| Sunday Night Mix - Volume 8 |
[Aug. 2nd, 2008|08:04 pm] |
Live is amazing. It's really life changing. The reason why this took me so long is because every time I sat down to record it, I got distracted by how fun it is to mash up songs and the hours just evaporated. I'm not quite at Girl Talk level yet, but I'm getting there. My next mix is going to be more mashup-ish. So, after one false start, it's finally done. There are 2 biggish mistakes and a few other minor ones, which I can attribute to my LC2 because I'm not comfortable with it yet.
Download Sunday Night Mix - Volume 8
- Ilkae - Orange Line
- MIA - Paper Planes
- Hux Flux Deluxe - Random
- Ted - Clark
- Magic Spells - Crystal Castles
- 15th Stage - Osborne
- Black Heros - Lex
- The Move - Boom Bip
- Detune - Osborne
- 23 - Blonde Redhead
- Lights and Magix - Cut Copy
- D.A.N.C.E. - Justice
- Britney - Dead or Alive (Radio Version) - team9 vs Britney vs Daft Punk vs Dead or Alive
- Acceptable in the 80's - Calvin Harris
- Computer Camp Love - Datarock
- Some commercial from YouTube
- Dictaphones Lament - Tycho
Enjoy! |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 28th, 2006|09:40 pm] |
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Turkey burgers are a healthy alternative to your basic beef patty. It's a fact. You get yourself a nice lean mound of ground Turkey, it's like Mr. Purdue smiling right into your soul. Rip that plastic off, my friend. Toss that salmonella-infected Styrofoam tray into the trashcan. Stir in some Old El Paso taco mix and you've got yourself a tasty treat any Mexican would admire. Aye-Carumba! Mold it into a disc and you're in burger town.
Turkeys are stupid, contemptuous creatures, did you know that? You should feel no shame digesting their delicious flesh. They stomp around in circles like savages, in a display of endurance. Stompin' drives the lady turkeys crazy. It's a a mating ritual worthy of your deepest, boiling contempt. Face it – if God didn't want us to eat turkeys, he wouldn't have shaped them like a ball of meat on sticks. Their entire body structure is comical.
this has been a test of the Writely.com "post to blog" feature. |
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| Life Lessons |
[Sep. 2nd, 2006|03:00 pm] |
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As far as lifestyle adjustments go, leaving a 20 year educational career is up there in terms of fuck-you-up-edness. It's kind of like leaving Disney World and being all excited because the emasculated green alien from the Bugs Bunny cartoon gave you a hug and said you were his favorite little Earthling. And that seems pretty cool while you're in Disney World, but to the rest of the world, you've just been molested by a sweaty, failed actor. And what does a restraining order and a deep sense of shame get you in the Real World? Not a whole lot. But you shouldn't let that get you down. The rest of the world is often very wrong. Just look at Tuna Casserole. Perfect example. Do you eat that shit?
Okay, the green alien dude might really love you, but don't you go running back to him, you hear me? He's no good for you, just like he was no good for Bugs Bunny, and you sure as shit don't want to end up alone on Planet X with your strange friend leering at you over a malfunctioning death ray, do you? So when you find yourself wandering around your darkened apartment, crying because you can't decide between shrimp-flavored Ramen noodles and stale Cheerios, wondering where your life derailed, remember that you made the right decision. That's life, buddy, and the sooner you make good with that, the sooner you can stop spending half of your paycheck on huge bottles of Crown Royal and start working on that beer gut that crept up on you out of nowhere.
Lesson over.
But a lot has happened since graduation. I got stuck in Barcelona, got pulled over by a bike cop, pretended to be an academic, pretended to be an idiot, pretended to be a pirate, ate some clown faces, made some sh!t, made a new mix, had some drinks... The list goes on and on.
But now I am turning 26 - entering the twilight years. I need to get my shit together and master my destiny. To start with, I've bought myself this sweet-ass gold watch - a retirement present for my youth. I'm giving myself a nice pat on the back and shipping myself off to that great Assisted Living Center called Life. I hear things are tough out there, but I am prepared. I've got my swiss army knife, some waterproof matches, and your mom's digits. Sweet Jesus Almighty, I'm ready.
Prospects? I've got piles. I'm prospect-infested. Prospects be fallin' out of my pockets, oozing out of my pores. But if none of that works out, I can live of the fat o'the fuckin' land. Me and Ma Nature, we're cool like that. She's all: "Oh Jeff, how I long for you to suckle from the teet of my ever-ripening vine. I am truly your Bitch, and you are my Pimp." (exact quote) That's how I roll. My life-muscles are toned and oiled, ready for battle. And in celebration of this new stage, we're doing the only logical thing that someone in my position can do:
driving an hour north.
This will be the site of the festivities. Jealous? I know. But someday, you too will turn 26, and you can rent a lake house of your own. |
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| Explosive |
[Feb. 20th, 2006|09:56 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  explosive | ] |
| [ | music |
| | the soft sobs of my neglected inner emo | ] |
The end to all of my problems has pulled in to my brain-garage. The next time I have to stand in front of a group of people and give a presentation, I'm just gonna give in to what I've been fighting all of this time. Go with the flow. Be one with the universal forces. I'm gonna get up there in my adorable little shirt and tie, arrange myself at a 45 degree angle, cranium pointing out over the audience members, and just let my head explode into piles of chunky bits like Gallagher. But no hammer is needed. The internal pressures will provide sufficient explosive energy. And the rednecks in the front rows will be prepared with their garbage bags and umbrellas, but the slutty blond in row three didn't know it was "that kind of show", so she's gonna experience my medulla oblongata, straight up. Actually I am surprised that I have been able to keep it unexploded for this long. And no, I don't think I'm the only one whose head turns explosive when placed in front of large numbers of people. I just think I'm the only one who has realized that it would be okay to just let the fucker explode. But now the cat is out of the bag. Could be the beginning of an epidemic. Or maybe I should rent it out like some kind of party favor. "Exploding Head: Great for PTA Meetings, Clam Bakes, and GOP Fund Raisers". Well, I suppose it would be more of a purchase than a rental - sort of a one-time-use deal. |
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| reflection |
[Jan. 9th, 2006|07:52 pm] |
I just squashed a cockroach with a rock-hard TV dinner. That is the type of thing that really makes you stop and evaluate things. But what a way to go, right? |
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| blinking = Christmas |
[Dec. 22nd, 2005|11:29 pm] |
Please enjoy the holiday greeting that ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) melissathakissa and I prepared for each and every one of you, individually.
Download Holiday Greeting, Windows Style 25.7M
Download Holiday Greeting, Mac Style 26.3M
Second, for you Windows folk, please download ChinASCII - the only game I know of based on the poetry of Charles Bukowski. Made by standingreserve, Mr. Klainbaum, and Mr. Jeffish Himself. Here's the teaser:
Welcome to ChinASCII and Congratulations! You are now Charles Bukowski's alter ego Chinaski. To help Bukowski become a successful poet you must control three different aspects of his life. Only by maintaining a healthy balance of sex, booze and menial labor can Bukowski create the gritty poetry that we all know and love. The meters on your left tell you how well you are doing in each area and if you neglect any one of them for too long it's back to the post office for Bukowski. Now, let us reflect.......................
Fall '05Well there she is. We finally put a bullet in her, and now she's hunched against the wall, clutching a $60 Bogost course reader and a toy guitar. She was a tough broad. The bitch really knew how to stick it to us. Took us by the balls (or equivalent) and paraded us through town while the kids laughed and shouted, "go back to undergrad!". What a travesty. What a fucking travesty.
That whore got what she had coming – robbing all of us of our first-year innocence, dragging us up to her whore-bed, whispering her sweet whore-promises into our ears. "Fame, prestige, bad posture, stress migraines and progressively degrading eyesight!", she whispered. And what do we have to show for it? A hazy group of traumatic memories and a chud-baby of a thesis proposal. Yeah, she had it coming.
And now the body is still warm and we're already off celebrating, toasting to admittedly mundane but long-abandoned luxuries, such as sleeping in on Sundays and cleaning the toilet. Go ahead, give her one last kick in the kidneys – she won't feel it now, but it's good for yer soul. We have more noble pursuits now. We can pin those stripes on out dark green, revolutionary-style uniforms (heavy starch: for formal revolutionary occasions), and be proud that we made it all the way to that spider hole and dug the bitch up. Now it's thesis time. Time to put aside childish things (toy guitars included) and start shitting ourselves about something that actually matters.
But what did we learn from Fall '05? Well,
1.Mustaches make everything aprox. 500% more fun
2.Melissa is good at keeping secrets
3.Germans know how to work the beach
4.Crack heads make kickball aprox. 900% more fun
What did you people learn? |
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| I'm an asshole |
[Dec. 15th, 2005|01:04 am] |
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This is a long, boring correspondence that I am taking part in right now about a DVD that some woman bought from me for $10. I can't really figure out why I keep responding to her - it's certainly not for the $10 (even though I am confident that I have the high ground, even if it's not the moral one), so I can only guess that, not having a television or any other forms of distraction, this is the type of entertainment that my brain craves after a 12-hour day of working on bullshit school assignments and dealing with nerve-wracking deadlines.
You have received a question/comment from member [removed] concerning the Half.com transaction #: 311279589.
Item: The Sword and the Sorcerer (DVD, 2001)
Reason: The item was not in the promised condition.
Comment/ Question: 1st 5 minutes is to dark to view
last 8 minutes breaks up, sticks and skips. none of the features work..trailers etc. very defective
please advise
[removed]
I am sorry that the DVD was not what you expected. In the listing, I
described it as "brand new" and "still in plastic wrap", and that is what
I sent you - I made no claims about its functionality as provided by the
manufacturer. I was not aware of the problems you described, and having read my comment about the plastic wrap, you understood that I couldn't have been, yet you bought it anyway.
Nevertheless, I wouldn't want you to feel cheated, so I think that it
would be fair to offer you 7 of the 10 dollars back, considering that it
is no longer in the condition that it was when I sent it to you.
If this is acceptable to you, I will send out a refund as soon as I receive the DVD.
-jeff
Hi Jeff,
I realize you may not have sold many things on half.com, but the bylaws do
state that you ARE responsible If
An item is "materially different" from the way it was rated - An item is
materially different if it does not work, is damaged, or varies
significantly in quality from the way it is listed. Many items listed at
Half.com are previously-owned, so some wear and tear is to be expected.
However, there are several clear cases of material difference that should
not occur. As a general rule, an item should never be more than 2
condition descriptions below its listed condition-
You might also want to read the buyer protection information also
I will be happy to send the defective DVD back to you but I am requesting
a full refund. After you have had a chance to read the information under sellers, please advise me if this is acceptable to you and I will put the dvd in the mail to you tomorrow.
I am responding to you in this manner so Half.com will have a record of
correspondence.
[removed]
I have read the quality rating and buyer protection policies, but I still fail to see where I am at fault here. As I said in my last message, what I sent is exactly what I described in the listing. I did not "misrepresent the item", nor is it "materially different" from what I described. I listed the DVD as "Brand new" and "still in plastic wrap". Both of these things are true. Any malfunction that you might be experiencing is either due to the DVD player you are trying to play it in, or the state of the DVD as it came from the manufacturer. If it is the latter, it doesn't change the fact that it was "brand new" (meaning: "unused, unopened & undamaged CD, movie or video game in perfect condition", according to half.com) when I sent it. If I had described it as malfunction-free, I would take full responsibility, but based on the half.com definition, the fact that it was listed as "brand new" means that there is no possible way that I could claim that it was malfunction-free, since I could not open it to find out. The small amount that I decided to take out of the refund was only due to the fact that it is neither "brand new" nor "still in plastic wrap" any more. If there is something else in the policies that suggests that I am obliged to refund the purchase, please point me to it.
If she still insists on a full refund, I think I might have to bring her the good word of Jesus. And you know she's not backing down. This is going to get ugly. Also - can someone explain to this woman the difference between prepositions and adverbs? If she is 10 years old I will feel really bad, but if not, I'm riding this train to the end of the line. My frustration has found an outlet, and that outlet is petty arguments with Midwest auction jockeys. My life is now complete.
In sunnier news, I have secured lodgings @ 10th street and 3rd Ave for December 10th through January 3rd. This will be the headquarters for the partying of the millennium!!! (+6) This is an amazing apartment that once belonged to my friend Matthew, and now belongs to his younger brother David, and they were gracious enough to lend it to me and Melissa for our Yorker. Thanks to all of you who offered space, or were thinking about it, but thanks especially to the Rothenbergs, who have now accommodated me twice in New York and once in TEH OC.
UPDATE
So apparently I've been reported, but that was on Dec 12, and I haven't heard a word from the woman, or from Half.com.
Thanks for the quick response. I believe we have Reached a stalemate. I will let half.com settle this Perhaps I am reading the information on the half.com site Incorrectly. And if so I do apologize, but I still Feel you are responsible for the quality of anything You list on half.com and this DVD is defective.
I also do not feel that I am responsible for paying postage Twice on a damaged item and only receiving a partial refund on The original amount paid for this dvd. I am not trying to be unreasonable, But you either stand behind what you list or you don't |
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| on mutants and podcasting |
[Dec. 5th, 2005|11:07 pm] |
My awesomeness rating will go up even further in your book, blazing new paths into unexplored and frightening realms of glory, when you listen to my iTunes music signature. I admit - 70% of this is brought to you by Jason Freemans iTunes Signature maker, but the other %40 is unquestionably caused by my impeccable taste in all things musical. So Mr. Freeman made a ridiculously cool little applet that skillfully mind-fucks your iTunes, spraying its warm mecca-splooge of hyperintelligent robot sperm all over your MP3 collection. So what? It was my music collection that got herself all prettied up, trimmed the short&curlies, spread her legs, and after 9 long minutes of gestation, conceived a beautiful little mutant/Frankenstein/bastard.mp3. So give me *some* credit here.
But now I want all of you to do the same for your MP3 collection, and together we will make a community of mutant babies. Slip her a Mickey if you need to, and put that bitch to work. And then maybe we'll even breed the suckers, like backyard pit fighters. Mutants of mutants - bred for killin'. And mutants of mutants of mutants! It will be the Three Mile Island of MP3 collections, and I will be the bloated Marlon Brando, sitting in a stained La-Z-Boy on top of a grand paino, cooing lullabies into the ear of my tiny monkey man. In The Future, anything is possible.
But seriously - go make one and post a link in the comments, PLEASE!
On Podcasts
It is not my taste, so much as my judgment that has failed me lately with regards to a new menace that has invaded the sacred cyber realm. This menace is Podcasts. Never before has it been so easy to flood your brain with such vast quantities of useless and inane nonsense. Basically, with podcasts, people are excused from the excruciating chore of dragging their eyeballs from one side of the screen to the other. Now all they have to do to is put on their headphones and make sure they lean away from their desks as not to drool too much into their keyboard. And I can say this because I have been taken in as much as the next guy. Diggnation, All in the Mind, NPR up the wazoo, SuicideGirls radio?! Jesus, I'm nauseous just thinking about how much mnemonic real estate I've given to these attention-hungry meme-peddlers. Storage I could have used for more important things, like my zip code, which (honest to God) I recently discovered I had forgotten. And now Ricky Gervais - the co-creator and star of my favorite show of all time, "The Office", not to be outdone by every other minor celebrity and armchair radio host in the world, has started his own podcast. How can I resist that?! I might have to go into media seclusion, or I'm afraid eventually I will just forget to breathe and wander off into the bright white bitstream, just another name on the long list of podcast casualties. |
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| I just made your day |
[Nov. 28th, 2005|09:11 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | feckless | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Sunday Night Mix - Volume 5 | ] |
There you are, sitting in front of that damned computer screen - you are reading this word, and now this one. Damn son, I know you better than you know yourself. You're feeling useless, tired, lonely. You eat four Triscuits and then curse yourself for forgetting that tub of cream cheese that would have tasted absolutely fucking delicious smothered over a vast expanse of carefully woven toasted wheat. Tiny city blocks of wheat - it could have been a very creamy Christmas in Wheat Town. Who weaves those delectable quilts, anyway? The Jolly Brown Giant? The Kebler Elves' Amish cousins? Not too innovative - lost some stock with the whole "Rosemary and Oil" campaign - but *damn* can they weave some wheat.
I know you. You're the one who drew that penis on the mens bathroom wall, leaving me, over here in my head, with several possible motivations to attribute to such an act. Are you a homosexual who likes to look at penises other than your own while you urinate? Are you perhaps leaving that little diagram there as a reminder to yourself as to the general appearance of the equipment that you have to deal with when you are standing in that spot? I admit - this much I do not know. This confuses me, but I think you also confuse yourself. Sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night in a thick haze of confusion - and it's not just the vodka tonics. and BAM! *THAT* is psychoanalysis. You got your head shrunk and you didn't even know it was happening.
moving right along...
Please take this opportunity to empty your colons, because this new information that will soon be invading your minds and wet willying your imagination has side effects of panty stains. Are you ready? No you're not, but damn my fingers got dancin' feet tonight, and they want me to inform you that there is a new Sunday Night Mix hitting the the digital airwaves, with not one, but two action-packed covers for you to choose from (or: "from which you can choose", depending on your grammatical preferences).
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| Cover 1 is for the sophisticated, reserved individual. But don't you take this cover lightly, my friend. Don't be taken in by its simple charm and refined aesthetic. It could buy and sell you with the blink of an eye, and you'd be left on the curb, your pale, hairy upper thighs quivering in the crisp November air. |
Cover 2 is bold and in control. It is physically incapable of taking crap from those other pansy covers. It's rugged and mean, like the man your father wishes you were. |
(alternately, you can subscribe to the podcast of my mixes)
- (00:00) Wagon Christ - Saddic Gladdic
- (04:18) Jackson and his Computer Band - Arpeggio
- (07:43) The Knife - Hannah's Conscious
- (10:30) Kid Spatula - Detlev Bronk
- (13:30) Mental Overdrive - New Clear Day
- (16:40) Machine Drum - Hello My Future(tstewart mix)
- (21:00) Royksopp - Someone Like Me
- (26:17) Lineland - Promise Follows Two
- (28:44) Styrofoam - By Anybody I Mean You
- (33:48) Hooverphonic - Shake the Disease
- (37:23) Console - Pigeon Party
- (41:38) Jackson and his Computer Band - Rock On
- (45:00) Yellow Magic Orchestra - Neue Tanz
- (48:18) Mouse On Mars - Wipe That Sound
- (51:55) Nathan Michael - Planet
- (55:50) Prefuse 73 - Busy Signal
- (57:55) Kelpe - Sickly Situation
- (01:01:52) Jackson and his Computer Band - Hard Tits (yes, more Jackson mix)
- (01:04:58) Emotional Joystick - Reparation
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| Hong Kong Fooey: number one super guy |
[Sep. 28th, 2005|12:03 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | BoC - Campfire Headphase, of course | ] |
Thesis! Theee-Seas! ThisIsEasy? (see Talan Memmott)
Greetings to you, all you masters degree holding sunuvabitches. Like it or not, soon I will be one of you and you'll have to teach me the secret handshake. I'll roll up to one of your swank parties with my moose ears, fez, or whatever the fuck you smart folk wear, and try to make MC (Master of Canines) Sophocles do a kegstand. I'll be that guy - you know I will. Laughing a little too loud, intentionally describing my exploits to someone well across the room so that everyone will hear, I'm so fucking uncooth. Question: Is there hazing? Do I have to lick the bottoms of your shoes or something? 'Cuz I'll do it, swear to God. Panty raids? Oh hell yeah, count me in. Let's beat the shit out of those Bachelors motherfuckers. Seniority is a bitch, but it's the way of the world. MS4Eva! Ten years from now, at the big reunion, we'll all get together and compare our bulging Buddah bellies (we're being generous - we all know their beer guts) and laugh at the disappointments we've become. We had so much promise, so much energy. Now where are we? Sweeping the floor at Target? Better than Frank over there... He's a crack whore. Pride is for the weak, we'll say. Oh God, this is depressing.
Everyone wants to think that their thesis is going to save the world. It's only sensible. You toil and sweat, pounding those wily little keys, hoping that at some point you are going to look at the screen and realize that you've solved the worlds' problems. But what if it really does happen? What if Lady Luck comes a'knockin, and you're shooting blanks? What then? You are TEH MASTER, man! You gotta know your stuff, rope them cattle like a pro, leap from conceptual tree to tree with naught but your highly-trained mental agility to keep you airborne. It's a tough world out there, and you of all people should know that you aren't going to get by on your looks alone, so come off it. Put on some makeup and hit the books. Your two best friends right now are Cover Girl and Starbucks, and if you don't like that, then head back to "college".
 Redbelt strikes again.
In related news, I think some fucking ninja broke in and punched me in the lumbar last night, because my back is killing me. My lumbar is killing me, and could really use some support. I need lumbar support, and these cheap-ass school chairs just aren't up to the task. Luckily, I know just exactly what the fuck we need. Imagine this - you know that dude on that commercial? He's a British dude and he's talking about vacuuming. He's frustrated, clearly, with the way that vacuums don't work. "I was vacuuming one day when I realized that I was really accomplishing absolutely nothing," he says. Anyway, we (meaning my classmates and I) need that dude to get all frustrated with the lack of lumbar support in cheap-ass school chairs. Then he'll sit his dandy ass down at his fancy drafting table and fix this problem once and for all and maybe next time some ninja breaks into my room at night and punches me in the lumbar, there will be some soothing relief waiting for me at school. Amen. |
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| Robots are never surprised |
[Sep. 14th, 2005|08:55 am] |
On Saturday I turned 25 (a quarter-century, as people kept reminding me), and as if in some kind of cruel imitation of the way it feels to suddenly realize that you have to start being an adult, a few dozen people thought it would be funny to jump out and scream at me in unison as I (expecting nothing more frightening than a pile of steamed crabs) walked into Melissas house. And no hard feelings guys, but I really would have preferred the crabs. Of the many great parts to having a surprise birthday party, "having your picture taken in a state of embarrassed shock" is not high on the list. Check out this picture of me looking completely retarded, awkwardly admiring my new robot while dozens of people in antennae looked on expectantly, waiting for me to say something that would signal the end of the "SURPRISE!" section of the party, and allow them to get back to their drinks. Alas, I know no such signal, and so after an exceedingly long minute of blundering, they all filed out anyway, passing me along the way to shake my trembling hand or do the handshake-or-hug dance with me.
 Silly robots.
On the up side, I now have my very own robot. It was created in the image of the robot on jeffish.org, and I love it. Its arms are made of dryer tubing and its heart is made of rainbows. Even though it is still at Melissas house, it calls to me in my dreams as it anxiously awaits the day I will bring it to my concrete box of a home and bolt it lovingly to my wall. I think that must be like some sort of erotic pleasure for a robot to be bolted to something. My robot will like it here, surrounded by concrete and steel. He will gaze down at me as I write papers and code, correcting a logical error here, scolding me for my bad posture there. "Back straight, feet flat on the floor!" my robot will say in his monotonous robot voice. "Check out that core dump ha ha ha." Some people will say I am imagining it and that I should act my new age, but I will know that they are just jealous that they don't have their own robot, and I will not invite them to my next surprise party, and if they come anyway, I will kick them out with a foot-mounted bat.
The party was planned by the beautiful Melissa, who did a fantastic job of lying to me for several months, but I guess I shouldn't hold it against her. She enlisted the help of many fine souls, who, with a little tin foil and a lot of love, transformed her house into a Intergalactic Spaceship/Discotheque Extrordnaire. The only rough point in the party was when one of our rowdier guests began to beat the shit out of an innocent oak tree, and we almost had to call the National Park service, but luckily we were able to calm him down with promises of vodka and Smarties.
djimison, collard_greens, and klu! took a lot of pictures, and I wrote a litte email to the party people to thank them for coming out and partying with me, and I tried to find the addresses of everyone who came out, but if you were there and didn't get this email, here ya go.
To: [party people]
Subject: congratulations to you, you big bunch of liars
Just kidding.
Not many people can say that they have a serious robot storage dilemma, but now I can, and that's what made this the best birthday evar! Well, that and the surprise bit. That was good too. If you've never experienced momentary profound confusion, the time is ripe for your first surprise party. Anyway, at some point, early in the evening, I was told (another filthy lie, no doubt) that, according to custom, the surprise birthday boy is supposed to make a speech. But then I poured myself a nice tall drink and conveniently forgot many of my problems - the speech primary among them. Well now that two days have passed and I am starting to remember things, I figure I should fulfill my responsibility, so those of you with things to do should skip to the end.
In the year of two thousand and four, at about this time, when I was still very new to Atlanta and I had never even heard of boiled peanuts, a bunch of you took me out to dinner on my birthday to a nice little place called Agave. Actually, "took me out" might be a bit of an exaggeration. I have to ration my praise here, you greedy bastards - you would have gone anyway. But you did pay for me and my championship series of margaritas, and I was touched that a bunch of complete strangers would take a chance on a rat-tag kid like me, even after I accused Dave of wearing a Nine Inch Nails t-shirt, and, as I noted in a later email, "I could [have been] a complete dick".
Well, now you all know that I *am* a complete dick, and you decided to 1) buy me dinner and more margaritas at La Fonda on Friday, and 2) come to my party anyway, and for that I am very grateful. Even stranger is that I have managed to keep poor Melissa, my fantastic, beautiful, dangerously cunning ninja-partner/evil-nemesis, in the dark about my true nature. Good thing though, because if I hadn't, she might not have been inspired to throw such an awesome party. Incidentally, if you don't have a Melissa, I recommend you go out and get yourself one right away. But remember, they run petite.
In celebrating my somewhat dazed entry into my late twenties, I hope you all enjoyed yourself a tiny fraction as much as I did. From Hartmut's exciting battle with the tree, to getting beaten with a bat, this was a birthday I will not soon forget, and I owe that all to yous guys.
Well, that's about all of the self-effacing sarcasm I can muster, so that must mean this speech is over. It was a short speech, I guess. Thanks again to all of you who came out, and especially Anna for the amazing mac 'n cheese, all of you who brought booze, to Mr. and Mrs. Cohen, Mr. Eagle, Mrs. Kamin, Emmie, and Kendra, who all contributed to the setup and maintenance of the party, and of course Melissa, the lyingist liar of them all! Someday, I will repay the favor, so - I'm just saying, watch your step.
Cheers,
-Jeffrey Robert Crouse
P.S.: Just for the record: a lie of omission is a method of deception and duplicity that uses the technique of simply remaining silent when speaking the truth would significantly alter the other person's capacity to make an informed decision.
P.P.S.: It would be cool to make a Flickr pool of all of the pictures that people took. Unfortunately I don't know how to do that. Does anyone know? |
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| Scoop-A-Poop |
[Sep. 3rd, 2005|09:08 pm] |
This weekend I have the distinct pleasure of being the primary caretaker of Bosco The Dog. Having never before been the primary caretaker of any of The Dog species, I was not fully prepared for the joy that surged through my body the instant that my fingers, protected only by a thin membrane of dark plastic, touched one of Bosco's warm, fragrant remnants. I glanced around self-consciously for a moment, afraid that one of the other dog owners had witnessed the smile that spread across my face as I took the nugget, tucked safely inside one of the complimentary "Scoop-a-Poop" bags provided by my apartment complex, let it fall into the palm of my hand, and squeezed, filling the gaps between my fingers with Bosco's rapidly cooling, chunky pudding, and that they (the other dog owners) would think me strange. But luckily my secret was safe, and I giggled a little to myself as I rode the elevator back up to my apartment.
Today, Bosco took it upon himself to systematically transport all of my gym socks from my closet to my bed. Secretly, I wonder to myself, "why is it better that my gym socks are on the bed, and not in the closet where they are usually stored?", but it is not for me to question the mysterious canine logic, only to watch and learn. Life is full of these mysteries.
 Bosco rests from his frustrating ordeal.
Currently, I am watching Bosco walk back and forth between his bowl and my bed, carrying kibbles in his mouth and placing them on the lower left corner of my comforter. Occasionally he will stop half way between the bowl and the bed and decide to eat the kibble there, in the middle of the floor. But never, God forbid, from the bowl. That would clearly be insane. Now, it seems he is constructing a path of kibbles from his bowl to the bed. Each trip he brings several kibbles, and makes it a little further than the last trip, eating some, but leaving most. This is clearly genius at work, and my goddamn brain just isn't strong enough to crack this one. Kibbles are now everywhere, strewn here and there. This must be a sign. My only regret is the frustration that Bosco must be feeling, going to such great lengths to literally (and yet, figuratively) spell out his message on the floor of my home with, of all things, his food - his sustenance, as I sit here, wallowing in stupidity and ignorance, tapping away on my lowly keyboard as he writes poetry in what I can only assume is the language of the angels. Now, as if as some sort of punctuation, he douses his beard with water as if drinking, and then walks back across the floor, leaving seemingly abstract patterns on the floor amidst the kibbles. Jesus, this is getting intense. He's up on the bed, shaking, scratching, rolling, particles of water flying hither and thither. |
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| Music To Invent Shit To |
[Jul. 24th, 2005|09:02 pm] |
It depresses, angers, and generally runs my little brain through the spectrum of ugly negative emotions to know that, on Saturday night, dozens of people dressed as Pee Wee Herman sat in a theater somewhere in San Francisco, watching pornography and probably getting up to all kinds of no good, and I wasn't there to witness it. It really would have been one of the most concentrated nuggets of absurdity that I think I will ever have the opportunity to experience in my lifetime, and I missed it for a chicken pesto skewer and a rerun of The Golden Girls. I would have cherished that nugget - held it in my hands and caressed it like a lover. Fucking life. Goddamn fucking life. Why was this decision not as clear to me last night as it is now. What I wouldn't give to run down Mission with a herd of Pee Wees, leaping and frolicking amidst a sea of grey suits and red bowties, laughing (and shaking my hands in a spastic, moth-like fashion) in the face of a hypocritical Establishment that condemns something as natural as masturbation in a public theater.
Today I went to The Pork Store and didn't eat pork. Yesterday was Pee Wee Day and I didn't see a single Pee Wee. My life needs adjustment.
 Yeah, I made another one. It's kind of rough in parts because I am tired, so be prepared for some trainwreckage. Here it is. As the cover suggests, this music can be successfully paired with victorian sitting rooms and anthropomorphic insects. It has Enon, YMO, Boards of Canada, Mr. Velcro Fastener, The Knife, Junior Boys, Console, The Gasman, Turner, !!!, Royksopp, Matthew Dear, Kid Spatula, Future Sound of London, Out Hud, Ellen Allien. Now get out there and invent!
In other news, shame on you if you live in New York and you missed the Aphex Twin Acoustic Show at Lincoln Center. I think this will probably be one of the most amazing shows of the year. |
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| Volume 3, and that's all |
[Jul. 18th, 2005|12:50 am] |
All you people, you think you're so special. Bah! Show me your transformable, modular, robot warrior battle suit, with included plasma-sword, and three or four friends to help you pilot it. Then you'll be special in my book. Until then, you are just a bum on the street, breathing your hot, moist, senseless words into my quivering ear. So don't be offended if I shoo you away, or swat at your cranial region. Just know that it is for this reason: the one mentioned above: you don't have a battle suit.
 This sunday we have quite a treat! A whopping 1 hour, 3 minutes, and 43 seconds of pure, Jeff-approved tunes, weighing in at 73-odd Megabytes, and downloadable by clicking right here! Featuring Freezepop, Goldfrapp (with T. Raumschmiere), Station Wagon, Jason Forrest, New Order (which doesn't really fit in there, to be honest), Mouse on Mars, Yellow Magic Orchestra, Kid Spatula, The Go! Team, Kill Memory Crash, The Knife (of course), Lineland, DNTEL, LCD Soundsystem, and Ellen Allien. So much music, I'll probably get sued! |
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| Rehoboth, the year of 2005 |
[Jul. 10th, 2005|09:06 pm] |
 Someone kept taking pictures of me.Negative Ions Come from the Sea and Make You TiredWe didn't really "visit" Rehoboth, so much as we occasionally wandered through it, unsteadily grabbing at the passing rednecks and homosexuals, bashing things with mallets (sometimes padded, sometimes wooden), and engaging in some hard-core relaxation. In the evening, we would retire to the estate, where we would generally eat cheese. Spirits were kept - not high - but at a strictly-enforced, constant mellow. Naps were taken, serious assertions were made in a semi-conscious state and promptly forgotten, comforters crumpled and shoved to the foot of the bed, peanut butter eaten as meal. This was the state of things. Eventually, someone would decide that the day was over, and people generally didn't argue. The next day, we would slather on the SPF, clown into a vehicle, and start another drunken expedition. I remember a plane, towing a sign - it said something about Jimmy Buffet - or maybe that was a hippie. There was a shark, concerned lifeguards adjusting their sillouette for the TV cameras, but no one really "goes into" the ocean anyway, so not a brow was furrowed.
One time we ate crabs Eating a crab is like eating a delicious insect in a very spiteful fashion. In no other food-related situation do I get so much pleasure from exerting so much effort - it is completely illogical. Cracking, prying, and generally making a complete shambles of the exoskeleton, accumulating Old Bay encrusted finger-wounds like merit-badges, and then stripping the beast of every last shred of meat in its body, piece by piece - this is an exhausting process. Sure, it is delicious, but lots of things are delicious - things that don't need to be picked from razor-sharp body cavities. I can't really figure out why the hell I insist on doing it every year. The only possible explanation is that, at some point in my past, I was done a bad turn by some fucking crustacean. Or perhaps it goes even deeper. Perhaps, before my ancestors emerged from the sea, my great grandfather was friends with a crab, only to be betrayed and humiliated in a sour real estate deal. This must be the answer. This is more than just a meal - this is revenge.
 I made a Zen Rock garden.On Sun BathingSun-bathing is not really "my thing". To me, it is akin to asking someone to pelt you with thousands of tiny rocks because you like the nice purplish hue that it gives to your skin. So, while the other people were gettin' their cancer on, I put on my parka, sunhat, and snow pants, and made myself some beach attractions. Late one afternoon, I made a Zen Rock garden, and invited some sand diggers to come and search for enlightenment amidst the strategically placed stones. I had painstakingly purified the sand of all shells and debris, leaving only a soft, smooth carpet to comfort the feet of the weary sand diggers, and hopefully lead them to some eternal truth. I don't think it worked. One of the sand diggers died, and the other walked into the ocean.
But Now It's OverAnd I made a new mix. It has a lot of the same artists because I am slow getting my music on my laptop. What did we learn from this mix? Jeff still needs lots of practice before he is ready to perform live, but I'm up for it, and goddamnit, I've got the machismo.
 Sunday Night Mix - Volume 2 (51 minutes, 10 seconds, 58.6M)
Featuring:Prefuse 73, The Knife, Turner, Chris Clark, Boards of Canada, Console, LCD Soundsystem, Telepopmusic, Yellow Magic Orchestra, Junior Boys |
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| Plan For A Better Tomorrow |
[Jun. 28th, 2005|09:36 pm] |
Why the fuck don't we have personal, consumer-grade jetpacks? That Segway guy thought he was so great. That guy sucked. We need jetpacks. Anyone who knows me knows that this issue is a like a fucking thorn in my side. It's fucking ridiculous. QUESTION ONE: Who needs "stem cell research" when we need to cure THE DISEASE OF NO JETPACKS?! THIS IS SERIOUS>> I sit in traffic for hours, twiddling my thumbs like an idiot and trying to listen to Terry Gross talk to some boring-ass politician about some boring-ass legislation, and look up at the sky, and think to myself, "I could be up there, flying free!". But no. Instead I sit and stare blankly (when I'm not looking up into the sky, that is) at the fucking yellow lines, taunting me in their demeaning, two-dimensional manner, on my two-dimensional road, and I think about the other 1/3 of my dimensional potential that is completely fucking wasted by these fucking scientists who refuse to invent something as fucking simple as the fucking personalized jetpack. FUCK! Of all of the promises of "the future", this is the most sorely lacking. Are we in the year 2005 here? This is the future, people! You all better wake up and understand that as quickly as fucking possible.
 This dramatization depicts the dangers of ground-based futuristic transportation vs. airborne futuristic transportation. Click the picture for a larger version, homes.
Who the fuck came up with the airplane, anyway? Who looked at the bird and immediately saw all of the little lice and parasites living on the back of that bird and said to himself, "Hey, you know, we humans are very much like those disgusting vermin that live on the back of that bird. I shall invent a machine that will carry us along, like those vermin!" Who was this? Was it a Wright Brother? Because if it was, let me be the first to say that we should strike this short-sighted bastard from the history books. In fact, he should be treated as a stain on the otherwise untarnished history of innovation for which this country is known. Yeah, that's right, I'm not afraid to say it. This guy engaged in pure, innovation-masturbation; not a thought as to how his "flying machine" might affect the future. I am not the fucking vermin - I'm the fucking bird.
Listen, unfortunately, I've said all I can say. What with the political cimate these days, someone with ideas as radical as mine has to be careful. Safety first. So I must turn the burden over to you. We MUST have jetpacks, and we can't wait for these "scientists" to come up with the idea by themselves. They need incentives. I propose giving scientists rewards for jetpack-related discoveries. This has to be a priority. WHat do scientists like? Hot chicks, of course. I think you see where I am going with this.
Over and out. |
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| The JeffishDotOrg Sunday Night Mix |
[Jun. 27th, 2005|01:18 am] |
Download the Mix, which includes Kelpe, The Knife, Soft Pink Truth, Chris Clark, Mouse On Mars, Lineland, Dani Siciliano, Boards Of Canada, Marumari, Machine Drum. This is my first attempt, so be nice. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 24th, 2005|12:27 am] |
 Deliciousness: Now available in "Consumer Whore"
I think the impact must have jiggled the Mass Market Consumerism sector of my brain, and promoted it to like supreme commander. I slowly find that I am losing basic body functions. I can no longer control my bowels or remember where I live, but damn, I could sure use a delicious, Seattle-bred, dark roast, Muchumbo Mountain Blend. |
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| Group hug |
[Jun. 20th, 2005|11:42 pm] |
"I just spent 10 minutes standing in front of my bathroom mirror, pretending to be Chewbacca."
I posted this on grouphug.us for three reasons.
1. I have been addicted to this site for a few weeks now. It's like the Jerry Springer of the internets. It makes me feel simultaneously dirty - like an overweight, All My Children lovin', Mumu wearin', bonbon eatin', cat-piss smellin' housewife - and like the most together guy in the world. And while, let's face it, the latter is most probably true, there aren't nearly enough things out there on this here ball of magma that confirm that for me as well as grouphug. But the more I scrolled through this painful collection of humiliation, degradation, sexual deviance, hatred, and every other imaginable low point of human existence, the more I wanted to make my own contribution. I wanted to join this anonymous community of shame, and experience the soothing releif of sweet, sweet confession. So tonight, after a marathon session of "Gnawahhaahhhgghaaah"ing, when the shame started to kick in (as it always does), I knew what I had to do.
I was going to spice it up a bit, and explain that I do this every night, and that I do it because, deep down, I want nothing more than to be a wookie, and how occasionally, when I was a wee lad, I would sneak into my fathers bathroom and scoop the wet, Gilette-encrusted beard trimmings out of the sink and rub them all over my young, puerile body while Gwaaanhaaanah-ing, in nothing but my "wookie-suit", which I would fashion out of three leather belts and a mysterious, tennis-ball sized, steel ring that I found in my older brothers room. But that would have been a lie, and could have jeopardized my chances of making it onto the site at all. Beleive it or not, this fabricated part of the story was inspired by another confession that I read on the site, about some chick who, since childhood, had been enthralled (and eventually sexually excited) by the thought of having a tail, and so she would use her toys to adorn herself, rectally.
Ok, let's see you guys come up with a nicer way to say that she dangled toys from her ass.
2. I wanted to see if the confessions are posted in any kind of order, and how long it takes for them to be approved by the moderators.
3. It is true.
 I channel Chewie in my bathroom. Gwaaaaangngngng!
PS: Gmail has the best spellchecker on the whole of the internets, and LiveJournal should use it, rather than the current painintheass system they have here. |
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| spider |
[Jun. 18th, 2005|02:30 am] |
I live in an attic in San Francisco. I co-habitate, more-or-less peacefully, or so I thought, with several species of fungi, and one large, National Geographic-sized spider. Suprisingly, it was this spider, and not the hypochondria-inducing assortment of mold, spores, and other families of natures waste-product, who first decided to violate the unspoken agreement, and resort to violence, and now I may die.
Sure, I may have, once or twice, shaken this spider abruptly from my towel, morning-time, standing cold and shivering on my bath mat. But honestly, it was my towel to begin with. He had no right to take up ship in it. And now I am achey and sluggish, lying in my bed, muscles twitching, feeverish, pinching and prodding the purple, swolen patch on my left thigh where, only this afternoon, while walking to my car, I suddenly felt a sharp stinging sensation.
It was then that I quickly stopped, reached my hand down into my pants, there, on the crowded sidewalk of the lower Haight, and shook my spider companion from my jeans, liberating him from the brick and mortar prison of 1304 Page Street, sending him out into the world, with only the poison coursing through my veins to remember him by.
And it is this very poison, I beleive, that convinced me, this evening, that, after my trip to the Metreon, several miles from what was once *our* house, I should walk home, still achey, and with the added obstacle of several glasses of whiskey, which were dranken, drunk, imbibed to dull the pain.
And even still, as I wandered deeper and deeper into areas of San Francisco where, having lived here for less than one month, I was painfully unfimiliar, it was this poison which corrupted my mind, convincing me that I should keep wandering for hours, long after I had given up hope of recognizing any street name and had begun, instead, searching out the magnificent Pacific coastline, where I may be able to find my bearings and point my head in the right direction.
But now, after hours of mindless, venom-induced wandering, I will sleep off this poison, which I have been trying to ignore all day, and hope that, in the morning, I haven't decayed too much in the process. |
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