The Mean Time (because I get a little mean at the end)

Much hath occurred in these past weeks betwixt the rambling and rabbling of we two vagrant visigoths. In the flooded plains of Cornwall we didst play a smashing set of tunes to many notable Cornwallians, young and old, whose names I failed to note, ironically enough. I do recall the dulcet melodies of The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists and, of course, We have no TV. The latter sang multiple songs about tea.

We stayed that eve in the house of Mole and Pete, the sawist and guitarspieler of We have no TV. We spoke of ages past and future, jigs we've danced or have thought better of, and of tea.

We set by steam rail to the vast expanse of London. Not so much is it a city, but a concrete ideology of meandering streets and pedestrian civilians, always under the watchful eyes of CCTV. There is one camera for every 8 people in England, so I have been told by unnaccountable resources. Either way, it seems like one cannot pass ten steps without being in the domain of a new digital observer. Big Brother, indeed.

We again encountered our Spanish friends David and Joel, this time at the Library House, a lovely squatted place with a nettle garden and roaming seductive cats. We juggled. Oh didst we juggle, dear reader, for hours on end. Our arms ached with the carefree lifestyle of the entertainer and we ate of broiled onion soups and bread, all delightfully freed from a future of rot and refuse.

We had but one show scheduled, at a dingy little den of sin known as The Gaff. Gaff, if you didn't know, is translatable to "dinosaur feces" in the local vernacular. We played with esteemed (somewhere) and notable (to someone) folk punker Jason Welt. He seemed nice enough, though the only word exchanged was "Cheers" after he had so respectfully spent our entire set outside of the venue. Jason, my dear friend, we have different audiences I suppose, and it must be hard coming from Sacramento, land of Meth and anger, California. An albino mexican junkie friend of mine squatted for a time in Sacramento, smoking crack and shooting up, and his lively stories of its iniquities kept me in rapture, until he introduced heroin to my x-girlfriend. But I hold not this against you Jason Welt. If Bad Religion were truly a religion, you indeed practice with your set of 5 chords and catchy tunes, and I regret not at all our decision to not remake your "working man" song into "working squid" and play it at the very show we wouldst share with you. By the way, most of the people there (out of the whole 15) were there to see us, and perhaps if you wouldn't have been so noticeable about being outside, they would have stayed in for your set. They took it personally. I did not, as I think we're quite obnoxious. I also stayed inside for your set. I'm not sure how that whole philosophy equates.

anyhoo, enough about you Jason Welt. I am sure you are a lovely chad, and bro, we'll spend some quality time together...next time, one day, and Allah-willing.

Galway and its Space of Society

Dear and esteemed friends, let us move on to the subject of Galway, Ireland. Renowned for its Spanish influence, Galway is in one moment the Boulder, Colorado of Ireland, and in the next, the Eugene, OR of Ireland. I have never before heard such a great deal of street musicians singing Joni Mitchell.

I arrived via Automocare, sitting in the backseat. Marion of Cork drove, her german mother complaining in the seat next to her. We arrived in the eventimes, and Kayne was well met to help me carry my baggage. He had traveled to fair(foul) Dublin in the previous week for a conference of Anarchistas.

Into the Galway space of Society didst we step after brief so-longs.

The show was a smashing success. People Meow Killed to the beat and found us a sweet reprieve from the onslought of metal mayhem we had been nestled betwixt. We retired for the evening, as my sinus infection had only worsened and my head felt like a Roman aquaduct full of whale semen.

Before departing fair Galway, we didst play a dashing game of Monster Cards. Most notably, I lost the Box that sucks all imagination from the World to a Black Hole. Damned didactic conceptual beasts are they all. However, one trumping concept was betrumped. My opponent casually said of Abe Lincoln "What, will your monster make his enemy his friend, like he was Abe Lincoln or something?" Such careless words were these, as I challenged him, dear reader, with my Zombie Resurrection of Abe Lincoln in Squid Form. He played Murder, represented by a chain weilding skeleton in a leather jacket. I held back, for quite awhile, simply using arguments such as "Did murder free the slaves?" And, only as my crushing and winning strike did I say "Well Abe would just make murder his friend," and my opponent did resign me the card. So beware, dear reader, for if we duel at monster cards, you have not only Zombie Resurrection of Abe Lincoln in Squid Form to contend with, but you must also face...MURDER!

And So Kayne Deletes His Myspace....

my dear, dear friends

troubled times characterize the world around us these days. highwaymen and bands of brigands are prolific in these parts. the local publichouse is astir with many a tavern tale that which would make the blood in one's veins run cold. the queues for the dole stretch meters upon meters; all awash with the commonry waiting to receive their measly pittance. their wry, humourless grins and pain-filled grimaces are visible under dirt and grime covered faces, all aglisten with tears and sweat. riding on our mounts, half dead from exhaustion and dehydration, through the countryside, we daily glimpse farm labourers collapsing under the oppressive heat radiating from the impenetrable clouds of methane and carbon which more and more block the sun from our view, causing widespread vitamin D deficiencies and existential dilemna epidemics. Is there naught we can do but sit and watch as our homes are fore-closed and our sextants repossessed, just because we could not satisfy the local tax collecter? But, ere one relinquishes all in the face of grim defeat, we must admit that, mayhaps, there is a glitter of hope here. So we shall paint our arbalests black, rubbing dirt on them to reduce their shimmer, and plunge into the night, towards the campfires which indicate the enemy's encampment. And the rest shall be history.


Thus, my friends, I delete my Myspace. But Wait! I have one final request of you all, before we are cut off from one another forever, only to meet again at Hood's gates, where all souls must go one day. Valar Morghulis. Email Alistair Reynolds, well-known Welsh sci-fi writer, and request of him that he allow The Calliope of the Future to play the golden lute at FinnConn 2009. His email is dendrocopus@yahoo.co.uk And if you would like to keep in contact with me, my email is la.jacasse@gmail.com Thank you for your time.


Kayne
The Calliope of the Future