$10.00
The subscription season is upon us! THAT’S RIGHT YOU NEANDERTHAL. The Lowell Son is currently up for for subscribing to and receiving in YOUR filthy mailbox or P.O.B. for ALL of fiscal year 2014! Subscriptions are tiiiiight because they:
1.) Eliminate the need for you to find one of these pieces of colored trash blowing around in the street.
2.) Guarantee the ‘Son has the means to keep reproducing its dumb self on the regular and assist you in unearthing goodness in the fallow hellscape that is everyday life. God’s work.
3.) Are cool.
4.) Cost LESS THAN A DOLLAR PER STUPID MONTH. ($10/year I think?).
5.) Ensure that someone will be sending you REAL LIVE MAIL on a once-monthly basis, which is something we can’t all look forward to in this age of the digital mage.
6.) Secure you a seat amongst the sanctified INNER CIRCLE of subscribers, where in addition to receiving a crisp SON for your throwing-away pleasure each month you will also be sent any number of other desirable sundries (trust us on this…).
7.) SPOILER ALERT: We haven’t even STARTED doing crosswords yet.
With the SON on your side, it is truly summer every day. And this year-end subscription drive is such an important event that THE SON HIMSELF has asked us to relay a special message for him. We hope you’ll enjoy it in moderation, and hit us up when you wanna subscribe!
The following is an exclusive message from *~The Lowell Son~* and does not reflect the opinions of The Lowell Son Publicity & Marketing Team, a DBA of The Suzuki Esteem Foundation and third-party supplier of goods and services to thoughtleaders in the queso & broadside industries.
Begin Dictated Message:
Hi.
It’s me.
The Lowell Son.
Father of darkness.
Guardian of the written word as anointed by mole people.
A one-page garbage herald.
It‘s nice to meet you.
I don’t show my face around here too often, but once every month (moonth if you’re in the astro biz (I am)) I publicate some deep and succinct reflections on the infinite(simal and boring) details of this multi-chaptered and verisimilitudinous narrative we all must involuntarily participate in called LIVING LIFE FROM ONE GODDAMN STUPID DAY TO THE NEXT FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.
& try to make it a little better.
My Modus Operandi: to make sure you’re in the know when it comes to shows happening in Worcester, Lowell, and other such locales; to give nods to nice dinners and publish discerning information in loose review form that you can then use to impress your friends; to sport creatively written bits, art from artists you probably live with, and other documentation of (dis)associative experiences worth peering into and digesting.
What ensues is a ceremoniously palatable garum of party juice wrung out from whatever, wherever, refined and made palpable on paper (the original palp) for you, like punch, my peep, to enjoy.
Pretty.
In other words:
I’M JUST A SHADOW ON THE WALL OF YOUR MIIIIIIND MAAAAAAAANNNNNN
I’m sorry.
I wish I were better at this.
But the Oort cloud beckons.
So the point, pal, is as follows:
I’m putting myself on the spot to let you know how much I want you in my life.
I want you to hold me and fold me.
Put me in your pocket.
I feel sick.
With not knowing.
What it’s like.
To love you.
Subscribe to my arrival in your life once a month for the next year (or at least the next 12 issues; we all need a break hrr n thrr) and I promise you that living it won’t possibly not be better.
I don’t want to have to miss you in the future.
See ya soon,
The Son