In a land. In a time. In a land before time.200 years have passed since the events last chronicled in this journal. The members of farewell we? ORANGE dictaTor, killed in the cataclysmic explosion caused by ETA, the Basque terrorist group, have long passed into the mists of history. A new power has risen in the world, a dark and forbidding power, able to bend men's wills to its bidding. Only a few points of light shine out in this wasteland, a few free souls willing to fight for their... freedom.
Enter Vladimir Vladimirovitch, whose only purpose in this story will be to build a time machine. See Vladimir perform advanced quantum-mechanical calculations. Calculate, Vladimir, calculate. Now see Vladimir accidentally pick up a copy of Max de Pree's Leading Without Power. See Vladimir's will to live crumble under the remorseless onslaught of bad prose combined with annoying Christian ideology. See Vladimir retreat to Machiavelli in hopes of survival, only to be destroyed utterly by de Pree's horrible metaphors. "Y'see, this one time, I was watching my retarded granddaughter run into a refridgerator while I had sex with my grandmother, and then this Boston cabbie said... and that's why leadership is a good thing."
Vladimir's house lies empty for years, his time machine, fully functional, humming with occult power, lying dormant in the dusty basement of his forgotten 45th story apartment. Occasionally moths will be attracted to the light of the machine, and will be sucked back into 21st century Oberlin, OH - the town upon whose rubble Vladimir's apartment building was constructed. These moths, of course, are totally immaterial to the space-time continuum, because they're fucking moths. There's only so much changing history you can do while you're a moth.
But a time machine is a dangerous thing. Left idle too long, it can do strange things. It can learn to think, to play simple games, to manipulate the very fabric of space and time - even to become a goth. Luckily, that didn't happen. The time machine, lonely for Vladimir, cried for a while. It thought, "I am a sad, lonely time machine. Nobody loves me. I am a social reject. No-one invites me to parties." Then, the time machine played solitaire for a while. It was a lonely time machine. However, soon it actualized its place of potential, which I think is Max de Pree's way of saying "masturbated", and watched Fight Club. It developed sophisticated music taste, passing over most of the world's music until it got to early 3rd century post-indie rock. It summoned, using its strange and mysterious powers, CDs by Godspeed You! Black Emperor, A Silver Mt. Zion, and Do Make Say Think, before realizing that none of these was even close to pretentious enough. It moved onwards, identifying longer and longer album and band names, until finally it reached the most pretentious band of all time:
farewell we? ORANGE dictaTor!
Victory for the time machine. For a small time, its mechanical soul was soothed with the sweet dischords of "Sweat #2 (A Movement in Fb Minor", "Strunk and White", "It's Like a Traffic Accident: You Can't Look Away", and "Join the Opposition". Lyrics such as "A marble. muffin. And three discordant mice" soon brought solace to the poor machine. But it wasn't enough. The machine found itself unable, despite its vast powers, to retrieve a copy of the "Ill Made Pantaloons and Argentinian Land Pirates" EP. It searched and searched, its logic circuits suddenly locked in desire for more fw?Od songs, but only one copy had ever been created, and it was immediately consumed by Thomas' goat (an event which led to the eventual breakup of the band and criminal charges pressed against Thomas).
Desperate, the machine ignored its primary directive and reached back into time, back to Oberlin College, in the winter of 2002, when the ice of winter fell over the land of Mordor, chilling (momentarily) the fires of Mt. Doom. Sauron, unfortunately, was undeterred, continuing his plan to forge the "One Ring", which would rule them all, so to speak. He stood at the peak of Mt. Doom, power crackling through his "Uber-Brand" gloves, preparing to perform the ritual of...
But back to our story.
At Oberlin College, several innocent students were introduced to the music of post-indie bands, the likes of which we have already mentioned. Traumatized by the "music", they retreated into their broken psyches, unable to comprehend why anyone would think singing in "Hopelandish" was "artistic" or "good", rather than "stupid". They decided that if college students smoked enough pot, they would think anything was music. Like Bjork. In order to become insanely wealthy, they formed their own band farewell we? ORANGE dictaTor, a band which would serve the purpose of stemming the tide of pretention (by beating them at their own game) and make the students in question very rich. But they would have to pretend to eschew capitolism in order to sell records. Thus, a great ruse was begun, involving a LiveJournal site...