Radio Mix 1 - or- Audible Caramel

First radio show mix is finally up! Expect much better, brighter, butter-drenched things from Nick & I in upcoming shows, as Nick wasn't such the optimist and didn't put together anything for our show yesterday. Due to Nick's incompetence, this is a less mind-blowing single hour of music.

Starting now, every 3 to 5 P.M. on Wednesday, check out Cofc Radio and listen to a live stream of our two hour set. Will you like it? To that I say, "If you like beer." (Out of context, as it is seen by most everyone save for five other people, that comment seems fucking stupid.)

A better assessment of how much you will like it? It's better than crawling.

If you have something better to do during that time, which most likely you do, you can come here and I'll post an mp3 of the set whenever I get around to it, with badass artwork included.



Click the image for a nice marine-mammal sized version.

Download Here!

Tracklist:

01. Cut Copy - Bright Neon Payphone
02. SebastiAn - Walkman
03. Roger Troutman - So Ruff, So Tuff
04. Justice - Never Be Alone (DJ Hell's Bavarian Remix)
05. Lipps Inc. - All Night Dancing
06. Toronto - Electric Toothbrush
07. Twenny Nine With Lenny White - Citi Dancin'
08. Matthew Dear - Dog Days
09. Capsule - Feeling You
10. Casco - Cybernetic Love
11. Nicolas Vallée - New New York
12. Metro Area - Read My Mind
13. Victor - Go On Do It
14. DJ Pui Pui - Simple Life
15. The Immortals - The Ultimate Warlord
16. Château Flight - Baltringue
17. Dynasty - Strokin'
18. Data - 7 Months To Forget

Oriental Magpie Robin

I need to stop falling for the same girl.



But she's everywhere.

Irritant

In the usual fashion of public bathing, this morning's bathroom rituals blew ass. Of all the things I truly hate in this world, and the list is damn small, I just can't handle Dial soap. It's the fucking devil incarnate, and I'd rather bathe with rancid lobster bisque caked with mummified dog semen than touch that malicious yellow bar against my skin. But that's all I could find and I hadn't the patience to pull my pants back on and go buy a bar of something decent.

Window Shopper

This is in no way a cry for help.

Ever feel as if one day you'll come back to your hometown and you'll be forgotten? A moment in the past of other's that is all too corroded, the green penny inside the air vent you can't reach. That's what the last two days have felt like. I've run into several people I used to know (and technically, y'know, still know) but no one seems to acknowledge each other's presence. In my account it was more of me giving a brief glance, or a smile, but they're never returned, always stuck in the peripheral vision.

Maybe it's the loss of a distinguishing facial feature, or maybe I'm no good with acquaintances.

More On That

On January 24, 2008, Stortz was found shaved in his third-floor room on St. Phillips St. in the less church-surrounded area of Charleston. According to his roommate Nick, Stortz appeared fully bearded as he arrived home at approximately 4:30 p.m. EST with plans of mindlessly surfing the internet, entered the bathroom at about 4:45 p.m. to piss, and as he returned, found Stortz still severely fur-faced, with a puma track jacket, and grey beanie. Beard Trimmer "Conair" arrived at approximately 6:30 p.m. to give Stortz a cleaner look, and when he did not emerge by 6:40 p.m., negotiated sensible shaving ideas with no answer. Conair entered the bathroom, began to shave some thicker patches, and tried to style Stortz's face. Conair called actress Mary-Kate Olsen, whose number was very much not programmed in Stortz's cell phone. She replied she would have no part in talking to an inanimate object. After again attempting to just barely shorten Stortz's beard, Conair called Olsen again, and at 6:48 p.m. realized he had cut far too close, and had rather fucked up his beard in a severe way. Medical workers moved Stortz to the floor, used a pair of scissors and razor, and pronounced Stortz clean-shaven and baby-faced at 6:52 p.m.

Lab partners said they found the new look to be sad and worrisome, and that there were "no obvious signs" of losing a bet. An initial beardtopsy later that night proved inconclusive at determining Stortz's cause of clean shavedness. The medical examiner's office stated it will take about 10 days to have a decent stubble.

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I can too easily see the phone conversation.

"Hello?"
"Hi... who's this?"
"Oh, er... well it's Heath's masseuse..."
"Why have you got his phone?"
"Hahah oh! Um... well he's sleeping and won't wake up, you do anything to him?"
"No, haven't seen him in ages, is he alright?"
"Yeah! Well I guess, perhaps I should try and wake him up again... Nope, still nothing"
"Have you tried, oh I don't know, calling an emergency medical unit instead of calling a twenty one year old blonde chimp-faced trash bag with legs?"
"Er, well...no. Totally fun talking to you though!"

The masseuse definitely called Mary-Kate out of pure star-strucked-ness, why the fuck wouldn't you call 911 first.

You Kissed Shannyn Sossamon, You've Had Your Run

Death Toll / Family Outting / Brownout

How well does the imitation or view of historical events stand next to fact? I was reading a lot about how film makers are the most influential visual historians of our time, and how their decisions on what we're shown have a searing impact on how we identify with moments of time. Take for example, Oliver Stone's JFK. I remember renting that movie for research when I did a biography on Kennedy for 4th grade. Still remember my mother cringing as the word 'fuck' was used in rapid semi automatic succession during a scene with a wigged man.

Anyway, that movie totally blew the Kennedy conspiracy up in the air for an entire generation, after it had taken forever to settle all of those decades. The fucker Stone makes out Jim Garrison as some hero trying to claw his way into the impenetrable facade of corrupt American government. In actuality, Garrison was a fucking kook who tried his damnedest to argue his point with the thinnest of connections. But that movie made me such a believer! Sure I was only ten or so, but fuck did I get that fear that something was wrong with our politics, and turned into a little pseudo liberal yoo-hoo loving dinosaur collector.

All of the hysteria and conspiratorial hissy fitting after JFK's assassination on Soviet involvement and other more outlandish bullshit just makes me think of how godawful the media was post-September 11th, everyone sniffing out as many loose ends as possible and filling in the cracks with their own concoctions of what went down.

Flemish Humor

Went to put on a clean plaid shirt I had in my closet today, but before leaving for class, noticed a decent sized tear under the left arm pit. Was thoroughly pissed, but thought it could be easily mended. Turns out it's more of a tennis ball-sized hole, left there after my damn mutt of a dog ate through it during a nervous breakdown when I left her alone at home for the day a few days before leaving for downtown.

I can't tell if it's her semi-subtle way of getting back at me for leaving her, 'cause she chews on my clothing in areas where my scent would be strongest, like my boxers and the under arms of shirts. Maybe I taste good, but vanity most likely isn't the answer here.

Notice how once in the plaid mood, I had to find and wear the now-crippled shirts twin.

Also notice how my left eye is a festering cess pool of gooky pink-eye-dom. Somehow contracted viral conjunctivitis, very unhappy. Constantly go cross-eyed and can't for the life of me focus on anything even slightly bright. Went to the school's health department with little solution. Fuck.

MAY0208CMB3

Can we end the teaching of how to make things bold and size 40 to teenage girls?

Skinny Girls

There are too many girls I want to paint, but I always end up painting dogs or swiss cheese meets semi-automatic mountainscapes.

Daughters

Once you pass the age of 18, do you feel weirded out about 18 only porn sites?

Thomas Hobbes, Limousines, & Nepal

Nothing gets much under my skin, well nothing other than my own doing or saying, self reflection and all that. I'm not impenetrable though, there's a soft fleshy under belly that doesn't heal all that well if reached. I'm also not one to cause bad blood, but somethings just need to be said and done. Not everything slips by.

Over the weekend a good and endearing friend of mine had their birthday, and their ensuing celebratory party started out all well and chipper, but then a shit ton of that "parade rain" esque gloom covered it thicker than fuck. A thick fuck at that.

The perpetrator knows well who he is, and most likely will never read this, though I'd wish he would, however indifferent he'd be. Mostly I'd like to point out that however many times you throw yourself at people, seething with that unbridled calculated apathetic snarl, you're cutting your ties with humanity more so than trying to improve it. You shout and bark for acceptance, and play all of the well worn and ragged cards of the socially inept middle school weirdo. Stilts drawn and towering over your crowd of spectators, all crowded in a corner, incapable of escaping your malicious intent. While we're looking the other way, you shout down how we're all elitists, near-spitting that we'd might as well have our entourage of servants laugh for us (to save us from exhausting our fat gloating throats) at how much superior our caviar stained lives are.

Well you're fucking right they are.

I'd well choose to be slightly more socially inclined, somehow markedly more mentally stable, ten fold greater in the accomplishment field than just be a caricature of what was once a person. You say elitist and mumble bastardized comments of your views on people, and then puppy-eye beg for acceptance and rationality. If you'd like to be accepted, consider friendly engagements, consider not talking down to someone as soon as your glazed over view semi-focuses on most of their face.


I wasn't fully and utterly pissed about the fucked up actions at said party until they soaked in after a few days of sobered realization and discussion with friends. You don't fucking come to someone's party, disassociate yourself with everyone, and then vocally slander them. This is more than one person. It's someone's fucking birthday, not just another place to get drunk. I know myself and others are notoriously retained and away from others at parties, but we don't group up and bash people. This is all too whiny and bitch sounding, but for fuck sakes it needed to be vented.

Some of you are still alright.

Dark Tide

Some times gratuitous amounts of illegal music, social anxiety and a dry week are all you need.

Today I thought of how awful life would be if I saw someone get killed in front of me.

Fragile.

Packaging Tape Is The Loudest Sound On Home Video

I have time on my hands, and thought I didn't aim near enough the multitude of stereotypical blog related posts during this month, one being a re-cap of highs and lows of the past year.

This is damn hard for me because I've got a bad habit of not being able to consider much anything earlier than a few months ago. So this might be asymmetrically weighed on the more recent than pre-summer 2007. But 'fuck cares, right?

Anyway, an thoughtfully uncategorized selection of 'bests' & 'worsts'.

Anything vague or stupid sounding is there to protect my standings as a decent human being.

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Best New Album Cover: Danger's "09/14/2007" EP

Worst New Pet Peeve: iTunes fucking stopping a currently playing album cause you're browsing around artists. (Probably fixable, but fuck)

Weirdest New Necessity: Having to miss every reflective bump on the road when changing lanes.

Best New Purchase: Laser Disc of Videodrome (Not true, as this was done like... a week ago, after New Years. (But again, fuck)

Best All Encompassing Experience: Eating corn in a bar with a drunk couple and shy poor postured English student in the depths of Montreal's night-life side.

Worst Luck: Leaving my bike on the side of town where a female cop said "hell I go to church by there, but I'd never leave my bike outside." Fucking fuckers. Fuck.

Best DJ Set Experience: Tie between Geoff playing The Cardigans more than once at a party, and SebastiAn being lifted above his decks by fellow Bangers to float above the crowd at the Daft Punk Afterparty.

Worst Smell: Whatever the fuck kind of perfume my mom puts on in excess (noticeable in car and in parent's bathroom)

Favorite New Dog: German Shepherd. (& this weird 1/2 sized brown husky thing this Asian kid walks around campus all the time.)

Worst New Powdered Medication To Obsess Over: Gold Bond Extra Strength Medicated Powder

Best Girl Experience: Finding an excuse to increase relationship status with two different girls in the same room a month apart.

Newly Respected Artist/Person: Tony Sinclair, Juan Maclean, Tom Hanks, Michael Mann

Most Adorable Text Message: My mom trying to figure out how to text, here's the message as it originally appears, to prove its cuteness:

"Hi john i miss you would you like to go out for a quick dinner wednesday and i can get your dirty clothes and mdOO ggg v giv df give you the shejkjj5 shelves you need for the baa coffee pot this is my first text message by myrself iljjj ill get better please call me love you mom uf"

Worst/Coolest Scene: Watching a dead discarded dog in someone's yard get slowly smaller and smaller in substance due to the large buzzard population near my house.

Favorite New Cereal: Quaker Oatmeal Squares. (Fucking unbelievable)

Most Desired eBay Items: '50s era helicopter pilot helmet, nice wooden laserdisc player, New Wave single, plain-backed black cafe racer jacket & Stephen Hawking's Hot Air Balloon if it were still up for bid.

Most Desired Transportation Device: A Honda Motocompo, or a Honda c50.

Newly Acquired Taste In Noise To Wake Up To: Fake rain from one of those Brookstone-y sound machines.

Nina Beneath The Drying Octopus

Back downtown, and a new sense of enjoyment comes out of rearranging our room. The whole nestling effect is so true, putting a chair or coffee pot in a new corner is unnecessarily satisfying.

My fears of insomnia cultivated last night, when (through the wonders of my thoroughly fucked schedule) I fell asleep at midnight, woke up around 4 AM, and didn't fall back asleep until thirty minutes before my alarm went off. P. Diddy has never scared the living shit out of me so much.

During all of my attempts of finding sleep I did one of the least proactive things, which was to start deeply considering the implications of having the ability to stop (or infinitely slow down) time. A lot of thought concentrated on how I'd abuse it to up my income, and how I'd also use it for terribly mundane benefits, like having really witty comebacks.

I might write a short story on it. Genies may or may not be involved. Space genies. Or like, the monolith from 2001. But in a lamp.

Hmm..

LIke Some Herd Of Strippers

Saw a family of eastern screech owls last night, as I turned down my drive at 6 in the morning.

Good friends though, and bisquick.

Classes start soon.

This has been the first shit post on this, I am deeply sorry.

& I don't want to get vague about things.

I'm buying my mother's Christmas present eleven days too late because I'm a selfish spoiled stuck-in-own-asshole son.

That's only if I can part with money that's not even mine.

I'm baking her a cake with the present though.

She loves coconut.

Retro Decay

I have a personal vendetta against Oakland Athletics now, due to a watch with their insignia on it chipping my lower front tooth, cause it has a push-in back and I need to change the battery.

Oh vanity.

Heavy Aching / Necessity To Crack Wrist

No reported death from clinically described insomnia has ever occurred. I can barely make it past 36 hours as it is, even with a thoroughly fucked up schedule. Apparently the longest recorded time of someone staying awake was 449 hours.

That's over 18 days.

Two and a half fucking weeks.

I am thoroughly baffled by the human body time and time again. Insomnia is a funny thing, as it's overly name-checked and cried by the majority of teendom as a condition so many suffer from, when in reality people just bitch about all of the distractions we put ourselves in front of. Fucking yes you won't go to bed at a decent hour if you've got a plethora of useless knowledge sitting five feet from your bed, plugged into your wall and connected to world.

Sleeping is a large part of natural life though, as it's pretty damn necessary for functioning at a relatively normal rate. A scary and relatively fucking secret disorder is FFI, which apparently is more rare than The Neverhood and the Butcher Cover combined.

You apparently just... don't sleep. Your homeostasis is disrupted, your body doesn't dig the new schedule, and within a few months, you're dead.

I think it's strange how this sort of information is so readily available to us all. Think of when it was first found in the early '70s. No one outside a very limited medical community was probably aware of this disease. Especially no one outside of the general region. Now here, a few decades later, I'm exposed to another fearful medical issue that has no way of harming me, but just lacing my already over thoughtful mind with new matter.

Myodesopsia

I see these. A lot. I've lived most of my life with these hauntingly faint and transparent bits of string floating aimlessly about my vision. For years I would attempt explanation with friends and peers, but no one seems to have them as well. Wikipedia seems to disagree, saying it's apparently not all that uncommon.

I'd spend a great deal of time in a state of distraction on my drives home from my dad's house trying to focus on them, or when I'd find myself staring up at the sky.

Maybe some day I'll draw the prominent one I have.

Bells & Percussion

With Corn In The Field & Wheat In The Bins

One of the worst feelings, and a sadly common one, especially in a smaller city, is the chance happening of running into, or being in the general same vicinity of someone you're no longer acquaintances with. That awkward stiff glance at each other, with an uneasy knowledge that you both saw each other, and have nothing to say. You know deep down you'd like one of two things. A chance to make up what ever fissure of bullshit has made this interaction unbearable, or the ability to shoot their hopefully very dead corpse into the sun, never to be seen again.

Since one is a little more than your budget can handle, and the other out of reach, the heavy grudge (or lack of common public mingling) rests in the air about the whole place. Not to solve this in any easy way, but as a reminder of the countless lost friendships we will all endure over our life, I devised a device to keep our conscience buoyant in the sea of regret. At least to help show a little empathy towards each other.



The apparatus would just hang on your wall, as nondescript or homely as a coat rack. Out in the open, a constant reminder of a human no longer present in your daily thoughts. Yeah, you've got a lot of other things to think about these days, but it's still funny how people slip out of your limited abilities for compassion or decent amounts of thought. A plaque on the corner of the device's hanger would read the person's name, and a brief history of their importance or portrayal in your life.



It would attach to your face, and stay put with adjustable straps, four to be exact. They'd connect to a hoop, that was attached to a veritably infinite flexible tube. Inside this tube would be a reflective metallic-like surface, that would act as a mirror. Little perforations would run down the length of the tube, acting as air holes and lighting the interior.



The other end of this tube would be connected to an identical apparatus. This one would be in the possession of the person who you've fallen out of contact with. In essence, any given time you would look inside the tube, a distorted reflection of the person would be looking back at multiple angles inside. This is on the chance occurrence the person is trying to get in contact, or at the very least thinking of you as well. In a perfect representation, one would have an entire hallway dedicated to these people, in hopes of remembering or reconnecting their broken ties.

This way fuckers could never again act like they've never met you before, when you used to spend the night over at their place. The people whose mother's still ask how they're doing, and you know you have no idea.

I Always Try To Bring Irony To A Firefight

My future plans of reversing my sleep schedule and becoming fully nocturnal are not too far off. It'd never amount to anything but horribly fucked up unless I had a group of others to rely on and stay up with though. Some day it will happen, something close to vampirism. With the opening of a 24/7 Walmart and a great length of activity to do each night, it's not out of the question.

Currently my schedule is set to falling asleep around 2:00 PM, waking up around 6:30 PM. With my hair now shaved close, I'm closing in on being a very streamlined human specimen.

New sleep schedules mean new dreams, as I hold to it that dreams come off more extreme if you have them without any sense of when you went to sleep, like this afternoon.

Though I've got shit dedicated to dreaming, might as well post the peaks of the misty remembrance of what went on during my sleep:

- Was on an elevated train for a good deal of dream, big cityscape.
- Visited a collectors store, argued the price of a Gene Simmons talking wall plaque.
- Had to say good bye to (apparently) a girl I loved, as it was very heartfelt, her leaving the train in semi-tears. (Good thing I have no clue who the fuck this was.)
- Two instances of having an "Iron Chef" cook off with friends, one dish of mine being French Bread pizza.
- Dismantled a very tall satellite relay tower in the offskirts of city, met a very attractive and sad android.
- Nearly fell off said tower.
- Had to fight enraged girl who's school was apparently massacred by a large group of androids, as she believed previously stated android girl was part of it.
- Fell down multiple stories of street level after earth-shattering air-strike called on section of city.
- Knelt under a train, waiting for this friend of a friend, who had recently turned into a dope fiend.

Overall, you can tell I need to get outdoors. Fast. At least I'm not seasonally affected yet (or was it anymore?)

Oh and on the subject of sleep, fuck sleep paralysis, my only real fear when it comes to awkward sleep patterns.