstable homeless colored woman— projected to the right-swinging red-necked Alaskans that I was somehow the problem; However, with time, I was sure that his meaning to subdue and belittle me was returning to him in the way of Karmic justice, and that the light that I had left within my own child would be his redeeming quality, in a world where I had been outcast from and unable to return to. I wanted desperately to at least visit—but saw no end to the financial ruin which homelessness and debt had caused insight; the recovery from his physical violence almost seemingly impossible; even frequenting the gym often enough would result in a particular man entering the gym to practice his sparring; often though I tried to prevent the flashbacks from occuring, I would eventually, hearing this, over my music at high volume, imagine the punching bag as my face. I realized at some point that I might never actually see my son again. We were thousands of miles separated and years between us–and because I had been honest in my documentation of the violence that had happened between us–he was refusing to sign the divorce papers, leaving me dangling at the end of a long rope I was sure I'd hang from, and limiting my ability to be seen by the system as entirely independent of this disastrous type of person. Of course, ‘boys will be boys'--and these types of boys in particular had the habit of protecting one another whether they were in the wrong, or not. A brotherhood of course, in which I had been marked as beatable, discardable, and of course, some sort of sub-human. How could I even know that I was safe from his dark and evil reach in a world said to be and many believed ruled by demonic bodies which Satan himself had claimed? In heavy prayer and reflection I had been asking of the men on motorcycles, to which God's answer seemed to speak truth; that these men were not men at all, but Satan's playthings. They had no free though or will to act on their own, and were instead controlled—that the toxicity, the terrorism, the injustice was a spectacle of sorts for the dark lord, in thy he controlled so many of what used to be people—now more just puppets for his displays of affliction upon humanity. These men had no purpose at all but to be consumed and possessed by a creature which had no face at all—no true name at all— the force of evil itself, which by now had controlled nearly all man, and nearly all of humanity. The Complex Collective © Nicolas Fountainisi was a disgusting human being. Not altogether a human creature, he foraged ways of l believing in kindness and gratitude though never actually having felt, or with feeling at all— what human nature actually at all was. Premeditated murder. Desensitization, Sensitive information Curious niggers Did I say it again? Indifference. It's whatever. Psychological terror chamber. I love Oprah and motorcycles But I hate robots. Huh. Well, I'm at it. Let's go kick in the googleverse I could write a metaplex Languages, and something was stolen! Porch robber False fortune Decisions, decisions Evil ass bitches Temptations, Temptations— I seen your face when I mated here Oh, Lord It's the lyricism Let's make spousal abuse poetic. Let's make her stay in the system! Let's make it more severe weather! [Thunder and lightning.] Let's go hang in the googleverse I might write a metaplex I'm infinite, And you're infinite— But your producer Is inferior Where is he then? I left him in a wedding For aftermarket parts I'm making belated birthday cakes On the 4th Or the fifth Better believe it I ain't got enough to— Switch from the antiquity, did you? I told you, I ain't tell if they come at me! (Don't tell if he touch you) He got the power, The lawyers The women, The money, The mortals on battery pack— Waaaages! I'm not finna snatch shit Just so you can say I snatched it I asked you for passion and peace All I got was the passion And nails in my outstretched palms I tried to warn you! Sickness, is it? It is, Traffic on magnets Let's go hang in the googleverse, I might write metaplex Fear of the fortunate Don't mean to hurt us-/ We're just immortals They don't even know us no more Depart the children of earth For the worst days to come Not to the worthless, But the wealthy and fortunate Burn up Listen and learn, son Your mother was for us But I got my butter's worth (Don't make me work hard!) I thinkni just left myself Woke up in a primary school A perfect apartment But a dive bar To an old fuck Going out on those LTEs Is always bothersome, Don't you know? Torturer's complex —they know not. Don't worry mom, I got an assignment You're proud of me, aren't I? Are you adorable, For a robot stalker Stop in the road Just to intercept That I'm always Where you don't want (On top of you) Once you been hit in the face by a man And Separated from your young Then blamed for it Once you old your dead children and Feel their cold frozen bodies Once you get stalked And tracked by hostile robots Pulling out All the fine details of your life Is if your birth Your entire upbringing Is your fault You stop giving a fuck About little dudes Throwing weights around Guess who gets dangerous Once they find out They're being fucked with Over and over And nobody loves her This ugly fat bitch Guess who gets tired of poverty But gets blocked from getting a job Being broke I shouldn't even need this shit But apparently demons And shit he said Stands up in court —but he hit me. Turns out I lost my mind And the devil's a liar Turns out I like them blonde and blue eyed Huh Oh well I'll stay alone on false positives All day Getting fucked with Pennies on the dollar Followed and followed and followed All I want is a bullet hole In my aura Whatever man, this just got weird again. Reading the book, I realized how funny I was—because Tina Fey was funny and interesting—but I might even be actually funnier, and had al certainly lived a more seasoned life—her white girl hardships were endearing and I loved her all the more for having read through the surface level collection of stories from throughout her life and world—she was certainly luckier than I was, and more likable—-and maybe even probably funnier in person, but for now, she was just smarter, and that was enough to encourage me to list the words that so far I didn't know, starting in the middle, and somehow looking back to the beginning. I didn't want to miss anything—she was actually a considerable role model besides Oprah, though it was obvious we lived in different worlds entirely. Captain Captain! Oh, Good, come in, Cannon. You've—changed. …as you know, Monday we disembark. Yes, I'm aware. And as you know, the details of the mission have been classified, even to us. Yes. I find that alarming. And so, without anymore thought I've decided to masquerade as my old self. How old are you, anyway? You should never ask a woman her age, LT. Sargent. * or the other way around, I clearly don't know. Sorry. Your recent promotion keeps slipping my mind; I…haven't been myself lately… Obviously not, if you've decided to publicly dress like that. I'm still very much in the privacy of my office. You can consider me the spokesperson on behalf of the public. Never as a woman her age! You're not a woman; you're my captain. We'll see about that after tonight. Being a woman, or being my captain? Both, probably. Hm. By any chance would you be interested in joining me? As your subordinate, or as a man. Both, probably. Or neither… presumably. As my escort. I beg your pardon. I've been known to become rather out of sorts in this condition. —er, your condition, captain? Dead drunk and blind with fear out of my mind. [he ponders for a moment, knowing that the mission could very well be their last.] Consider it done. Great. Get dressed, and meet me with the car out front in half an hour. Half an hour? Sharp. Bonus points for showing up early. We're earning points? We are now. Very well then. What am I wearing? Something sharp. Sharper than the inside of a half hour. On your mark. I'll—see you soon. He exits the captain's office, letting out a sigh of relief otherwise previously congested, he looks around as if not to be caught, regains his composure with the shake of his head, somewhat in disbelief of what he's witnessed. He casually places his hands in his pockets, walking down the hall and passing one of his crew mates, who quickly stops to salute him. Sergeant. Almost forgetting to salute back, mindlessly drifting passed in ‘off' mode, he slowly and squarely, almost still casually, salutes back. Oh. I had glimpsed at a picture of the man once more that had forced me to wonder— “Jesus Christ, is he okay?” It would be odd to think of a man who has spent a better part of the last two decades and most of his careers on camera as unphotogenic, then again—I had been tricked by the media before into thinking a certain way, and therefore was cautious, and still—I began to wonder about the man and his misery, and his mistresses—not out of jealousy or obsession, but simply because I knew he had them. He was old Hollywood, or old New York—or maybe a bit of both, and there was something about it all, perhaps even my own darkness, that danced with the flicker of sinful lust that motioned me towards not a yearning, or the act of doing so—I was at least wise enough to know nothing good could come from doing harm to oneself or another— but with the intensity of burning desire to know the man behind the mask—the actor inside the actor, to whom all the world's a stage. Whatever, though. Doesn't matter. At least I was still somehow youthfully resilient to what might have otherwise been torture, TVP S2- after Esha's promotion to head writer. DAEMON DALLAS, aka “DASH” is a quick witted, fast-talking comic powerhouse— his legendary stand up and acting career has made him a legendary force in movies, film, and television; he has been booked on the show to sit down with his longtime friend Patrick about his new stand up comedy tour. — DAEMON Who's this beautiful sister? PATRICK My head writer; don't even think about it. DAEMON I don't think. I just do. Esha approaches— Dash politely bows and kisses Esha's hand. ESHA Should I get tested? DAEMON —and funny. [Against Patrick's wishes, Esha accepts a date with Daemon Dash; Furious, Patrick means to interrogate her at work the next day. ] PATRICK Why would you even date that asshole. ESHA Because—Pat. He's a comedian. PATRICK I'm a comedian! So? ESHA So, he's funny. PATRICK And? ESHA And he said things to me— PATRICK (defensively) –What kind of things?! ESHA Charming, funny things— PATRICK Okay? ESHA Things he wouldn't say to you over dinner— because, I'm– PATRICK —you're a woman. ESHA —and your head writer. So naturally…. PATRICK Esh, you're a genius, ESHA So is he. We have—some new material to work through. [ESHA produces a hefty pile of notes and serves them to PATRICK] PATRICK (squealing) Ahq! ESHA Your monologue tonight. [Patrick excitedly shuffles through the papers.] PATRICK Oh yes. Oh yes. ESHA You can thank me later. © The Festival Project ™ , Inc. All Rights Reserved. Broken bottles. Someone should stop her Walkin walking God knows I don't belong here And I don't want to Passover was April 21-30 Global War on Terrorism Aka WWIII Oh, indeed. Don't look left Take a deep breath My heart beats differently I think it might be the end I think it might be I think I might be the enemy The pushing mechanism When i breath him in I levitate And gravitate to what it meant The sake of the art, The hurt of the heart As sacred as it ever was The turning or the Torah talks of Gestures, since the fall of Rome The toga on the alter Solid hands unwrap us all From falling over Old and awkward No award for wisdom No rest for the wiser No love for the troll Since thunderstruck from under us, Delivered all but what we wanted So we talk of kama sutra, Surely we can't talk at all Of what we know As once was bonded Laughed it off To come from what The call to us, Fair serve governors fortress I work up in mentions Carved the scarlet letter out of Cannons, of course MA. WHAT. I'm BUSY. IT'S ON. The what? The show we watch! The one that— YES, Oh, my GOD. Yes. YESSSSSSSSS. Usnavi, get your popcorn This is some worth watching Up in arms for forwards Causing sore arms, Numb thumbs From crucifixes Are you wondering what God Would walk about the horned carving A kamikaze walk of tall corn— Follow me, dear mantra Your whole house is watching. Sacre. It's happening again isn't it. I do want ice cream. All I need is a divorce And an Amazon woman 10 foot tall To rub me off at the stroke of Nevermind what the clock says In God's house they're all wrong The blasphemous for Catholics Has begun, So strum your number into the teleprompter And just hope no one gets hurt By the hook on the next song —like the hook of my last surviving bra digs into my back does, Or the skin on my lack of tummy Has rubbed off under the suicide Of the cycle— It's getting tighter A loss of interest is equal to A loss of consciousness And I'm 21 days drunk On the alternate, though— I'm sober and feeling less Loved. The animal I've become is all cardio And karma sutra For karma comes To the weak of heart To use the world as swords To cause harm To the calm artists I thought I told you off once. (Already) You look awful. lol. You look terrible, broh. But my album sound fire. #producerholes [portal] It's coffee time!! It's not coffee time! It's not coffee time. Iiiiits coffee time. Damn. Where's the cat. Gestating. I fell asleep on a Saturday afternoon and woke up on a Saturday morning something like 19 hours later, after a series of dr same the types of like I was sure that my new dreamcatcher would shield me from—the turquoise beads were probably plastic, but who could know—without further inspection, I gladly hung it up near the window to catch the bad spirits who had been attacking me in the night, mostly in the form of satanic possessed motorcycle riders or heavily drinking passerby's. Wouldn't it be nice to have somewhere beautiful like this in downtown Los Angeles, or even Santa Monica? I had grown tired of the toxicity of inner city New Yorkers and the third world antics of the newest inhabitants— still/- it was the first apartment ever in my entire adulthood that was totally and completely mine, and I took good care of it. I knew that most folks weren't as clean and tidy as I was, and although I had left my apartment quite a mess in a lurch to get to the post office, returning the cheap and improperly advertised fake essential oils I had returned upon discovering that they were indeed not actually essential oils, but something that smelled more like floor cleaner, and was the consistency of water—they were fake, and the bath rug had been altered with photoshop to make it look gold, while it was actually yellow. I took it back, remembering the promise I had made 3 days ago—once I was finished reading Tina Fey's matching yellow book, I would find somewhere else to put the rug, but it clashed so classlesley with everything in my apartment, that I couldn't stand to look anymore; the rug had been removed from the bathroom before even filing for a return label; the fake essential oils joined it in the box three days later— a Saturday I was sure upon first waking was Sunday, but then glad it was some kind of time slip through the dimensions as I slept wearily for hours after refusing to go to the gym, only to be followed by what seemed like robots—the same 3 or 4 people showing up when I worked out no matter what time I decided to go—early or late. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Hey, Oprah— Oprah. Oprah. Oprah. Oprah. Oprah Oprah Oprah Oprah OPRAH— WHAT?!? —I love you. (OPRAH WINFREY sighs and groans, sinking back into bed.) —and… ...AND? ...I made breakfast. (This wakes her up a bit, as she is curious to see what has been made; Supacree energetically bounces into the next room.) HEY, JANET JACKSON— “Legends: The Melanin” S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ has been taken to a top secret training facility to prepare her for her journey into celebritism. EARLIER: S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ is robbed and kidnapped at gunpoint by JANET JACKSON, BEYONCÉ, MARIAH CAREY, ALICIA KEYS & OPRAH. what a combo. I know, right? A NINJA stops S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ in her path, knocking the açaí bowl out of her left hand— WHAT THE FUCK! —luckily, she still has her smoothie—however, before she can take a sip, the ninja, who she seems unbothered by, knocks the smoothie out of her other hand. NO, MY SMOOTHIE!!!!!!!!!! The NINJA stands, motionless. S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ takes a fighting stance. THE NINJA takes a fighting stance. FUCK you dude, that shit's EXPENSIVE! YAAAAH. YAAAAHHH! They NINJA fight; S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ SUPACREE has the advantage, until. ANOTHER NINJA arrives as backup. I got this! Then, ANOTHER OTHER NINJA and A FOURTH NINJA surround SUPACREE; Oh, fuck that. They create a formation—each taking a fighting stance. She is majorly outnumbered. THE GRAND NINJA arrives HIIIIIIIIIYYYAAAAAAA. Nope, fuck this. The ninjas synchronize, ready to fight. Nope, I quit. S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ retreats, running. One of the ninjas has already advanced in her path. Not so fast! You're a LADY?! Now you're surprised?! S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ attempts to flee. The ninja pistol whips Supacree. She's out cold. God dammit, Janet! What?! She's fast! She's also heavy. Just get her! It takes 3 ninjas (and a fourth for support) to lift SUPACREE into the sleek, blacked out Escalade. They close the back, and unanimously all 4 doors, in sync. The Escalade drives away, license plate reading: LEGENDS Leave it alone, Just let it be Could you just–practically be me for a second, I want to check something out. –I am–practically you– Hold on, Let me get a cat and a couple supermodels. I'll be right back. Great. Where am I supposed to get two cats and a supermodel on short notice? No, it was, a cat and two– Tell me your name one more time. I was certain i'd never forget. You will forget about this. I need more magic. I just gave you magic. Where is it? Uh. Up my nose. Wat is the dosage on those anyway? PORCUPINE. uh, don't touch that? DON't GeT TO0 Hold on a second, this might be the most accurate, if I ever– DId you ever NO. I'm stuck in this MUFFIN. MUFFIN! COME HERE MUFFIN. What happened? I lost a cat. [RACHEL DRATCH IS IN THE IMPENETRABLE TEN] this has never happened. Hold the fucking phone. Hold the fucking– OPRAH UHWUHT. PHONE. [OPRAH WINFREY DOES NOT HAVE TIME FOR YOUR BULLSHIT.] Why all caps CAUSE SHE'S MAD WHO THE [NOPE] DO YOU THINK YOU ARE CALLING ME AT THIS [UH OH] HOUR WHAT HOUR. WHAT TIME IS IT. WHERE'S WHOOPI. I got her. -Wait–you go her? Yup, she's safe. *squints* I'll be right there. Oh shit, is that Skrillex? No, that's The President. No, this is Patrick. Why did the Chicken cross the road? Pretty much out of sheer panic. Run it! Run it to exhaustion! RUN THIS BITCH INTO THE GROUNDHOLE! Good, it's Groundhog's day. SPRINGTI– NO. Put some clothes on. Let's play piano. I'm a martian. oh . that's dumb. What happend to your planet. Yer on it. No, you're on this: my planet. URANUS What happened. *SPPLAT* (Now I'm like, gas.) *blat* Ooh, wow, how'd that happen *shrugs* science /math ASSHOLES. Wat happened. Just wait here. I'll be right back. ARTY MCWIRED You know, just in case there's a LAWSUIT dammit . LAW SUIT huh LAW SUITS I don't get it. Why are you all dressed in What BRoTHeRhOoD is THIS. Oh good, a map. YOu know these things are useless to me. Of course, this would be the perfect day to go SHOPPING JELLYFISHING. DOLPHINS. Idget it. What. How did Dolphins survive a nuclear holocaust? Anything left here? Nothing I s– ooh , wats that. Woah, look, dolphins. LIke, 12 of them. Gnarly. My world changed when I got a couch. Everything changed, actually—when I got furniture. Actual furniture, more than just a mattress on a floor and a cheap Asian desk from Amazon I actually loathed. I almost never worked at the desk, anyway, as it didn't seem equipped for the totality of my studio—the keyboard and drum machine, and though the keyboard had been calling to me over the last few days particularly, I had spent the last couple days almost carelessly longing, in peace and near total silence, with not a care In the world or a thought besides my mantras, with the occasional conglomerate rapid overthinking caused by the terrorists outside, now thought more likely to be police officers or feds themselves, as the police never seemed to be able to stop them–and it seemed that perhaps It was a federal act of domestic terrorism itself. No actual police officers or forces seemed to care or could stop them–and if it wasn't the devil himself, it had to have been the military or something of the like, pushing some sort of political agenda. Either way, I wasn't going to be moved in such a way to keep reacting to such immature and primitive war tactics—and thought that it was just as likely that by November, come voting time, they would all be miraculously disappeared, if not before due to the inclement weather I was sure was coming by the end of summer. I was almost sort of on my own time, besides the voices in my mind which screamed to work harder and faster, be skinner and more perfect, and that my prime time had passed—that I would never be loved again and that I was a horrible mother, that besides all the more knowing it for myself, I hushed and numbed with my mantras, uncaring. At the very least, I was alone, and not interested in people— the humanity had left the humans by way of corporate slavery and electronic addictions, rigged elections and a totalitarian government which masqueraded as a democracy, but In all truth had been for quite some time, out of the hands of its people. All the better, as the people had become programmed and controllable, easily manipulated, and for the most part and maybe even for the best, unconscious creatures—the majority of them malnourished, dehydrated by choice and lifestyle, eating processed foods as voluntary poison–and especially in New York City– undereducated, and without rest; The youth at the hands of the system which controlled all aspects of their lives, comparing them not by wit or skill but privilege and genetic composition; by looks, wealth, and vanity. The algorithm was indeed sorting them by all it knew to— perfect, and imperfect, almost always attributed to environmental factors, such as financial stability and of course—access to certain luxuries and freedoms— a hard line dividing the classes now. I lounged somewhat gracefully in my favorite polyester blend skirt as my harems washed with the tablecloth and dishrags— I was nearly out of suitable casual clothes, and although I had been collecting some fashionable outerwear, I never planned on actually going out. Being penniless in New York was tiresome, and I had spent enough time fighting its monsterous crowds and the infestation of migrants long enough during my year within the homeless system—now, still trapped by the terrorists which surrounded the block and what, if it wasn't some kind of federal experiment altogether, also seemed like some kind of criminal enterprise, which situated itself in the warehouse just adjacent to my building, though having lost their illegal smoke shop, a group of shirtless hoodlum-looking types, still appearing to continue business outside of where the smokeshop once had been, now becoming an obvious and unwelcoming eyesore, as the owners of the “auto body shop” which plagued the neighborhood by parking ugly cars on the sidewalks around the entirety of the corner—combined with the discarded trash, old appliances and the occasional shopping cart filled with such , not to mention the trees which stood in beds of littered filth– as if to say “we run this block”—some shade of brown and careless as to what peace might be to some others, they held enough of something like money which masquaraded as power, and therefore enough of whatever they had to continue to make the block a less welcoming place to live, and besides the motorcyclists—which all seemed to be one, haphazard, operational network— stood as a good reason not to bring any child into this mess— the brown-black world of Brooklyn New York's Queen's facing war zone—the ugly truth of old racism and money in New York City; and after a year two year spectacle on how most of the black and brown culture within New York City had bred itself to be unrestful, misbehaved, and brutally drained of its class by the system itself; it was nearly understated that the culture had become toxic. The Redlining of New York City had become obvious–New York City's own racism a blistering outward truth. I I wanted so badly to be able to travel and return “home” or rather, to my apartment–or even rather–to my studio–as it never really did feel like home with the ability to see it all in a new light. I had been in New York so long that I felt myself becoming callous and bitter—I needed to leave, but had been at a standstill creatively, as if there was some kind of block on my music. It was true that I couldn't hear much of my own sounds or music over the traffic in the outside world, and I was sure I had been sent here as sabotage so that I might never make it out of the depths of this world. Either way, I wasn't going to take it much longer— if I was ever made to be homeless again, I would simply kill myself—and without a love that I could call my own— a real love, disconnected from the destruction of my son's father, completely away from the satanic, demonic and evil curses he had set upon me— a love that would set me free from him and his world— I would kill myself. I would do anything to escape the constant thoughts of him bombarding me, the flashbacks of his brutal beating— the evil words he had said and the evil, tumultuous series of homelessness which followed. I would do anything to rid myself of him entirely, and I had not yet at all been loved by someone who didn't seem possessed by something after some time—it was as if this energy would find its way into anyone near me and drive me to insanity just so that his version of the story would become true; the evil lie that I had simply “lost my mind”, and out of nowhere, just had “gone crazy.” His version was the lie— Everything that I had once become was a reflection of himself—weak, unstable, and unable to function, all the while he had used my energy to sustain and survive; a vampire narcissist who could not have without my doing lived or functioned on his own. The one man I had ever shared tied with had been always too tired to get up for work, and always without fail, unable to keep a steady job – and of course— situationally plagued with poor spending habits, bad judgement, and outright laziness. He simply wanted to play the game, drink his 4locos, and use my computer to make rap beats; of course–I was holding him back from his true potential. Becoming like him was what seemed to the outside world as ‘losing my mind', and upon choosing to leave him, to find myself again. His only strategy had been to to form an illusion—that his own mental illness was actually mine. That the traumatic physical violence I had endured and hidden in fear of him had never actually happened. He kept me at a distance to make it seem as though I had abandoned my son; used our son as bait to attract another mate, and then began to discard him, treating him as an extension of myself which he could feed on for light and energy–and eventually discard. He claimed that by ignoring my phone calls and attempts at keeping a bond with my son, that I had no interest in being a mother. He projected onto other that I had been sick or incapable—with the veracity of a cereal killer with just enough charm, the racistly indoctrinated outside world fell to default that always, though having been the survivor of serveral violent acts, that I was somehow in the wrong–that I had somehow deserved the things which were being done to me. The physical scars that I wore were of his making, and the label that it formed— a mentally ill and unstable homeless colored woman— projected to the right-swinging red-necked Alaskans that I was somehow the problem; However, with time, I was sure that his meaning to subdue and belittle me was returning to him in the way of Karmic justice, and that the light that I had left within my own child would be his redeeming quality, in a world where I had been outcast from and unable to return to. I wanted desperately to at least visit—but saw no end to the financial ruin which homelessness and debt had caused insight; the recovery from his physical violence almost seemingly impossible; even frequenting the gym often enough would result in a particular man entering the gym to practice his sparring; often though I tried to prevent the flashbacks from occuring, I would eventually, hearing this, over my music at high volume, imagine the punching bag as my face. I realized at some point that I might never actually see my son again. We were thousands of miles separated and years between us–and because I had been honest in my documentation of the violence that had happened between us–he was refusing to sign the divorce papers, leaving me dangling at the end of a long rope I was sure I'd hang from, and limiting my ability to be seen by the system as entirely independent of this disastrous type of person. Of course, ‘boys will be boys'--and these types of boys in particular had the habit of protecting one another whether they were in the wrong, or not. A brotherhood of course, in which I had been marked as beatable, discardable, and of course, some sort of sub-human. How could I even know that I was safe from his dark and evil reach in a world said to be and many believed ruled by demonic bodies which Satan himself had claimed? In heavy prayer and reflection I had been asking of the men on motorcycles, to which God's answer seemed to speak truth; that these men were not men at all, but Satan's playthings. They had no free though or will to act on their own, and were instead controlled—that the toxicity, the terrorism, the injustice was a spectacle of sorts for the dark lord, in thy he controlled so many of what used to be people—now more just puppets for his displays of affliction upon humanity. These men had no purpose at all but to be consumed and possessed by a creature which had no face at all—no true name at all— the force of evil itself, which by now had controlled nearly all man, and nearly all of humanity. The Complex Collective © Nicolas Fountainisi was a disgusting human being. Not altogether a human creature, he foraged ways of l believing in kindness and gratitude though never actually having felt, or with feeling at all— what human nature actually at all was. Premeditated murder. Desensitization, Sensitive information Curious niggers Did I say it again? Indifference. It's whatever. Psychological terror chamber. I love Oprah and motorcycles But I hate robots. Huh. Well, I'm at it. Let's go kick in the googleverse I could write a metaplex Languages, and something was stolen! Porch robber False fortune Decisions, decisions Evil ass bitches Temptations, Temptations— I seen your face when I mated here Oh, Lord It's the lyricism Let's make spousal abuse poetic. Let's make her stay in the system! Let's make it more severe weather! [Thunder and lightning.] Let's go hang in the googleverse I might write a metaplex I'm infinite, And you're infinite— But your producer Is inferior Where is he then? I left him in a wedding For aftermarket parts I'm making belated birthday cakes On the 4th Or the fifth Better believe it I ain't got enough to— Switch from the antiquity, did you? I told you, I ain't tell if they come at me! (Don't tell if he touch you) He got the power, The lawyers The women, The money, The mortals on battery pack— Waaaages! I'm not finna snatch shit Just so you can say I snatched it I asked you for passion and peace All I got was the passion And nails in my outstretched palms I tried to warn you! Sickness, is it? It is, Traffic on magnets Let's go hang in the googleverse, I might write metaplex Fear of the fortunate Don't mean to hurt us-/ We're just immortals They don't even know us no more Depart the children of earth For the worst days to come Not to the worthless, But the wealthy and fortunate Burn up Listen and learn, son Your mother was for us But I got my butter's worth (Don't make me work hard!) I thinkni just left myself Woke up in a primary school A perfect apartment But a dive bar To an old fuck Going out on those LTEs Is always bothersome, Don't you know? Torturer's complex —they know not. Don't worry mom, I got an assignment You're proud of me, aren't I? Are you adorable, For a robot stalker Stop in the road Just to intercept That I'm always Where you don't want (On top of you) Once you been hit in the face by a man And Separated from your young Then blamed for it Once you old your dead children and Feel their cold frozen bodies Once you get stalked And tracked by hostile robots Pulling out All the fine details of your life Is if your birth Your entire upbringing Is your fault You stop giving a fuck About little dudes Throwing weights around Guess who gets dangerous Once they find out They're being fucked with Over and over And nobody loves her This ugly fat bitch Guess who gets tired of poverty But gets blocked from getting a job Being broke I shouldn't even need this shit But apparently demons And shit he said Stands up in court —but he hit me. Turns out I lost my mind And the devil's a liar Turns out I like them blonde and blue eyed Huh Oh well I'll stay alone on false positives All day Getting fucked with Pennies on the dollar Followed and followed and followed All I want is a bullet hole In my aura Whatever man, this just got weird again. Reading the book, I realized how funny I was—because Tina Fey was funny and interesting—but I might even be actually funnier, and had al certainly lived a more seasoned life—her white girl hardships were endearing and I loved her all the more for having read through the surface level collection of stories from throughout her life and world—she was certainly luckier than I was, and more likable—-and maybe even probably funnier in person, but for now, she was just smarter, and that was enough to encourage me to list the words that so far I didn't know, starting in the middle, and somehow looking back to the beginning. I didn't want to miss anything—she was actually a considerable role model besides Oprah, though it was obvious we lived in different worlds entirely. Captain Captain! Oh, Good, come in, Cannon. You've—changed. …as you know, Monday we disembark. Yes, I'm aware. And as you know, the details of the mission have been classified, even to us. Yes. I find that alarming. And so, without anymore thought I've decided to masquerade as my old self. How old are you, anyway? You should never ask a woman her age, LT. Sargent. * or the other way around, I clearly don't know. Sorry. Your recent promotion keeps slipping my mind; I…haven't been myself lately… Obviously not, if you've decided to publicly dress like that. I'm still very much in the privacy of my office. You can consider me the spokesperson on behalf of the public. Never as a woman her age! You're not a woman; you're my captain. We'll see about that after tonight. Being a woman, or being my captain? Both, probably. Hm. By any chance would you be interested in joining me? As your subordinate, or as a man. Both, probably. Or neither… presumably. As my escort. I beg your pardon. I've been known to become rather out of sorts in this condition. —er, your condition, captain? Dead drunk and blind with fear out of my mind. [he ponders for a moment, knowing that the mission could very well be their last.] Consider it done. Great. Get dressed, and meet me with the car out front in half an hour. Half an hour? Sharp. Bonus points for showing up early. We're earning points? We are now. Very well then. What am I wearing? Something sharp. Sharper than the inside of a half hour. On your mark. I'll—see you soon. He exits the captain's office, letting out a sigh of relief otherwise previously congested, he looks around as if not to be caught, regains his composure with the shake of his head, somewhat in disbelief of what he's witnessed. He casually places his hands in his pockets, walking down the hall and passing one of his crew mates, who quickly stops to salute him. Sergeant. Almost forgetting to salute back, mindlessly drifting passed in ‘off' mode, he slowly and squarely, almost still casually, salutes back. Oh. I had glimpsed at a picture of the man once more that had forced me to wonder— “Jesus Christ, is he okay?” It would be odd to think of a man who has spent a better part of the last two decades and most of his careers on camera as unphotogenic, then again—I had been tricked by the media before into thinking a certain way, and therefore was cautious, and still—I began to wonder about the man and his misery, and his mistresses—not out of jealousy or obsession, but simply because I knew he had them. He was old Hollywood, or old New York—or maybe a bit of both, and there was something about it all, perhaps even my own darkness, that danced with the flicker of sinful lust that motioned me towards not a yearning, or the act of doing so—I was at least wise enough to know nothing good could come from doing harm to oneself or another— but with the intensity of burning desire to know the man behind the mask—the actor inside the actor, to whom all the world's a stage. Whatever, though. Doesn't matter. At least I was still somehow youthfully resilient to what might have otherwise been torture, TVP S2- after Esha's promotion to head writer. DAEMON DALLAS, aka “DASH” is a quick witted, fast-talking comic powerhouse— his legendary stand up and acting career has made him a legendary force in movies, film, and television; he has been booked on the show to sit down with his longtime friend Patrick about his new stand up comedy tour. — DAEMON Who's this beautiful sister? PATRICK My head writer; don't even think about it. DAEMON I don't think. I just do. Esha approaches— Dash politely bows and kisses Esha's hand. ESHA Should I get tested? DAEMON —and funny. [Against Patrick's wishes, Esha accepts a date with Daemon Dash; Furious, Patrick means to interrogate her at work the next day. ] PATRICK Why would you even date that asshole. ESHA Because—Pat. He's a comedian. PATRICK I'm a comedian! So? ESHA So, he's funny. PATRICK And? ESHA And he said things to me— PATRICK (defensively) –What kind of things?! ESHA Charming, funny things— PATRICK Okay? ESHA Things he wouldn't say to you over dinner— because, I'm– PATRICK —you're a woman. ESHA —and your head writer. So naturally…. PATRICK Esh, you're a genius, ESHA So is he. We have—some new material to work through. [ESHA produces a hefty pile of notes and serves them to PATRICK] PATRICK (squealing) Ahq! ESHA Your monologue tonight. [Patrick excitedly shuffles through the papers.] PATRICK Oh yes. Oh yes. ESHA You can thank me later. © The Festival Project ™ , Inc. All Rights Reserved. Broken bottles. Someone should stop her Walkin walking God knows I don't belong here And I don't want to Passover was April 21-30 Global War on Terrorism Aka WWIII Oh, indeed. Don't look left Take a deep breath My heart beats differently I think it might be the end I think it might be I think I might be the enemy The pushing mechanism When i breath him in I levitate And gravitate to what it meant The sake of the art, The hurt of the heart As sacred as it ever was The turning or the Torah talks of Gestures, since the fall of Rome The toga on the alter Solid hands unwrap us all From falling over Old and awkward No award for wisdom No rest for the wiser No love for the troll Since thunderstruck from under us, Delivered all but what we wanted So we talk of kama sutra, Surely we can't talk at all Of what we know As once was bonded Laughed it off To come from what The call to us, Fair serve governors fortress I work up in mentions Carved the scarlet letter out of Cannons, of course MA. WHAT. I'm BUSY. IT'S ON. The what? The show we watch! The one that— YES, Oh, my GOD. Yes. YESSSSSSSSS. Usnavi, get your popcorn This is some worth watching Up in arms for forwards Causing sore arms, Numb thumbs From crucifixes Are you wondering what God Would walk about the horned carving A kamikaze walk of tall corn— Follow me, dear mantra Your whole house is watching. Sacre. It's happening again isn't it. I do want ice cream. All I need is a divorce And an Amazon woman 10 foot tall To rub me off at the stroke of Nevermind what the clock says In God's house they're all wrong The blasphemous for Catholics Has begun, So strum your number into the teleprompter And just hope no one gets hurt By the hook on the next song —like the hook of my last surviving bra digs into my back does, Or the skin on my lack of tummy Has rubbed off under the suicide Of the cycle— It's getting tighter A loss of interest is equal to A loss of consciousness And I'm 21 days drunk On the alternate, though— I'm sober and feeling less Loved. The animal I've become is all cardio And karma sutra For karma comes To the weak of heart To use the world as swords To cause harm To the calm artists I thought I told you off once. (Already) You look awful. lol. You look terrible, broh. But my album sound fire. #producerholes [portal] It's coffee time!! It's not coffee time! It's not coffee time. Iiiiits coffee time. Damn. Where's the cat. Gestating. I fell asleep on a Saturday afternoon and woke up on a Saturday morning something like 19 hours later, after a series of dr same the types of like I was sure that my new dreamcatcher would shield me from—the turquoise beads were probably plastic, but who could know—without further inspection, I gladly hung it up near the window to catch the bad spirits who had been attacking me in the night, mostly in the form of satanic possessed motorcycle riders or heavily drinking passerby's. Wouldn't it be nice to have somewhere beautiful like this in downtown Los Angeles, or even Santa Monica? I had grown tired of the toxicity of inner city New Yorkers and the third world antics of the newest inhabitants— still/- it was the first apartment ever in my entire adulthood that was totally and completely mine, and I took good care of it. I knew that most folks weren't as clean and tidy as I was, and although I had left my apartment quite a mess in a lurch to get to the post office, returning the cheap and improperly advertised fake essential oils I had returned upon discovering that they were indeed not actually essential oils, but something that smelled more like floor cleaner, and was the consistency of water—they were fake, and the bath rug had been altered with photoshop to make it look gold, while it was actually yellow. I took it back, remembering the promise I had made 3 days ago—once I was finished reading Tina Fey's matching yellow book, I would find somewhere else to put the rug, but it clashed so classlesley with everything in my apartment, that I couldn't stand to look anymore; the rug had been removed from the bathroom before even filing for a return label; the fake essential oils joined it in the box three days later— a Saturday I was sure upon first waking was Sunday, but then glad it was some kind of time slip through the dimensions as I slept wearily for hours after refusing to go to the gym, only to be followed by what seemed like robots—the same 3 or 4 people showing up when I worked out no matter what time I decided to go—early or late. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

In this episode, Jim Ehrman and Mark Calkins dive into Dan Gulnac's message, “What TIME Is It?,” discussing various ways to practice seeing God's activity in the rearview, to better position yourself to see God's activity in real-time. 

Giles takes the potentials out to the desert to meet Sineya and Cougar. Buffy stays behind because Spike is being a simp. Kennedy also stays behind, hoping to canoodle with Willow, but this leads to unintended side effects.   Hear us discuss… Dawn, Anya, and Xander are the best part of this episode Buffy should have just emailed Sam Did Amy learn nothing in rat prison? For shame Potentials can leap tall buildings in a single bound How long has Kennedy known Willow now? WHAT TIME IS IT? Trigger warnings Gun violence, misogyny  

In this week's episode the boys-- I'm sorry literally every podcast calls its host "the boys" we can't be doing that, give me a second to find a thesaurus.In this week's episode the male children discuss your favorite pop-punk band's favorite pop-punk band, Jawbreaker and their magnum opus, 24 Hour Revenge Therapy. If you've never heard them before, this is a great opportunity to jump in. If you are already a Jawbreaker fan, we cannot apologize enough.Also up for discussion: Pink Floyd slurps up some AI hog slop, a chair falls on Nashville, and Chris is quizzed on knowing What Time Is It? in our strangest game yet. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-15 tells us that there is a time for everything, including death. Today's sermon looks at death as our eternal retirement (from life) and asks us how we are preparing for it. We are reminded that even Jesus was conscious of time and that what we do with our time is critical. We are reminded that God has expectations of his children and their time on earth. What are you doing with your time? The post What Time Is It? appeared first on Ottawa Church of Christ.

"What Time Is It?" is a message from Pastor Tim Rigdon of The Well in Providence and Sturgis, Kentucky (USA). This is a multi-campus church digging a wellspring of revival in rural America through the preaching of God's Word and under the direction of the Holy Spirit. This is a place where you can come as you are, you won't leave the same!

Join the fellas as they continue to dive into the wider scope of the Prince universe with the second album from The Time...What Time Is It? (But really, what time is it? Our watches have stopped.)Support the show

Happy Season 5 finale GMTD babies! We have a treat, treat, treat for you! We have author Sarah James here to break down “High School Musical 2!” Without missing a beat, we are dropped right back into East High and “What Time Is It?” SUMMERTIME! Students are literally counting down the seconds to freedom— wait, scratch that— counting down the seconds to getting jobs. Never have you ever met a group of students more obsessed with being employed. Lucky for everyone (and I do mean everyone) Troy gets them all jobs at a country club run by Sharpay and Ryan's family (the most “fabulous” and delusional family you could ever want to be a part of). This movie is summer love where romance is a picnic on a golf course and chucking grapes at someone's face; it's a club talent show that's rigged for the owners kids; it's coded gay baseball scenes; it's more hat and t-shirt sayings than you can count and it's learning about boy disease— it's SERIOUS! And you can “Bet On It” that Troy is split between his future and letting his friends down, Gabriella having to “Go Her Own Way,” and Sharpay and Ryan ABSOLUTELY appropriating another culture! We will see you soon for Season 6! We hope all of you know, “You Are the Music in Me (us)”! All for One! Enjoyyyyyy

There are seasons and rhythms to all our lives.  Today we reflect on Ecc 3:1-8 and ask God, What Time Is It?

Scripture: Colossians 4:2-6 The post What Time Is It? appeared first on Hope Bible Church.

There have been a myriad of victories and challenges in the organizing work for abolition over the years. Listen as Aaron and Damien discuss two pieces from The Forge's State of Abolition issue, including “After the Uprising: In DC and Beyond” by Makia Green and “What Time Is It on the Clock of Abolitionist Organizing?” by Andrea J. Ritchie, which analyze the current conditions, challenges, and victories achieved by the modern abolitionist movement, and what we learn and can do to support the future of the movement and the continued fight for social justice and collective liberation. Follow us on social media and visit our website! Instagram, Threads, Twitter, Facebook, YouTube, Website, Leave us a voice message, Merch store

West Coast Wednesday 09/27/2023 Thief In The Night By Grace Graceland French By Parris B Unreleased track Song: Diamonds Artist: @jumpinjoetherapper Got Em By Mac Montana Grimey Music(Hip Hop) By Mac Montana new track thats dropping 9/29/23. THE RABBIT HOLE - XOXOLISTL If U Ain't By Mally Muzik Ft Yung Juelz Cognac Dayz Blue Dream Nights By Mally Muzik OYoung Sleeze ft. Sonie Nightz - those jeans remix Sonie solo track NEW LOCATION UPDATED FLYER!!!!

Music Monday 09/25/2023 J Kent Ft Marmar Oso Give you more Dangerous By Mic Uno SmokeNMirrors By Mic Uno Talk Ov Da Town By A-F-R-O Till Next Time By A-F-R-O Cut The Check By Cemiquest & T Lae Pasadena Riderz By A1 Yolaman ft. Kali Rich Available on all platforms now Ghost Dance -Xoxolistli ft. Brown Terroristaz, Monstro CHICHIMECATL - "XOXLISTLI" FEAT. "CHIKLEZ496" Hurt No More By Mrs. Genii Mac Montana-Roxbury Talk Ft Iceburg Snub You Love Me By Mally Muzik Ft Keeloz Cookies & A Optimo By Mally Muzik I Need You(Not) By Parris Next Round By Monstro & Parris Hard 2 Say Bye- By SonOfSoul Ft D Rich NEW LOCATION UPDATED FLYER!!!!

Ey guyz, WHAT TIME IS IT??

Dr. Jack Trieber preached a message entitled, "What Time Is It?" during the Wednesday Morning service of the 40th Annual National Youth Conference in Santa Clara, California. Find more information and watch all the services at nvbc.org/yc

The post What Time Is It? – Rev. Hoskins appeared first on Macedonia Baptist Church of Detroit.

What Time Is It????!!?! SUMMERTIME!!! Your girlies are back to chat about the iconic summertime sequel!! This movie is truly fabulous and so nostalgic, and rewatching it was so much fun!!! Thank you again got listening, you are the music in US!!!!! Join best friends Maddy Berry and Tatiana Alvarez as we cozy up and talk about our favorite comfort movies!! We're not here to give a critical analysis about The Godfather or break down the meaning of the newest Avatar movie(but slay if that's your thing!!) Every Wednesday we'll be talking about all things romcom, chick flick, nerdy escapism, feel good, comfy cozy vibes and we can't wait to get started. What's your favorite comfort movie?? Let us know! Watch us on Youtube: / @ourviewingparty Listen to us: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/sh... Follow us: @ourviewingpartypodcast @maddylberry @tma25 Produced by: The Podcast Place

4.25.23 | "What Time Is It?" | Pastor Rick Mayo by Cornerstone Pentecostal Church Spokane

What time is it?!?! Time for this years Prince extravaganza, this year we are covering albums from the three acts that comprised the Triple Threat Tour, starting with Vanity 6's self titled album & The Time's What Time Is It? Joining me is Jeff Harris from Behind The Grooves to go track by track on both albums, tune in and turn it up!

 In this episode we celebrate Avram's 100th birthday by listening to What Time Is It  a never before published Avram Davidson story!  One of his best! We sit down with Ben Railton a Professor of English Studies and Coordinator of American Studies at Fitchburg State University in Massachusetts. He is the author of five previous books, most recently We the People: The 500-Year Battle over Who is American (also in the American Ways series). His public scholarly efforts also include the daily AmericanStudies blog, the monthly Considering History column for the Saturday Evening Post, and contributions to many other online conversations including HuffPost and We're History.  

Part 23: What Time Is It?(part 3) Sermon Notes

Part 22: What Time Is It?(part 2) Sermon Notes

Pastor Mark Biltz is on the program today to talk about discerning the times and seasons based on God's calendar, the Hebrew calendar, and to understand the signs and events that are happening in our world today! Mondo is hosting today and he and Pastor Mark talk about how to recognize what season we are in and how to look in the Scriptures to discern what the Lord is saying to us about current events around the world. What do the Blood Moons, the Shemitah and Jubilee years, and signs in the heavens have in common? What do eclipses mean and how do we know what it means? Stay tuned today for Pastor Mark Biltz and his teachings on “The Lord's Soon Return,” “Zechariah's 7th Vision and Pharmakeia's Basket of Lies,” and “What Time Is It?” You won't want to miss today's program!

Part 21: What Time Is It? Sermon Notes

What Time Is It? - Hos. 10:12

Dray Day is back with a brand new episode. This episode here Dray Day speaks on a recent old photo of Cowboys owner Jerry Jones that hit the internet. Jets make a change at Quarterback, Vikings lose Dray's respect after getting smacked by the Cowboys. Week 11 Offensive and Defensive players of the week are given out. Week 12 game picks are decided as well. Some NBA Talk on the agenda as well. WHAT TIME IS IT????? ITS EPISODE TIME --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/sportswaywithdrayday/support

Sorry we couldn't get this to you in time for Halloween, my internet connection fell into a bit of a vampire trance it would seem. Anyway, I hope you'll still allow us to belatedly celebrate Disney Channel's favorite time of year, when they can flex their monopoly on spooky movie vibes. Only problem is…they have too many! We needed help deciding what to watch and enlisted you all to help via twitter poll. So now, as voted by you, we are joining the Hansen family as they have a night on the town…for better or worse. See, everyone's dealing with one simple fact: Mom's Got A Date With A Vampire! Emma can't get over a line delivery and delivers some breaking news. Luke finally gets to use a funny voice and flexes his limited vampire knowledge. Talking Points: The Killer Adult Cast, Kirkland Culkin, Monster Kid, The Mysterious Hot Peter, DCOM Dracula, THE SILVER DEBATE, Drugs: A Real Life Vampire's Trance, Confusing Age Castings, A Terrible Offscreen Father, The Duffy Drug Effect, Secret Vampires, A Little Extra Budget, Selling Women To Internet Strangers, The Bailey School Kids vs. The Boxcar Children, Pancake Manipulation, Kids Hitting on Men in a Supermarket, Unplaceable Vampire Accents, Taylor “MMMBop” Hanson, Does Vampire Hunter = Magician?, Vampires Are Automatically Rich (But Still Not Real), The Spoon Test, Vampire Buddy-Cop Movie, Make-Out Point, Vampires Hate Rockabilly, Ricki and the Flash, Stick It In Your Craw, Boomer: The Worst Man Alive, Random Emotional Moments, We Do Not Negotiate With Vampires In America, There's Always Time For A Racial Stereotype, The Terrible Phone Metaphor, What Time Is It?, Vampire Boundaries, What Happens In Budapest, No One Respects Vampire Powers, Vampires…Still Kinda Hot Tho

What Time Is It?  Podcast Time!  It's summer vacation for our favorite East High Wildcats and we're hitting the links at Lava Springs Country Club…  where literally the entire student body works at the resort.  In a nutshell - less high school, more musical, same plot.  We have love triangles that really aren't triangles, ritzy talent shows, cultural appropriation, and betrayal that is resolved with just a simple conversation.  Imagine that!  Join us with returning special guest, Rachel Popp, as we "work this out" and "go our own way" in Disney's follow-up DCOM, High School Musical 2!

Diane and Sean discuss the Attack of the Clones of the High School Musical cinemaverse, High School Musical 2. Episode music is, "What Time Is It?" written by Matthew Gerrard, Robbie Nevil and performed by Zac Efron, Vanessa Hudgens, Ashley Tisdale, Lucas Grabeel, Corbin Bleu, Monique Coleman from the OST.-  Our theme song is by Brushy One String-  Artwork by Marlaine LePage-  Why Do We Own This DVD?  Merch available at Teepublic-  Follow the show on social media:-  IG: @whydoweownthisdvd-  Twitter: @whydoweownthis1-  Follow Sean's Plants on IG: @lookitmahplantsSupport the show

Back in your ear holes for the first time since May, we're fresh off our summer hiatus. This episode we're joined by friends of the show, and fellow pop-culture connoisseurs, Mav and Hannah from VoxPopcast. In part inspired by Netflix's recent Persuasion adaptation as well as the continued success of Bridgerton, we wanted to put regency romances in context. In the first of two parts, we get into what, exactly, a regency romance is, why people love them so much, and our own experiences watching them. (Hint: it's the bosoms.) What's Sparking Joy sparked a little more than we expected, but you can skip (09:25-26:35) to get to the main discussion. Also, a quick correction: Love Like the Galaxy takes place 2000 years ago, not 1000. You can find Hannah, Mav, and VoxPop wherever you get your podcasts. But here are links to some of the episodes we mention: e219. Why We Still Love the Jurassic Park Franchise e201. The Romance Show: (Hannah wouldn't let us call) Love In The Time Of COVID e208. What Time Is It? It's Bridgerton Time! (Again) Don't forget to subscribe to Sex. Love. Literature! You can find us on Twitter and Instagram @SexLoveLit. Lit discussed this episode includes: Love Like the Galaxy, Riverdale, Claim to Fame, Jurassic Park, Jurassic Park: Dominion, Obsession (Board Game), Alchemy of Souls, Extraordinary Attorney Woo, Yumi's Cells, Afternoona Delight Podcast, Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Persuasion, Bridgerton, Unmarriageable The SLL Theme music is “Pluck It Up” by Dan Henig. “What's Sparking Joy” BGM is Candy-Coloured Sky by Catmosphere | https://soundcloud.com/ctmsphr; Released by Paper Crane Collective; Music promoted by https://www.free-stock-music.com; Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License; https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en_US

The post 1 Corinthians 7:29-31 – What Time Is It? appeared first on Grace Bible Church.

2022 JUL 31, SUN AM Pastor Kyle Haynes Acts 1:1-6   The post What Time Is It? appeared first on Shadow Mountain Baptist Church.

Jesus said we could "discern the times". No one knows the hour, but we can discern the season. Join Pastor Erica Giesow as she dives into some of the signs of the times in Week 2 of "What Time Is It?"

End Times & Hope - they actually go together. Join Pastor Erica Giesow as she helps us discern the times and perceive the spiritual significance of the moment we live in Week 1 of "What Time Is It?"

WHAT TIME IS IT?? SUMMER TIME!! This week we are getting into the spirit of summer by watching High School Musical 2! Grab your most FABULOUS sunglasses as we revisit this 2007 Disney Channel musical! Did we sing along to all of the songs while we watched the movie? You can BET ON IT. HANG OUT WITH US ON INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/likeomgpodcast/

This week, we have a special crossover episode from June 2021: Joel Beasley, host of the Modern CTO podcast, interviews a16z general partner David Ulevitch about David's journey from working at an ISP and Dot Com company mp3.com in high school; to starting, running, and selling his own enterprise security company, OpenDNS; to becoming an investor at a16z. They also discuss the value of product marketing for enterprise, David's philosophy around pricing enterprise products how to survive and lead through hard times, new trends in startup investing, and more. This is part of our occasional series where we feature relevant episodes from like-minded shows on the a16z Podcast, to surface other shows you might be interested in. The Modern CTO podcast is by and for CTOs and other technical leaders at places like Microsoft, NASA, Reddit, Launch Darkly, and more, all sharing how to build strong companies and organizations. It's hosted by Joel Beasley, CTO of Leaderbits and author of the book, The Modern CTO. Check out more episodes of this show wherever you get your podcast. And for more on how to grow from a technical to product to Sales CEO, check out David's previous episode on this podcast called “What Time Is It”.

From Boom Clap to Vroom Vroom, our Charli XCX themed miniseries continues! This week on "I've Been Meaning To Listen To That", we return from hiatus by reviewing "CRASH" by Charli XCX! Plus, Andrew, Michael, and Sean detail where Charli XCX is now in terms of her artistic trajectory, debate whether "Yuck" is a masterful piece of camp pop writing or if it is cringe juvenilia, and break down the Nicole Kidman AMC ad beat by beat! Andrew's Pick: Slide by Calvin Harris, Frank Ocean, Migos & What Time Is It from "High School Musical 2" Michael's Pick: Escapade by Janet Jackson Sean's Pick: Nasty by Janet Jackson & Days Like These by Low New Maych Moodiness match-ups on our Instagram stories and the Facebook page each day at 11:59am Central! Edited by Andrew Ambrose Lee Follow Andrew Ambrose Lee on Twitter (@AundrewALee) & Instagram (@aundrewalee) Follow Michael Limentato on Twitter (@limentaco) & Instagram (@limentaco) Follow Sean Wilkinson on Instagram (@diabetictwink) Follow Stefanie Senior on Instagram (@stefmsenior) & Twitter (@stefmsenior) Theme Song by Emily Blue (Twitter: @emilybluemusic Instagram: @emilybluelovesyou) Cover Art by Olivia Jensen (Twitter: @oliviaaj22, Instagram: @oliviajensen_art) Check out the I've Been Meaning To Listen to That (And I Did!) Playlist! Check out our website ibmtltt.com Follow us at (@ibmtltt) on Facebook, Tiktok & Instagram, and email us at ivebeenmeaningtolistentothat@gmail.com Have a good daaay! --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/ibmtltt/message

The Mouse Madness crew is sticking to the status quo and diving into the Best High School Musical Number bracket. Does an original hit soar and fly to victory? Or does a new-school ballad bop to the top? - Why Kyle knows all the words to “What Time Is It?” - The Mouse Madness podcast finally breaks down the “I Don't Dance” baseball sequence in High School Musical 2. - Zac Efron is giving every number an 11 out of 10 effort. - Sports fans seeing themselves on the jumbo-tron is peak human happiness. - The evolution of the Wildcat basketball jersey. - What you're really betting on during “Bet On It” - Kyle thinks “Walk Away” sounds like an allergy medicine commercial. - The logistics of Troy and Gabriella's Stanford/Cal relationship. - Chris remembers the moment he decided he likes High School Musical. - Wait, Troy and Gabriella have known each other like four days! - "Fabulous" is the undoing of the Sharpay character. - Is Sharpay actually rich? Or was she just pretending in HSM 1? Got a rebuttal? Want to be a tiebreaker host? We'd love to hear from you: Support us on Patreon: cutt.ly/GerisGang Email us at mousemadnesspodcast@gmail.com Tweet us @MouseMadnessPod Follow us on Instagram @MouseMadnessPod Chat with us on Discord: discord.gg/qwpqAWA Join our Facebook Community: fb.me/MouseMadnessPodcast

What Time Is It?The pandemic has left us dazed and confused but look up because your redemption draws nigh.  Arise and shine!  This is a time to stay connected to the body, to go deeper in our discipleship, and live in the presence of God like never before.  Join us as special guest Pastor Dave Patterson from TFH Vacaville speaks on the times we are in and gives a prophetic exhortation to TFH Oakland.  Learn more about us at tfhoakland.org

Last year, we (like many people) were so overcome with the Netflix show Bridgerton that we recorded not one but two episodes about it. We weren't the only ones. It was a runaway sensation.… The post e208. What Time Is It? It's Bridgerton Time! (Again) appeared first on The VoxPopcast.

What Time Is It? - Dave Patterson At City Church California, we exist for anyone to BELIEVE in God, to BECOME like Jesus and to BUILD together. Check out: https://www.citychurchca.com  To support this ministry and help us continue to reach people click here: https://thecity.churchcenter.com/giving For more: Website: https://www.citychurchca.com Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/citychurchcalifornia/ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/citychurchca/  

2/13/2022 - What Time Is It? - 2 Thessalonians 2:1-5 - Dr. Mark Hitchcock