From the Archives: March 2009 — He was insane, or at least irregular. About six foot and a little heavy set with dark hair and darker eyes. His arms were tattooed completely with symbols of counter culture, whatever that was.

I heard a faint noise coming from nearby. At first it was only discernible as a human utterance; I thought it might have been a baby squealing. I moved back towards my entry door and heard it again, in the first floor apartment just north of my own. And now the source was more clear: a woman moaning…

Some promoters wouldn’t book you because you weren’t popular enough, others because you were popular with the wrong crowds. I met this one set of Rastafarian cats running a venue out of Harlem who told me my bands couldn’t play because they were white.

From the Archives: August 2009 — Leo tries to win the affection of a certain disarming female, while his hometown social circle crumbles around him in drunken, bilious mess.

Walking behind a man in a wheelchair has its benefits
My bearded friend wheeling through a crowd of mistfits…

I’d been on the road at pagan festivals for the last few weeks, and like a demon possession from a séance gone bad, I brought a hippie chick back with me to the big rusty apple. She was the kind of spun-out gypsy who, when asked “where do you live” would earnestly respond “in what lifetime?” and proceed to talk chakras till dawn.

It was Wednesday when Bob awoke, and that meant it was his turn to buy beer for the apartment. Upon looking out the window though, he realized that he had no idea where he was.

Martin Scorager, a seemingly genteel individual in his insistantly unspecified mid-to-late twenties, has gone on strike until the UNITHONG Corporation brings back production of their brand of edible panties.

A few weeks later there was another event, it was life changing. A form of pure excitement infused and consumed with happiness…

Jackhammers would have been better—loud noises, he could sleep through. For several mornings now, jackhammers had assaulted his eardrums beginning at six a.m., and he was almost used to them. But the persistent buzz of his cell phone at eleven thirty p.m. on a Friday night successfully penetrated his haze of near sleep.

Each assignment had called for a job, a new history, even a new personality. This time all we had to do was write and sell infotech, and be regular cool nerdy folk.

Scientists continue to research a cure for this component…a cure that will replace the element from the child’s DNA. The “injected” believe that the only possible cure for this is…death.