BLANK A street level Arts and Culture Digest
w w w. b l a n k z i n e . c o m
Letter from the Editor by your pal, DC Warren The year really won’t get much better than this, and that gives an insight into the trouble we’ll face for the rest of the season. No, I’m not being pessimistic, merely analytical. I know how to follow trends, folks, I took marketing in high school. I’m pretty sure that had something to do with crunching numbers and statistics. But what was I saying? Oh yeah, this year is going to be tight. But that’s okay, I’ve stocked up on cigarettes, alchohol, and fear. So I should be set, and by reading Blank, dear reader, so will you. This issue is the first of the second volume, which is special and important becaue it means we somehow made it through our first six month run, and so now we’re on to our next six. As such this issue is what I’m unnofficially calling our “PANIC!” issue. You may notice a certain sense of dread, fear, and confusion meandering throughout the pages of the magazine. You may notice that the magazine is slightly shorter than last month’s issue, you may notice that I am starting to ramble. This is all because I am as excited to see what our future holds in store as I am sleep deprived.
BLANK A street level Arts and Culture Digest
5. OP. 77/ Music Analysis 11. Frank’s World/ Comic 13. Thoughts/ Prose-Poetry 17. Hollow/ Poem 18. Wanda’s Tunnel/ Prose 25. Contest Winner/ Poetry and Illustration 26. Calender 31. Submissions Guidelines
OP. 77 by Matthew Grenier “Simply to prepare you to hear these moments as I hear them, I begin to describe them to you—but barely—with words. And immediately I begin to lose them.” -Peter Szendy, Listen In between the heart-rending passacaglia and the manic burlesque finale of Shostakovich’s first violin concerto lays the soloist’s cadenza. Roughly five minutes in length, the interlude of solo violin music transcends the typical virtuosic flights, creating a fluid transition between the emotional heights and self-destructive depths of the movements that book-end it; the writing found here is of such a high level that the listener can hear the exact note that begins the final movement, letting the single voice of the soloist substitute for the multitude of the orchestra. At the same time, this brief monologue plays the climax in one of the most confessional pieces in the composer’s catalogue. But as he’s yet to achieve the name recognition of Beethoven, let’s begin with the man. Shrouded in the mystery of Soviet history, Dmitri Dmitriyevich Shostakovich maintains many faces after his death – silent rebel, heroic composer, Soviet sympathizer, bullied young man – each as fictitious as the one that precedes it. There are facts: he was born in Saint Petersburg in 1906, died in Moscow in 1975, attended Petrograd Conservatory at the
age of thirteen, and published just under one-hundred and fifty pieces, including fifteen symphonies, fifteen string quartets, and six concerti. He had a reputation for being a nervous push-over, but he was a master of Soviet-style double-talk, often writing scathing letters that made it through the strictest of censorship. His music is known for its melodrama and its sarcasm – both byproducts of a constant need to edit one’s speech in the face of surveillance -- and its overwhelming morbidity. Politically, he walked the fine line between national treasure and hunted heretic, often having to deal with overwhelming praise and widespread banning of his works in quick succession; his feud with Stalin has become legendary, and his questionably subversive compositions often lead him to the distinct possibility of arrest or disappearance. But as facts beyond this become hard to prove, one must turn to the fiction to get a sharper picture. The cadenza presents the moment of decision, the turning point, but as results are trivial without the provocation, context is required. The concert begins with a long, sprawling, silent movement, one that is not so much slow in pace, but lacking in tempo entirely. Traditional elements of music are replaced by cloudy abstracts: rhythms are lax and tired and melody and theme are supplanted by long, directionless enunciations. If the dynamic rises above a background murmur, it is only to relay strained, held notes on the violin and mechanical sequences in the orchestra. Though labeled with the nightscape-related title Nocturne, this is the inner world of the hero – the composer, the violinist, the violin itself, it matters little which – one that has reached a state of calm only through emotional exhaustion. The music displays not a scene of a recent tragedy, but rather an injustice of decades past, the furious reaction long-dimmed to a reluctant acceptance. Yet here balance is precarious and dependent on isolation, and as
the orchestra fades away with just as little notice as it introduced itself, the hero steps into the everyday madness of the scherzo. Filled with folk dances, emphatic percussion interjections, and woodwind writing that reminds one of Gershwin’s Americanisms, the scherzo provides the stupid and mundane counterpart to the enigmatic movement that precedes it. Here the hero finds himself among the commoners, jumping enthusiastically to their crude, circus-like music. Shostakovich’s sense of sarcasm shines brightly here: the violin joins the festivities, but not without a sneer for its innocent accompanists and an undeniable aura of arrogance. It lets forth uncultured screams as it sings along with the peasants, sharp accents as it stomps its feet with the dancers. But for all its boldness, the violin shows its fragile ego and its inability to resist the pull towards conformity and simplicity; and while glee and mirth can be found in the concluding major chord, it is transitory, vapid, and empty, being easily destroyed by the menacing introduction to the passacaglia movement. Musicologists will quickly point out the quotations that open the third movement. The dominant and unrelenting basses reference a theme from the composer’s earlier seventh symphony – one that, supposedly, represents Stalin – and the French horns echo Beethoven’s most famous phrase, the “fate” motif from his fifth symphony. But in simpler terms, the basses project a grim, unchanging reality (the impetus of the first movement?) and the horns, with their magical ability to sound miles away no matter how close you sit to them and their purity of tone, represent the ideal image of memory, of a golden era long gone. It’s to these two calls that the violin awakens from its drunken stupor, speaking in its true tone of voice for the first time in the concert. With all hints of introversion and sarcasm
pulled away, the hero protests with a grief-stricken authority, pleading his case with the orchestra that surrounds him. The violin’s head motive is reserved but firm, detailing in a quiet voice all that is unjust, meekly beginning its final stand. There is of finality, that whatever may come of it, this is the last chance for the orator to right that which is wrong. What follows is one of the most lucid displays of thematic interplay in orchestral literature: the oboe restates the violin’s line, the horns sound the basses dictatorial melody, immediately followed by a counter-statement in the trombones. All the while the soloist slowly climbs higher and higher, building intensity until it spits the message of the basses back in utter disgust, leaving time only to restate its case as the orchestra fades away into a faint pizzicato background, leading us to… Traditionally, the soloist’s cadenza has been a place for the player to display their technical prowess, improvising a show-stopping passage that the audience will write to their colleagues about as they return home after the concert. Shostakovich denies this opportunity for the player to promote themselves by writing the solo ahead of time, though this was hardly a new occurrence by the 1940’s: Mozart and Beethoven began writing out the cadenzas to their piano concertos almost two-hundred years prior. Besides, with so much tension built up, why give the moment of revelation away to the performer? With the orchestra fallen silent, the violin can finally speak uninhibitedly with the only other party it ever really sought to address: the audience, or more importantly, you, the listener. It begins its confession with a paraphrase of the horns ‘memory’ theme, stating “there was a time when things were right”, and while the performer climbs up the fingerboard of
the violin in a stressed, angular sequence, the unexpected resolution to a major tonality at the peak attests that hope remains. The hero restates himself, growing agitated, pointing again towards what could be. But despair and foreboding, as predicted in the first movement, take a hold of the violin’s soliloquy, drawing its line in on itself in chromatic spirals. The speaker grows frenetic and neurotic, interjecting snarling double-stops into his testimony, jumping quickly between screaming at the top of his voice and quiet, demented repetitions of sarcastic quips. Quickly, the hero begins to hyperventilate, whatever message he set out to make soon being lost to his own panic. Then, at the moment of truth (roughly 10:04 in the Viktoria Mullova, whose gender betrays the pronouns in this essay, recording), instead of speaking forth in a resounding voice for all it believes in, the violin offers one final caustic remark – a statement far away from its intentions at the beginning of the passacaglia – and begins its retreat, flying up the scale in an attempt to leave behind its failure to make a stand. Here an impish voice interjects, laughing at the violin’s attempts, causing another short-lived attempt to retreat until a realization is made. The motive that follows is Shostakovich’s nominal melody, first introduced in this piece – earlier in the second movement to be exact – and destined to reappear in his earth-shaking tenth symphony and his eighth string quartet, his own musical epitaph. These four notes project the truth, that the mocking laughter was the speaker’s own, and that just as it had done in the past, the hero collapsed in the face of adversity, falling not to the thundering string section, but to its own flaws, the crippling introversion of the nocturne and the biting sarcasm of the scherzo. From here all the remains is a swift return to the inner world. There’s no need to expostulate on the final movement, it’s simply a playing out of what the cadenza set in place. The
twisted drive found in finale is not fueled by a sense of victory, but rather the quick collapse of sanity: all that’s left to do is one final dance on the grave of the shattered ego. The morbidity found in Shostakovich’s music concerns not the final death waiting in the future, but the one that has already occurred. The many trials that the composer and his fellow Russians had to experience in their lives undoubtedly fostered a culture of paranoia and fear. On some level, Shostakovich wrote music to attack this world: his seventh symphony served simultaneously as a war-song for Leningrad and a hidden lunge at Stalin and his most famous opera – Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District -- highlighted the brutality and inhumanity of Siberian prison camps. Yet more often not, his voice was forced into silence: he retracted his fourth symphony from performance due to governmental pressure, Lady Macbeth remained unperformed in his homeland for thirty years after Stalin denounced it, and he wrote numerous pieces that would remain unperformed for years due to fear of retribution, including this violin concerto. The end result of a culture of paranoia is not a fear of one’s oppressors or constant surveillance, but a fear of one’s self and the inevitability of making a misstatement that could have easily been avoided. Shostakovich’s music is not about death, but about personal failure, about an inability to make a defiant stand and to speak in one’s own voice with purity of intent. The only solace it offers its listeners is that they are not alone.
Napkin Thoughts by Frank Bravo
Thoughts by DC Warren In the consolidation of my thoughts, my mind has become a tower. The structure of my soul. I have scrambled all over the ruinous masonry of ethic. I have clambered down deep into the cellars of my baser nature, in order to retrieve the older and more sacred wines. I have set myself on the pedestals of the highest buttress to overlook the formations of my most delicate considerations. Myself I am shapeless within my walls, an esper of wind, reflections of light upon the pools of water. It is the architecture, truly, that gives me shape, and often I do not even know where I will find myself until my consciousness is drawn together by the weight of a singular thought or memory. I mull over memory with the greatest care, stretching and hacking, shaving and smoothing. I create works of art that fill halls that no one will see. I remember speaking to a friend about the ultimate worthlessness of all things, culture, life, and art. Stating that eventually they will all be carried away by the sands of time. That all things are worthless without an eye to perceive and value. She agreed with me on most points except for art, she said that even if no one saw it, God still did. Not being one to consider God a reality my immediate reaction was to bristle, hurl refutations upon her, and try to convince her of the silliness of her statement. But then I remembered that she knew my opinion on the matter, we had discussed it many times, and that I still knew hers. Instead 13
I chose to accept her position as her position, and moved from cold logic to the warmth of imagination. Visions came to me. God encompassing the emptiness of Lascaux in the Iron Age, the Dark Age, the Enlightenment. Listening to the dull thuds of mortar blasts on the far off winds blowing across the troubled surface of his fragile world during the earlier parts of the twentieth century, meditating on the simple elegance of Manâ€™s earliest statements, how it had matured over the centuries, and then somehow all gone terribly wrong. Even if all the rest of the world had turned from him, forgotten his name and purpose, Lascaux, at least, was still his. A refuge. Heaven on earth. I imagined him pondering the fabric of reality, reflecting on complex concrete facts of physics, on the nature of entropy, and then contrasting them with the abstraction of the wild animals, spirit, fire, life and death, preserved for so many eons on those walls. The difference of perception must be beautiful to God. This world must be his abstraction, the rules that guide us his fancies and considerations, whereas He and his world are ours. God is our reflection, he moves in our stories. His actions and desires are abstractions of our thoughts and prayers, and through both perceptions, universal balance is maintained. I wonder if he cried at all when Lascaux was uncovered? Or if he simply chose to sit within the cavernous tomb of Chinaâ€™s first emperor. I wondered if to him there was a difference. I leave this thought and sprawl across the cold stone floor. Lately I am wont to visit my miseries and fears. I can bathe in mercurial worry, feel 14
cool despair caressing my flesh. I can swim amidst guilt. I eat the fear of death, but I must ascend to the very highest points to even hope to view hope. I must gaze for hours into empty skies to dare to conjure courage. Even where I to catch the eye of Bravery I doubt that I could hold its stare. The power of its movements like that of a large predator, its hulking form that of the darkest clouds of thunder, rain, and lightning. It is easier for me, in my weakness, to watch it fondly from afar, rather than bid it come closer, ride the thermals to its peaks, become lighter than air or Valium, only to crash hopelessly down when the conflict topples the very foundations of my flesh.
Hollow by Robert Harmon Sparrows hide in the cuttings of wide wheat fields dreaming they are eagles. with darting eyes and wildly beating hearts they graze fallen grains to keep their uneventful lives afloat. huddled en masse they squeak endlessly, and fear the shadow from above.
Wanda’s Tunnel by Corey Smith
By the time Matt gets his husky self up my fire-escape and into my apartment, I was already looking around for my flashlight. “I really love your room,” he says in his hoarse, out of breath voice. “Gosh, you must really be smart what with all these papers everywhere.” My daddy’s papers were everywhere, and I wouldn’t touch them on account of his being out of town. He’d want them just the way he left them. My daddy was always gone. Either he works a lot or he is good for nothing like I hear the neighborhood women say. Matt pivoted back and forth and I knew he’s about to ask for something. He was looking at a picture on the wall I had painted of John Friday. I had painted it with magic markers I got from school. I picked up my slingshot from a pile of papers and tucked it in the front of my overalls. I nearly asked him what he wanted and to just have out with it. “I always see you with cold sodas,” said Matt. “I only got a tea pot,” I tell him. “Chris Johnson might not make it! How could you think about soda?” Matt pushed his glasses up and looked at the floor and softly kicked at some of the papers. He started a big stir-up without words about wanting a soda. And then he talked. “I guess … I don’t know … I just want one.” 18
Then, I put a finger over my lips. “Don’t talk. My mom’s in a mean way. The flashlight must be in the kitchen. I’ll snag a soda too if I feel good about my mom not waking up.” She was always sleeping. I slowly creaked open my door and tiptoed into the hallway holding Matt’s hand. If my mama explodes it’s better if I have Matt with me. She’d go easier. I mostly spend my time in my room and use the fire escape to come and go, so I hadn’t seen the hallway in some time. A bunch of my toys and soda cans lay everywhere like someone had fooled-up the place or a hog had been over. We had to be careful around the cans. The hallway is wood, and it’d be loud if we kicked one. Matt was doing his best to tiptoe, but his husky ass is all upper body and no feet when he tiptoes. He kept his arms out like it helped him balance and screwed his mouth just so, so it was even uglier than normal, and he tried to whisper but it came out in a normal volume. “What flavor of—” And with all the stir-up we heard banging coming from my mamma’s room at the end of the hall. We froze and looked at each other with our mouths open, and then I didn’t waste any time but tugged Matt’s hand to tell him to get a move on. The flashlight was in a mess of garbage near the end of the hall, so I ran like hell for it. I grabbed it fast and said, “Let’s go,” in a loud whisper. I took his hand. We hurried with flat feet back to my room, and I tossed an arm around Matt and guided him under my bed. We hid. Sure enough my mom came in slapping her big bare feet all over the place and making the most God awful noises with her mouth—more like growls than words. Now, Matt took to shivering and Mom was kick19
ing my daddy’s papers all about the room. I got to rubbing Matt, gentle like, on his back. I didn’t want him to start up blubbering. Matt nuzzled close to me and closed his eyes and tightened his lips. His messy blonde hair plastered to his forehead with sweat making it as dark as mine. And finally, I don’t give a hell and I nuzzled back because I was scared too. Either he saw her or he didn’t, but I told him to look the other way because I didn’t want him to get scared. “Turn your head. I don’t want this keeping you up at night.” I just didn’t want him to see my mom that way. I got to wishing my aunt Molly were there. When she’s over, I come out of my room, because my mom’s nicer when she’s there. Matt took to crossing himself with his index finger and nuzzled closer, if that were possible. My mom paced the floor like a restless dog. Finally, my mom flopped down on my Fisher Price picnic table. We only see her lap and her bottle of Mad-Dog 20/20. I was sweaty as hell. We waited till she got good and drunk to make our move. I don’t feel much like talking about it. But she’d take a drink and then howl at Mister John Friday. At least it seemed that way. We couldn’t see her face, but Mister John Friday put his tail between his little legs and whimpered. The whimpering seemed to put my mom in a meaner way with her shaking and howling. Matt squeezed me and Friday shrunk into the wall with his ears flat like wallpaper glued to his head. All three of us seemed to be sweating and shaking. Finally ... Thud. We knew she was done for, so me and Matt crawled out. The new air felt cold against my sweaty body. I shielded Matt’s eyes with my hand, so he wouldn’t look at her. I didn’t look either as we reached the fire-escape. Friday followed. I hoped Chris Johnson’s mom was different than my mamma with his being stuck in that apartment 20
all day and night. The flashlight was one of those that you have to slap around to work. It’s one that you got to use two hands on. Matt helped me load up the flashlight and Mr. John Friday in the stroller. Matt became cooler, because he didn’t mention my mama. And I waited for it. Matt said, “I wasn’t that thirsty anyhow.” I could tell he was lying by the way he stared into space with his eyes wide as we walked in the direction of Wanda’s tunnel. He was thinking about the soda, and I thought it was cool that he lied about it. He keeps staring and walking and then, “If Chris Johnson can’t be free to drink whatever soda he wants then why should I.” Matt smiled. To change the subject I asked, “What about your shirt? Your mamma will want to know why you didn’t buy a shirt. I suppose we should find a way to get you one.” Then he got a confused, sad look about him. He looked at his shitty sweat shirt. Matt said, “Our mom’s can’t tell us everything. One day we’ll be bosses of ourselves. We’ll want to do for ourselves. We don’t want to waste the money. If anything, I just want to prove Miss Paterson wrong. I want to show her we’re not just rotten kids and that we can make a difference.” He takes the cigarette from his pocket and places it between his lips. Friday’s stroller thumps along the sidewalk. I look around. And speak of the devil…. Miss Paterson flapped her blankets again a few stories up, and I motioned for us to start towards the tunnel faster which was about a block away. Matt checked behind us after 21
we had covered some ground and said, “I don’t feel right. Miss Patterson works me up good.” Only he wasn’t looking at Miss Paterson’s. She had gone inside. He looked at my place and at my open window. I knew he was thinking about my mom’s howling. Mister John Friday started to fussing, so I slapped his head. Then I told Matt “You got to be smart and proper around grown-up’s.” He looked toward the clear sky—confused like he was surprised that someone wouldn’t think him prim and proper already. The way his mouth hung open told me that he was embarrassed or maybe even ashamed. We walked along, Friday’s stroller humming. Friday looked about, and Matt jumped over every crack and sang the song that went along with that. He danced over all the tar strips in his fantastic chubby way. I realized I couldn’t just let Matt skip through life without knowing the ways, so I aimed to tell him. “You want to know why your mama and Miss Paterson beat you?” and he stopped skipping, “Adults want you to act grown and proper. Don’t give them a chance to beat you up.” He screwed up his mouth and pushed his glasses up. I continued,” You have to use proper words … show them how smart and cute you can be.” Of course he showed his crooked ass teeth. But it was honest. He wanted to know what I had to say. “I think I know what you’re talking about,” Matt said. But I could tell by his eyes that he didn’t know the first thing. So after thinking about what I just told him, he went back to skipping, clueless, and I went back to rubbing Friday’s head so he didn’t start up.
to be continued 22
Just what you might call, yknow, hanging out. Takin’ in the scenery. Doin’ my thing. What’s it to ya?
HAD I MY WAY, THE BOY WOULD’VE GOTTEN A CIGAR “Contest!!!!! Hooray! Great Challenge!!” Winner. Last month we asked you folks to compete in a contest of descriptions regarding July. We wanted you to tell us what you thought of the heat stroke month in one well written sentence, and then, if we liked it, we would publish it. We said we’d take up to four winners. Only one of you submitted anything, though. This is not an immediate grounds for success. If we didn’t like the sentence we wouldn’t have published it, it is a lovely sentence, and I’m proud to share it with all of you. All of you who have made me so ashamed with your apathy. If this is how you treat a simple contest no wonder our democracy is crumbling due to voter apathy. Shame! Shaaaaame!!!! Regardless, the winner is Robert Harmon. I’d ask you to clap, but, well, you all know how well my last request worked out. The following page contains his sentence, and our illustration. 24
July to Me. As the page flipped over, I was found in Canyonlands National Park, Utah, camping in the warm but not hot backcountry by way of a heavy but not light pack- wishing I did not have to carry my wifeâ€™s also but loving to do so. -Words by Robert Harmon - Lines by DC Warren 25
Calender Friday August 28th Final Friday @ Various galleries Critical Mass (ictcritical.com) @ The Donut Whole 5:00p Rob Foster and Dudes @ Kirby’s 10p M Saturday August 29th Continent of Ash, Coventry Sacrifice, Terrible Airplane @ Kirby’s 10p M Hell City Rollers @ Blue Lounge 10p M$ Variable Speed Control, Skrapyar @ Blue Lounge 10p M$ The Norway Agenda, Hot Jogger, the Chime Owls @ Rock Island Live 10p M$ Sunday August 30th Kit Craig @ Kirby’s 6p All Falls Short W/ Stray From The Path, Blood Of Me, ATTACK! @ Eagles Lodge North 8p MA$ 365 Sol @ Mort’s 8:30p M ICT Comedy @ Blu 10p Monday August 31st A Bullet For Pretty Boy, Monsters, 26
Unheard, Apology @ Eagles Lodge North 8p MA$ David Oistrakh: Artist of the People? @ Blank Page 8pm V Tuesday September 1st Tuesdays on the Terrace: Asters & Amaretto Sours with The Crowsons @ Botanica 5:30p $ N Joi @ Mort’s 8p M The iii’s, Liarbirds, Bust @ Blue Lounge M$ Wednesday September 2nd Judith Avers @ The Artichoke 7p M Blank Verse open mic night @ Blank Page 7:30p AP ifIhadAHiFi, polarOPPOSITEbear @ Kirby’s 10p M Thursday September 3rd John Eaton @ Kirby’s 6p M CLEEMANN @ The Vertical Violet 7p MA Hip-Hop Project @ Blank Page 7p V Friday September 4th
First Friday (firstfriday.rokict.com) @ various venues MA Heavy Metal Karaoke @ Kirby’s 10p M Shillelagh @ Blue Lounge 9p M$ Saturday September 5th Kanzcyon @ Caffe Moderne 7p MA Chime Owls, Smoke and Feathers, Sunshine Dreamers @ Kirby’s 10p M Ferocious Mary @ Blue Lounge 10p M$ Dr. Sketchy’s Anti Art Show Sunday September 6th\ Santa Sangre @ Blank Page 7:30p V Monday September 7th Contact, Boiled Eyesocket Disfunction @ Kirby’s 10p M Bodo Ensemble @ Blank Page 8pm MA Tuesday September 8th Tramps and Thieves @ Kirby’s 10p M WSU Jazz Combos @ Blank Page 8pm MA 27
Calender Wednesday September 9th Blank Verse open mic night @ Blank Page 7:30p AP Scott Allan Knost @ Rock Island Live 9:30p M$ Trivia Night @ Kirby’s 7p M Thursday September 10th\ Dephinger, Knifewound, No Dogsbody @ Kirby’s 10p M Krush Groove @ Blank Page 7p V Friday September 11th Ernie Hall @ The Artichoke 7p M Uche and the Crash @ Mort’s 9p M Second Nature @ The Brickyard 9p M Saturday September 12th The Monty Alexander Trio @ Friends University 7:30p MA$$ Marc Tamer & Untamed Country @ The Artichoke 8p M Uche and the Crash @ Mort’s 9p M Black Teeth, Ronnie Glenn Williams @ Kirby’s 10p M Bruce Huss @ Caffe Moderne 8p M Sunday September 13th 28
Kit Craig @ Kirby’s 6p M Alphaville @ Blank Page 7:30p V Monday September 14th Beau Jarvis @Blank Page 8pm MA Tuesday September 15th Tuesdays on the Terrace: Wildflowers & Whiskey Sours with Becky Farris @ Botanica 5:30p $M Vivarium @ Blank Page 8pm VA Wednesday September 16th CONFIDE, Agraceful, Memphis May Fire, Romantic Tragedy, Unheard Apology, WCTW @ The Eagles Lodge N 6:30p M$$ Blank Verse open mic night @ Blank Page 7:30p AP Poker @ Kirby’s 7p The Wiyos @ Kelly’s 10p M$ Tony Ngo and The Rice Balls @ Rock Island Live 10p M$ Zsa Zsa Ketzner @ The Anchor 10p M Thursday September 17th John Eaton @ Kirby’s 6p Graffiti Battle @ Blank Page 7p PF
Friday September 18th Sky Meets Earth @ Rock Island Live 10p M$ Skinny @ Blue Lounge 10p M Secret Astronauts @ Blank Page MA Saturday September 19th Sunday September 20th Kit Craig @ Kirby’s 6p polarOPPOSITEbear w/ The Chambermaids @ The Eagles Lodge North 8p MA$ Macaframa @ Blank Page 7:30p V Monday September 21st Bodo Ensemble @ Blank Page 8pm MA Tuesday September 22nd Tuesdays on the Terrace: Pansies & Pina Coladas with AJ McCausland @ Botanica 5:30p M$ Wednesday September 23rd Blank Verse open mic night @ Blank Page 7:30p AP Uche & the Crash @ Mort’s 9p M Aaron Newton @ Rock Island Live 9:30p M$ 29
Calender Thursday September 24th Friday September 25th Vehicles CD RELEASE PARTY @ Rock Island Live 10p M$ DJ Mix-A-Myte w/ live painting @ Blank Page 7p PF Saturday September 26th Free museum day! Tony Ngo @ Rock Island Live 9:30p M$ Torque @ Blue Lounge 10p M$ Sunday September 27th Mid-West Bicycle Fest @ Haysville 10a Kit Craig @ Kirbyâ€™s 6p The World According to Monsanto @ Blank Page 7:30p V Monday September 28th Matt Grenier Quintent @ Blank Page 8pm MA
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What’s changed in your life lately? Life is a constant state of flux. Things are always changing. But I’m curious to see what’s happening in your life right now, Wichita. Write us a story about something that’s altered your life, and if we like it, we’ll publish it, and even draw an illustration to go along with it. To make things easy, I’ve made you an example. Here’s my story. This month I got a haircut. .... Of course, this is my magazine, so I can get away with pulling cheesy stunts like that. You can’t. Write me something good.
1. Precious Stone
1. Worldâ€™s largest Ruminant
2. Food of the Gods
2. ______ de Sade
8. _____ the Red
3. Polynesian Statue
9. La Manchan Adjective
5. King, or a dog.
12. Good, Black, or Casual
6. Gold in Spanish 7. Sympathetic Instrument 10. Present day Persia 11. Affectedly Shy
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