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Gunshy
Ross Allaire is an author, composer, screenwriter, EMT, and security officer who lives, works, and plays in the Philadelphia area.

Ross Allaire @Gunshy

Age 43, Male

EMT-Writer-Composer

Egg House, NJ

Joined on 9/6/04

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Gunshy's News

Posted by Gunshy - December 30th, 2010


...comes new tech to make this whole process even better. in between every album i upgrade everything. and this is defeinitely no exception. i'll be upgrading my upgrades.

but first, a quick summation:

this year sucked. outta control.
bring on 2011.
better yet, bring on 2012!
:P

but as for 2011:

new computer.
all HD output.
64 bit.
imagine: 64-bit guitars.
Mmmmmm.
new FLP.
new plugins.
new FX.
new wav file drumset.
new ms office setup.
new star wars t-shirt.
new socks.
new machete.
new bathtub mat.
new copy of JTHM Director's Cut & The Death of Superman.

still need new guitar strings.
could still use another guitar.
always...
actually a bass next time. luna andromeda bass.

gonna quit smoking.
gonna start a band.
gonna move forward.
gonna blow you away.
gonna do it.

catch ya on the flip side.

[+R]

[+RØSS] on Facebook - because it's there
[+RØSS] Music & Books on Lulu.com - prices are a bitch but this is how you can best help support future books & music & movies & everything here @ Egg House
[+RØSS] Merch @ Zazzle.com - it's some weird shit that i've designed, like a t-shirt with a giant fucking rant on the front about shirts with clever sayings, or a skateboard i designed with art derived from a picture of limestone row-homes in Jersusalem's Old City. also, bumper stickers and shit... a lot of weird stuff, man.
[+RØSS] on Myspace - yeah like anybody goes on Myspace anymore

oh and here's a picture of the center of the galaxy. or near it.

[+RØSS] - and with a new year...


Posted by Gunshy - December 2nd, 2010


next up: dragon-slaying

few weeks

then: your mom

[+R]

Ross W. Allaire is [+RØSS] on Facebook

but i still hate Myspace

pre


Posted by Gunshy - November 18th, 2010


Life Is A Temporary Position - Chapter 1: Introduction
by Ross W. Allaire

There's no right place or way to begin this whole thing, not anymore. I've been daring myself to write something about my life for at least the last few centuries, aching and dying to set words down about how weird it is to be able set these words down, and not die, and I just get lost in the whole process. I lose momentum. Then somewhere in the middle of it, tragedy strikes or whatever, and I usually have to move, and/or lose or shed all my possessions, and I put it off for another few more decades.

Back in the 1980s I had hoped the advent of digital media would aid in the process of keeping shit from one life to the next, but no. This is my 8th fucking try with this thing...

There's no right way to begin... there's no right way.

One time I was at this bar in Detroit, and a man in a blue jumpsuit with leather hands and a bald head said something like: "Y'see, there are shitty jobs and shitty lives, and they're both the same way: you either quit and hope there's another one, or you stick it out and chance getting fired anyway."

Life is a temporary position.

For a while, I made a good living as a temp at this pharmaceutical research firm a few miles from Princeton University. $13.75 an hour to stare into a light bar all day, "blinding & labeling" x-rays for eventual perusal by their vampiric diagnostic team, in a darkened room with walls full of lightboards. By the time the x-rays got to that end of the system I'd have already blotted out the patient's names except the first letters with a paint marker that got me high after an hour straight. 'Breathing breaks' were pretty much mandatory, and I'd smoke cigarettes out back (with their IT team) for irony's sake.

I did this for a year.

For a week, as a member of a temp work crew, I built metal supply shelves in a startup mechanic shop in the worst neighborhood in the city. I forget what city. Some of the other men on the crew were ex-cons, most if not all had been arrested and been through the system at least once. I was the only Caucasian among them - long, straight black hair and a short goatee, nosering, black eyeliner. I wore black metal rings on every other finger. We all had a great time on that job... cleaning up the joint, building those stupid shelves, just us guys grunting and cursing our way through the task, a cooler full of waters and sodas (replaced by a smaller one of beers later), and all of us cracking jokes and coughing. Latino thug, old black guy, young black kid, Mexican middle-aged dude with a scar and missing finger.

Old black guys asks me, "You married?" over a cigarette

"Nah..."

"Don't get married."

I laugh. "You got it."

So many are born on this earth an then die without so much as a half century between the two events; even less in which to be a "productive" member of society, if that opportunity even be available. I'm amazed that any impact is even made by one person or another, save for procreation (of course) and self-destruction. Whole armies' worth of slaves/workers toil for years to erect a building or a bridge or a statue that can outlive them tenfold, but it only takes one person one second to destroy it with enough premeditation.

'If time is evanescent, than I alone seem solid.'

That statement didn't make much sense when I said it to a physicist, either, but I just like the sound of it.

But it went over real well at beat jams in Greenwich Village.

Over the years... I just forget most of this stuff, anyway.

I mean, would you really believe me if I stated under oath or whatever that not one, nor a few, but several full centuries have passed since my birth? I shouldn't think so.

If our places were exchanged, and I were reading a manuscript such as this, with a declaration such as that, I would not necessarily think, but really know that it was a work of fiction. 'That kinda thing doesn't happen.' But factual it is, that I have outlived all others in this world, so far as I've known.

I especially revel in my outliving of beings who thought they were of high purpose: despots with wrathful fists, wizards and warriors whose strengths proved weak, prophets of apocalypses which never materialized, and lovers who could never glean what wisdom I had to offer - if there indeed be any...

* * * * *

The place of my birth is a mystery. I don't even know who or what I really am. My true age is a mystery, as with most truths. As far as I know, I have always been the way I am. I grew up, was a child, became a man, and then reached an age that I never surpassed. The psychological damage has been pretty severe, I guess. My dreams are still often of meeting my real parents somehow, even though it's ridiculous; or just seeing them, from outside a window of their house, watching them. As a child, with this dream, I prayed the fates grant me that Almost moment, the temptation of barging in suddenly giving way to that iconic and stereotypical sentimentality for familial imagery. I would gaze in, swoon, "They look so happy," and go home in tears. But it never happened in real life. Now sometimes I dream of cross-examining them, treating them as hostile witnesses, shouting, releasing vitriolic witticisms at lightning-fast speeds, imprisoning and torturing them using cruel and highly unusual punishments, in addition to the usual cruel methods... I dream of biting their faces off, leaving only ears and the mouth to take my questions and give me some fucking answers, if only to save themselves.

A French couple raised me as their own, and I looked nothing like them. At the time, my own complexion was fair, a nice strawberry blonde and blue-eyed cutie. (Eventually my hair turned dirty blonde and my eyes faded to grey. None of that matters now, anyway. Only I know.)

When I was 7 years old, they told me I was not their own because I had started asking questions naturally, why did I look different than them, and all others, it seemed? And they told me the story, my story:

They were walking along a protected beach, and heard a crying sound, unlike anything they had ever heard. It came from the ocean. My dad, Jean-Luc, ran and dove toward it, with his wife Marie at the very edge of the shore clasping the seams of her dress. He found a baby gurgling in the water, held partially afloat by a large batch of seaweed and driftwood. The newborn baby boy had pneumonia, and "was paler than chalk, but had wide-open and bright blue eyes, and a healthy tongue!"

Marie and Jean-Luc never conceived a child of their own, but not for lack of trying. As best I can judge, this was sometime in the 12th Century AD.

* * * * *

I'm not crazy.

Ok, I'm probably half-crazy; two-thirds, tops...

I'm thinking I should have tried to write this as fiction or something, change all the names and places, and place names... get myself into some character... pour myself into that mold, like, and make he and I just that much different. It would be a young Thelonious Ashcroft Wannamaker that turned up on that beach, instead of me, with some sexy scar on my hand or forehead and a birthright to claim or something... something to prove to somebody, some higher purpose or series of revelations about something... but I've had none of that for almost a thousand years - no one remotely akin to me.

So I guess it makes no difference really, if this were fact or fiction, if I added or subtracted to the story itself, my story, and whether my name was Noah or Mohinder or John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt, it's still up to you to believe it.

...let alone fucking buy it, right?

My name is Mud.

If the, uh, book or whatever (because books are dying) was successful, even moderately, then at least I could live that reclusive writer life and none might be the wiser. And if it never sold a single fucking copy, then who the fuck really cares? I've survived much worse. I mean, which is more plausible, a recovering paranoid schizophrenic agoraphobic eccentric virtuoso savant, or an immortal being? Right?

No interviews, scant new material, rumoured substance abuse. Fake the death, and move on.

I've done it sooooooooooo many times... ...even in the medieval days there were artists dropping dead at 27.

The same ritual, with all the details changed... all the interrogatives that place CSIU stereotypes on the scene - dark age counterparts included - looking and feeling and speaking in low tones with clenched jaws about what they must be missing, here... there have probably been enough close calls I've imagined, but none have sniffed me out. Besides, I sleep soundly thinking that if someone were to suspect me of... well, of immortality, my myriad connections would see to it that he or she was silenced, even without me knowing.

Shit, that's probably happened already.

I'm a Grand High Eye Ruler Mason, for fuck's sake.

I'm a Grand Royal Saintly Knight of over a hundred different saintly orders.

I've been knighted 6 times by four different royal houses on two continents.

I received several chests-worth of medals from a nation on every continent (except the obvious), and have been personally pardoned by the rulers of 12 different countries. Three of them were from two separate governments of the same country - for helping overthrow the previous one, of course, and then again some years later. I've been thinking of overturning it again...

I'm a Supreme Seat Kiwanis Double-Honoree.

I'm a High Grand Old Royal Bearded Elk.

I'm a Grand Falloon.

I'm a Vigil in the Order of the Arrow. My Native American name means Bottomless Waterfall.

I'm Marine Special Forces.

I'm an Army Ranger.

I'm a Navy Seal.

I'm a Coast Guard.

I'm Cinco, a pilot shot down over Italy in WWII.

I'm a New Jersey State Trooper.

I'm a Beefeater.

I'm an astronaut.

I'm an ordained 'something' in 23 religions.

I technically hold honorary doctorates of 18 sciences, and a real one of 5. But all of the diplomas have been lost, and they were all under different names anyway...

I really enjoy being that older guy with his own room in your college dorm. The 'chicks' may stay the same age, but so do I.

I helped found Skull and Bones.

I founded a Dead Poets Society. I doubt they kept it up very long after I pretended to kill myself. (I had facial reconstructive surgery and moved to NJ again, this time as an oncologist.)

I'm in KKK and the Klu Klux Klan and Al-fucking-Qaeda and PETA and MoveOn.org and the NRA.

If I'm not crazy, I probably should be.

Numbers are ugly. Naked numbers are revolting.

My numbers:

I have $17 trillion spread out over 4 continents. I've caused runs on banks, and governments to collapse (or nearly do so). I have 77 bank accounts and safe-deposit boxes, 53 houses, and 16 apartments. I own one castle, and it's actually pretty small.

I can convincingly speak over 30 languages in multiple dialects. Two of my doctorates are in linguistics, after all. My "natural" accent is completely obliterated, just a matter of academics. It's X, and I've probably imitated it at some point unknowingly.

I've met 4 werewolves, 23 little people, 5 dwarfs, 22 hermaphrodites, an elf, an alien, and 16 people over 8 feet tall.

I met a person that was 157 years old in the pre-Revolutionary period. She was still beautiful.

I have never met a vampire (and therefore do not think they exist, which sucks - I'd love to try it), and I have never met another person with my "ability," but that's not surprising. I've fooled about 30 billion people over the course of it, right? - I could be fooled just the same.

But my counterpart may yet be out there.

My family may be out there.

A nemesis may be out there.

Highly more likely:

My next ex-girlfriend or ex-wife may be out there.

I have ultimately lost count of how many girlfriends, lovers, wives, mistresses, concubines and love-or-sex-slaves I've had. I'd estimate that I've used prophylactics 0.0001% of the time. But I have never been party to a conception. Apparently it's part of my ability, because if it were a medical problem it would heal, like everything else, over time. I consider it a gift in this way. I wouldn't want my precious international nest eggs to be nibbled away by international child support payments. The paper trail alone would eventually doom me, and eventually they'd unwittingly inbreed or something... not pretty. Thank you, Fate.

* * * * *

I've done and quit pretty much every addictive and/or mind-altering substance known to science thru the ages.

I don't really recommend any of it.

They're making these cigarettes that you can start out with as regular, then click it and it becomes menthol... and that may just cause me to reverse 3 years of non-smoking. Good job, R & D.

Twice now, I've had tracheotomy status, then healed, and then started smoking again. I healed slowly, like any otherwise healthy 27-year-old might with the best healthcare money can buy. I have the same healthcare plan as The Pope, technically - just flat out having enough fucking money to throw at the hospital to make something like a bill or a fee a moot point, all their eyes fill with dollar signs and you somehow automatically get the best free shit gold standard no pain no worries healthcare that Hippocrates himself wished he had.

The American system is fair, all right... You got cash?

I've kicked heroin in Baghdad, Amsterdam, Dublin, Ontario, Venezuela, Algiers, and San Francisco. I OD'd in New Amsterdam and Constantinople.

I got hooked on and then kicked cocaine in Cuba in the months before the Revolution. On a binge, I apparently shot 43 people on a yacht, tried to perform a Communist Manifesto musical, and then ran the boat aground and set it on fire. Of course, I was a CIA agent at the time... really shouldn't have blown that life, it was the perfect cover. All I'd to do was keep two informants within reach, one of which I slept with (I mean that's pretty much agency regulation), and semi-annually write a summary thesis for a draft of a National Intelligence Estimate, the credit for which goes to some Cuba Bureau lackey from the FBI to pass on to Navy captains holding training exercises in the Caribbean. Piece of fucking cake.

But instead I snorted about nine hundred large of taxpayer dollars up my nose and my informant's noses; and some of it was snorted off of the one informant's thighs and breasts.

Thanks for that.

Crack never really interested me, but I did it anyway. My heart rate is either too slow or too sensitive for it, and I had a sudden heart attack, or an overdose. My poor pump whelped and bucked like a bulldog in cat fight, and all the cups of coffee I had drank emptied into my pants all at once as I keeled over to one side.

The girl sitting across the mattress from me took the rest of the shit and ran for her life. This was in a second-floor motel room in Erie, Indiana. I didn't think I would make it either, the way my heart hurt. But a few seconds went by in numb silence as I lay dead, awake to everything. I found I could still see about the room, and into the hall. I could hear the girl practicing her lines if anyone asked if she'd seen me, standing before the front door.

Then what felt like a belch crept up from my gut.

My diaphragm seemed to slap the rest of my organs, and the wave of fluids sent my heart into some standby mode, just enough power to run some deep subsystem in the brain. I was sucked back from the hall, and my eyes flickered without movement as my drug friend made her discreet exit. When I finally was able to twitch half of my iris, (I saw) a bolt of lightning (which) came out of the ceiling and went straight into my chest. The girl was reaching for the doorknob, frozen in time, as a little spark of static electricity licked her finger. My old, dead heart jiggled and danced on fire until it found the beat of the song and slowed to a walking march. The door ajar, the girl shortcutting through forest to get to a bar across town. My heart kept time with her booted footfalls.

And I was out of that town like yesterday's fucking news.

The girl was questioned, and her story was straight. But it wasn't police, it was inquiries of friends and lovers, as she told parts of the story one night or another. There was no body, no crime, no evidence except for my leftover urine, which was cleaned by a team of sisters from what was then Yugoslavia. I had nothing there of any consequence, at the time (or ever, I guess), and so I flew to Moscow with a different identity. The girl's story was so straight she often wondered if that's not what actually happened (attempted rape, and she ran away), instead of a junkie buddy crashing and going out of it hardcore right there. Who's to say?

This contradiction of memories and emotions (as well as prior sexual abuse, of course) created a secondary personality shortly after my third-anniversary junkie memorial at her 12-step group. It was me, talking about race cars and Rush. With some familial intervention and low-wattage ECT she was cured (and away went 'Rex'), and she wrote a book about her road to recovery, which was actually considered for inclusion of Oprah's list.

The book includes the story of me, but I beg to differ, madam: the description and mannerisms are all wrong. I should know, I was the one pretending to be one of them for six months, born and raised a Hoosier, and lovin' it.

To them, I completed the cycle - dyin' a Hoosier.

The new identity I assumed after that was, and always is, prepared for me by the black market. Mafioso, Mafia, Yakuza, Reds, the Black Hand, Latin Kings, Crips, Bloods, Bulldogs, Pikers, Psychos, Nazis, the Irish, the Rastas... they've always been there for me. Even Mossad came thru once. They didn't know I was as "high-level" in The Agency as I really was... am. (I mean, shit... I've hazed a few Directors in college. But I'm always some nobody in the background of these places, showin' the kids how it's done.) None of the men I usually meet to exchange money for fresh papers are ever the same, and none of them know me; but a small, select few know of me. I place a call to the right number, ask for the right name, talk to the right head man with the right accent and birthright, and quote a few lines of a secret message that his father taught to him as a boy: a three-syllable riddle, in a dead language, which he answers in three syllables. I've forgiven people for fucking it up a little over the years. I really should come up with a new thing...

Anyway, with that message, they'll do things for me that no man should think another could do, just at the flip of a finger, the raise of an eyebrow. It's like I'm god to these people. After these exchanges, if all goes well I'm gone, and I leave them more money than they've ever seen in their lives.

Usually I just feel like puking.

By the time I write again, I will probably be a different person, with a different name and face and accent, in a different part of the world. I hope the computer I'm using can read this file. I hope this thing stays with me, this time. I hope this is the last try.

But I doubt it.

[More to come, if you want it. +RA]

chapter 1 of a book - "LIFE IS A TEMPORARY POSITION"


Posted by Gunshy - November 11th, 2010


maybe I am a busy guy.
maybe I do have a lot of energy.
but maybe i don't five a fuck what the weird meme is going on today.

i re-did the disk art for "No Standard Model" and while it's still not available for download, the price is today's date, which I find pretty ironic. Also all the songs might sound a little better. Sorry Riot, but hey... PM me if it sucks... idk.

i started putting together a 3-disk retrospective box set of my early material. i have little intention of selling it. so you might see a lot of that here. yay.

3 or 4 books being written concurrently, all fiction. 3 of them are outstanding projects: 1) "Infinity" - a collaboration with best friend concerning a science team discovering the afterlife, then going there - to a world of pure imagination where all is light and possible; 2) "life is a temporary position" - an immortal man discovers the truths of our world and his own life in a hilarious tale of shitty jobs, women, the seedy underbelly of the black market and corporate America, and life on Earth in general (hey check this out, I posted the 1st chapter of this one on Facebook, with more to come!); 3) probably entitled "Paranoid Monkey" or something like that, possibly "Redhibitory Devolution" if I'm feeling saucy about it - this is a re-imagining of my very very first full-length novel, a rock starlet named Ruth Pine begins slipping through parallel realities, and must fight her way back in order to carry out the existential mission of a lifetime... of all our lifetimes.
The fourth book is just some short stories, all using pre-existing characters (so to speak), so we'll see how that's cookin' in a little while. Stephen from Godlings, the whole crew from "Lovers of Life" in the collection Ten Pieces, and more! More characters from shit no one's actually read.

Oh, and also I want to thank all the veterans today for bravely defending our freedoms. i just hope we can all look forward to a day when violence isn't believed to be necessary to protect those freedoms.

[+R]

what's your status, vol. 63478934232 - busy bee


Posted by Gunshy - October 13th, 2010


working on 3 new books, bunch of new short stories lined up
1 or 2 new music albums, one should sound like a live EP
playing dead rising
...red dead redemption
...reach
...tetris (as always)

and still tryin to get laid somehow, or paid for that matter

and still trying to sell music and books

can you prove that music and the written word aren't dead media?
can you imagine?

[+R]

busy autumn, right, working to stay alive


Posted by Gunshy - September 9th, 2010


nobody

oh who gives a shit


Posted by Gunshy - August 20th, 2010


Hey it's the same thing! (beat ya to it)

First off, if you haven't heard the semi-scratchy first-six-minutes-mix of "Something For Nothing" then you really should check it out. If I'm feeling saucy I'll try to put together another six-minute-or-so mix from elsewhere in the song (24:24, myriad sonic changes) but i can't promise that anytime soon. My best friend needs my help with surgical aftercare so i'll be spotty at best, as has been for quite awhile. she was diagnosed with colo-rectal cancer with metastasis to the liver back in november. if you've been wondering where i've been lately, or why so little new material... this is where i've been - caring. She's clear of it now, remission, and now surgical aftercare, the long rehabilitative road to normalcy.

Huh... normalcy... as if such a thing really ever exited.

If you have facebook, go to the +RØSS Facebook Fan Pageand Like It to show your support. I think Wade's a fan... but Facebook's dying slowly, If you YouTube like I do, check out EvilFury321's "Waiting to Die" Fan Lyrics Video, so you can sing along to his favorite dystopian pre-revolutionary grunge anthem and yours, "Waiting to Die" on YouTube... which is doing quite well compared to facebook or myspace or god fucking forbid eharmony or match.com or that shite... Myspace is having agonal gasping, the internet as a form of communication versus entertainment is collapsing under its own weight. and man the whole fucking world is about to go under, because of a series of financial crises perpetuated by 3-12 individuals with more money than any government could ever achieve by playing it fair. let's play fair, next time around.

...

The new full-length album NO STANDARD MODEL is now available thru this cleverly labeled link (or should be, right?) at Ross Allaire's Lulu.com Storefront which as you surely know is THE place to purchase Ross' life's work... Novels, poetry, [+RØSS], and man this time... really outdone himself, itself, themselves, and it's really thanks to all of you, everybody, everything, so keep fuckin' that chicken...

anyway here's what's new from me, available for the first time EVER in a commercially-friendly way, although S&H is a fucking monster... if only it were available elsewhere...? hmmm, anyway here's what's brand-new hot off the fucking presses direct to you from god knows where:

first of all... [+RØSS] - NO STANDARD MODEL - the new, new wave grungy progresso-sludgy power pop metallic psychedelic rock and roll album from your favorite embittered New Jersey native, featuring some of the songs that premiered right here on Newgrounds over the last year, including "This Is It (The Title)" and "Hotel NJ" and especially delicious for your musical ears might be the unabridged, full-length, 24-minute version of the new hit song of the new decade and the impending social apocalypse, "Something for Nothing"

reVISION: a prophecy of doom and hope - is what it is, an epic poem of prophecy, commentary, and personal recollections... also has some pertinent song lyrics of mine throughout, some as parables, specifically the full lyrics for 'waiting to die' and 'something for nothing'

Sleeping With [+RØSS] (CD) - a CD of ambient music & soundscapes to sleep to, fuck to, trip to (not that i'd recommend it in general), or use as halloween music for cryin' out loud...

and finally, what i wrote in the middle of Godlings because i just had to get away from a story about murderers for a few weeks... Figment Sage OR: Nothing Artistic Ever Happens in This Place - a novella about kids in the summer before senior year, from the rear cover summation: "5 nights & 5 days in the dysfunctional life of Arthur Legend. This is the mid 1990's suburban American teenaged work week, Monday thru Friday, right after the kids are off for the summer. It'll be Arthur's senior year come fall, and his short stories have already caught the attentions of the student body, as well as friends. Glimpses of his creative and somewhat tortured mind speckle and repaint the canvas of this portrait, by way of inglorious mini- adventures featuring Private Legend stalking zips in Vietnam, Commander Legend on a mission to Mars with a deathly sick navigator, among other incarnations... oh, and there's drugs. Coffee & booze, too."

So, yeah... do i know my target audience or what? Shit, i'm one.

Just wanted to remind everybody that my 1st album, MANIFEST DESTINY is still available for download. All the books are also downloadable as pdf files, if that's your bag...

Also just wanted to remind everybody that i make t-shirts, posters, ties, shoes, hoodies, stickers, mouse pads, binders, ties, stamps, even a fucking skateboard at my Zazzle.com store and it may not be the greatest shit in the world (and again, god knows where the hell it actually comes from, hopefully a nice country, right?) but it's all made directly by me. i do all the art for the albums and books, too. that's why it takes so long! ;P

so good night, and good luck.
be well, be safe, and play it loud!

[+RA]

Yup, the same old fucking thing - look it up


Posted by Gunshy - July 2nd, 2010


Yeah, we're back... cheese it!

The new full-length album NO STANDARD MODEL is now available thru this cleverly labeled link (or should be, right?) at Ross Allaire's Lulu.com Storefront which as you surely know is THE place to purchase Ross' life's work... Novels, poetry, [+RØSS], and man this time... really outdone himself, itself, themselves, and it's really thanks to all of you, everybody, everything, so keep fuckin' that chicken...

anyway here's what's new from me, available for the first time EVER in a commercially-friendly way, although S&H is a fucking monster... if only it were available elsewhere...? hmmm, anyway here's what's brand-new hot off the fucking presses direct to you from god knows where:

first of all... [+RØSS] - NO STANDARD MODEL - the new, new wave grungy progresso-sludgy power pop metallic psychedelic rock and roll album from your favorite embittered New Jersey native, featuring some of the songs that premiered right here on Newgrounds over the last year, including "This Is It (The Title)" and "Hotel NJ" and especially delicious for your musical ears might be the unabridged, full-length, 24-minute version of the new hit song of the new decade and the impending social apocalypse, "Something for Nothing"

reVISION: a prophecy of doom and hope - is what it is, an epic poem of prophecy, commentary, and personal recollections... also has some pertinent song lyrics of mine throughout, some as parables, specifically the full lyrics for 'waiting to die' and 'something for nothing'

Sleeping With [+RØSS] (CD) - a CD of ambient music & soundscapes to sleep to, fuck to, trip to (not that i'd recommend it in general), or use as halloween music for cryin' out loud...

and finally, what i wrote in the middle of Godlings because i just had to get away from a story about murderers for a few weeks... Figment Sage OR: Nothing Artistic Ever Happens in This Place - a novella about kids in the summer before senior year, from the rear cover summation: "5 nights & 5 days in the dysfunctional life of Arthur Legend. This is the mid 1990's suburban American teenaged work week, Monday thru Friday, right after the kids are off for the summer. It'll be Arthur's senior year come fall, and his short stories have already caught the attentions of the student body, as well as friends. Glimpses of his creative and somewhat tortured mind speckle and repaint the canvas of this portrait, by way of inglorious mini- adventures featuring Private Legend stalking zips in Vietnam, Commander Legend on a mission to Mars with a deathly sick navigator, among other incarnations... oh, and there's drugs. Coffee & booze, too."

So, yeah... do i know my target audience or what? Shit, i'm one.

Just wanted to remind everybody that my 1st album, MANIFEST DESTINY is still available for download. All the books are also downloadable as pdf files, if that's your bag...

Also just wanted to remind everybody that i make t-shirts, posters, ties, shoes, hoodies, stickers, mouse pads, binders, ties, stamps, even a fucking skateboard at my Zazzle.com store and it may not be the greatest shit in the world (and again, god knows where the hell it actually comes from, hopefully a nice country, right?) but it's all made directly by me. i do all the art for the albums and books, too. that's why it takes so long! ;P

so good night, and good luck.
happy 4th, be well, be safe, and play it loud!

p.s.: forgot, if you have Facebook (which i hate just a little less than Myspace) then you should really click +ROSS and then the 'Like' button if and when you get the chance. Do it. And could you just... do me a favor... could you just, go ahead and have a great day? Can ya do that, huh? go on, get outta here already!

[+RØSS] - NO STANDARD MODEL - CD OUT NOW! (damn right)


Posted by Gunshy - June 4th, 2010


>>>COMING SOON - END OF JUNE/EARLY JULY - PROBABLY JULY 1ST<<<

http://stores.lulu.com/rossallaire

[+RØSS] - NO STANDARD MODEL

1. This Is It (The Title) + Salaam
2. Fantastic Prison
3. Hotel NJ + The Black Hole
4. On An -Ism + State O Teh Union
5. Sick, Tired, Down + Tragedy Trance + Watchtower
6. Something for Nothing

http://www.myspace.com/rossisnotgunshy

COMING JULY

No Standard Model
Sleeping With [+RØSS] (EP)

...and some books, kinda short ones, too!

Figment Sage
reVISION

CYA THEN
BE WELL

[+R]

[+RØSS] - NO STANDARD MODEL lineup


Posted by Gunshy - May 14th, 2010


got the lineup down for the ambient album, "Sleeping with [+ROSS]" so that might even come out before "No Standard Model" or else I'll do the time-honored double-release. I guess about a week before NSM goes to print I'll post the reminder up here (then edit it later to include the link for purchase) with the official cover art for the album. it's a motif for this one, the theme being digital/decay with these faded digitized images, really cool stuff in my opinion. i can't wait to read your reviews of all this, the songs (the ones you haven't heard already lol), the art, the stuff.

i'll give you some hints, some wackiness: this thing's like an album by Rush or Yes in this way - it's got 6 tracks. The last three tracks are all over 10 minutes long, and the last one will probably end up being 30 minutes long - 25- minute song plus outro plus a secret song. also a few of the songs are doubled-up with other songs to create a narrative of the whole album, little ambient outros, even a trance song at the end of one of them. yes, trance. it's like a concept album that way, just remember: "No Standard Model" because it goes from one genre to another, sometimes inside individual songs! ("On An -Ism" and "Sick, Tired, Down" specifically, right? even "This is It (The Title)" has that kind of dynamic to it, poppy at first and then wham! rock. rock on. fuck yeah.

so, thanks everybody for the interest in the new stuff, and keeping it real. thanks for keeping me making music. it's been my best support system during what has been a really trying time. over the years i've heard from a lot of you that my music helps you thru shit, helps you deal with all of the horrors that life is intent on offering, and i'm really glad to have heard all of that. it helped me get through his myself, and we're not even all the way there. ;) so i just wanted to say that, it's a two-way street, being an artist this way, i give all of you some music to get you through your day, and your enthusiasm for it helps me through my day, which in turns helps me make more music... and the cycle continues :)

lots of love,

[+R]

p.s.: HOW MANY FUCKING GALLONS?!

ok actually it'll be two albums