We take a story break to share a fully sprouted new spring mix from Gator, please enjoy: BLOOM

The calendar year begins January 1st, but it doesn't really feel like a real new year until March 20th. The first day of spring is like a Boy Scout merit badge. You made it through winter, mostly unscathed, and as a reward you get a nice shiny new sunny day to pin to your belt. All that cold gross winter stuff was so last year. Now you're invigorated. This year will be different This year will have flip-flops and shorts. This year will have flowers and birds. This year will have tons of happy music. The kind of music you need to roll the windows down in the car in order to really appreciate. Music that makes you build a tree house or plant a garden. Music so hopeful it seems to inspire the sun to stay up longer and longer with each passing day. "Bloom" features all new songs that celebrate this new year. Though some of the songs may flirt with summer exuberance, make sure not to look too far ahead. You made it through winter and spring is your victory lap. Take some time to stop and hear the music.








Download Bloom here:







-Gator

A Brief Dream Thought

A site through a window in
Valley Village.

Dismembered dismal daughter;
English Porter Father;
"Dance Please Gentleman" brother;
Untamed, irritable mother

the dog barks, a mimic of a bigger dogs bark.

They sit down for dinner in their
ironed
pressed
work clothes.

and you were there.

napkins folded and napped
silverware silvered with ware
plates plattered with Po-tatoes
Pour wine for a heritage twice removed
poor wine, a heritage lost and forgotten.

A silence unparalleled;
we both were there.

How was your day?
Nay (neigh?), your week, your month, your year, your horse?
Your profession, what is it?
A postman, poppa?
The garden, momma; blooming, fresh, fragrant?
Sister, how many years are you now? still leading cheer?

I remember now,
we are all here.

-655321

I and Like and You

Love and a mix tape from our newest of contributors:

On last year’s I and Love and You The Avett Brothers mused upon those three words that became hard to say. This mix reflects long before that point, when it’s all unknown and exciting and the three hardest words to say are I and like and you. Luckily, Valentine’s Day comes around every year and Cupid gives those apprehensive ones a gentle push to revealing their true feelings.

Since there have been crushes, there’s been tools out there to report the crush. Flowers, cards, and chocolates have been staples for generations. But, since the birth of cassette tape, there’s been the mix tape and it’s trumped all sweets as the best way to capture one’s heart. Us mortals may not possess the skill set to verbalize eloquently just how far our passions reach, but luckily our favorite artists are our mediums that put into words what we feel. As fun as it is to give a mix to your crush, it’s doubly as exciting to get a mix from your crush. You become instantly transformed in to a crazy haired conspiracy theorist, dissecting each lyric, looking for any sort of sign that this song, this verse, is about you. When you do make that transcendent connection between lyrics, to truth, to you, it’s one of the more visceral musical moments. All of a sudden it’s no longer just a song, it’s a secret between you and your mix maker.

This mix has a bunch of new, sweet, fun and moving love songs (there’s also a lot of covers for some reason). Please send it to whomever your crush is, whether they know you like them or you’re a secret admirer. If there’s no one special in your life don’t fret, just listen to this mix over and over again until your confidence builds so much that when you do find someone, those three words will be easy to say: I and like and you.









Download | V-Day Mixtape | I and Like and You




-Gator

The Farmer's Son

“Spffft,”

The plastic arrowhead water bottle eases back down to the brown stained wooden desk it’s come to marry over the years.

“qwwwa,” “qwaaaaa,”

Yellow and green viscous liquid dribbles down the thin plastic rim to meet its thick brown cousin. The smell of old moldy mint and rich leather fills the air of the tiny dimly lit room. A tarnished green antique lamp sits at the corner of the desk Leonard has so awkwardly deposited himself behind (visual: an elephant shoved into a horses stable). It has been in Leonard’s family for generations and it still serves its purpose well, shedding light on the 1998 IBM holding the Phillip’s fortunes . . .. and, unusually, quite a respectable amount of fetish porn (Animal Husbandry, only literal).

“Farming is business and business is farming,” or that was the closest thing to a motto the family abided by. It was carved into most of their doorposts, carved into all four desk legs, and muttered every dinner with prayer; it’s origins really a mystery. Leonard’s brother Jeb even went so far as to get it tattooed on his own hide; infection only lasted 3 days ending in an unexpected addition to the family plot and the farming business in Leo’s lap. Tattoos were out from then on, and like all dynasty’s Leonard was happy to be living his father’s life. Old family hearsay would explain that when this strangest of phrases first was challenged it was cause for a shouting match between Lee’s great great Grampy Ted and his partner at the time Ronald Pillsbury. Words were had, three shots were fired, blood was spilled and two bottles of scotch emptied before the men came to an agreement. The motto would stay and Ronald would try his luck in another occupation; something that put less stress on his small feminine hands and jealous soul, perhaps baking would work for the young food enthusiast.

“Spfft, spffft.”

More brown grainy fluid runs down the easy grip ridges of the sport bottle. Good Ol’ Leo picks the hardened tobacco from out between his thick fingernails and rubs the residue from his calloused hands.

“Alice, we got anymore mint grizzly!?”

“Nah Lee, you been goin’ through that stuff like its free beer day at the Limpton Fair.”

Leo adjusts the chew, feels the good burn and looks up from his computer to the open door.

“Sheeeee-itt, well how bout the Copenhagen Rodney got me for my birthday this year, we had two cases.”

Silence as Leo and his wife hold a beat; the most predicament of predicaments for sure. He looks around the office, studies it, as if answers to unasked questions lay within its walls and floors. And what an office it is; straight out of Farmer’s Office monthly. The blinds stained with layers of dust and something that looks like old Campbell’s tomato soup; the floor formerly covered in linoleum but now more closely resembling a human skin rug with a horrifying case of Vitiligo.

“Damn’t Lee, I’m trying to get my dress cleaned up for the meeting, you know this; been planning it for months, try the dresser next to Little Ray’s room, and for god’s sake put on your good overalls.”

Little Ray’s room, little Ray’s room? He couldn’t go near there, how could he approach such a foreboding reminder of the past, not today.

You see, it is true and can be attested to that Ray’s room is off limits; Lee’s wife Randy knew it, Lee knew it, even the dog knew it. It’s been off limits ever since Randy instituted the sanction on the rambunctious 5 year olds room two years ago after his bed was found empty and his window left open. The room was a reminder, a relic of sorts, owed to parental negligence. This room was an after school special hosted by Dean Cain and a trip to 6 months worth of couples therapy. But on second thought maybe today was the day to walk by Ray’s room, to turn on the lights, to dust off his old toys, to change the sheets on his bed and make his favorite meal. . . .a welcome home of sorts. This day shall further forth be deemed “Little Ray Day!!!” . . . . .Let’s not get carried away.

Leonard was a farmer, his father Harry a farmer, his father before that and before that and a century before that; all farmers. Leonard knew his calling; he would take walks with Ray and in a very paternal way explain that all of these acres of natures joy would someday be his own. Ray would listen attentively while sucking blackberries and studying his fathers face. Leo would mimic the Lion King in a very Jeff Foxworthy meets James Earl Jones sort of way claiming “Everything the light touches is our kingdom.” Ray would smile like it was free cotton candy day at the Limpton fair, grabbing his father’s thick stained fingers while imagining himself a young farmer, with a wife, a golden named Sammie, and a fondness for the chew much like his father. Ray’s dreams were Leo’s dreams, were the dreams of a whole line of Phillips; the force was strong in these men. Ray already had responsibilities; he maintained the chicken coop, he brought the slop to the pigs, he rode a John Deer jr. right next to his father as they surveyed their golden corn in the late summer evenings. These were the same chickens that went unnoticed and began to reek of death when Ray disappeared, the pigs that slowly starved and began to decompose like the town’s memory for young Ray, and the little tractor that hadn’t moved an inch except to sink since Ray had gone missing.

The town had mourned, search parties had been sent out, dogs had been rewarded with treats for their hard work, but the trail was cold. Ray had seemingly vanished from the small Kentucky town that he had called home his short five years on earth. Overtime Leonard became complacent; he would lock himself in his office, again searching the walls and floors for answers to whispers of questions. He started to rot away quite literally and figuratively as chew became his diet and his teeth started to pull away from his skull. Randy mourned in a different way; bathing 10 times a day was her way of ignoring her impulses for a sweet final release. She would wash her hands manically and clean every inch of the home; but if her eye should ever spot a bit of filth she would scrub until her hands bled. The deep, sticky, red leading to more "filth," which she would then try to scrub again from her hands and floor only adding to the mess and obsession. Leo’s office was off limits to her and it remained one of the last signifiers of how cruel time had been to the Phillips. The soil, animals, and crops were dead and farming didn’t seem a hell of a lot like Leonard’s business any more.

But today, today is the day the grass starts growing again; today the Phillip’s wake from their dismal two-year slumber. A letter had come in the mail two months ago to the day, the writing was unfamiliar, the address was obscured, but the message was clear. For some reason or another, from some person or another Ray would return. What had been gained, why’d he been taken, where are the answers? None of that clear, but he would return to rule the kingdom and till the land like Phillips before and before. Randy believed; and Leo, well Leo had to believe or else his destruction would truly be complete. So today was a happy, joyous day. It was Randy and Leonard getting ready for church, it was family dinner at Denny’s, for god’s sake it was joyous like the Limpton Fair. It was a day for the best overalls, the best dress, pomade slathered hair, only one shower for Randy, and the promise that Leo would quit the chew that had quite unfortunately burned holes through his gums. This was the rebirth after the apocalypse for the Phillips.

So Leonard tentatively mounts the creaky wooden stairs in search of the Copenhagen; a last fix. One last wad and then spit it out for little Ray’s grand arrival; a trade even: his crutch for his sons loving embrace. With each stair a new weight seemingly falls from his body, with each stair a month of stress shed and a younger man revealed. He makes his way down the haunted hallways towards the room preserved in time and a small humming can be heard, a familiar song, yet not a song Leonard knew. A gust of wind dances down the hall as he gets closer to Ray’s room and the hum become’s audible. Around the corner, an open window, a cold gust of air shocks his senses as the curtains violently jerk about. Little Ray’s drawings and scribbles of short stories blow about the room as if to communicate. It looks like a proud parents refrigerator exploded. Leonard get’s closer to the window confused, did Randy open it up to air out the room? As he approaches he spots something nearly covered by the bookshelf, in the corner kneels a small, dirty, frail thing; the source of the sound. It teeters back and forth slowly with its chin resting on one knee, a switchblade in hand carving something into the old dry wood. With each breath Leonard creeps closer as the little unaware human brushes wood chips away from his messages. Leo sucks in his breath and holds it, approaching this young living definition of suspicion and notices the whole floor has been carved, every board covered in words. Could this be young Ray? After two years could he really be back like Leo and Randy had hoped and prayed? As he gets closer to this child he realizes that not only has he carved something into the wood, he has carved these words into his own skin over and over again. Blood leaks from his body finding its way through the literary maze of scabs covering his frame and culminating at the handle of the knife. As he carves his hand drips visceral cave drawings all over the floor. Leonard gets closer to this mystery child and notices a familiar birthmark on his right forearm. He reads the scratch that can be found virtually everywhere on this small child and within this small room: “Farming is business and business is Farming.”

-655321

Snowglobed

It was the New Year by now, Jim imagined.

Time slows down in the cold, and when you lose track and can’t access the $75 a month clock/alarm that makes calls, but you don’t make any, and receives calls, but you don’t get any, time goes a lot slower. His eyes seemingly bugging out of his noggin, tears freezing down his cheek…luckily, a bubble, he remembered, would help him breathe.

He just went out for one more run before finalizing the décor of the party and joining his friends. A quick one, to pick up a little adrenaline he calls his ‘energy drink’. ‘Peace out’ to the pals he shouts and he’s gone. How quickly a wrong turn changes a night. You see, it all fell apart right here.

The type of friends Jim has? They’re great. Love to party. Best dudes. From college they never stopped the party, jumping from one reason to another to destroy what they’ve all saved up since college to call their homes. On rotation this New Year? Jim ‘Beam’ Bauman. As you presumably derived, Jim rocks the whiskey…and its what will save his life that night.

The unfortunate side affect of having friends whose M.O. it is to party (hardy), is that friendship comes second to ice luge, beirut, flip cup and pound the tequila. The last one they made up sophomore year of college. Ingenious really. You see the rules are; Pound the tequila till you throw up, and if you throw up in the bottle, your punishment is to bring the bottle to every party thereafter and take shots from it until the bottle is done. Torture, humiliation, hilarity.

It wasn’t until about 2am into the new year when Tom, the adult(erer) of the group, stumbling around his mouth with his tongue somehow managing to ask “Heyg…you guys…where’s Jims? He’s supposed to come overg right?! Where even is he, right??!

Jim’s legs stopped shaking by this point, the cold coming through his boots has started feeling warm. He thinks this is a good sign. When he breaks it all down, its really not likely anyone is going to come find him, so he waits. Could he access his phone, its not even likely he can tell anyone where he is. Not only has the cold started clouding his vision, but the whiskey he’s been nursing out of his trusty extra large flask has his tongue as stumbly as Tommy back at the top.

Tom the Adulterer, the eldest of the pals, got his name from trying aggressively to sleep with all the guy’s girlfriends throughout their relationships. He had a 46% success rate once the relationships ended, and a 2.33% (repeating, of course) success rate while they were still in full swing. Tom’s an asshole, but they keep him around. Why? He’s great, loves to party, best dude.

Marky, the benevolent drunk, reminds Tom that they are currently IN Jim’s condo, so yah, he was sort of supposed to make an appearance, and finishes his statement with ‘idiot’. They pour, they cheers, they shoot, they repeat. Marky, its important to know, still carries around his slightly discolored bottle of Cuervo gold from 2007. Its like a loan you can’t wait to pay back. Only six more payments! Only six more parties! At least that’s how many Marky thinks it’ll take to finally be through with his ‘pound the tequila’ punishment. Then he’ll retire (no he won’t).

Jim worries now. It feels like days! He’s exaggerating. Wondering if he should piss where he is or hold it till he can find somewhere less gross…which might not be for a while. He pisses. At least its warm. Knowing the type of guys he surrounds himself with, selfish, inconsiderate, unfaithful…he feels a sort of, well, DOOM. In his mind he’s envisioning a wild party back at his condo with one of his friends in their underwear, at least one, maybe two broken lamps, and empties strewn about the bathtub. This ritual, with likeness to the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese, is called the beer pit. Yes, that man in his underwear will end up in the beer pit, and most likely come out with at least one bad cut and will proceed to ruin Jim’s white towels. Jim doesn’t see them noticing he’s gone, which means a search party won’t come, but at least he’s laughing at the events to be. They’re great. Love to party. Best dudes.

Back at the party, Brendo, in his underwear, is about to sit his fat ass in the beer pit. He will slip, glass will break, he will need to go to the hospital, the crowd will eat it up. Marky will ask, “was it worth it” and Brendo passing out from shock will say, “it was worth it”.

Jim hears sirens in the distance. He jams his empty flask into the roof above to break through and give whatever signal he can. “NO WAY, They fucking called a search party for me!” No they didn’t. Brendo is bleeding way too much for all of Jim’s white towels to handle so those are medics, and Jim is still fucked. As the sound fades he shouts, “One last run. One last run before the party and now I am going to die in an igloo. I’m a fucking figurine in a snow globe. Happy 2010…I’m getting new friends!”

As Jim rants, so far, he’s only heard the sound of his own voice echoing off the confined walls of his tomb. His voice trails off as he hears the sound of footsteps. Imaginary or not, his flask disappears revealing a blinding beam of light. Either God finally popped the cork and he’s on his way to heaven (somehow, rather than hell), or that’s the greedy hand of Bub, the freeloading borrower of things never to be returned, trying to skeef Jim’s flask. Bub shouts out, “this is Jim’s flask, but its empty. Greedy fucker leaves a clue, but no reward”.

The guys, after seeing Brendo into an ambulance safely, decided to go out on Jim’s ‘energy drink’ run to see if something might have gone wrong. Equipped with the proper tools and several one million candle power flashlights, they went into the night. Turns out, the flask reflected all one million candles perfectly back into Bubs eyes.

After digging Jim out and laughing at him for smelling like piss and whiskey, they share a round hugs, happy new years’ and shots of wild turkey they took from Jim’s liquor cabinet. As they make their way back to the condo. Tom announces to Jim he’s sorry. He put the moves on Jim’s girlfriend, but not to get mad at her, in her defense she was, and still is passed out in Jim’s bed. If Jim wasn’t so frozen solid, Tom would be joining Brendo in the E.R. In the time it takes to get back, it’ll blow over. Tom’s great, they love to party and together they are the best dudes.

To celebrate, they play a game of pound the tequila. Marky will lose. Poor guy.

- Seven-Butter