Good Mooorning, Neverland! Welcome.

Rock star debauchery, elvish train conductors, and a thank you.

Good mooorning, Neverland!

Why, thank you, Smee.

I feel like an 1870s coal train has burst from a tunnel of grief and forged a path through mountains. But instead of coal, it’s powered by liquid creativity distilled down and evaporated out in great rolling billows as a fine translucent mist. And seagulls swoop down from above to peck at the baitfish that dart about in this train-stack mist as the freighter rumbles through a mountain pass. In the engine room, a bunch of sweaty elves sing elvish pop songs as they feed the machine that is my imagination.

In the dining car, all passengers are only allowed to eat wheels of cheese for the duration of this 27-hour train ride.

There are no bathrooms.

Moving on now.   

First off – I welcome each of you. I woke up a couple of days after publishing my first story and checked my email. The email said “New free subscriber for Stomp Roams”. So, I clicked on it. And I kept scrolling to another “new subscriber” and another “new subscriber” and another. The solitude of the work is often alienating, and feeling seen and appreciated is…it’s like being handed a plate of the softest, most decadent butter-drenched mashed potatoes.

And that’s a high honor.

I look forward to entertaining all of you and I hope that Stomp might be a bumbling beacon of hope. When you know grief and loss, or insecurities and anxieties that follow you no matter what you try – you are not alone. Welcome to this community of wilderness goofiness.

Second off, some housekeeping – The handful of you who have pledged dollars, I have not turned on the “paid” option yet. I will as soon as I feel I have laid out a content schedule that I can keep. Right now, I’m shooting for one long-form deep Stomp story per month, one irreverent artist interview, and one to two personal essays or free-form satire gibberish. My goal is to work up to a full-time schedule of four posts a month.

You can support Stomp Roams for the monthly cost of about two coffees, keep reading for free, or tip your sultry story barista.

Thank you, again. If you’re strictly here for my hot thirst traps, follow @ljacktwain on IG. If you’re a fellow spec. fiction writer and trying to grow, reach out. Especially if you’re a Philadelphia artist – let’s support each other.

Looking forward to sharing these travels.

JD

What I’m reading: Led Zeppelin: The Biography by Bob Spitz

Let’s see what rock star debauchery is all about - that was my thinking when I started this giant-ass tome. So far I’ve read 400 pages of cocaine, violence against fans, and sexual assault on minors. There’s a quote that goes something like (I’m paraphrasing) “If the girls were over 13 for Jimmy Page, that was over the top.” So, you know, be careful who you idolize. They might just be an (allegedly) virtuoso statutory raper.

Bob Spitz’s research is like he was fully embedded and observing from a mound of cocaine – he must have spent a year interviewing producers, roadies, groupies, henchmen, rock stars. It’s impressive. Whatever his disposition – he got folks to open right up about EVERYTHING. The fun part was reading this book and then watching “Almost Famous” to see how much of that script parallels Led Zeppelin.

What I’m listening to:

I saw Rival Sons at the Franklin Music Hall (Electric Factory) in Philly at the beginning of June. I had heard the week before that they booed their fans for not being loud enough, so I thought, “I hope these dudes aren’t just the worst.” Well, I can’t verify that, but they play a dang good show.

Most of the band left the stage at one point and Jay Buchanan (lead singer) stood and melted into the mic about “carrying your grief, and it cuts so deep.” The guy behind me grumbled that “We just wanna hear you sing!” but I was all the way in.   

Jay Buchanan saunters around like a bejeweled rock god, with sweated hair falling around his eyes and a giant jade brooch swinging about his open-front shirt. An hour and 40-minute set. The opener, Starcrawler, started things with the lead singer sticking the mic down her pants and rubbing for a full ten seconds. So…normal rock show stuff. Not quite what you’d see in a Pixar film.  

What’s inspiring me:

Lightning bug butts.

If you want to support my goal to write full-time, you can pledge a paid subscription or dump dollars in the Paypal wishing well. Your free shares, mentions, and notes of encouragement all help me work toward the dream to evoke endorphins in you, the reader. Follow Jon Delp at @ljacktwain.