" "The movie will begin in five moments", the mindless voice announced. All those unseated will await the next show." * The drapes of the curtain slowly part, and because the lights are dimmed to a sickly yellow, you can barely see the person sitting right next to you. A figure appears on the screen, its silouhette slightly hazy and blurred, as if walking through a a desert mirage. An unexpected tremor courses through you.

The figure becomes visibly clearer, and you see that it is a man, tall, lanky, and slightly dishevelled. He is wearing a black shirt, a belt with big, brass circles, and brown leather pants. He looks thinner than he should be, and a mop of brown, unruly hair adorns his head and falls down to his eyes.

He does not say a word, but he looks at you with big black pools for eyes. You feel like you could drown in them. There is a certain mystique to him, an air of mystery and quiet power.He reminds you of something William Blake said. "If the doors of perception were to be cleansed, every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite". He is your door, you think. To what? To everything, to nothing, to all points in between.

He has been called many things in his life: a shaman, a beat poet, a demi-god, and oddly enough, Mr. Mojo Rising. Common belief holds that he is long dead, but reason and logic (at least in this place) dictate otherwise. He is not dead. This, you believe, is a fact. He walks the plains of Africa, surviving on whatever the earth gives him, hitching a ride with strangers, and, of course, telling stories.

"It's him," you murmur. "It's the Lizard King".

And then the lights turn off.
...

Hello, and welcome.

Like the place?

First of all, this isn't the Meek Banshee's second incarnation. Rather, this little patch of cyberspace was given birth to by three people. This place came into being partly because Kenneth and I thought that maintaining a blog and constantly updating it at least every other day was too hard. Enter: Christie. And while she complains of being goaded or coerced to make the first post, I feel that, underneath all the pretend hesitancy, is a cauldron of untapped creativity and biting wit just begging to be set loose upon the world. So props to Christie for popping this blogs proverbial cherry.

Kenneth has yet to make a post. Christie will probably be using this blog as her emotional barfbag, and will take every opportunity to take potshots at me and Kenneth. As dysfunctional as it all may sound, fear not; most of the time, we shall be talking of frivolous pleasantries, having a bit of natter and a cup of tea. Pinky out my friends. Pinky out.

*excerpt from "The Movie", Jim Morrison