Feeding Fingers: "Where the Threads are the Thinnest" Maxi Single

straying away from the usual album format to keep their listeners from waiting so long between releases and to offer them a chance to hear unreleased and past work in a new light.

Feeding Fingers will be releasing a series of maxi singles throughout 2012. Each single will include new material along with accompanying b-sides, demos and other rarities.

The new single, “Where the Threads are the Thinnest” also includes an intimate version of the song, “My Imagined House” (from the album “Detach Me From My Head”) for ukulele and voice, along with a version of “Manufactured Missing Children” (from the album, “Manufactured Missing Children”) for piano and cello – both arranged and performed by frontman, Justin Curfman.

“Where the Threads are the Thinnest” is available now (MP3 – 320 kbps and Lossless FLAC) exclusively at www.FeedingFingers.com.

The physical CD and the usual iTunes, Amazon, etc. distribution channels will be made available in late January / early February.

And for those of you that may have missed it, “Wrecker”, the debut novel from Feeding Fingers’ frontman, Justin Curfman, is available now in trade paperback and Kindle editions at Amazon.com.

Best Wishes,

David I. Nunez, Management

Tephramedia (Germany / USA)

"Wrecker" Justin Curfman

Amazon.com. “Wrecker” is available in:

• Trade Paperback
• Kindle Edition 

Thank You for Your Support,

David I. Nunez

Tephramedia

ATTN. REVIEWERS:

If you are interested in reviewing “Wrecker”, please contact David Nunez at -

tephramedia@gmail.com

He asks me to tear the cheese singles into small strips and to place them strategically onto his face – in the shape of a nice, full beard. However, he tells me that I must first pinch him as hard as I can, wherever I please and make him cry. Rutger tells me that his tears are the best cheese-to-skin adhesive that he has ever known.

I pinch him on the neck. His eyes well up. He starts to cry. I tear and begin to carefully apply the cheese to his face.

Rutger fights his tears, regains his composure for a moment and looks at me directly in the eyes and says, “You get three chances. If this beard doesn’t look good… I will kill you where you stand.”

His doctor drilled a small hole into the man’s thumb, put the thumb into his mouth and sucked the powdered bone fragments out though his lips – hollowing out the arm and hand entirely. The doctor plugged the hole in the man’s thumb shut with a walnut.

Soon thereafter, the man found  himself in dire straits. He knew that the had to find a way to earn a living. He had to do something. He had an idea.

In his elderly mother’s basement, he tied his limp and lifeless arm off at the elbow with a red, rubber hose. He pulled the walnut out of the hole in the end of his thumb with his teeth and spit it across the room – breaking a window. He inhaled. He put his thumb into his mouth and blew. He inflated his arm. He taught himself how to sculpt birthday-party-balloon-style animals out of it.

My stage persona is loud and obnoxious. I am a showman. I am crass, crude and confrontational. I am wearing a velvet, salmon-colored tuxedo with shiny, white leather shoes. I can see that I have a moustache.

I smoke a cigar and stand on my tip toes. My assistant never says a word. I deliver some routine comedy bit and it seems that the name of my show is, “What Time is It?”. The audience repeats the name of the show after me in unison.

At some point I notice that everyone in the audience is naked and has a bowl on their laps. Their oily faces shine under the lights. I realize that their faces are covered with honey.

As they watch and listen to my comedy routine they all reach their hands into the bowls and remove roasted pumpkin seeds from them. They press the seeds against their faces. The seeds stick there.

I watch everyone slowly cover their faces with pumpkin seeds, in between punchlines.

Everyone laughs as if I am the funniest man in the world.

As my routine winds down, I get serious for a moment and tell the audience that I have been diagnosed with cancer and that I am, in fact, dying. I look to my right. My assistant is crying.

I tell my audience that I will miss them and that I have appreciated their support through the years.  I look to my assistant and tell her the same.

Finally, I open my pants, take my cigar and grind the burning end of it into the end of my penis – just for laughs. “Good night, ladies and gentlemen! I love you all!”

She Sat Alone in a Birdbath Wrapped in a Thousand Bandages, 2011, Justin Curfman

A shy, doughy lesbian in her late thirties with rosacea, khaki shorts and a very unfortunate haircut allows me to set fire to her house. Her name is “Joan”. I promise her that I will extinguish the fire before any serious damage occurs.

I know that I have a friend hiding in the house. I know that he is hiding in a closet somewhere inside. His name is Anthony and I also know that in my waking life he died of heart failure when we were both twelve years old.

He is holding his breath in a closet in the house with a stopwatch in hand, trying to break a personal record. He is afraid to let his presence be known to “Joan” because he was not invited. He broke into the house. I know that setting fire to the house with Anthony still inside is risky, but I know that I will most likely never get the opportunity to set someone’s house on fire with permission to do so from the shy, doughy lesbian in her late thirties with rosacea, khaki shorts and a very unfortunate haircut.

This is a rare opportunity. I decide to go through with it. I encircle the house with gasoline that I pour from a large, red plastic container. I strike a match and toss it into the fuel. Suddenly, it’s night and the house is engulfed in beautiful, rolling yellow, orange and blue flames. I then have no interest or intention of extinguishing the fire – it’s too remarkable.

I stand and watch the house burn to the ground with Anthony still inside. I never hear him scream. I assume that he is still holding is breath – most likely his last one.

A young girl wrapped entirely in bandages sits quietly alone in a bird bath in the front yard behind my right shoulder. The water will keep her cool and safe. I know that she hopes that I die here.

The shy, doughy lesbian in her late thirties with rosacea, khaki shorts and a very unfortunate haircut rests her thick body upon on her grass-stained knees in the front yard, watching her house being consumed – tears stream down her pudgy cheeks. She has lost everything.

Brittle, shredded black tires and rusty steel belts are scattered haphazardly about. The sun grows too intense for her. Her freckled, leathery skin transforms into a thin, reflective sheet of mylar and peels away from her body with one sudden, painful gust of wind. Just before dying, she wonders what her children will do about dinner.

The class has no real directive. And the class has lasted for days – with no known end to look forward to. I know that we, the students, are here being threatened with the violent loss of our lives if we attempt to leave or so much as avert our attention from the teacher in any way.

Urine, feces, menstrual blood and more have long shimmied down the legs of each girl and boy in the classroom and have piled into ever-widening mounds of soupy fertilizer. We are all mentally and physically shattered. We started with a handsome, young history teacher. He wore an expensive, black Italian suit. He was tall, dark and athletic with chiseled facial features. He was a connoisseur of World War I and World War II – as most men seem to be. He insisted that we call him, “Kevin”. He gradually morphed into a stereotypical female art teacher – complete with tie-dyed summer dress, hemp sandals, bad hair and the rest. She wears a necklace with a locket. Somehow, I know that the locket contains the only known photo of my loved and long-deceased cat, “Popeye”. She is a very unpleasant woman. She never tells us her name and she speaks very little.

She places a hotplate on her desk and turns up the heat. She empties a bag of shredded cheese into a glass beaker and places it on the hotplate. The cheese melts. She removes the necklace from around her neck and eases it slowly into the melted cheese, carefully so as not to burn herself. Once the necklace is entirely smothered over with cheese, she turns off the hotplate. She tells us to wait quietly for the cheese to cool and harden around the necklace – and we do, as if we have a choice.

Without warning, she smashes the glass beaker with a single blow with both of her fists locked together. The cheese rests on her table – a solid block, encasing the necklace. She asks, pleasantly, with a look of madness behind her messy, curly and dull hair that one of us volunteer to remove the necklace from the block of cheese, using only our fingernails. All of us eagerly raise our hands, hoping for the simple opportunity to rise to our feet. Before the teacher is able to choose one of us for the much coveted task, she begins to cry hysterically and she asks herself, “What am I doing?”

In a Chinese restaurant in a small town somewhere in the southeastern USA, a fortune-cookie is cracked open by a frequent customer. This time, it isn’t a fortune. It is a newspaper clipping. It is a randomly selected sentence from a newspaper. The customer is infuriated. This isn’t what he paid for. He gathers the crumbled cookie and the newspaper clipping together in his plump, clammy hands and searches for the manager of the restaurant. Not seeing anyone in the dining-room or at the cash register, he decides to barge into the kitchen. He finds, much to his disgust, a long, narrow, conveyor belt with at least fifty, presumably illegal, Mexican laborers seated on rickety, wooden stools all the way down the belt on both sides. Each of the Mexicans has in his hands a newspaper and a pair of scissors. They are clipping sentences out of the newspapers. The clippings fall onto the conveyor belt and are taken to two, petite and young Chinese girls, dressed in red, silk dresses. The girls are putting the clippings into fresh, uncooked Chinese-cookie dough at impossible speed. A monstrous oven waits at the end of the room.