NoiseMakerJoe

Audio, Broadcasting, Podcasting, Music

A portfolio for broadcaster podcaster, sound designer and writer Joe Bielecki

Eating Nadia's Pig - John Trefry

Joe is joined by John Trefry. They talk about Inside the Castle, Castle Freak, Plats, architecture, and more.


You can contact the show at noisemakerjoe@gmail.com - Just put WTR in the subject line.

Contact for John Trefry
Twitter:
@trefryesque
Website
Inside the Castle

Contact for Joe bielecki
Twitter and Instagram: @noisemakerjoe
Website
Patreon

Art photo by Arielle Tipa

Eating Nadia’s Pig

— I'm Of The Perception And Orientation That These Gallant Beasts are Deserving Of Our Gratitude, But There is Nothing Remaining Of Them For Honoring, A Few Teeth Perhaps, Even Those are Useful In Babyrattles, I've The Consideration Of Interment Of The Slaughtering Knives, Although That is Wasteful And I've The Intuition That It's Not Desirable To The Beast, So I'm Simply Spading Over The Dirt Behind The Home With A Small Marker Stating The Day Of The Cadaver's Maximum Valuation, Recollection Of Slaughterday is Always Difficult, And Quite Earnestly Irrelevant —


on the table in the dining nook of the kitchen is a candelabra with goldenbrown tapers that otherwise is devoid of bouquets and decoration—no condiment vessels, no napkins in tasteful arrangement, no napkins, no radishes—only the blankness of thick gray cheese from precipitating vaporization of cookingoil on the boardinghouse table softening in the stifling warmth, gold and minium twotone damask is lavishly festooning ornate plastercast brackets spraypaintingly antiquey in oldgold is flaking flakes are limply tenuous from the volutes in the congealing clogging lardsludge and dustfur, adipose saturation of the fabric is drawing particulate and fibrous suspension from the stagnant air casting the pleats with waxen immobility framing the operable picturewindow looking out over the derelict garden below with pathways of gold acetate confetti and the little pond in the middle of the lawn with a shoreline of pyrite nuggets and filled with gold plastic sequins floating on sepia, the ordinary shrubs at the fenceline behind neighboring dwellings beyond the supersession of ginkgo shrubs in flowerpots swarmingly spangly in the preservation of golden desiccation of fluttering papery foliage clicking into the clattering and clanging of the viands in <<service à la russe>> on gold circumference tableware, the woman in traditional garb, jugular is pulsating and sweaty gazing out the large window to the garden and beyond to finer homes through the thin trees is hurrying about the stifling kitchen silently thunking her forehead on cookware hanging from racks hanging from the ceiling is carrying the first course on goldleaf chargers toward the empty table where the master of the house is sitting is staring at his sullen tenant—her hair patchy and face sinking into its orbitals—and the meal is commencing and the meal is coming only to his position and the table and from the right is coming the course of oral amusements, a textural grandtour of mouthtreats is consisting of cold items—glistening head cheese, spleenwurst, thinslice of cold tongue with panzanella soggingly vinaigretty, a timbale of eggy sawdust & luncheon tongue reconstitution of mechanical tongue separation—on soupplates containing ice shavings are melting into the meatfluids and vinegar soaking through a small interceding scrap of cloth, garnishment is a pithy wedge of exceptionally obscure Catholic limone, & tepid servings—the cubic solidification of blood fryingly crispy, fuet, julienne of ear cracklings with ramekins of spicy mustard—unadorningly heaping on chargers, & sweaty bainsmarie servings—spareribs with hedgeapple and sauerkraut, ribs in paprika & tea sauce with sourcream & mushrooms & taproot—in long boats of congealing sauciness are leaving from the left and from the right is coming the steaming soup course, bathingly titillating the palate and gumline and farreaching musculature of the jaw as far as the temple and hairline—a boiling preparation of porcine snout & trachea with turmericroot in a crock with whole potatoes, stewy vinegar preparation of porcine organs with saturation of particleboard chaff, soup of chunklets of tripe with bellpeppers & onions & cabbage, heart goulash with nutmeg & liver dumplings—steeping in the bondage of a napkin—and garnishing with quark cheese & croutons & ham caramel, a turine of trotter porridge with lemon and cinnamon on a charger with concentric arrayals of hot green and yellow peppers & fermentitious cucumbers & fresh black radishes & savory lard truffles & fresh nettles and dandelion, luxuriously bilious sour tripe soup—are leaving from the left and from the right is coming the hot statement course with organ meat & connective tissue and skeletal connections in a series of rectangular glass bainsmarie on trivets beading up with condensation—shortshank, hindshank, steamship leg, porcine osso buco with rosemary, a porkbowel curingly tough and spicy with chilis & paprika & thyme & fennelseed, cubes of blood coagulation in a preparation with onion and tomato sauce, chitterlings and sourcream, braising the kidneys for cynadry, stuffing of abdominal membranes for drob—are leaving from the left and from the right is coming the maincourse with meatcuts on vermeil platters with restraint for inspection of the butchery most purely showcasing the simplicty of the meal's central ingredient—pork blade steaks with smoky catsup, ham, porkloin with lardons and rye croutons, picnic shoulder, tenderloin, leg sirloin—are leaving from the left and from the right are coming the intercourse removal introductions of saucy meat and vegetables or preparations whose conceptualization is dependent on the jus lingering in the empty halves of the maincourse platters—pork kebabs with hedgeapple & onion, kidneys & onions panfryingly soaking in Baldick oyster sauce, a boiling preparation of porcine maw full of barley & sawdust & nettles & garlicky collagen & bacon is fryingly indulgent with caramelization on bedding of yogurtstewy leafy fragrant greens, the casting of a carrot & brussels sprout & mashy potato trifle inside a porkheart, stewy lungs with plum dumplings, <<savoury ducks>> of sage and blackpepper seasoning porcine heart & liver mincingly frying in a sac of its own epiploon—its caul, its great omentum, its omentum majus—on a bed of fiddleheads, ear in bean broth, scrapple—are leaving from the left, the picturewindow is sliding ajar full of the fir filtration of neighboring neighborhood noises, the picturewindow is sliding sealing against its jamb and from the right is coming fresh cutlery with the respite and repose of the toddy and sorbet course—a vermeil goblet of fresh blood and mulling spicemix with frothy baconbits, a glass sundae cup of dandelion honey granita melting into sweet sow colostrum—is leaving from the left and from the right is coming the burdensome roastcourse is playing against the relief of the sorbet with wads of meat and organs in deep hot pans standing above the table in vermeil casserolecradles—sedimentary rashers of bacon barding a rayroast with rosemary & bay, immersion frying a foreshank is a crispy delicacy on a pike in radiating sheaves of crispy pigskin, porcine liver with onions, grilling kidney with carrot and peas, black pudding of spallings of particleboard & porcine blood in its own intestine—is leaving from the left and from the right is coming the deescalating refreshment of the saladcourse—palate cleansing with unctuous yellow marrow custard, black truffle shavings over dandelion greens, celery in baconnaise—is leaving from the left and from the right is coming the palate titillation and mild textural composition of the cold dishes, somewhat more tepid in their passage through the sweltering kitchen nook, sweating the same greasy perspiration as the gourmand at his table setting his butterknife into—tongue in flavorless aspic with mushrooms, piftie of legs and ears in garlic juice, garnishing a pâté of sow liver & lard & anchovies on rye toastpoints with fermentitious beetroot & cucumber & spicy mustard—and lolling the orbs of two eyes from a gelmold on the prow of his tongue gazing across the table at his dinner guests through the removal of all dishes and all accoutrements from the table where all that is abiding is the gray cataract of griminess occluding the woodgrain and upon this dull surface is the arrayal of the sweetcourse—bacon & lard truffles, peaches & candy porktongue in chartreuse jelly, sweet lard truffles, honeyroasting of porkfatback tart, soft warm apple roasting in a sow cranium with myrrh and cinnamon sticks in sweet whey—and from the right is coming the introduction of a distribution of cheeses in the vacant spaces of the sweet trays—pork cheese forcemeat, a platter of wild strawberries & fig desiccation with bacon stuffing & porcine whey cheese—, the tenant is silently weeping across the empty table the landlord is lollingly comatose with sausage digits and his countenance lying sideways on a broad white collar draping his offal body, the oiliness and spiciness of the bespoke meal permeates the room, gurgling snoring through lardthroat, the difficulty in the acquisition of all of these offals is their generally industrial dedication to catfood.

Juan Bon Joker - Dean Swinford

Joe has Dean Swinford on the show and they talk about Metal, coming of age stories, academia, and more.

You can contact the show at noisemakerjoe@gmail.com - Just put WTR in the subject line.

Dean's Death Metal Epic books can be found through Atlatl press or on amazon.
Atlatl
Book one
Book two

Contact for Joe bielecki
Twitter and Instagram: @noisemakerjoe
Website

Patreon

Art photo by Arielle Tipa

3. Juan Bon Joker

“You realize that Valhalla is still under contract, right?”

I pressed the phone to my ear and covered my head with my hand as I hunched over the Booksalot help desk. All I could think about was the contract. I asked Claire for advice. She said I should call the label and try to get out of it. I didn’t really want to get out of it, because then what would I have? What would I think about during the endless hours of pulling each and every book to the exact edge of the shelf? How else would I stave off the pernicious sounds of Paul Simon’s Graceland, which streamed from the store speakers on infinite repeat? But she had a point. You can’t make an album and go on tour with a band that no longer exists. A dead metal band.

“Use your words,” she’d said, flipping through a copy of Maximum Rock and Roll. “And don’t let Lisa see you.”

Lisa was the rule-obsessed manager, constantly writing up employees for the smallest infractions.

I tried.

“Yeah, I totally realize that, Sean, it’s just that I’m basically the lone Viking left manning the Valhalla ship.”

“David, we need an album. Soon. Besides, a new one will help sell the old one.”

“It’s not like I can make an album by myself.”

He continued like he hadn’t heard me.

“And you still have your touring obligation. We put out one record and so we’ve got to get you guys going on a tour and a second one. At the very least you need to tour this summer, get your name out there. You don’t even need the whole band for that. Otherwise, all of you are in violation of the contract, a legally binding contract.”

I thought of John romancing some poli-sci major by the Sof-Serv ice cream machine in the university cafetorium, chatting her up after handing her a flyer for the next Smokey the Band jamfest. And me, every day, toiling away in this place. Clock in. Shelve books. Man the register. My every action accompanied by the endless loop of Paul Simon’s voice, one world beat Möbius strip of sound. I tapped a paper clip against the desk.

“Uh … excuse me … can you help me find a book?”

A customer. And a jingling sound, like the help bell that only true assholes ever rang. It wasn’t loud enough to be the bell, though. It sounded like some distant reindeer herd.

Was it Santa Claus from the mall?

I sighed. Why can’t people just browse?

“Sean, I promise I’ll talk to the guys. I’ve got to go.”

“Remember: legally binding.”

I hung up. The jingling bells still reverberated across the help desk. How was that going to work?, I thought. Who ever heard of a one man metal band, live and on tour?

“Can I help you?” I hissed, my paper clip now a mangled mess.

The stress was getting to me. I needed to cut down on coffee, free or not. A Renaissance fair refugee stood in front of me. It wasn’t Santa from the mall, but it could have been one of his elves. This guy, short and Latino, wore a billowy frilly smock of the kind last sported by Percy Shelley. He’d topped the smock with a brown leather vest fringed with tiny bells. He was dressed to board frigates.

A taffeta headscarf, cut from a flag, or maybe a blood red prom dress, contained a shock of wild black hair. He’d cinched the scarf, Rambo style, right above his thick black eyebrows. A plaited ponytail hung halfway down his back.

“I’m looking for a book.” He was courteous, his voice more cultivated than the average Miamian. He sounded as suave as George Hamilton looks.

“It’s called The White Goddess. It’s by Robert Graves.”

“Graves … Graves ….” I typed the name into the computer. I could feel his hard stare at my chest. I had on an old Candlemass shirt, the one for Ancient Dreams. I got it when John and I first started playing music together. He and Phil had it on gatefold vinyl, put a couple songs on those early mix tapes, and I thought the cover, an Edenic garden scene, sky blue and gold, taken from some 19th century painting, looked so classy in contrast to the therapy art used for so many other album covers.

Something the parents would approve of, I’d thought at the time. Something to show them the piano and guitar lessons had been worth it. They’d almost canceled them when I sat at the dinner table in the first metal shirt I’d bought, a Slayer shirt with a throned goat presiding over a trio of bishops bobbing in boiled blood.

“I like your shirt.”

“Thanks,” I said absently, scanning the computer screen. “Graves … here it is. Mythology. Follow me.”

I stepped around the desk. His costume was comprehensive. He wore fringed knee-high moccasins. As we walked across the store, he swished and jangled like a belled cat. He even had a brass bell hanging from one ear. He had a tiny acoustic guitar, ukulele-sized, but with a compact, nearly triangular body, strapped to his back. I’d never seen a guitar quite like it; I wondered how it played.

“Are you into Lore?”

The way he said it, I thought he meant a band. “Lore.” It sounded doomy, like Candlemass. Something forlorn and direful.

He didn’t let me answer.

“You seem like you might be. Not many people are, these days.”

“Lore?”

“You know, the imaginary, the stories and images that never really die, but keep repeating, even here in this ridiculous city. That’s a Thomas Cole painting on your shirt. ‘The Course of Empire.’ He would have loved painting this place, shown it swallowed by the sea.”

If you’re not from Miami, you’d be surprised how many locals hate the place. And not just the ones, like me, indentured to its service economy. We stopped at the mythology section, a shoulder-high half shelf topped with a plastic ivy in a “Greek urn” and a squat stone gargoyle, the bestial offspring of a bowling ball and a garden gnome.

I scanned the shelf, found the book, and handed it to him. It wasn’t hard to find. The spine was bright yellow with black writing, like a traffic sign.

“I’ve been looking for this for a while. I thought I’d have to special order it.” He started flipping through the pages.

“What’s it for?” He’d sparked my curiosity. The book was thick. It looked serious. Unlike most of the books people actually bought, it had no pictures, except for a sketch of some weird symbols, three ladies, a snake, a pentagram, on the cover.

“I’m doing a bit of reading for a tattoo I’m getting. It’s going to be of the Ouroboros, here, around my heart.”

“The Ouroboros?” I had no clue. It sounded like the name of a sandwich. An Ouroboros deluxe, extra pickles.

“You’ve never heard of it?”

“No. What is it?”

“A mythical creature. No—more importantly—it is the mythical creature, the creature at the center of every story, a creature that lies at the center of the underworld and the heart of the empyreal sphere. A creature that does both simultaneously whilst roiling beneath the toiling waves of the ocean.”

I stepped back. Dude used the word “whilst.” Another very un-Miamian move.

“It’s the serpent that lives in the water, that marks the equator, not dead but dreaming, the tip of its tail in its fang-filled jaws. When it awakes, it will drown this city.”

Just then, Lisa stormed past.

“David, are you on break?”

“No.”

“This isn’t the time for personal conversations.”

“He’s a customer.”

“If you’ve finished helping the customer, we need you in the back room. A shipment of books just arrived.”

She hustled past, her hair helmet swinging like a clock pendulum on speed.

I wanted to talk more to this guy. He told me his name was Juan. He said he’d be in the cafe, reading.

I wanted to ask him about that guitar.

• • •

Hold for Release Until the End of the World Ch. 6 - C. V. Hunt

Joe has C. V. Hunt on the show and they talk about extreme horror, running small presses, Hunt's great books, and more.

You can contact the show at noisemakerjoe@gmail.com - Just put WTR in the subject line.

Contact for C. V. Hunt
Twitter: @CVHunt
Website:
http://www.authorcvhunt.com/

Contact for Joe bielecki
Twitter and Instagram: @noisemakerjoe
Website

Patreon

Art photo by Arielle Tipa

 

 

Chapter 6

The grocery store parking lot was a nightmare of honking horns and pedestrians who either looked lost or angry as they pushed their bounty to their cars or, in some cases, toward the bus stop ten feet from the door. The horde of people was mainly comprised of angry tricenarians dressed like teenagers from fifteen fashion seasons past or quadragenarians rode so hard on prescription pill abuse, alcoholism, and sheer depression they looked either homeless or thirty years older than what they actually were.

I maneuvered my car around a homeless man standing beside an empty parking spot. He held a cardboard sign with ‘will incert things in my anus for fuud’ printed in very straight and neat script which indicated any money given to him might actually be used for something useful and he wasn’t experiencing withdrawals from whatever drug of choice most people in Daxton chose to numb themselves with. I avoided making eye contact with the man with the sign as I exited my car and made my way quickly and cautiously across the parking lot.

I dodged out of the path of a few cars with raging drivers who honked at me and screamed for me to get out of the fucking way. But escaping the rampaging paths of the pedestrians with carts was always more difficult.

One woman who looked like she’d lifted herself off a barroom floor before coming to the store braced the handle of her cart, glared at me, and came rushing at me. I jumped to the right and she corrected her cart to keep me in target. I dove to the left, fell, and did a half summersault before righting myself. She missed me and plowed the cart full force into the back of someone’s car.

Her head snapped in my direction and she spat, “Crazy bitch! Didn’t you see me?! Get the fuck out of the way!”

“Sorry!” I said and took off in a half jog toward the store.

A woman who looked like a rabid soccer mom was next. Her bobbed and stacked haircut was accentuated with multiple unnatural chunky streaks, each streak a different shade of natural hair color, none of which were her own. She braced the handle of her shopping cart like a linebacker and came barreling at me. I rolled across the hood of someone’s car at the last second to avoid being hospitalized while the woman screamed, “What the fuck is the matter with you?!”

I managed to make it to the door without being trampled by one of the many angry shoppers as they made their way to their vehicles. I was almost hit by a car as I played a Frogger-like game at the last stretch of asphalt separating the parking lot from the semi safety of the store’s sidewalk.

As I reached the doors a man’s voice rose out of the chaos.

“Miss! Miss! Miss!”

At first I ignored him. I couldn’t imagine someone using the endearing term to refer to me. Miss was what one would call a pretty and young girl. Not an overweight, forty-year-old woman. But the man’s insistence increased as I was about to cross over the threshold and into the store.

“Miss! Miss! Miss!”

I turned and spotted a rail-thin man approaching from the direction of the bus stop. He wore a baseball cap, an oversized baseball jersey, and satiny basketball shorts. The sensors for the doors I was standing in front of triggered and opened the glass doors and I managed to move out of the way just as another shopper hurled out of the store with their cart and screamed obscenities at me.

The man stopped five feet from me and said, “Miss, do you happen to have a cigarette?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t smoke.”

His face twisted into fury. “Well, you’re a fucking bitch.”

“Okay,” I said and entered the store.

The entryway to the store where the shopping carts were normally stored was empty except for a handful of ransacked racks that normally housed some local free papers, three kiddie vending machines someone had shattered the glass to and emptied, and a few broken carts. I picked the cart with the most amount of wheels—which totaled three since the front right one was missing—and struggled with it as I entered the store.

The din of the parking lot could not compare to the cacophony of noise inside the store. The first thing I was confronted with were the checkout lanes which was a mob of cashiers and customers bitching at each other, mingled with the sound of several wailing children. I tried to make quick work of passing the area but the absence of the fourth wheel on my cart made moving quickly impossible. I was forced to pull back on the handle on the left side to keep the front end of the cart from dragging on the floor.

At the end of the row of checkout lanes a man wearing either a police uniform or a security uniform resembling a local police officer’s uniform was beating an elderly woman relentlessly with a night stick while she lay on the floor surrounded by broken and smashed produce, shielding herself with her arm.

I passed the beating and barreled into the produce section. I threw some overpriced and wilted lettuce in the cart along with some slightly moldy tomatoes. I gave up on the produce section once a man decided to repeatedly ram his cart into mine and call me a cunt because my cart happened to be sitting in the exact spot he wanted to stand so he could stare at the carrots.

Next was the bread. Two men were fist fighting in the bread aisle. There was no bread on the shelves but several loaves were on the floor, smashed and trampled and flecked with blood as the two men relentlessly pounded each other’s faces. The fate of the bread was becoming more compromised by the handful of other shoppers tromping down the aisle and picking through the wreckage. I became one of those people and snagged up a loaf of unmarred bread without inspecting it and later found out it was stale and moldy potato bread.

I emerged from the aisle and found myself in the meat and deli section. There was a line of people shouting at the deli employees. And I spotted a person clad in all black with a black umbrella, which hid their face, standing by the greenish cuts of beef, motionless. I pushed and pulled my cart in their direction. I grabbed handfuls of random half-spoiled meat and tossed them in the cart, trying to get a look at the figure’s face. I was certain it was the same person living in the shed even though I hadn’t gotten a look at their face then. But the figure managed to turn and disappear into the crowd, keeping their face hidden from me the whole time. Someone rammed my cart with their own and I knew it was time for me to move on.

We needed toilet paper but I wasn’t able to find it since the store had taken to rearranging the location where everything was stocked on a weekly basis. I did happen to find some napkins, which would have to do, after I abandoned my cart for a few brief seconds and squeezed by a group of three shoppers who’d decided to stop in the middle of the aisle, blocking any other shoppers from passing, to have a conversation. They’d become engrossed in their own conversation and grown oblivious to their surroundings. I’d shouted ‘excuse me’ five times before sidling by them. I was certain I would be able to pass them without any incident because they seemed unaware of me but one of the people from the group glared at me on the return pass while I held the napkins above my head and tried not to disturb them.

I grabbed a handful of random canned goods from the shelves I passed, struggling with the integrity of my cart and fending off other aggressive shoppers, and made my way toward the end of the store.

A small child sat on top of a shelf and threw cans of tuna at the shoppers, laughing hysterically if he happened to hit one in the head. He didn’t manage to hit me but he did deposit several cans in my cart. I passed a large man choking a woman as she hit him in the head with a package of diapers and an infant wailed wildly in an abandoned cart. Once I made it to the end of the store I knew I was at the worst part before the checkout lanes . . . the pharmacy.

A man was shouting at someone cowering behind the counter in the pharmacy pickup area while waving around a lit cigarette. Someone with a backpack and a ski mask hopped the counter and started shoving random bottles of pills into their bag. The other pharmacy technicians pelted the masked person with random bottles and objects within their reach.

Shoppers in the raided aisles of the over-the-counter medicine and aids and bandages shouted random questions at the workers in the pharmacy.

A woman shouted, “I have herpes! Will calamine make my vag stop itching?!”

An old man shouted, “Can I swallow suppositories?! I’m not an ass pirate and I’m not sticking anything in my ass!”

Another person. “I have a rash!”

And another. “My kid has a fever of a hundred and seven!”

The masked man raiding the pharmacy pulled a firearm from the band of his pants and waved it around. The technicians all hit the floor. The shoppers continued their endless questioning as I hurriedly passed the havoc.

“What’s causing this rash?!”

“Where’s the lube?! My pussy is really dry!”

“Oh, god! I just shit myself!”

I made it to the checkout lanes before I heard the gunshots and screams. I held onto the cart handle and put my head down, anticipating what would happen next. Half of the people in the store rushed toward the doors in a panic, knocking over the display cases for energy drinks and trampling small children and the elderly in the process. Most of the shoppers on line to check out abandoned their carts and joined the mob.

“Amateurs,” I muttered to myself.

The group of people milling about on the observation deck above the front doors cheered. A woman in an evening gown, draped in expensive furs, raised her champagne glass and laughed loudly as she watched the mass of people below her. A man in a tuxedo beside her raised a paper ticket and was shouting he had the correct time stamp as a few other men around him crumbled their tickets and puffed on their cigars. A servant wearing a tux with tails approached the luxurious couple with a covered silver platter. He lifted the lid and exhibited banded stacks of cash and displayed the platter to the ticket-holding man with a flourish. The woman picked up one of the stacks of cash and rubbed it against her face with an expression of pure ecstasy and I wasn’t able to hear her over the din but I imagined she was moaning as she did so.

When the dust had cleared and the people who had rushed the doors were gone the employees hidden under the registers slowly lifted their heads, checking to make sure it was all clear. They didn’t bother to make sure the shooter was gone. The shooter most definitely had disappeared into the mob anyway. The employees were only checking to make sure the stampede was over.

I wasn’t the only person who’d taken their chance and stayed. One dirty and disheveled woman had continued to haggle with the cashier about the price of a can of corn as if she were at a flea market instead of a grocery store.

The dirty woman berated her cashier. “I don’t care if it scans seventy-five cents! I’m only paying fifty cents for that! It has a small tear in the label!”

A female cashier who appeared exhausted and wore smudged blue eyeliner and had slicked back her hair into a high ponytail emerged from under the register. “Ma’am, you can’t barter for your groceries.”

“These prices are ridiculous! I demand to see the manager!”

“You have demanded to see the manager after every item I’ve scanned up to this point because you don’t want to pay the stickered price. And I will give you the same answer I gave you when I scanned the previous”—the cashier turned to look at her screen—“thirty-seven items. Our manager quit over a week ago. If you have an issue you need to call our corporate headquarters.”

“Fine!”

The cashier placed the can of corn in the accumulating bags and grabbed the next item, which appeared to be the second to last item in the woman’s order. She scanned the item and the dirty woman went on another tirade of refusing to pay the price the computer had displayed and demanding to see the manager.

I left my cart and began clearing the carts out of one lane with a waiting cashier.

When the other woman was told her total she began to haggle that price also. And then they moved on to her twenty expired coupons.

Once I had all but one cart out of the way I swept the remaining items of someone’s abandoned purchase into the cart with my arm before roughly shoving the cart out of the lane.

The employee stationed there was a pimple-faced kid. Or maybe he was covered in meth sores. It was hard to tell anymore. He watched me with a scowl as I fought to push my three-wheeled cart through the rubble.

I unloaded my cart onto the conveyer and told the cashier to start a new sale as multiple sirens grew louder outside. The customer in the other lane asked if she could write a check and the group of people on the observation deck broke out into a fit of hysterics.

 

Anhedonia Everything - Mike Kleine

Joe has Mike Kleine on the show and they talk about showing results, plays, video games, categorization, life, and more.

You can contact the show at noisemakerjoe@gmail.com - Just put WTR in the subject line.

Contact for Mike Kleine
Twitter: @thefancymike
Website:  https://www.mikekleine.org/

Contact for Joe bielecki
Twitter and Instagram: @noisemakerjoe
Website

Patreon

Art photo by Arielle Tipa

The artist appears around 11:16PM.
There’s smoke and fog and haze and purple lights.
The artist begins his set with what Andre would later describe to Sara as, “Soft and simple music.”
Just floating Farfisa organ sounds and scattered swatches of heavily reverbed pads. Almost like a sound check. A lot of it, unassuming.
(Let it be said,) Andre is not impressed.
And then it picks up a little bit, after a few minutes. And the music itself turns out to be pretty good. Andre realizes that in a live setting, the artist’s music is nothing like the iTunes tracks he previewed.
The music becomes much more powerful. More immediate. Visceral, even. Almost palpable.
The music is loud and enormous.
Onstage, the artist’s setup is minimal. You might never think a table with just a handful of custom synths, a Farfisa organ, some cassette decks and a few effects pedals could produce such great sounds.
Andre stares hard at the artist.
Compared to a more dynamic performance, from like, say a rock & roll band or even a full orchestra, watching one man on stage for something like ninety minutes, just pushing buttons and turning knobs might seem like an uninteresting activity to the layperson but to Andre, this was heaven.
The cold electronic blips, the distant ambient washes, the high definition surround-sound atmospherics, the languid synth swells, the deep rumblings of the Farfisa organ, the over-saturated tape hiss, the drippy cavernous echoes, the other-worldly wind chime sounds, the hazy buzzing effects, the hushed murmur and din of unintelligible human voices and side-conversations (happening), the waves of static—it doesn't matter to Andre anymore what anyone has to say about music.
This artist is a prophet!
It’s at this point that Andre begins to have a moment of higher consciousness.
He closes his eyes and succumbs to the ambiance of it all. He lets the sounds transport him to distant places.
Andre thinks about the universe, his essay, about his interminable desire for recognition, about his unrequited love for all things music, his passion for deep research, about all his failings and abandoned projects, his broken dreams, his student loans, his noticeable lisp, his receding hairline and about everything Marfa said.
He sees planets, a parallel universe with colours extending far beyond the visual spectrum, a place that should not exist (where Andre and everyone else is made of metal and archaic circuitry), images upon images of broken statuettes and floor plans of destroyed museums.
Andre sees the beginning of the universe, hears planets exploding, witnesses black holes disappearing (and then reappearing), more planets exploding, moons and atmospheres and rain clouds and dust storms and undiscovered pressure systems and earthquakes and tsunamis and interminable warp barriers.
Andre tries to open his eyes, in an attempt (albeit futile) to escape these (to him) terrible visions, (as he now feels as if he is about to have another panic attack) but all Andre can see when he opens his eyes, is fire and smoke and clouds and dust and bright lights.
And then all of a sudden, almost out of nowhere, bass sounds exit the room and what’s left is pure static, empty warped cassette tape and the intermittent sound of a fog horn, all warbled and masked and obfuscated by sheets and layers of dense pink and white noise. And then nothing else.
Andre feels like he can’t breathe.
He grabs at his face because it hurts so much.
The artist bows to the crowd.
Andre cries.

 

These Homes Were Once A Dream - Katie Dooley

Joe has Katie Dooley on the show and they talk about the recent Sherman Alexie scandal, instagram poetry, editing (or lack thereof), poetry, and more.

You can contact the show at noisemakerjoe@gmail.com - Just put WTR in the subject line.

Contact for Katie Dooley

Twitter: @katielisabeta

Dyer-Ives contest info

Contact for Joe bielecki

Twitter and Instagram: @noisemakerjoe

Website

 

Art photo by Arielle Tipa

 

These Homes Were Once A Dream

by Katie Dooley

 

until the ghosts took over.

I thought I emptied my jar of ashes because god knows

how often I fall asleep with my hands

wrist-deep in soot.

 

I didn’t want to kill

the photo version of myself  

but she wouldn’t stop haunting me,

tapping on my skull until I unlocked

 

the door next to my temple. I do not know how to let go

of promises. I take them to bed

and let them die.

I had to stop making them in fear of oversaturation.

 

I love the popping

sound punctured blood makes

but I can’t admit that.

Out loud, I’ll say I love red roses.

 

Even when I don’t. Even if I do,

I pretend to push everyone away

like a revolving door and I have done my job

right when at night I see my shadow pacing alone

 

against the wallpaper. This house

might’ve once been a dream but I don’t dream about home.

I think about leaving but the ghosts need company

to prevent complaints from neighbors.

The End In Lists - B. R. Yeager

Joe has B. R. Yeager on the show and they talk about audience, the process, noise music, call centers, and more.

You can contact the show at noisemakerjoe@gmail.com - Just put WTR in the subject line.

Contact for B. R. Yeager

Twitter: @br_yeager

Website

Amygdalatropolis

 

Contact for Joe bielecki

Twitter and Instagram: @noisemakerjoe

 

 

Art photo by Arielle Tipa

 

The End In Lists

by B.R. Yeager

 

13 Videos Of Idiots Getting Owned By Pit Bulls

8 Sure Shot Ways To Ruin Your Job Interview

5 Photos of Dictators As Children

19 Public Displays Of Affection That Will Make You Hate Your Situation

5 Of The Earth's Fastest-Adapting Diseases

10 Reasons Drinking At Work Makes You More Productive

13 Photos of The Worst Cities In America

23 Sexy Actresses Who Died Too Young

5 Of The Dumbest Ways People Are Hording Water

6 Signs Your Neighbor Will Probably Invade Your Home

30 Pictures of Teens 'Doing It' At Prom

8 Movie Stars Who've Run People Over With Their Cars

15 Videos of Animal Abuse That Will Make You Bawl

10 Reasons You Should Embrace Poverty

23 Photos Taken Seconds Before Their Subject Died

17 Back Alley Plastic Surgery Procedures That Will Give You Night Terrors

5 Videos of Drought Fires That Will Blow Your Mind

12 Professions That Will Make You Chronically Ill

11 Haunted Graveyards And The Things You Should Never Do In Them

7 Pictures Of Children Who Played With Firearms

27 Animals That Have Gone Extinct Since You Were Born

21 Teen Selfies That Will Make You Want To Die

13 Drugs That Might Make You Shave Off Your Genitals

5 Machines Making Your Career Obsolete

22 Photos Of The Least Inhabitable Places On Earth

5 Colleges With Higher Suicide Rates Than Salt Lake City

11 Fruits That Won't Exist In 2021

5 Of The Weirdest Paintings of War Criminals

10 People Who Made Terrible Decisions In Life

7 Reasons You Shouldn't Swim In Stagnant Bodies Of Water