Looking through CDs, live music, books, theatre and all kinds of things that fit in your mouth. Injecting the mindstream via the tearduct with reviews that connect you to the experience, whatever the form.
For anyone looking to have their merch, music and/or mayhem reviewed at The Wax Conspiracy, get in touch with us.
Corrals are everywhere. The lines to the lines are lined with rope after rope. The registration and ticket pickup area, from at least the Thursday, has no trouble making snakes of the situation. The entire building is decked in black and yellow. Up from just a quarter.
Travel is so much about being mishandled and watching your keeps roll off the conveyor belt, ready to throw your left shoe at someone trying to run off with your belongings. For those without an itinerary that means keeping at least one non-glass eye on the gate.
This could be in the back pocket of the farm-to-table industry. The further you are from the feed source, or the more opaque its origins, the higher the chances for adulteration or wholesale swapping out for inferior quality ingredients. Like sawdust and chalk. The modern day diet’s roughage.
Kamar-Taj offers no direct flights. It’s by way of a trek and then again that feeling of thirst and wondering where the toilets are. You’ll always find something to read no matter where you are on Earth. (Glyphs are glyphs.) Even if it means not being able to talk with the locals.
Freddy Krueger lines up with one of the more haunting sounds of the pop-sided 90s in the Ballad of the Backstreet Boys, laying waste with suggested blood and theatrical smoke. Bodies are dropping not to the beat of a drum but the sound of snoozing just another few minutes.
Bodies fall and questions keep rising from the splatter of blood, and gone is the sense of being, replaced by a narrative cobbled together from missing reports, incomplete accounts or total fabrications. Another day, another darkness.
Supermarket consumerism—living life from the belly of a shopping trolley—is the theme of the 90s. Right there on the bumper reel looping in the lead as the crowd gathers about, clip-clopping into their eventual seats. Over in the distance a shimmer of gold as a man in parachute pants and fishnet shirt gets mobbed for his MC Hammer costume.
The X-Men are an allegory for their times. In the sixties it was all about the heat of civil rights. AIDS in the eighties. Today, their story tackles a new, important issue. In these adventures with Apocalypse they shed light on the bristling experiences of a new share-economy.
Starts off with a single person. And then they find a friend in a not dissimilar situation. And they’re both out cold. When they come to someone else has joined the party. Soon enough it’s a jamboree of living it up, chasing dragons and ghosts and be damned the consequences. Everyone’s opening up veins now.
Two centuries near removed from the original publication and it’s a microagression of modern times that comes through listening to the Creature talk. Quite articulate. Who would think a face capable of such eloquence?
Trinkets tinkle from the bottom of the tote bags. Let’s call them keyrings, for the plastic they’re made of do not look like they’ll hold onto anything under the lightest of strain. A fantasy novel where the spine meets a cracking margin leaving a visible sign of opening past the first page. A starter comic, that first taste of a series. These specific contents are gender-aligned.
Beyond the gap-toothed seating hangs a mirror on the fourth wall (itself never broken) waiting for the grooming sessions. A man will paw at his facial hair a shave or two different to the man on the playbill cover. We are in this kind of deceit.
There is at fault, the malaise of picking up a book and not wanting for it, but not wanting to not want for it. That state of digging right into it and feeling a general wait, hearing a ticking as the book continues on. And then it gets renewed two times over.