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They Might Be Fictionalized

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Wow [Jan. 13th, 2007|09:55 am]
They Might Be Fictionalized

My dad knows the johns, has since H/s... I've hungout with them since I was born, this is crazyness
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(no subject) [Apr. 27th, 2006|01:10 am]
They Might Be Fictionalized
Whoaaaaaaaa. I remember this. Not like it matters much 'cause... it's dead and all.

No one will ever read this... but I still have this username and that rules.
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(no subject) [May. 26th, 2005|10:06 pm]
They Might Be Fictionalized

[mood |nervousnervous]

Open to: Everyone
When: Before they started touring all together, after the borders show (if there was such a time... let's jsut pretend there was. :P)
Where: The sidewalk leading to Flans's apartment and comments would prolly be inside it.

Poor Dan's afraid of being alone... :(Collapse )
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letter... [Feb. 27th, 2005|08:22 pm]
They Might Be Fictionalized
[mood |discontentdiscontent]

Letter to: Flansburgh

Flans...Collapse )
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And now for something completely different. [Feb. 27th, 2005|02:06 pm]
They Might Be Fictionalized

[mood |hopefulhopeful]

Because having more threads is fun. :3

Open to: Karen.
When: The day before TMBG leaves for the 'Here Come the ABCs' promotional-tour-thing. (Back in time a few weeks from the other recent thread, then.)
Where: Prospect Park.

I want another first kiss like this..Collapse )
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Drink, drink, this town is so great.. [Feb. 24th, 2005|11:32 pm]
They Might Be Fictionalized

[mood |drunkdrunk]

Open to: Everyone who would logically be present on the bus. (Marty, Flans, etc.)
When: A bit before midnight on the 24th, while in transit to Bryn Mawr, PA for the next in-store there.
Where: On the tour bus.

Linny is soo under the influence.Collapse )
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Poker Game. [Jul. 21st, 2004|11:27 pm]
They Might Be Fictionalized

[mood |peacefulpeaceful]

John Linnell finished up his last sentence quickly, ignoring how irksome and untidy his handwriting looked against the pale brown margins of the contrastingly clean, classic styled page. He was about to stand up and put the journal way, when he noticed he had signed "John Sid" at the bottom without even consciously meaning to. A small smile wormed its way onto his facial features as he noticed this - it was rather like Pavlov’s dog, in a way. The dog, upon hearing the bell, would salivate. John, upon feeling rushed with a writing utensil in hand, would sign things. Both habits, John’s and the dog’s, had been formed through repetition. John often felt many facets of his personality had been forced into by him utilizing this method.. in an unintentional kind of way. This similarity had in fact been one of the reasonings behind why he’d chosen to write the song "Dinner Bell"; the entirety of the lyrics about not knowing whether the narrator would rather to have this or that piece of food were parallels to choices he had in his own life.

Shaking his head, he stood from the bunk, stretching and cracking his back as he did so. Well.. he grimaced at the dull ache that formed there, Headache or not, I may be needing my painkillers anyway. He closed the pages of the small book with a satisfying thump, and then bent over to tuck it away in the side of the case that also contained his old red accordian.

Once satisfied that it was sufficiently hidden away, he wandered over, past Flansburgh’s rather disheveled looking bunk (the other man’s sheets were all in a large heap, laying half-off the far side of the bed to grace a portion of the floor, where scattered articles of clothing also resided) and twisted open the door to meander into the main corridor. Within a dozen feet or so, he made a left turn into the small community area, the centerpiece of which was currently a green, fold-out table. Seated at adjoining sides of this table were none other than the two remaining Dans; Miller and Weinkauf. Danny rose to greet him with a grin, tossing back his thick, dark-brown hair as he did so.

"So you’ve decided to join us?"

Linnell found himself nodding and saying, "Yes, sounded like a good time. Do you guys have poker chips, or do we need to find them?" He eyed the blue-backed set of Bicycle playing cards Miller was currently shuffling, then cast Danny an inquisitive glance.

"No," the bass player responded, "But Miller brought an excess of board games along, so we’re just going to use Monopoly money for betting. Works like a charm; more fun than chips, anyway." Dan looked up at this acknowledgement, and he and Weinkauf exchanged grins. "Anyway," he continued, "what we DO need is more players. You up for finding both Flansburgh and the new guy?"

"Sure, it’s not like I’ve got very much space to cover looking for them, is it?"

"Well, you wouldn’t think so; but you’d be surprised at the places Marty can hole himself up in." Danny frowned, "We all suspect he secretly listening to fusion jazz in a closet somewhere, so we don’t all make fun of him for it."

He ended up displaying one of his grins of amusement that happened to show off a good portion of his gums, at this, as he chuckled. "Really now?" he asked, rhetorically. With this dialogue completed, not really expecting an answer; he continued onward to the kitchen, suspecting he might locate, at the very least, Flans there helping himself to a snack. Plus, he reflected as his tummy gave a slight, audible jolt; he could do with a bite to eat himself..
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After the show... [Jul. 16th, 2004|11:29 pm]
They Might Be Fictionalized

The house lights were on, and most of the crowd had filtered out of the various exits when the show ended. John Flansburgh emerged from backstage, thrust aside a curtain and plopped himself down on the edge of the stage. He wiped the thickening layer of sweat from his forehead, and smiled at the small gathering of people who were milling about. Once they saw him, they made their way to where he was sitting, proffering CD booklets and DVD jackets for him to sign. His usual comments followed, "Did you enjoy the show?" - "Thanks for coming out," - "We're playing in Dallas tomorrow and the next day, tell all your friends."

He was beginning to get tired just as he placed his autograph on some of the last items. It rarely worked out this way for him, many times he'd come out after the show entirely dead and rather grumpy, bordering on envying Linnell's way of sneaking back to the bus after every show... but of course, he didn't act on his grumpiness very often in front of the fans.

He shook hands with a freckle-faced boy of about 11, and waved goodbye to the people that lingered around him. The thought of getting back to the bus, splashing some cold water on his face, and maybe having a drink or two appealed to him greatly. He left through one of the back exits on the side, and walked through the hot night air to the idling bus. "Yo guys," he greeted as he passed the Dans and Marty, who were engaged in a rather heated game of scrabble. He grabbed a water bottle before continuing on to the other section of the bus, eager to drench himself with it. He uncapped it and downed more than half of it without taking a breath, pouring the rest of it on his head. He could feel the cool liquid racing down his back and mingling with the sweat that already moistened the back of his red plaid shirt. He shuddered, and pushed open the door to the sleeping quarters.
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