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]