Greetings, darquelings.

My presence hath been absent from ye Seattleshire. The humiliation I suffered at losing Mister Gothick Seattle, in 2006 A.D. (Anno Darqueness), was terrific and graete. In truthe, I needed to de-compresse. Your darquest genteleman here needed change his't surrounds. In short, I ventured off. But to where?

To the most horrid realme of unspeakable eville: The Carribean! Mostly the Bahamas and Turks and Caicos. I undertook employment in service of a global lodging firm as a pool-side servant.

I doubt none should want to hear of my days supplying the rich and fat lords and mercantiles with towels and Mai Tais. What is of importance is my return! And not so coincidentally it comes upon the Eve of Allhallows Day! What dev'lish times these be, my fiends! I shall be visiting thy campus at ye local universitas en mortis sporting my most horrifying costume. I shall be dressed as the most vile daemon of supreme evil ever to beseige our age. Aye, but what? For thy answer, thou must venture to ye clubbe of gothick machinations!

Madness and cruellty to ye all!


--T.F.

I hope thou all knowest thy day. Hie thee to thy calendarium!

Goode day to all of thee, my darquelings.

I've awakened from my meditative healing trance which hath helped me deal with my sorrowe after losing title of Mssr. Gothick Seattleshire. Not placing at all was a crushing blowwe, one which shall plummet me further into Thee Abysse wherein I shall lose all form.

But alack! Check thee to thy calendary, for on this day we celebrate...

HAPPY HELLOWE'EN, OR SAMHAIN, OR ALLANTIDE, TO THEE ALL !!


But let thou not forget remembrance, also, for this day marketh thy birth of two of thee moste influential folk who have lived and/or died in our times. It is with delicious pleasure that I also wish a Happy, Haunted Birthday to actor Michael Landon and cyber/steam-punk author, Neal Stephenson! If only thy two would've met. Could not thou imagine "Highway to Heaven" set in a neo-techno Edwardian age?? Mayhaps it were no coincidence one of Master Stephenson's Baroque Cycle offerings is entitled "Bonanza"? I tremble with suche thought! Perhappes a ritual summoning of Lorde Landon is in order...


Nowest then, get thee to wyckedry on this Eve of Hallows, but be safe. Because it can be dangerous whilest prowling about a darque eve whilest wearing blaque. Perhappes one of those handy reflective strips should be affixed to one's finery. Or yet, procurement of a glowe torche, such as those raving kids utilize, is in order?

Questionne: Am I Darque enoughe to be Mssr. Gothique Seattleshire?

Here is a better questionne: Is there any among thee in this ghastly burg more fit than I, The Forlorner, to hold title to such??

I thinketh notte.

It is quite unfortunate that there are those who do not take such events seriously and even, daresay, MOCK them. Oh, they laugh, they urinate on us, but when tyme comes such that they fall short on Coinne of Realme to pay their innkeeper, they pleade for hospitality and alms! Our community must notte be divided by such petty mockery! How else shall we unite and bring about a new Ere du Noir?!

My apologies, I do notte mean to sully this pageantry with politicks. Perhappes, I'm simply feeling mine werewolfish selfe piqued by thy lycanthropic sway of thee seasonne.

Now then, to prepare! I shall entrace myself all nyght whilest standing upright, surrounded by a circle of flickering candles, mine feet pointed down the diagonals of a sacred trapezium. I call that the "Ritual of Choronzonic Forlorning". Obviously, I'll be watching Veronica Mars beforehand as I'm quite enraptured by that show, indeede.

I looke forward to seeing all of my delyghtful f[r]iends t'morrow eve!

Yes, indeed, I've checked mine calendar. There hath nay been a day so gloriously frightening since thee debut of Michael Jackson's "Thriller" (oh, and those were thy days!).

M'lady, Mistress Freyja, today be'st thou majickal day of days!! Let your witchcraftery engulf us in a sea of interdimensional conflagrationnes!!

My fellow fiends, I wish thee all a

UN-HAPPY FRIDAY THY SPOOKTEENTH!!




I am gleefully forlorning extra hard today..

Dearest Gothique Terrorlings,


My heart is wretchedly full to the brim with a'mour toward all of Thee whom I miss so dreadfully dearly! I've been quite the busy little scarab, what with preparing to pen my autobiographie and travelling thy Globe in search of the rare potionnes and powders I lost in the Explossionne of my laire.

But Alas!

'Tis thy BeWitchening season! Eville and darqueness have begun to enshroude all with their withered fingers of shad'wy grymness!

And of course, this means Thee Mssr. & Mdmslle. Gothique Pagaent of Seattleshire looms near! I shall be barred entrance no more. I am quite open to suggestionnes of darque attire suited for your humble Forlorner. I am even open to vinylle if it will win me this glorious pagaent!

I'm also quite tempted to share thoughts about some uncouthe fellows pretending to be Gothique in thee great juvenille penal colony of Denveria, but perhappes at another tyme.

-The Forlorner

I've made a decision. As thou has heard, my Dreade Lair of Alchemy recently went to Thee Great Abysse. I do not possess enough Coine of Realme to rebuild immediately as my laboratory was painstakenly built up o'er thy years.

There iseth only one solutionne if I am to rebuild immediately. I am going to audition for AMERICAN I'DOL! As thee shall see via the hyperlinke, auditions are comming to Seattleshire this Septembre!

I knowwe what thou may be thinking. "Forlorner, how cans't thou tolerate the presence of such uncouthe persons, the most horrendous and nightmarish caricature and cross-section of All That Iseth Wrong With This Land?", you might ask. Or, you may also ask, "Won't they throw things at you en masse or perhaps affix you to the flag pole with ducte tape?".

Quite simply, I have a solutionne. I shall wow them all with Darqueness. Perhappes too I shall point out that their revival of wearing silly polo shirts with thee upward-turned collar make them look quite Dummbe and such fashion were not Hip in 1985, so shall it not be Hip in this age.

Now, to practice my rendition of "Musique of The Night" from Phantomme of Thee Opera! And perhappes, something from Queen. I fancy "Ogre Battle" from Queen II, yes?

In thee wake of this recent Plotte of Terror, I've been formulating my own theories of thee Truthe of it all! I've compiled muche speculative information from weblogs, Fox News, and thy Expert compiler of sekret information, Art Bell.

Then, I found thee final piece: http://community.livejournal.com/darkcell/20492.html

Surely, thou must know where I am heading with this locomotive of Sophist reason.

This global plague of Muslimme Extremists have finally revealed their true, Sinsiter Mission! That being their declaration of Jihadde against Fields of the Nephilimme and Occultik Grand Master Carl McCoyye, and perhaps all of OURS the world over. It would seem these beastly simpletons are Underwelt-bent on preventing Carl and his band of myseterious, unknown replacement bandmates from making their rightful return as High Priests of the Order of Thy Gothique Darque Order.

Dare they move to quash the Majgickal Rites of which there iseth no resistance?? Will they aim to kidnap Harry Potter and behead him on a questionable videotape? Shall the great number of OURS take up refuge in secret cematariums and hide, or shall we stand and fight with our Swords and Magjickal Weaponry and Lightning Bolttes?? These questions must be brooded over and perhappes answered in time.



I suspect Andrew Eldritch is behind it all. I've long suspected him as a tool of the Republican Party and their operatives in Al Qaedia. Oh, Andrew, how could thou betray us all in such a manner?!! I must take my leave to mourn and revel in sorrow for us all.

Did you know that I am quite a geneology buff?

Well, it is quite true. Although my aim is to prove lineage back to the tyme of Wyzzards and Sorceria, I've recently discovered a fairly close relation to Bo Jackson.

You've heard correct. The very same athlete of American Criquette-ball and Football himself! As odd as that may sound, the absurdity absurdens! We're also distantly related with Patrick Stewart. And there ye have that.

And with that, my Fiends and Darque Ones, I must ready myself for this evening's Festivities. This nigh' shall be:

GOTHIQUE AS FORNICATION!!

I take my leave to don my fineries and take off my face!

I've finally made contact with a Cafe du Internetorium of suitable Wiye-Fiye so that I might report my horrifying nigh' of horrors!

I'm a little shaken but all around Fine. However, there has been an explosionne!

My Laire, my darque, hauntingly awful Laire of Alchemy. It's all gone! RUINED! The whole lot of it, sucked into the unfathomable unknown of the Abysse. As was much of the Lord and Lady Von Loerners' manor, I'm quite afraid.

You must understand, the kerosene lamp, it...fell over.

The reaction caused a magnificent chain reaction amongst all my stores of sacred elements, unstable metallurgical fusions, and containments of Unspeakable Eviles to cascade a fantastic gust of magickally charged energy and dismal fire throughout the dungeonarium, wherein lieth my Dreade Lair.

Nothing survived. My prized transmutatory concoctions, foul essences, and deep-cleansening facial exfoliators, all devoured.

Most of all, my prized aqua lamentorae (literally, "Water of Forlorning") is sizzled away on the skillet of this misfortune.

A darque pall once again layeth a Shroud of Despair o'er my [dreadfulle]life. This fills me with sickening glee! Except for my Laire. That fills me with sorrowe and melancholia.

Today in Ye Dread Lair of Alchemy, we shalle conduct experiments comparing the transmogrificationary properties of Amyl Nitrate and Ammonium Nitrate.


I suspect fantastique results!

Dearest, darquest fiendlings,

I've mostly been absent for quite a spelle of tyme. I've mourned e'ery second away from thee all.

Truly, your faithful forlorning fellow hath been away on what some would call a fantastical, mad-cap adventure, e'er step full of unbridled and terrible danger which ended with such an explosive, hauntingly climactic scene, of which only few were left to speak of such a thing. Hmm, not unlike thee frightening nights wherein my withered and ghastly great-aunt compelled me to spend my visits in her bed at night and during her nap times. Needless to say, those horrendous events suffered in my early 20's pepared me for the scent of impending mortal demise commonly found on my recent outings.

I believe a finger or two of ye Absinthe chased with a teaspoon of laudanum are in order.

One day, ye all shall hear of my tale, and thy shall succumb to the sorrow that surely shall be invoked.

I am muche pleased to find my gloomy skies returned to my fair shire. As I were listening astutely to thee rain drops pelting the ground, each drop seemed as if it were dropping in time with the tears of my own forlorning.

Now, it would seem I need a firmer plan of Actionne in procuring my own Fortress of Forlorning. My Dreade Lair of Alchemic Doome is ill-suited for use in my autocarriage, so that idea for temporary lodgings is rendered useless. Not to mention, the acoustics are wretched for calling to thee Aethers (though I contend they are excellent when singing along with that hillbilly wraith Dolly Parton's "9 to 5").

I admit, there hath been much derision in the House Van Loerner. Flemish blood boils at low temperatures. You know the olde saying, "Tread not idly or lightly in the path of a Flemming".
Doubt ye notte, there shall be much Forlorning to come for many a long time!

The Lorde and Lady Loerner hath decreed I must begin planning the procurement of my own lodgings. Perhappes I've worn their goode graces thinly. This de facto eviction from the family manor requires an escalation of remittances to my inauspicious creditor, to whom my cullions currently lie in collateral.

I must say, I look forward with woeful delight at the thought of my own abode of delicious mysery. There shall be candelabras, draperies of velvet, and a glorious collection of fine libations!

Dear F[r]iends,

This "Goldfrappe" trollop, of which all thee speake, is neither Darque nor Gothick. Do not allow her Siren tongue to crash thee ship of Ours upon thy breakers of that whicheth Not Ours!




In other ghastly news of Entertainery, The Golden Girls Season One is on DVD formatte!

Last eve, I found myself amongst quite the diverse crowd at the Paramounte Theater in the heart of Seattlshire's bustling green. We were all there to witness a performance by Massive Attaque. Hailing from Bristolle, in the British Imperial seat of England, they pioneered the Bristolle Sound, later known as "trip-hoppe". This diverse crowde included your typickal "blue-jean" folk, my fellowe darque gentlemen and madames, sensual blokes in large mustachery, and other assorted riff-raff who matched the stage's smoke-machine with their own cloude of strange herbal cigarettes.

It were a delicious performance of luciously driven bass, hauntingly reverberated guitar, plethoras of drums, Emminem wearing a dashing blue blazer, and of course, Elizabeth Fraser of Coqueteau Twinsse!

Ye Audiosmithe coulde use a lesson in proper soundchequing.

Some of my deare friends were asking of my whereabouts. I was remiss in explaining. As seems an occurrence growing in frequency, I apparently rolled another -3 FL, leading again to thee tasque of dislodging my cranial appendage from thy lavatorial porcelain bowl in the Gentlefellowe's Lounge. Worry not, though, as I'm now quite deft in resolving myself in these situations and no longer require assistance from the Latin-esque speaking attendants who often find me in this predicament. If I am ever to find those vile brigands responsible for this, I will send them a strongly worded letter explaining the proper use of those facilities.

Having my Folornery knocked down a peg or three, and scented with an unfavorable eau de toilette, I kept to surveying thee darque shadowes like a sullenary spectre with the aid of my trusted former mistress, the Darque Nocturne Vampyress. Verily, I was quite vexxed o'er the F.F.L. (freshly flushed look) of my visage. Ne'er shoulde one knowingly attempt to Forlorn under circumstances certain to yielde results of half-assery.

I question the sum paid out in ye Coinne of Realme. I was certain thy ticket was a package deal good for a courtesy examination of my lower digestive organs.

Your fiend and fellow forlorner, The Forlorner, here.

It hath been what seemeth as though a vexxing month of [dark)] Sabbath Days upon this weary Soulle of mine, my dearest readers.

I've recently received one of thee most hurtfulle and diaboliqual judgements ever layed down upon me: I was denied membership on thee new Seattleshire Gothick internet forum!

Please do take a moment to collect thyself, f[r]iend. I too reeled quite completely to the cold, hard ground upon delivery of this wretched news.

Thou hath heardeth me correctly. My humble request for membership on thee premiere electronic discussion group of our Gothique Sceene was parried with extremme prejudicery. Yea, me, Guardian of the Sadness, Risen Saviour of thy Woefallen, The God-damned frickin' Forlorner, cannot attain membership within the sanctuary of Darque Gentlemen and Blaque Madames.

Would thou wish to know why? Hold on to thy corset for this: The reason given by one of thee Administratrices is that I am



for their tastes!

That is so rich, I coulde make the most deliciously divine chocolatte mousse cheesecake with it. I truly am distraught over this. My anguish could fill all the phials in my Dreade Laire of Alchemy and possibly more. In fact, I am headed there now to find out. Oh, I am simply overcomme by sorrow and all feelings similar in nature.

I have the most scintillating news, Darque Ones! Our salvation of damnation is nigh! Thy rumours ye have heard are true, this is no folly. Yes, our reviled Seattleshire lieth in thee running to host the annual gothique festival, Convergence. And if that were not delicious enough, this shall be Convergence numbered Thirteen!

It is quite as though thy Great Olde Ones heard my despairing cries out, picked up thy cosmick telegraphe, and answered my sinister wishery!

Do not simply take my word for it. Click on thee following hyperlink to view all of the devilish details of Our proposal: http://www.altgothic.com/c13seattle/



I am giddy like a little boy who's been invited to eat hard candies in the back of a perfectly nice gentleman's 1978 Ford Econoline carriage and I thought it was also quite polite of him to also offer a free massage!

When I return home from my jobbe this eve', I shall commence an all nyght ritual with pentagrammes, candles, and my majickally charged dagger (thy Lady Loerner's former envelope opener) conducted with a recording of incantations of Austin Osman Spare as read by an advanced Maje who goes by "Raven Bludde" (I purchased this from him through eBayye.com). If Saturn be properly aligned with thy moons of Jupiter, it should work and thus ensure Seattleshire wins hostship of such an important event.

I look forward to the crowds of darque gentlemen and blaque madames bustling through our streets discarding their bottles of absinthe and shedding pieces of poorly crafted hairfall yarns while causing our favorite gothick playhouses to overflow with people, rohypnol, and C. trachomatis! Let thy revelry commence!!

My lovely f[r]iends, my devoutees, I have returned from thy damnable Asylumme for Thee Insane. It was Harrowing. Haunting. Hopeless. Truely, a realm the likes of which could only be survived by a master of forlornery such as myselfe. It is indeed an epic tale, on which I shall recount here. But be warned, the ending is full of twysts and turns the likes of which not even I could foretell. Yes, it is truth that though I was in full consultation with my divining tiles (personally altered for this purpose after purloining them from the Lady Loerner's Scrabble set), I could not see through the mists of Fate and Destiny. Only now, as I amble out of the Carriage of Hindsight am I fully able to note what hath transpired and transcribe it for thou, my gentlereaders.

This tale begins with yours truly in the most wretched of circumstances. I was being attended to by the most ghastly, orcish brutes who were unsatiated in their desire to prod me with insidious instruments of torture. As well I was also assailed by the discord of horrendous banshees shrieking all around my person. Oh, how I'd hoped somone would've sent me up to the guillotine that my sufferying would've ended sooner than I was intending to end it on my owne.

But when I left thee Gothique Nyght Clubbe, events turned drastically for the worse. Upon my return to Chateau du VanLorn (I make no apologies for my Belgian ancestry), I was confronted by the Lord and Lady Loerner. They demanded I cease my forlornery at once or be taken againste my very will to thee Asylumme of aforemention. I refused acquiescence. I was then confronted by two lummoxing oafs in white. They struck me with clubbes and dragged me into their metal carriage, destination Crazyshire. Lesser folke mayhaps would've seen their spirits crushed by this, but little did they know, I was long since dead on the inside.

I could regale thee with thy many sordid details of that wretched place, of the pitiful creatures who in its bowels reside, of how the madness it aims to cure is simply replaced by another madness all its own. But, my dreadfulle flocke, were it my aim to lower your already lowered spirits, I would continue in that vein. I submit, my aim is notte that but something of elsery. You see, something did transpire there of such a profound magnitude of consequnce that its proportions may only be recounted with the largest of exponential descriptives. I should warn thou must be prepared for what thouest shall read next, so I implore all to clench tightly to your Sampoernas or Djarums (whichever suits thy fancy).

Thee Asylumme is staffed by one particular Grand Master of Ye Alchemy, one Dr. Cooper. He is of the highest grade, I assure ye, likely a 5=6 in the Order of the Resplendent Sunrise. In his workings, he's achieved what I believe to be thee Philospher's Stone, a concoction in pill form that is simply majgickal! At first, they held me down and shoved this substance down my very gullet. But it was not long that I began ingesting it as though it were the most delicious of candied goodes! My dear darque ones, you must understand that this substance affected me in ways the likes of which were previously unknown to me.

This concoction, I believe it was referred to as Gleemonexxe CR (for controlled release, as I believe the original version had some unfortunate side-effects), went straight to my hypothalamus, put it in a choke-hold, and began spanking it vigorously for being the naughty little bit of brain tissue that it is! There, in that concrete and barren womb of isolation, I suddenly saw colors. I smelled smells. I tasted taste! This thing called "Life" dawned before me and I felt things that could only be described by words that I later had to look up in thy dictionarium. I dare say, one such word is what I've heard some of thee daycrawlers use, a word known as..."happy".

So, here it is. This is the twyst. What I am attempting to communicate to you all is:

I feel absolutely marvelous!!!

It really, truethfully is as though an adorable little Koala Bear shat a gigantic rainbow of loving joy and wove it into the very fabric of my mind. But I find my words fail in expressing my feelings, so I beg of your indulgence as I share a song that hath recently touched me deeply in a place rarely touched by others.

Happiness and sunbeams and cute little puppy dogs
These are the things that I've seen with my heart
Life is a happy game if you don't forget to smile
But every now and then, your face, it harbors a frown

Sadness is a barnacle clinging to your bright boat
You won't let it sink your spirits if you'll only learn to float
We are all sea captains, sailing on life's rough seas
Come on you Magellans, come with me
I've got Pie

Happiness Pie

I guess you want to know what's in this pie
Well, there's two cups love, a cup and a half of understanding
A tablespoon of good old-fashioned compassion
Sugar to taste, and you know what
The ovens are our hearts

Happiness Pie

See the sad man in the corner, he is gross and he is old
People steal his shoes and make him eat mold
His life won't be bad if he does what he is told
He should be an alchemist, and turn his pain into gold

Golden Pie

Happy tailors, happy workers, happy farmers, happy girls, happy widowers, happy free-lance artists, happy welders, happy world happy drinkers, happy thinkers, happy musicians, happy beauticians, happy mayors, happy pears, happy call goths, happy hula boys, and happy Forlorners.

Thanks to thee, goode Doctor for playing Rumpelstiltskin to my yarn and spinning my tragique sorrowe into the finest, silken gold. Blessed be to thee.

And now, as our tale unwinds, I assure all that this is merely a beginning and that all before was merely an extended prologuery. You might ask how it is I could possibly retain my name when it would seem my very being has undergone such a diametrically drastic transformation. It is quite simple, really. There is still one dire circumstance, one dreadful condition in this existence of which will hang heavy in my heart. The worlde is still full of the down-trodden and sad, the frayed and weary, the darque and tragique, the blaque and mournefulle, those crushed by thy cruellety of living. It is for those who I shall continue to weepe steadily. Until we see the glorious dawning of thee New Dayye when those wretched souls too then discover this thing called "happiness" that I've found, I shall remain forever vigilantte. As be it for them, I will be their championne.

I call out to ye all, seek this help, request this new thing! It is a high among highs, a high made of LIFE! Searche deep in thy cauldrons of your hearts, may you find loaves of love rather than satchels of hardtack. I mourn for ye, I light my candelabra for your sufferying. For this reason, for thou, I shall continue to be The Forlorner.

It would appear that the Lorde and Lady Loerner have seen fit to have myself carted away to thee Asylumme for thee Insane. This is quite a tragique turn of events, indeed. Perhappes they've grown tired of my constant forlorning. They are quite impervious to explanation of the fact that forlorning is simply what I do, that it is the roote of my very identity, if you will.

I shall see all of you soon, hopefully, when this dreadful mess is cleared away with!


--The Forlorner