The Rosary

She Was there. The pill freak Had vanished. The vacant look in her eyes Gone. Her soul Resuscitated. This new day Gave her hope, Her happiness Gave us all hope. Life, once again, Became a blessing. Repeated, Seemingly endless Suicidal thoughts Now cleansed, Replaced By a devotion, A care, A love For herself And all of those around her. Her new outlook on life Was branded on her skin, A rosary For eternal inspiration, A permanent mark of faith That will keep Her heart, Her fight Stronger than ever.

Central Coast Music Spotlight: Guardsmen Productions

You have to be a drunk to live in “the happiest place in America.” Because anywhere you go in SLO, there’s wine. Rivers of it. And with the almighty grape, comes terrible music. There is no escaping it. Even if you get blackout drunk, the music still makes your ears wish they had a rusty knife between them. That is until, you stumble upon one of the thousands of flyers around town with Guardsmen Productions stamped on it. They’re promoting a Punk show with Agent Orange or the Exploited. At last, your ears can rejoice. You put down the blade and say to your inebriated self, hallelujah! Thank god there’s actually an outlet for the battered, bored, and broken. But who’s responsible for all of this underground music in the middle of all this happiness?
Well, Lynt will tell you who. Since 2004, it’s been Chris Sandoval that has brought Punk acts here on up through to Santa Barbara. He’s not flying solo. He’s been assisted by Kristina Kelly from the beginning until just recently, who had to leave due to personal reasons. Now, Helen Lewis has come along to give a much needed helping hand. Together, they have poured their hearts into each and every show. It’s astonishing how much effort Chris, who also happens to be a 15 yr. veteran, and Helen, who’s studying to become a registered nurse, put in just to make a show go on. They dedicate months contacting the bands, booking them, the venue, marketing the show, passing out flyers, and making sure the band gets paid in full. If there’s no turn out because of you‘re too hungover, Chris has had to hit up his own bank account to give the bands the money they deserve. He’s committed toward guaranteeing more acts will come to the CC despite all of the obstacles.
It’s not right that he has to devote his own paychecks to the scene while you’re at home spilling wine on your cardigan. If it wasn’t for Guardsmen Productions, you would have had to drive hammered 4 hours to the nearest venue to see a decent show. Chris and Helen bring them here right to your backyard. You must be grateful for this act of generosity and chance to get this up close and intimate with your favorite Punk band. If any band, mainly Punk, Ska, or Metal, you’ve been worshiping since childhood has not been here before, email Chris and he will get them here. Guardsmen are more than open to suggestions. In fact, they encourage it. Lynt encourages you to get off your happy, bored ass and quit watching reruns of Oprah. Support Guardsmen Productions. Who knows wino, you may even be able to weasel a couple of glasses of vino out of it…

The Treat

Come here my children, gather around your dear ol’ granddad. I have a story to tell. Let me pack my pipe first. The smoke makes the story come alive. Don’t mind the red eyes children, just focus on the story. The horror.
Once, when I was as young as all of you, little fuckers, I would go on adventures. You know what that is? It’s not like any of your pathetic video games, where you can die a million times and still not have a scratch on you. No. I would go out there. In the world, where there are murderers, pedophiles, and rapists. Lunatics of the worst kind. I was right there. Playing.
I would travel all sorts of places. Places little children should never ever go. For hours, I would wander around cemeteries, abandon houses, and my favorite, train tracks.
Once, on the tracks, I came across a tunnel. It was dark in there. I felt as if there was no end to it, but I was brave. A fearless warrior. I was willing to travel where there is no end. Into the unknown. Fear grabbed my feet as soon as I stepped in. I moved slowly. Cautious with each step. Then, after the light became a speck, my eyes began to adjust and my fear began to dim. I kept walking. There was graffiti on the walls. Pictures of the devil stirring a cauldron of tiny dicks and watching all of those who dared entered. The smell of dead rats filled my nose. Broken bottles were everywhere. I was lucky not to cut my foot. So I thought I was lucky. I stomped on, until I heard grunts. They were loud and frightening. Unnatural. They shook the walls. They gave my soul goosebumps.
I stopped. Not knowing what to do. Should I turn back and run away? Or stay and be brave, like I said I was? Just then, the grunting stopped. I made my decision to be brave. I continued on. Off, deeper into the endless darkness, I began to hear footsteps. They drew closer. And closer. And closer.
I saw a black mass. A shadow growing. Hair sticking out of the darkness. A face. His face. The face of all that is evil moving into the dim light. Stalking me. Forever haunting my dreams. My first instinct was to run, through the walls if I had to. Fear held me there. I was his prisoner, paralyzed, and chained to the tracks.
All of my senses were heightened, especially my nose. His smell was inescapable. Piss and booze and dried sperm clung to his clothes, his skin. Our eyes met. He laughed. His teeth were hidden. His smile twisted and growing. He stuck out his tongue. I could tell he had a healthy diet of broken glass. His breath made me gag.
He grabbed me. His hands were scarred. Bloody. He laughed again. “Good morning lil’ boy,” he said, “I have a special treat for you.” He pointed with one of his hideous hands, deeper into the tunnel. “Go!” he yelled.
His laughter followed me. I could not outrun it, but I tried. Blind and filled with dread. My eyes were desperately grasping for the end. Then, my feet hit something heavy, something terrible. I tumbled, smacking hard against the tracks. Dust rose up around me. All crept into nothingness.
When I awoke, I could sense that I was not alone. A presence was there. I went closer to it, grabbing a stick to probe the dark. It hit rocks, empty bottles, dirt, flesh. I came in closer. A woman came into view. Her clothes were ripped. Her hair was covering her face. She was frozen. Lost in sleep. I poked her again, wanting to end her dreams. She didn’t wake up.
I kept poking. It was useless, so I moved her hair around to look for a face to see if she had one. Deeper and deeper I searched, listening for a heartbeat, a breath, anything. Silence.
I touched her hair with my hands. It was so soft. I had never felt anything so beautiful, so inviting. Was this my treat? I parted her hair. There was nothing there, but skin. Her face was missing. Sickness crept over me. Nothing felt right. The world was wrong.
I looked at her neck. It was twisted. Completely deformed. I jumped back, knowing where face, imaging what he was doing to her. With her body. Defiling all beauty.
My legs could not run fast enough. There was an end. I found it in more ways than one. Shit. Kids give your grandad a beer. This story is too much for me. My memories are terrifyingly real. I need another smoke too. Jeez. This is why I don’t mind if you kids stay in doors. Please stay stuck to your computers and wander mindlessly for hours in video games. I want you to view the world from a safe and distant place. I never want you kids to experience anything as horrifying as what I just shared with you.