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So recently I have discovered the unique artistic style of a Mr. Tom Waits, who has been in the business of making music for over 40 years, and also someone I did not realize had performed a certain Ear worm from a film called "Robots" that I have not been able to get out of my head since childhood. This gravelly voiced singer, I have to admit, I can't hear enough of. His style is so diverse and it spans such a wide variety of sounds, not to mention he's inventive and creates new instruments to suit his needs. He once built an instrument using a Garbage dumpster with a hole cut in the side and piano strings placed inside of it!​

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I had no idea who this guy was until I saw him in "The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus" two or three months ago after I rented the film from my local library. Once I found out he was a musician, I had to see if I knew any of his music; as it turns out I did, and that song, like I said, has been periodically stuck in my head for nearly a decade! No song gets stuck up there like that for so long with me, so I consider it pretty laughable how I remembered it all this time until I found out who sang it.​

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Particularly, I like his more theatrical-sounding tunes, the bluesy and novelty ones. I like "Cemetery Polka", "Heart Attack and Vine", "Underground" which is the one I had stuck in my head, "Tango til they're sore", "Step Right Up", "Invitation to the Blues", "The Piano has been drinking", and I just want to say that I never have this many favorite tunes from a single source and there's the fact this isn't all-inclusive. xD​

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Kh-vids.net, what you do you think of Tom Waits? Ever heard of him? Seen him in a movie? Heard his music? If I just introduced you to him, what do you think of him now?​

EDIT (03/27/13): I've basically given up on this Role-play taking off. However, not so much the case on the story. Very soon, once I get a little bit further in my main writing project "Based Forward" in the Writer's Nook, I will be scripting a full-fledged story based around what you find here. Still, this Role-play will remain open and its own entity, unaffected by the story, if anyone wishes to join after the fact. Here's a link to a playlist I made to give some hints as to what the Story will include:
http://open.spotify.com/user/1265289996/playlist/5grLtX27Ii9gAYHPinDbjE

The premise of this Role-play is simple: Take a Kingdom Hearts character and pair them up with a Musician from real life. e.g. Goofy and Rod Stewart. The idea is that these two you pick are your two characters to play throughout the sequence which starts out such here in the introduction: (At Bottom for spacing purposes)

The Rules
1.) Your two characters have to interact at some point.
2.) Try to keep canon.
3.) No PP, GM, you know... stuff like that.
4.) Advanced Role-play would be nice. I'd like to a see a minimum of four-eight well-constructed sentences. There's no maximum.
5.) The preferred amount is just having one pair. But if you like, you can have two pairs.
6.) Living artists only. Sorry. I know, there's a lot of great deceased artists, but we're taking them as they are today. Which constitutes the next rule:
7.) Whatever age your artist is, we'll have it that it's the age they start off the RP as. So, no making anybody younger to fit their heyday.

The Cast
Name-Artist-Character
Sebax-Tom Waits-Luxord

Introduction

Ch. 1​

The stage was lustrously grand, like none Luxord had ever seen, spanning a seemingly interminable span of white solid block. The floor and walls matched the stage six feet off the floor where Luxord stood at the base of the seamless stage; the same Nobodic decor that had befitted the Castle that never was. He paced the empty auditorium in front of hundreds of rows of identical chairs, which all popped out of the slowly rising level together as if carved out of the floor, dressed to the nine in a suit that had a price tag that would make the most dedicated Kingdom Hearts player envious of how much munny it was worth. His suit was stark black, sharp from the breast to the shoes, with a black and gray checkerboard undershirt with red cuffs, and a Nobodic Wire black and white tie. His beard ha been trimmed in his favored and usual fashion, with a new Caesar hair on his blond head. Slowly, with determined discretion, he went over the iHeart Computer tablet in his degloved hands and nodded his sharp chinned head every now and again, his serious eyes watching the screen with scrutiny.​

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A gravelly, wispy voice was echoing off the acoustic-perfected walls of the Gambler's theater, a voice that was emanating from the speakers of the iHeart. "Gamblers re-evaluate along the dotted line, you'll never recognize yourself on Heart Attack and Vine" it sang as a heavy rock'n'roll guitar did the background work as the singer's raspy voice howled. Luxord smirked; he had found his first contender. He did a search of the artist "Tom Waits" and scanned through the information hastily. Truth be told, the Gambler of Fate enjoyed what he read, even though Waits seemed to be getting on in years, Luxord liked his maniacal and histrionic style and how he balanced it with lighter selections. In due time, he believed he had made his choice. He would summon this performer from the Real world and pass the iHeart on to someone else so that they could make their selection. Enough planning time had passed; Luxord wanted to get things rolling. 'The show has to start and soon', he thought as he grinned a devilish grin, and set the iHeart on the stage, screen-side up, glowing and displaying Waits growling along with a out-of-tune piano. "Let me fall out of the window with confetti in hair, Deal out Jacks or better on a blanket by the stairs...", the music drowned out of Luxord's hearing as he transitioned into the room just behind the stage.​

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Ch. 2​

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"The piano has been drinking... my neck tie is asleep....and the combo went back to New York" Tom slurred drunkenly on purpose as he performed his own song on his own piano. He was alone for the night, and for a Music Idol, he was rather bored that evening, and not to mention slightly nostalgic. When it came to looking back, he wasn't particular about it, but why not entertain himself by digging up old bones? He contemplated on nothing but the splattered notes, closing his tired eyes. He was recently 63 and had no regrets about it. His voice had decreased in raspiness in recent years, but he could still call on his trademark whenever he wanted. "Gotta a crazy transition. Go or Stay? I gotta choose. I think I'll accept your invitation to the blu-" He started playing the end of another song, but was cut off when he suddenly opened his eyes and saw on the top of his piano a white envelope lying soundlessly there.​

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"Kathleen?" He called out into the empty Sonoma house gruffly and confusedly. No reply came and he was assured he was in fact left alone for the night. He sat locked in consternation, looking from nowhere-in-particular to the letter. "Where the Hell did you come from?" He asked the letter as if it could reply to him in a high squeaky voice and fix him a drink if he asked it to. Of course, there was no reply from the inanimate object, but Waits was not surprised of that fact; he was merely thinking out loud. "Okay, I give. What's in there?"​

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He ripped open the top with a sharp movement of his thumb and he pulled out a neat little folded white paper letter with fine golden ink handwritten text. He transfixed his eyes on the paper and read it out loud, still humoring the notion maybe someone would hear him. After all, that letter hadn't been there when he sat down or when he closed his eyes; the piano had been completely clean.​

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"Dear Mr. Waits,... This letter is to request your presence for an honorary concert for you and a selection of other modern artists chosen at random by a group of the audience members. You will be asked to perform some of your work for the masses for the given dates: April 4th extending through to April 10th. Your presence has been requested at bequest of myself, Lux... Luxord(?!)" He spoke the last word/name, he wasn't sure which, with incredulity, but continued on, "Luxord, the proprietor and Executive Producer of the concert in question. Should you wish for more information or would like to accept the request right away, merely play the first G key on the piano from the left." Tom let the paper flop out of his hand as it sank, as did his expression and certainty of sanity. "First G key on the piano from the left... from the left... play the... WHO DID THIS?" He was hairline furious; he assumed this had to be some kind of joke.​

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"You mean to tell me if I play this note," He pounded the prerequisite key, "I'll be-" And so Tom Waits left California after having been swallowed whole by the piano. He was almost instantly transported to a clear white room with an odd, almost Gothic design that was entirely white from floor to ceiling. "I quit." He murmured, sitting in a kind of throne, his 6' frame too small for it, and his feet dangled far above the floor. Really high off the floor. His eyes went wide when he peered over the side. Before, he had merely been derailed and annoyed, and now he was going crazy over the sudden change of scenery. Usually his good humor and dauntless spirit could get him over anything, but this?! No way THIS was happening! Just as he thought, he let out a great big yell as the throne careened down and he was forced to look up to see a whirling pool of dark matter swirl in place of a round ceiling.​

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When the throne slowed and stopped, he fixed his black trilby to the side and held onto the lapels of his dark-toned, pinstripe dress shirt. Immediately at the floor, standing right in front of him was a blond, pale-skinned man in a custom suit who nodded cordially at him and offered his hand to Waits.​

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"Mr. Waits, I presume?" Luxord referenced that old addage when greeting a person one has been expecting.​

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"Who the Hell are yo-? What just happe-? Where the Hell am I??" It was the first question of a string he could finish asking. He was jittery in his seat, keeping a distance from the greeting man.​

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"I am Luxord. This is my home. You have just been transported from your world to mine, for a concert which I had ascertained you verified attendance by means of musical instruction."​

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"A concert?" Tom Waits relaxed somewhat and got to his feet, shakily, an he was a man of a strong constitution. Maybe his age was throwing him of his game? He tried not to think about it. "What concert?"​

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"Simply follow me, Sir, if you are, in accordance, acquiescing to the request given."​

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"Sure, I'll play. Something tells me I shouldn't say no. Just tell me all the specifics on the way." Tom peered into the somber but smirking face of his greeter and apparent host.​

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"I'll lead you to your room. The others will recur and arrive in time." And so Luxord led his guest down the empty, blank halls.​

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TO BE CONTINUED... BY YOU. Here's where we start; have fun.​

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P.S., this is my first RP back with kh-vids and I'd really like for it to work.​

Burden Bereaved​

Lost in a solemnity riveting in its interminable turpitude, a man’s intellect when not of the base variety is condemned to such everlasting torture. He knows reality and as an old pair of friends knows well everlasting derision. Such is my case, now, missing that which is essential, which is rare. Has been the case all along, ever since elementary days where a mature mind buys hatred from the souls of the fellow young, a malady few of them will part from in their progressive state until they themselves open their eyes. That which cannot be understood, is there not a general consensus that this abomination of greater mental capacity should perish in forced silence? There is such a decree of the public, and Chamfort, Dupin and I are one in a presumption in that which is general thought. Such is my sentence to understand man and woman in their obstinate, closed-minded abjectivity. Though do I believe myself above it all? Am I not prone to the same weak mortalities that befit a man? Indeed I am, but even in youth, I am aware of what I do; ability learned of sight, hearing, and thought well developed, and forced to do so both by outside action and nature. I am object of molding to my own thought, and it, this hand of fate which I cannot severe, never ceases, and never wanes in its furthering the development that horrible sickness that which accompanies, Sorrow. Those that I love bereave me, finding that my intellect makes me different, and so they can no longer love me for my intellect. That which draws curiosity condemns me wholly to wallow in their remarks. Such is my case since youth, and in youth I still reside, surrounded by a world bottling itself in, deeper and deeper. Even this damned anecdote is written upon the mode of man’s self-destruction! Self-destruction if not seen, if not caught; a world of information, of creativity lies in technology and the furthering of it, but look in ghastly, haunting horror how it is ill-used! Conditioning: speak of that word “conditioning” condition the conditioned to not believe they are conditioned and some will believe and some will not, and yet all are conditioned either way. There is no “unconditioning”; there is only a “reconditioning”, lest human will be ripped forever from the body which is canted within. It is in sole realization that I am locked in such mortal terror. Such is why I fear now, for the sake of those I love. It is in their conditioning that they despise me. Speak the word “intellect” and those stuffy, “ugly” old men in history books or the modern serial killer comes into the common human mind. An unwonted lover once loved but now replaced by a weaker mind is a stalker, and can be nothing more. Did I not mention that the human mind is prey to such abjectivity; blind obstinacy? A revolutionary is made mince-meat of therein for what is known cannot be questioned, yet the basis of all that is good is based in question. Is conformity being the Christian, or is conformity being the Atheist who must question all that is believed, but not question why he does not believe? Is revolution distrusting that which governs, or is it wholly not damnable to bring into reason why what is must be conflicted in a certain manner? The answer may lay in the mean or in either or in both. The answer is precisely what I seek as I now contemplate the singular record of one whom I am not sure if victim or torturer. Many I have known before like her, but in her novel intelligence I am compelled to think myself a fool that has been tricked, or is it she whom is the one being tricked?

The case in which I speak of is one Diade Ignes. Her beauty, in an age of set desires, is her own; an ancient beauty which neither needs remedy nor aid to catch the eye and be lovely, it simply, naturally is. Her intelligence, as I have before inscribed, is of a not rare kind, but compelling in its encompassing of all that is studied, she makes small work of tests and essays by a sheer determination which dominates the intelligence, an furthers the production. She once loved me, but of this love there is but my own affection for her, thus a stalking. Though I have never sought her out physically, made my presence overbearing since our parting, she feels compelled to yell “Stalker” and “Court” simply because she is well acquainted with the base type of human, so meager and pitiable in their conditioned wanting of flesh. No, what she refuses to connect, though I make evidently clear, is that I care for her. It is now crime to care for another, wish no ill-will upon them! She acts as though she is one of Huxley’s, and Alpha or Beta she may be, calling forgiveness an unwanted advance. What need be there for forgiveness? In my foresight, in my caring for her as we were together, I let her go for the sole purpose of her being happy. Two forces would have ripped her to pieces, these two forces of which I was one party, and an invidious former love was another. The two forces would have ripped her apart, I say, because it was my objective to make sure such was not the case. I wanted her, after all, I loved her, but more over all, I wanted her happiness, and in so, sold my own for hers. Now here is the commonality of the reaction, the fact in which she despises me and hands herself wholly to the other. And do I not understand why she does this? The former was a scorning lover and much what her palpitating, lively young heart wanted. Once good purpose was seen in her again, the former leapt to the chance to have what he wanted. I cannot blame her for her servitude to a lesser master. Lesser can be said for many reasons but mainly for the fact she throws herself at him like he is one, and the fact I consider myself never the master of her will.

Know well this one point: should he repeat mistakes past made, she will easily be kept none the wiser, and so stay in her putted place as pet which is stroked upon coming home, after the self-proclaimed owner has returned from the kennel. I can very well hate her for her derision, but don’t I understand it? I do not despise her for harm which she brings me, for perhaps I am the one far too lost in obstinacy to refuse that she could very well control far more than of what I speak. All these flaccid details are of the usual variety in that they can be compared to many ended relationships. The singularity, I’m afraid, lies in me. The fact I can let her go. The fact I can understand both the devil and angel inside her. The pity I have for a fate she is yet unaware of, and once aware of, she will find herself well dug in to the Earth and a shovel in her hand. Mercy bear upon that hand that blade will not arrest at the opposite wrist and draw from it a wire of life that is let by so many troubled in the contemporary age. That is my sole worry. Not that she will never love me again, though I wish with all my power can sustain an my soul can bear, but what method of near self-disposal she will render upon herself when footing she finds so solid is made all at once intangible. She will endure pain for pain’s sake as she always has, I fear, and it is this fear which is the greatest. It is greatest because I have no power to control it. Were she to speak and render rapid Hate useless, I feel I could save her from near-demise or total rupture in all. The pain, the empathy, I can feel the blade in my hand and feel it tear at my skin, I can sense the sensations vibrating through my thus damaged veins, and yet all is phantasm. Never have I known the feel of such self-derision that has caused me to harm myself as she has done in the past, but still I can feel her past pains and the ones yet to come! They haunt my mornings, my evenings, and my life in an incessant mockery of my ineptitude to keep them from happening! How I care for her though she cares not for me! It is an all-engulfing pain that is invisible to her eye and so she calls it a mental illness. Such like her I have never known before and how wrongly she calls this other man her paramour. Were he any other man I could rid myself of her memory and be done of this terror forever, but I cannot.

She hates me most for pointing out his flaws which she listed herself! Maddening even more is the question: If she did not want me to think of this former man as nothing less than the Devil, why- O Why! - was I given so much red paint for his portrait?! All that has been listed is insufferable and in many cases, precisely what she does to me now, and she claims her worst fault is an overbearing amount of emotion. If this be the case, how can she commit the same derisive act she bore upon a mortal spirit all too similar to her own? How can she deprive me of word when word is all I seek, and her comfort secured? The answer lies only in supposition. Is it greed? Is it protection of either myself or her? I suppose the latter because this brute that is the former man is of the oafish quality which displays itself prominently as an alpha of its species, yet will grow into detestable ineptitude for its lack of thought. And yet, despite this hard truth or indeed because of it, she persists in her love for him.

Oh silent monster that is jealousy! Oh cruel demon that is fate! Cannot I save one good-natured soul from the corruption that lies within us all? Are You that insufferable? That wave of time how horrid is the state in which you swell and wrap around me! Will you sift and return to me what has been lost, or will closure be lost in your thunderous and merciless rolls forever?! I try to keep my head above the water as best I can. I do accost the ocean of misery in all its horrors, and pray for the capacity which is my burden to bear, can truly be received by another, and not weigh heavily upon her shoulders. Then, perhaps, we both will be spared that turbulent wave.

Okay, so I know alts are a big no-no. However, it has been such a length of time and the me that started the account of BaseSebastian is very different than the me that created this account. (No, BaseSebastian, if you do not know, was NOT banned. I just forgot the e-mail account I used for that account along with the password.)

So, with nowhere else to go but up, I have decided the best way to rejoin the masses of kh-vids.net is to start anew. I can't access BaseSebastian, so no worries, I won't spam the forum as both, however still the case, I will ask any Moderator or Admin reading this to neither ban nor delete BaseSebastian. For nastalgia reasons.

Anyways, if anyone I knew from years ago might still be here: You know me. :p Writer, Actor, Singer, that sort of thing. I want to start on new stories now that I'm back, and I would appreciate it if anyone who remembers me could contact me and tell me the name I would have known them by years ago. I really want to reconnect. All I have to say is: At least I was honest saying that I used to be another user so many years ago.

There we go. It's a new account; not an alt. I want a new start and I hope I can get one. In the meantime, I am off to the Writer's corner to get back in the groove. Later! :D