tentangle

Octopi attacking subs, giant squids fucking up fishing in the East, yeah... my guess is Leviathan has woken from his slumber and we're about to get some splash. I'm knitting a stocking cap with "I Roll With Hagbard" on it. Oh, and that panda sex too. I forgot about that.

Things of Note: When I sweat, my hands smell like waffle cones. At least, they do to me. Perhaps there is some Belgian inside me that I don't know about.

Also: Where the fuck is the sun hiding at? I can assure everyone here in Madison that it will return only after my doom-laden CD order arrives: Boris, Corrupted, Keiji Haino, and Burzum. Yup. Question is: would the slap-your-forehead nature of having a beautiful weather shift upon obtaining such cloudy murk only be more doom-appropriate, all things considered?

All my pennies saved, foil packet and a brick

I am fortunate to have many friends that pride themselves on being able to practice gastronomical alchemy. I don't even know what 'good food' really is, but overhearing their explanations of tantric kneading techniques, forbidden roasting practices etc. I know that they do. Unfortunately I have not yet been able to arrange a full 7-day table cycle where I can share my skills in mooching and spilling beer with different acquaintances each evening. As such, I maintain a sack full of ramen (or, as Mom insists, 'Ramon') under the counter.
Which works too, 'cause for some reason I cannot get sick of this stuff. And not because I switch up delicate ramen variations with diverse additions to go Gourmet on a Budget. Always the same: same bowl, 'cause I know the exact water level for proper broth-powder-molarity, break ramen pack crossways and lengthwise once, forming 4 approximately equal "noodle seeds" along with some debris, put the noodles into the bowl in the correct inverted-pyramid arrangement (squinted eyes reveal a noodle-palm, opened and offering its bounty), slit the flavor-pak and pour into the palm (dust, from the wind, returns to answer all if you can grasp it), and then water (cold, to shock the palm and bring circulation to the proceedings). Three minutes twirling on the greasy microwave tray, and then time to cool. Then partake of this unholy cocktail. My girlfriend is of the stovetop ramen camp, for which I suspect improper raising. Fit only for the drunkest and latest of hours, this method assumes that those noodles can some how absorb broth and flavor, which is absurd. That is like saying perfect could get any better. Not to mention missing out on that last mouthful of tiny noodle shards slurped with broth from the bowl. There is a curse, though... slight throbbing pains in my chest, like running cramps. Perhaps that is simply palpitations resulting from the ecstastic Rapture experienced. Also, having seen Tampopo several times, I know I wallow in a lower level of heaven while cowboy hatted Japanese truckers gaze down from on high at my inferior drug. But I am happy, and for that I tip my bowl to ramen and let a somewhat incredibly flavored belch.

Whadda week it's been. Tuesday nite morphed from abusing Steven's copy of acid to produce cracked skank and jeepless heights of flutter into a no-way-I'm-gonna-make-class-tomorrow Stone Temple Pilots dance off. I thought, as always, of my paper route. And have decided that someone oughta take the loose claws offa these songs, redo them in a stripped 'n fey style, and call themselves Soft Tempered Pillow. Go right ahead.

Thursday featured the largest semi-coherent lineup for Valkyrie combustion yet assembled. Tag-team styled cage matches of roll and float ensued; gravity was reminded that we used to blame 'vortices' for its effects. Goofus whupp'd Gallant's ass but good.

Now we find ourselves in October, somehow. Wet, warm (relatively), and perfect for loads of Otis Redding 'n readings, which is where I now retire to...

Dented and Cemented

Nothing like some fucked up iPod disk to remind one of the glory days of a paper route with nothing more than a beat up Sport Walkman (yellow! waterproof!) and copies of such classix as Sonic Youth's Dirty, Archers of Loaf's Icky Mettle, Fugazi's In on the Kill Taker, and, er, Misfit's of Ska II. I still remember one route customer's name, in particular. Reinhardt Kaufman. Frequently I would see a man, possibly Reinhardt, in an all khaki getup doing some gardening. Sometimes I saw a much older man in an identical getup, also a possible Reinhardt. Which was the real Reinhardt? This will haunt me, I am sure, for years to come... whereas this iPod will only haunt me until I throw it out the goddamn window.

Now that I have vented my spleen and scared Laura off to the bedroom with a little Chi Vampires (which woulda totally fucked with me as I trundled along the route at 6:30am on a Saturday morning, before sunrise in winter... which is probably why I have such a deep love for Doggystyle and The Chronic, come to think of it...) I feel it is safe to start performing unholy rites on this little four button bastard. I know the cycle it plans for me: Perform this disk check, show a lovely little checkmark indicating that everything is peachy. Then, when I add more than 5 fucking playlists to it, it will flag at least one as a random 'mp3 mine', such that when I attempt to play this certain playlist (viz. Afrika Bambaataa's Looking for the Perfect Beat) the iPod will cease operations for some unspecified period of time, sending me to my backups (if I am at work): Galactic Zoo Dossier's Tape of the Month club, vol. 1&2.

And thusly do cassette tapes make a very strong argument in their favor to me. I will hold you close, dear cassettes, and will never dishonor you with the buffoonery of clever-but-unlistenable lowbrow mixtape thematics. I will never put you in my deck if my shit eats tapes, this is my solemn vow.

I continue to slowly fill the new hard drive with CD after CD. I wish I had kept up with iTunes updates, as the old version I was using was horrid at recognizing song/artist/album titles, leading to many hours of data entry. Now this is a step forward towards a technological utopia. If only it could guess the titles of limited-to-50 copies Finnish folk CD-Rs...


I've also added some different links to the right. Specifically, some QuincyHoist-related things so you can internet-stalk me all over the place, look at pictures of me standing next to a marble rooster wall-engraving, or call bullshit on my musical pretensions by pointing out that my most-played iTunes selection is Don Henley. Enjoy.

I think I may be coming down with the cold that my dear Laura has been suffering from. Either that or it was a bad idea to eat an orange after cleaning the gross stuff at the bottom of the fridge yesterday. I only realized that I had forgotten to wash my hands when I noticed a wretched smear of brown/green on my palm. Hopefully, that just gave me a boost of antibiotics that will keep this looming sore throat at bay...

Add another book to the list of things I'd like to read...

I've heard of you.

When weather patterns result in freakish 40 degree days on January 2nd, complete with constant drizzle, the only way to go is a healthy dose of Twin Peaks and tacos. Or at least that's working out pretty well for me tonight. And the forecast is indicating strong possibilities of similar weather for the near future.

"So what?" you say... well, crap. There goes my hopes of perhaps going snowboarding this month, that's what. Instead it'll be the booze and the books and the tunes and maybe the recording of the sounds. So not too bad. But snow woulda been kinda, I dunno, neat.

As for now, I've dedicated my time to piling the music on to my computer. EXCESS EXCESS EXCESS. I figure if I rip, I dunno, 10 CDs I day I'll be done... crap... I need to do more than that.

Yup, life is rough.