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I stopped in at the Rogue Bar in Scottsdale to see Mill's End band perform. The Rogue was hosting it's usual gamut of patrons (a few middle aged construction worker types, a couple of college kids who came in drunk, a homeless guy who nearly busted his ass trying to climb up a stool, and a lone goth chick at the end of the bar, whose solitude was oh so angsty). Their opening act didn't show up, and me, being the varant musician I tend to be, had my guitar in the backseat of my car. So, I started playing an impromtu 1-hr set, getting a decent response as some more people meandered in, when one of the drunk college kids staggers up to the stage offering to sing back up vocals for my set. I told him the next song wasn't really good for back up vocals, but I would call him up stage when I found a song I could use him for. Diplomatic aren't I? I finish my set without callin him up, and as soon as I do, he leaves the bar, starts crossing the street toward this Mexican restraunt and BAM! gets nailed by a car! Everyone in the bar hears the tires sqeal stopped, we go outside and he is underneath the car, not moving. Somebody called 911, and the rest of us, being the rubberneckers we tend to be just stand there waiting and watching to see what happens next. "You should have let him sing backup for you, he might not have gotten hit by that car" a buddy says to me. "Are you kidding?", i said, "I just opened for a vehicular assault."
Quasimoto has an obsession with puzzles. Countless nights alone in his bell tower have skewed his personal reality, and one of the few theraputic excersized he employs is the assembly of a mass of broken peices into the semblance of a life he only imagines exists outside the monolith in which he has exiled himself. During the brief decades preceding online ordering, Quasimoto hoarded magazines, madly collecting issues of "Chess Life", "Bell-Toller's Monthly", "National Geographic", and "Victoria's Secret". From these, he would remove image after image, and tear them to a fine poweder of plastic coated paper, and spend days attempting to reasemble them to their origional forms. In this puzzle making venture, he never succeeded in reforming the pictures he had come to covet. He noticed that every time he tried solving his homemade puzzles (the image of Kasparov, or the andiginous pygmies of southeast Asia, or Tyra Banks) they would not longer resemble the glossy scenes he remember so fondly, but instead would resemble himself. His malshapen form with odd tricks of light would stare back at him from the rotten wood tablet he slaved over. In this, he found solace. In this he dreamt to himself, "I am a rose. A rose with one petal and covered in thorns. But a rose nonetheless."