Groaning fulcrum of malfeasance

Much as in my experience nary a comfort-zone's been kept intact without a pivot to something sour: an essential truth is not something to be fucked with. For instance, a liquor store isn't gonna take a check in town no matter how soon yr next payday; best to operate under the pretense of grocery procurement at some place with combined lunchmeat/six-pack resources.

No, that's a lie. I'm straight dry 'til Thursday, but my my what a winter warming we've got in store then. I've been scoping online retailers of genuine Keweenaw copper tankards, that one might partake as his ilk was meant to partake... in a situation conducive to the conduction of current. Then we hit up that Chimay in charged fashions.

I best tell you now, here it is... a playlist, an mp3 link, do with it as you will... Presented: Insufferable Picks, Vol. 1:

1. Ed Askew - Little Eyes - Little Eyes - De Stijl
2. Ai Aso - Umerumono - Umerumonoizen - Pedal/Tiliqua
3. Les Rallizes Denudes - Enter the Mirror - Underground Tracks 70s - Blue Cheer
   
4. LSD-March - Black Bouquet - Suddenly, Like Flames - Last Visible Dog
5. Skream - Midnight Request Line - 12" - Tempa
6. Loefah - Twisup VIP - 12" - DMZ
7. Prins Thomas - Goettsching - 12" - Full Pupp
8. Ø - Helium - Eetteri EP - Sahko
9. Lindstrom & Prins Thomas - Run - Lindstrom & Prins Thomas - Eskimo

http://www.sendspace.com/file/vclzvk (Good for I dunno how long, don't be shocked... and if yr easily confused as I am, look for the lil' shaky arrow. That's the download link thinger there.)

So, whaddelse? It's been an internal debate on trajectory and the second-plus order tracings of initial+boundary conditions to figure how much I can claim to aim for becoming lograde 21st century Molloy or Suttree, or perhaps only 22nd century Fackelman.

Nah, I kid. I'm sturdy for the time being. Solid. Perhaps curdling a bit in these days of voluntary self-caging sans self-medication, but what you pay is what you get, fairly significantly. And what I've got is about a DVD-and-a-half left of the Wire that is available in this format, and then friends shit gets lost but fast, I worry. Or I guess maybe I just move on, but to what? I feel that anything else will seem like, well, Becker. And Netflix is keeping those Extras DVDs at arms length for the time being. Oh, life, you can be so damn cold to those of us adrift and a full week away from getting to partake in what is, apparently "the best meat lottery I've ever seen". Literally, you sicko. Laugh now, we'll see whose got $50 worth of choice, fresh cuts come this time next Monday...

My teeth never fit together the same way more than twice anymore; they make a pill for that?

Spent the day with spiced lamb and onion-whiff on my knuckles. Gotta admit... I liked it. Probably gonna do a bit of raw dabbing each morning from now on; a man what's found his scent is a man what's found his calling-card.

Of course, if yer yust yelling like yours unruly, not really calling per se, the assumed difference being the existence of a known and specific recipient of yawps emitted, then a card of calling is certainly perhaps a bit unnecessary. Like leaving a thank you note tacked in the Mariana Trench. Ah, life.

This week has certainly been what oughta be/is referred to somewhere not right here as "Basinskiesque" with dusk/twilight aligning tantalizingly with the ol' day-ending mental whistle-blow and snow drifts and billowing grays. Not sure what the 'Ski-Mask himself would say of the connotations I synth 'n sync up w/ mind-pics of Wisco's great many rotting farmhouses and fugue-state fields but it has been a bit since I've checked his new (whatever that means in his case) material. Until I get to it, Andrew Chalk's woodsleeve'd LP Goldenfall certainly did the trick just yesterday, with but three consecutive spins to hook my cheek to the crystals of nostalgia gettin' blown 'bout therein. Neon Pearl reissue on Acme, the Witch Shadoks reissue, Elephat Micah, and the new Dead C/Hi God People twelver have all been getting plenty spin as well 'round these rugs. Plenty of teardrop refraction to all the blot and beat within these fine disks, I must say.

And shit, I don't know but I guess I just really gotta mention the Natural Snow Buildings 2CDR. This is the pinnacle of gland-tugging weepish-redeye prostrate-at-the-quilt drone that I've had pleasure of in the past bit. I mean pure dramalite hot chocolate bliss. Animal Psi spoke of it some time ago, and crap, Sigur Ros is mentioned so I guess I'd better rip a copy for my Mom and eat some cream cheese brownies. It's backseat-of-the-family-car fantastic. Hope for that Time-lag reissue, I guess, 'cause it's apparently true that there are only 19 copies and I e-mailed faster than you to get one. I'm not sure if I feel obligated to post a track or what, shit I guess I will. There's 25 of 'em, and all good so here's but a tease of that mixing bowl.

Natural Snow Buildings - Dance of the Moon and the Sun - (YSI link) [if you wanna I take this down, just please tell me good sirrah... quincyhoist (grout) gmail (merkin) com.]

And for the record I haven't gone totally eyeliner droop on you. I certainly crave the Vitamin D-synthesis-ability to be able to handle all the Project Pat et al, but dammit my man-moon is hoverin' just right this week so cut me some slack.

Also pleeze remember if you're not a total choad to tune into WSUM (streamable) or 91.7FM in the lesser Madison area this Friday, 1/26, for near-cherry on-airy debasement. Do 'er. Pleeze. Justify my drudge.

Slump Kings

Who knew that, what with all the searching for "culture", wallowing at home attempting to differentiate myself from other carpet-dwellers (using my mind), questioning why is it that my eyes feel, well, the only word for it would have to be sour, and all that other winter-season-type recreational loathing (reflective, refractive, but never responsive), well whoda knew that the one thing keeping me from happiness wasn't just repeated listenings of the two Rhythm & Sound 10"s I currently own, or even the two Basic Channel 12"s, or balling up my lethargy-cultivated Brillo-chinned slack-jawedness with the crash and shimmer catharsis (sorry) of them ol' Fushitsusha sides... no, dude... it's a slow cooker.

Ahem:

"If I gotta stew, I wanna stew witchoo"

And that's all there is to it. Now there is a chance against the vinegar foot smell. Now there is opportunity to claim I am a gourmand while really I just sit and smell the two year old spices from the once-merely-decorative spinning rack slowly melt meat and tater, and it's like my weekend has a reason to live. Now I get to claim I am "pairing" it with Trappist ale or whatever.

Now I just throw crap in a pot and turn a knob one click to the right.

And it has proved to me that the less I am involved with this stuff, the better it turns out. I actually have my girlfriend turn the knob that one click, just to make sure. And know what? It works.

I was tempted to apply this less-involved-is-more approach to other aspects of my life, but then I realized that I already do. Need some work-help, coworker? Somebody already wrote this little open-source hunk of code that is much more streamlined and effective then what I'd put together! Want to hang out? Too bad, I've got a Netflix subscription and a library card motherfucker!

Seriously, this is the best winter ever. Recommend some books to me. Oversized print ones.

---------------------------------------------

Outwardly, though, in relation to something else: We're finally getting a bit of snow. Normally I only resort to weather discussions when I'm actually forced to make chatter w/ the many strangers out there, but this time it's serious. I'm glad we finally get to dabble in snow, not because I own an old bedazzled Young Jeezy shirt or anything, but 'cause it totally sets some mood for the Sähkö Finnimal (doble perdón) techno that got repressed last year, if I know right (possible).

Back when I was a bit more hormonally crazed and of liquid assets I once made the mistake of listening to Pan Sonic's Aaltopiiri during a solo 2am drive between Green Bay and Totally Nowhere, Wisco. I'm just disclosing that the "beats" "crafted" of negative charge pulses and whatever-cycle hum they fuck with just make a solo driving man all foggy-headed and incapacitated. Do not operate equipment, I suppose might be the words. I guess I should just feel lucky that it was prior to the massive Kesto causing certain low-speed collisions.

The Sähkö releases I've had pleasure to clutch have, like most of my fave things, managed to rewind my skull and make me realize what a doof I was thinking I thought that things were the way things weren't. Total repiping thru & thru. This stuff is supposedly all from 'round back '93-ish and makes me wanna ice chip up a puukko and throw up a discotheque inside a Lappi reindeer. Makes the cynical detachment and empty-vessel nonemotion of all them model facial fotos look like the blubbery histrionix-passionstorm of *ahem*...

"[Vainio's kickdrum] was soft and cool,
[his snares] were clear and bright,
but [he's] not there."

All the releases I'm currently filthying w/ my nubbins are under the name Ø, which is apparently pronounced "Ohm" but I like to think of as "Null Set". I can't share, 'cause all I've got is vinyl, but there's digital media available if you click about. I would advise that yes, you bother tryin' to find [them]. I swear no attempts at synergy here; I doubt myself capable of any "nergy", but here's a link to some actual facts (that I think I maybe got offa 200lbu tho' I don't see it in the nasty sidebar anymore), if you want further reading.

To be Young, Ig'nant, and Overwhelmed With Ass

I'd be one helluva prick to try and tell you it was a new year like you didn't roll into it dutifully glazed and devoid of purpose, completely aware that we're one year further in the Grand Cycle (I see you, 2012). I did the same, avoiding the upper-fuel'd melee and opting for a quiet night of brews and Ghost Dog. And I won't begin to imagine the concept of suggesting that change need be made 'round anybodies practices, regimen, habits, ad infinidumb.

But dammit, this is my first honest year of semiconsciousness with no obligatory book-"learning", degrees looming out of grasp, or accruing student debt (just payments!). And so a change seems in order around the Hoist household. That change, mon amis: I promise to drink less beer and more Hennessy ("The Kindest Gift") whilst at this keybored. At least while the bottle holds out.

No, but there's some actual stuff I need to get working on, and I just wanna blather all about it on these internets. First of all, I am putting my scant collection where my slit-like mouth is and opening up airwave-shop at the local WSUM. Starting January 26th, I'll be doing my best to dodge cuss words from 7-8pm every Friday. It's a measly hour, and you've got nothing better to do. It's after happy hour and before any ass arrives at your local "hot spot", throw it on while you're debating the merits of pairing a can of drained tuna with a warm, half-empty tallboy. And mebbe if you ask nice I'll pass archives along if you miss out.

Second, not to be left behind by my filthy frere Aaron Low Rent (no internet presence, thank your lucky stars), I guess I'll make grand, possibly spurious claims to releasing some tape or cd-r or if you folks really paypal the hell outta me 7" on my own vanity label, Get Drunk or Drunk Trying. I am stating this for the simple reason that by claiming it on the internet it will become true, and this is the only way I can finally will this kinda shit into existence. If you couldn't a' guessed from that adjective splatter-of-diminishing-returns last month, I know I'm just not cut out for the music review cockfight, which, when coupled with the fact that I think I've finally forgotten all semblance of quasi-trained musical abilitiy, sets me up just about perfectly to get real creative. Hell, I've got a Groovebox, which makes me at least as qualified as Peaches, and she sells tons of rekkids to non-Canadians. I'm kidding about this one as much as I was about the duckboots, folks.

Finally, lest you think my admittance of critical mess indicates some sort of cessastion of this here anagram-titled digital scratchpad, you best try to think again. In an attempt at recovering some type of bowel regularity, I am really trying to move all my myriad excretory functions to some kind of consistent schedule. Read it how you will, this "consistency". But damn, a man needs a purpose, something to keep the abject vibrational terror that claims ones chest each early afternoon from driving him to the consumption of blinding quantities of rye. My eyesight ain't what it used to be, yesterday I walked into a bicyclist, and if holding back on posting every time I feel left out by all the critical love for, say, a Susanna and the Magical Orchestra or whatever means that I can offer you some cask-er strength rant at a slightly future point, then I say how many fucking analogies can a dude attempt to juggle in one paragraph anyways?

So in summary, Welcome! new year. I hope you enjoy my transition to grotesque self promotion and a transfer of my simmering, volatile internet emotions not unlike the shunting action of a cirrhotic liver.

Remember: It's better for everyone this way.

deathprod - the contraceptive briefcase II - from imaginary songs from tristan da cuhna (YSI link) [if there is beef w/ my uploaded tunes e-mail me at quincyhoist ut gmail dut com and I'll rip that fucker down, promise]