~ FRESH TENDRILS ~

all photos credit: DiabloLangosta, staff snapper.

StumblyMumbler is nothing, more or less, than a digital simulation of a hologram displaying the quantum-entangled reality of the avatar of ^{_{Chapbook Pamphleteer}}, an Old Soul spending time just hanging out.

He could be playing a beat-up yet unstickered strapless gut-string acoustic guitar alone at the music bandshell on the ocean side of the beach park anchoring the open-air agora of general greetings and public discourse in the citizens’ square at the center of your favorite surfing spot’s beach town.

Or, pounding sweet beats on a portable e-kit and shaking snow off the arches of the archaic venue with great acoustics found smack dab in the middle of her chosen alpine mountain town.

(…or may be found that one hiking trailhead that leads to Big John’s fishing hole, the one with the moss-green, mirror-surfaced lake and skinny ghost trees and the ice-cold creek with swirling nooks between boxed-in boulders, great for chillin’ the fresh melons that Emmy-Lou was so fond of slicing up for the kids in the later afternoon Indian Summer sunshine…)

(You know, StumblyMumbler knows that ONE spot, your favorite place to BE, when the urge to enjoy a beAUTIFUL DAY (or night) indoors or outdoors strikes thee. Because that is where you’ll find him, ol’ Stumbly, Mr. Mumbler, and that’s where he will always be!)

The one place nearby on earth with the isolation needed, without the crowds, unscathed. Loneliness or belief, hope or fate, or all of the above, at the same time, _{in the middle} of a ^{mosh pit!} — an experience so phenomenologically bewildering it satisfies and fulfills, satiates and regenerates and reinvigorates, procedurally generates motivation and positively motivates the operations of the margins in the mind, all the time.

THAT is what StumblyMumbler is all about.

And THIS is where you landed!

So, kick back, have a chat with your new friend right now sitting on the sea wall with you in realtime right there, feel that fiery-hot cup o’ homemade joe burn the fingerprints off your fret hand, squint into the sun as it sets super slowly into the casually curved horizon, and ENJOY LIFE as YOU live it…

[ self-motivational podcast voice trails off as Jeronimo de la Mirada, the deep-voiced Argentinean _{(or was he from the other side of the Andes?)} cuts in to the audio track as if he were ^{already there}, which is something he does, and after a while you get used to it. ]

Congratulations! That was a prime parking spot you just scored. And you managed to snag it without Vulturing or having to drive more than five times around the block until that shiny, clean bespoke car with its I.C.E. engine idling for the last five minutes, driver’s door ajar, car alarm chiming charmlessly, passengers buckled in and ready to roll… until THAT car finally departed like a unionized background character actor stunt double cued by the director to set the scene for the Real Actors to get to real work just as you rounded the safety-coned corner one last time in search of that perfect spot for the day to clumsily park your sea salt-rusted, surf-stickered jalopy curbside, slap your flip-flops upon the rough asphalt road surface with a determined intention not seen since never, set said flip-flops to “Behind The Sun!” and start your fantastic and well-deserved, very relaxing and enjoyable Day At The Beach, RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW!

_{[ the deep and resonant voice of Jeronimo de la Mirada departs as the sound of a disembodied tongue licking rock salt from the shiny rim of a fruity-looking margarita glass fades into a pool of reverb like ripples in quicksand, boat wake milkshakes, surrepticious soundwaves bleed endlessly into an entropic echo, then a prolonged, overmodulated subwoofer catastrophe, leaving only a noisewall of feedback to remain until silence ]}

“The one place on earth with the isolation you need, or the crowds you crave — or both, at the same time, _{in the middle} of a ^{mosh pit!} — that satisfies and fulfills and reinvigorates and procedurally generates and positively motivates and operates in the margins of your mind…”
. . .
[BLENDER GRINDING]
[GLASSES CLINKING]
[ICE CUBES TUMBLING]
[SALT CRYSTALS BONDING]
[LIPS SMACKING]
[GROTESQUE SLURPING]
[AMPLIFIED GURGLING]
*(NO CARRIER)*
[ SILENCE ]
. . .

Jeronimo de la Mirada, a.k.a. “Joe Promo”

Now, time to put down that eternally glowing Star Baby-style handheld monolith with the blinky-blinky and flashy-flashy and wiggling eyeballs of a doppelganger’s shadow, Doomscroll For Armageddon on Someone Else’s Dime, and feel free to choose your very own path from the best spot in the lot to the hot beach sand to the sweet spot below the wind-carved bend in the sandstone cove next to the cold-and-wet but supercool cobblestone berms below the vertical, sand-shedding bluffs betwixt the concrete-and-cobble conglomerate sea walls and open sea by perusing at your leisure the words of StumblyMumbler.