Demo Drop

Adam Feilmeier — Wed, 11 Nov 2026 00:01:00 GMT

Listen: Long Con
Listen: Front Porch (at the End of the World)
Listen: Red Runs Blue
Listen: Ghosts

Prepping for a show at Burlingame Town Square on 11/22 and cut a few acoustic demos in the process.

B. helped me mix Front Porch and wrote a new tune called It’s a Jolly Christmas in the process. We’ll try to slide that one under the tree next month.

Transmutation in a Time of Cholera

Adam Feilmeier — Wed, 11 Nov 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Were it so inclined, a word as consequential as transmutation could easily slip into some tighter-fitting alliteration or exude a touch of feminine charm. Instead, it mutates.

i.e. Our little boy is mutating before our very eyes.

So it’s comforting to know that even alchemists have a blind spot.

Time is meaningless; manage energy instead, the bodhisattva imparted. Peppy and late, Jill strode into the morning meeting feeling positively transcendent.

The rancher had witnessed but one stampede as unnerving; a fiery derecho, fierce in its roar and exhaustive in its destruction that sent some 300 cattle racing toward the saltwhipped safety of Bodega Bay.

The second one was different. Abrupt.

Calm skies and a sedate herd all day. Upon touchdown, it lurched without mercy.

Seated at the window and hunched over a cup of coffee, he never saw it coming. Pandemonium. And all to catch a connecting flight to San Jose.

The man waited to speak as a mystic foretold severe times.

In times of cholera, she concluded, wise men require three things:

For health, apocalyptic fever. For wealth, nothing is saved. For happiness, death.

The man nodded. Completely agree. The ability to make things happen and making them happen are two different things, which is why—wait—did you say death?

It’s gaslighting, but in a benevolent way. You know?

Yosemite Sam lit out across the Sierras in a Model 3, his eldest riding shotgun. The holy spirit had been spotted near Modesto and that shit was going viral. Just this side of sundown, Sam spied a swarm of cars off the freeway and turned to his son. Say your prayers, Vincent. The boy bowed his head: There’s a fly in every ointment. And transformation in them there hills, Sam replied. Amen.

Sobriety is something of a broad spectrum antibiotic, but you really ought to get that looked at.

The freshly anguished boy howled with abandon. It breaks my heart into a million little pieces to see him this way, his mother told Brandon. It hurts my ears, Brandon replied. Chest pressed against Brandon’s, nails dug into his lapels, she despaired further. You must fix this – all of his friends have one! The boy’s wails punctuated her plea. Ma’am, like I told you, we’ve been out of the blue chakras since last week.

By now, the interrogation lamps were blazing and the suspect’s lips were dry with thirst.

The detectives smelled their opening. Last chance to save yourself. Tell us now: How’d you kill the magic?

The weary suspect hung his head: The usual way.