The Well, that once gave life to Me,
Hath in the Drought of Love run dry.
The Desert's Soul hath stole all Joy,
And taught the Very Muse to die.
Yet from this Cause of Vast Lament
Run tears - suffice all thirsts to quench:
Tears wept from Secret Pleasure's Eye.

- Andrew D. Chumbley

"Hello there. I expect this question will have been asked several times already, and you have dispelled the rumors to which I will refer to an extent in the past, but I thought I'd voice my concerns regardless. You will be aware of the rumblings at the moment concerning the future of Tool. Everyone is asking if and when the new record will be ready, is there a new DVD and VHS on the way and, indeed, whether or not Tool have decided to call it a day. I would like to ask if the band will be making an official statement as to their intentions for the future, whether written on or through a webcast. In the news section, you recently informed us that the band were rehearsing new material and that much of the tour had been filmed, with the possibility of some footage one day being released, but still toolspeak is awash with fans telling each other the end has been and gone without so much as a goodbye. Several of these chat page oracles are claiming to be friends of the band, which I have a little cynicism towards. It is, however, altogether possible and therefore cannot be ruled out. To finish, I'd just like to apologize on behalf of myself and all the other impatient Tool fans who repeatedly ask these questions, but we really would like to know either way for certain. Thank you in response of some sort of answer, be it a statement or a cryptic message in the next newsletter that I'll finally work out after a year or so."

To the e-mailer, and to all others, let me just say that I've already addressed these rumors, questions, concerns, etc. in the November newsletter. I did this in the last sentence where I was wondering to myself where the tour bus driver (whose name is AL) slept when he wasn't driving. About this particular sleeping arrangement of his, I said that: "I am perplexed." Therefore, as the e-mailer suggested, my answer could be seen as a cryptic message. That said, I feel that I should caution all those Crowley aficionados out there not to be so damned sure that this means what they think it does.

As for the tour's final daze, there are a couple of things that I'd like to add. First of all, to all those concerned (and, predictably, there were scores who were), the alpha-numeric code (NE1469) that unlocked the band bus was changed as soon as the tour was over:). But to the few who thought this would make a good vanity license plate (with the soixante-neuf connection), not only do I happen to agree with you, but that was exactly what I was thinking( plates for my new car) when I came up with it, deciding instead to go with BSIRUIS, and let the boys on the bus have it for themselves (pun intended).

A lot of people have e-mailed asking about Breck's computer program that was used to count the number of kick-drum strikes. I had been informed that during a recent show (the night of the fire in Maynard's dressing room) the number that "Stinkfist" generated was exactly 666. Although this seemed like a humorous coincidence, when the band did their sound-check in Fresno, "Stinkfist" yielded the same number (666), only this time the final tally came from only a single bass drum, and included all the hits as Danny warmed up prior to the band actually playing the song. And this time, I saw the data for myself. And finally, my thanks to JR. and Breck for getting me the black "Delicate" shirt. I know it wasn't easy guys. That should fetch a good price on e-bay (I'm kidding, Wally).


Some vegan lovers of pizza wondered where I had this bare bones pie. Others said that "they liked bread too - that bread is good", and still others wondered if I was bored, or that nobody cared about my chef skills (to which I replied that I didn't say that I made the pizza - I just ate it, which seemed to infuriate them even more). But one person made the connection with the date of the posting, noting that December 14th was the birthday of the sixteenth-century "prophet" and astrologer to the French court, Nostradamus. Move to the head of the class my friend! Of course that's why I posted the "pizza" bit. What did you think: that I would waste someone's time (or my own for that matter) by writing about a pizza that I had on a particular date (anniversary)? You see, I happen to agree with a few other researchers out there who believe that Nostradamus was a secret agent for the house of Guise and Lorraine and that the seer's so-called prophecies were actually cryptic messages in the form of elaborate ciphers that contained vital information having to do with military strategies and political machinations involving the French Court (similar in some ways to the "angelic conversations" recorded by Dr. John Dee, the Elizabethan scholar, astrologer Royal, and magician whose mystical language of the Enochian texts may contain highly-complex ciphers that need to be cryptoanalyzed before they yield their secrets). It is also possible that Nostradamus was privy to the great secret of The Priory of Sion or some other Fraternal Order descended from the medieval Knights Templar, and that this secret involved activities in the Languedoc, and in particular in the Razes (the area of Rennes-le-Chateau today) having to do with the socio-political climate of the time. When Nostradamus mentions the "Great Monarch" in the rhymed quatrains he may have been referring to the Merovingian dynasty and the mystery surrounding their bloodline (as the underground stream). Whether or not he was truly initiated into the secrets of some quasi-Masonic secret society like POS remains unknown, but I have discovered some very interesting things by using certain key-words (hinted at above) while playing around with certain quatrains from his book of prophecies known as "10 centuries." There is also the possibility that both Nostradamus and John Dee had been granted 'a vision of the angel Uriel' by way of the same mysterious book that they were shown.

(originally titled "All the Seats were Occupied")

Reading a recent e-mail sent by one of you reminded me that I haven't yet shared the details of a rather strange incident that occurred following last October's Crowleymas. The e-mailer, a person from Kentucky, was telling me about a "rare occurrence" that he experienced while at a local Arby's (the Colonel must be rolling over in his grave*). Evidently, the change he received back from a #1 combo and a sticky bun totaled six dollars and sixty-six cents. Certainly this was just a meaningless coincidence, but there was something about that particular number and the sticky buns themselves that made me think about the Crowleymas episode (I'm not sure why).

To celebrate Crowleymas, my friend Stacey (whose magickal name is Petallpynx) and I were staying on the 23rd floor in the Luxor pyramid in Las Vegas. A fragrant candle appropriate to my personal frequency was lit on the make-shift altar (I don't use too many 'special effects' when in hotel rooms). Petallpynx was wearing my black robe with its scarlet uroboros (Gnostic and alchemical symbol of a snake swallowing its own tail) encircling the hem. I'd forgotten the "rich headdress" of popular Egyptiana, and there wasn't enough time to take the inclinerator down to one of the Luxor's shops where gaudy 'ceremonial regalia' such as Cleopatra's headdress were readily available for tourists. So instead, I opted to cut out the nemyss from a picture of a pharaoh in the hotel room service book and affix it to Petallpynx's golden tresses. The ceremony itself was quite simple; I merely wanted to pay tribute to 'The Great Beast" by having Petallpynx read some of his heavily-jeweled prose.

At the chosen time, she began by reciting one of my favorite verses from AL (I:61). Then some other choice verses. Afterwards we enjoyed a good bottle of wine before having a late dinner of Sushi and gambling a bit in the Luxor's casino. However, prior to the priestess's recitation, while she was taking a lengthy shower, I had performed a ritual of my own design. This was a ritual/meditative procedure in which I fixed my attention upon the flame of the single candle placed within the center of my shadow (when outdoors I would focus on the Dog Star Sirius or use some other stellar analogues to 'create' reality rather than a single candle flame). It was then just a matter of waiting for the desired result. The first odd thing that happened was that I couldn't find my favorite wine opener (a mauve-colored device) when it came time to open the Merlot. I know that I brought it with me, and knew where it should have been, but it wasn't there. (NOTE: As I took my shower, Stacey called room service to have them bring up a corkscrew. This little plastic thing with the Luxor logo on it cost $11.00. Why the d*****s didn't order some snacks or a plate of cheese {for her] and tell them to include a wine opener I can't explain. And by the way, the corkscrew is still missing).

However, when I realized that my favorite wine opener was 'lost', I recalled something from Crowley's "Confessions." In the Autohagiography he says, "I have noticed that every time I receive an important initiation, some cherished article mysteriously disappears. It may be a pipe or a pen or what not, but it is always an object which is impregnated with my personality by constant use or special veneration... the theory is that the elemental or familiar spirits in attendance on the magician exact, so to speak, a tip on all important occasions of rejoicing."

So perhaps since I offered nothing, they just went ahead took something to their liking. And what better thing to take in Vegas than a corkscrew?

The rest of the evening was rather uneventful (although Stacey's black cocktail dress was rather nice). As I said, we ate sushi and lost at the video poker machines. It wasn't until the next day that things began to get somewhat strange (at least in my solipsistic multiverse). On the drive back from Vegas, while about 20 miles past Baker, California, as we passed a pickup pulling an average-sized ski boat (ingeniously named LIQUOR BOX - "good one, dude" surfer girl Stacey says), we saw something quite unusual off in the distance. As we got closer this turned out to be a small convoy of about a dozen or so military type trucks. What was so unusual was the color (or lack of color) of these vehicles. They were camouflaged almost beyond belief, not at all like the typical 'desert storm' sandy terrain colors. In fact, they were a color that blended perfectly with the surroundings, more like a ghostly mirage or even a hologram of sorts than a camouflage paint job. The impression I had was that these vehicles were using some type of technology that made them appear almost invisible, but that at that moment, they were experiencing technical problems with it. It's hard to explain, but the scene was quite eerie, and it became even more so when we saw that those inside and suddenly climbing out of the trucks were all dressed in ominous black uniforms. Was this some kind of Special Forces training mission with an attempt at invisibility I wondered? The more I thought about it, the stranger it seemed.

But it was later that night that I believed I received the 'gift' from my Crowleymas ritual. I was checking out some books that were being auctioned off on e-bay when I came across a newspaper that someone had listed. This was "The Indianapolis Star", dated July 8, 1947. The headline read: DISCS STUMP SPIDER MAN, WEATHER SEER. Under the caption, the paper was reporting on the flying saucers that were seen over that city at the same time as the now-famous Roswell 'crash/retrieval.' It begins by stating that "the flying disc or saucer situation in Indiana by yesterday really was serious." The "spider man" thing had to do with a local prophet of sorts who was going to peer into his skein of spider webs in an attempt to let mankind in on the secret. And, among a list of other things, the paper said that "at the same time a South Bend motorist used disc chasing as an excuse for speeding, an Indianapolis man said they were jet-propelled flying jellyfish... and another local resident went to the city hospital mental ward. She was found by the police hacking holes in the sidewalk with a hatchet and said she was trying to drive the saucers away.

At this time I would like to quote something from Crowley's mystical treatise entitled "Atlantis, The Lost Continent." " The 'houses' of Atlas were carved from the living rocks by the action of Zro in its seventh precipitation. Enormously solid, the walls were lofty and smoother than glass, though the pavements were rough and broken almost everywhere for a reason which I am not permitted to disclose."

Sheath'd in a mask of emerald -
The Desert 'neath the Verdant Land,
Until the Sapphire Waters wash
The Pearl from out each Grain of Sand.
Upon that Sea the Stone shall float:
A light to lure the Mage's Boat,
Like Dew caught on the Spider-strand.

- Andrew D. Chumbley

* someone will no doubt e-mail to tell me that the Colonel was cremated.



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