Droning noise in my ear eclipse,lobe piercing 5 weeks 10k,ringing ears cure usados - You Shoud Know

I could see the Mount Tabor Theatre marquee up ahead - flickering on the left-hand side of the road.
The Sideshow Lounge had a bar situated between the two entrances that spilled into the room from the psychedelic baffle. The head of a jackalope was mounted - dead centre - on the front of a low hanging section of the ceiling - just above the bar.
A Sopranos pinball machine had started blasting random volleys of light into my peripheral vision.
The room also had a couple of murals painted on the walls in that same Day-Glo lime-green and garish passion-pit-pink. Out beyond the portal serving as the lounge's northeastern exit, lurked a gigantic Day-Glo image of "Gil" Bert.
The main hall was a stripped down, gutted movie theatre with a bar thrown in for good measure. I fished in my pocket and placed a wrapped butterscotch candy on the table in front of Greg.
All those movers and shakers - that had taken up the prime real estate down front - were not about to give it up easily.
There was a guitarist standing to the right of the bass player - over near the centre of the stage.
The other bandmembers flickered in and out of existence as they moved in and out of the projector's beam. White lines and spaghetti swirls radiated outward from the centre of the sheet - in all their psychedelic splendour. She was wearing a black short-sleeve T-shirt with some kinda Asian lettering running down the front of it. The best position in the crowd to stand was down front and dead centre - if you could manage to work your way that far.
They say that time, distance, and shielding are the three best ways to protect yourself from the harmful effects of radiation. That notorious section of the city known for its young, liberal residents, microbrews, brewpubs, its European-bohemia atmosphere and its high-density housing.
Sans the colourful cultural history and all of its Deadhead baggage - unless you tapped into The Third Eye. I could also see the large dark mound of earth looming up ahead on the not so distant horizon. Incoming hippie flack Going straight for the retinas in a visual homemade ice cream brain-freeze. The kind of silence that can easily terminate a conversation - if you didn't nurse it along.
A projector was mounted up there - pointed directly at the wall behind the drummer - dead centre.
It was effect laden with generous doses of feedback, electronics, and distorted echoing voices. And the fact that it had something to do with the end of days made it all the more daunting to contemplate. It was a virtual Sargasso Sea of limited parking, vintage homes, and locally owned shops and restaurants.
Rising six hundred feet above the surrounding urban jungle like a gigantic dark-green barnacle - a forested volcanic butte.

They drifted over the buildings and flowed into the artificial canyons running behind the facade of the main drag.
Stopping to make use of the natural cover whenever I turned to take a closer look at the artwork. The only things standing in front of it were a few patrons with their elbows firmly planted on the counter.
A tall, dark, handsome, clean-cut, boy-next-door type had pulled out a chair and sat down at the end of my table.
Then again, there was always the possibility that we may not be able to even hear anything that he played. And a low-slung belt with a large, bronze, belt buckle shaped like a sea creature encircled her waist. And quickly ditched my wheels on a shadowy side street in the densely packed neighbourhood. Assaulting my eyes with blinding florescent Day-Glo colours of lime-green and passion-pit-pink. Most of them were of familiar types of acts you could easily imagine hearing a sideshow barker plying potential rubes with their trumped up stories.
And hoisted them up - chest high - so that my self-appointed lounge valet could easily spot them.
Like Kraut flack homing in on an Allied squadron as they closed in on the mission drop site. They looked like they had been transplanted from a seedy dive that catered to the socially deviant. And even a black-and-white 8 x 10 photograph of Helios Creed - with his derby crowned head sprouting up out of the ground like he'd just germinated. I didn't have anything else to say and it didn't look as if Helios was going to shed any more on light on the missing musician. Now I had a good clear view of the stage, the merchandise table, the mixing desk, and the entrance. So much had changed in our respective countries since the Bushaviks had come to power in America. They were like the eyes of a vengeful felon committing the faces of the jury to memory after they had convicted him.
I'd need to relocate frequently during the set if I hoped to shoot each individual bandmember. There was an aisle along that side of the stage that gradually sloped down as it headed toward an exit.
And finally left you stranded high atop a desolate arid mesa - hopped up - scanning the night sky for wandering rogue stars. Standing right in front of the drum kit and the makeshift screen - swimming in a steady flow of brilliant rippling light. Playing the role of an unwitting pawn in the mysterious schemes of femme fatales engadged in a battle royal. And managed to capture several incriminating photographs which would enable us to positively ID everyone involved in this caper. It also happened to be the primary location for the city's municipal reservoirs - providing the drinking water for Portland's Eastside Districts. The walls were totally covered in artwork - all painted in those eyeball throttling florescent black-light poster colours.

While over at the southeastern exit, it was "JoJo" the dog-faced boy vying for my attention. I figured that this was the route the band equipment took on its way to and from the stage.
The audience was fearful that they might be subjected to an encore if they put too much emotion into their applause.
It was like watching a time lapse flower - exploding from bud to full bloom - in only a few seconds. Any culture that sacrificed its virgins to appease their gods were probably also running a sophisticated numbers racket on the side.
Provided that I limited my shooting to rare moments when everyone shifted slightly out of the way. A little lower - In the middle of the shirt - a nude woman was sitting on top of a thin hovering flying disc. The addresses were extremely difficult to make out as they sailed by between the gaps in traffic.
It was there to prevent tipsy patrons from tumbling head over heels into space and land spread-eagle on the pool table.
They had a prominent pair of antlers to go along with their long mulelike ears - sprouting out of their fuzzy heads. I guess they just couldn't survive without having some scapegoat ready to sacrifice when blame shifting became necessary. And there was a tiny flying saucer hovering off in the distance - in the upper left-hand corner.
And Vegan sounded more like the denizens of a planet hell bent on interplanetary invasion and conquest. Their boisterous voices and the continuous clinking of their chips threatened to drown the room with their enthusiasm for vice.
And his distinctive Tyrone Power-styled mustache gave him a somewhat rakish appearance - like a pirate - wearing a black bowler hat. Wearing a full-length gothic gown that had spider-web embroidered black lace around the neck and shoulders. Finally settling on the distinctive likeness of a famous nineteenth-century American writer and poet.
Studying his cosy little corner and all his habits and mannerisms as he unleashed his assault on the audience. Like a coin operated automaton that dispenses fortunes at one of those decrepid seaside penny arcades you might find over in America. Sitting in that classic pose you've seen time and time again - on the back of a pair of mud flaps on a juggernaut roaring down the highway. She may have been just a silver silhouette of an extremely curvaceous, top-heavy, nude woman.
But she was the current reining goddess to the trucking industry and rednecks the world over.

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