I’m not dead

I’m currently writing from the toasty second bedroom of my grandparent’s house in Clayton, Georgia. Right now, it’s a balmy 42 degrees Fahrenheit outside and I couldn’t be happier to be indoors for once. My return to civilization as we know it in the smaller latitudes won’t come too soon.

The one thing that’s made this endeavor into the frigid recesses of the boonies is my long-awaited 40 gigabyte Apple iPod. I had been storing my meager funds ever since my car insurance had been payed off for the year. The “iPod Fund’s” initial contribution was my final paycheck from my job at the daycare this summer, but not much was added since, due primarily to a lack of resources.

My parents, being the divinely wonderful people they are, went ahead and satisfied my two-year longing with the arrival of the twenty fourth of November (my brother, Ian, was also instrumental in the planting of the iPod seed within their minds); twenty three hours of song transfer later, I had roughly twenty days of music to entertain myself with during this arduous pilgrimage to the north. It is the most fun you can have with your pants on and your blender off.

Even so, I can’t wait to be home tomorrow.

Winter jazz, Summer blues

After enduring the torment of the recent hurricane season, I have decided to release an official statement welcoming winter (seeing as how there is no autumn to speak of in this subtropical climate, I’ve decided to leave that salutation to the nerds up north who collect leaves or whatever it is they do). But the question arises: when, if ever, will Mother Nature bestow upon us the refreshing cool air?

You know it’s here when you wake up in the morning and, upon stepping on the tile floor in the bathroom, the frigid ceramic appeases your fiery soul, fueled by months of heat and/or humidity. The night before, you’re none the wiser, but in that fleeting moment – that blip of existence that otherwise would be meaningless – you are rejuvenated for another whole year; rejuvenated enough to start complaining about the cold and impatiently waiting for summer to arrive.

In the past, the cooler October airs have come in just in time to welcome the Clearwater Jazz Holiday, but I’ve never been. So, I made the decision today to bring in the cold months at Coachman Park from 14 – 17 October while hearing some stellar music. You may join if you’d like.

Now that’s entertainment!

The other day I noticed that I allotted 28kbps per user for up to 32 users on my Winamp stream. Figuring I would never have 32 listeners, I cut that number down to a maximum of 10 users listening at 48 kbps.

I realize that this means nothing to you, but if you ever find enjoyment in my streaming audio, your sound quality isn’t all that sucky anymore.

Edit (2/13/2011): Of course this isn’t still active. You can access my last.fm profile here, though.

Radio Rant

For the past three years, I have been a loyal listener to 107.3 FM, casting aside all the talk radio and low quality Mexican fiesta hour on AM radio along with the newer styles of the 9X.X stations and the deep, philosophical reasoning on the 8X.X waves. It used to be 107.3: The Bay. Back when The Bay was in business, they promised to name every song and artist of the greatest hits of the 60s, 70s, and 80s, never mind the fact that their repetitive playlists sometimes gave me a desire to switch it on over to WDUV, The Dove, if only for a mere change of tune. But I stuck with my good friends at 107.3 because on rare occasions, I would hear something totally new to me that I really, truly liked.

But the first of this year, as I woke up from a night of blissful slumber following my annual revelry with Dick Clark, I turned on the radio to something I did not recognize: 107.3 The Eagle.

The Eagle!? How? Why? 107.3 has had many names in the past, from the Coast to the Bay. But never something so influenced by the trendy patriotism that has enveloped our country in the past few years. But it’s okay – different name, same music. I can deal with that. Alas, I was mistaken.

There are now only two radio personalities, Nick Van Cleve, who works the morning shift, and John Moore, who takes care of the ride home from 3:00-7:00. This leaves sixteen hours of abandoned radio, time when there is not a soul around to tell me what song I just heard and who sang it to me; time when not a soul is around to play disc jockey, leaving all the grease work to a computer that randomly selects the song.

I’m sorry, HAL, but you are a sucky DJ. Within a 24 hour time frame, it is quite possible that you hear the same song at least twice, if not three times. And for some reason, the AI in the studio has an Elton John fetish. Don’t get me wrong, I like Elton John’s music as much as the next guy. But when I’m driving to the store and I’m pelted with the same old wails of “Tiny Dancer,” the broken-record sounding “Bennie and the Jets,” and Elton’s homoerotic recollections of the “Crocodile Rock,” I become utterly disappointed in the musical variety down on the end of the radio dial.

So, after three years of loyal listening, The Bay and I have gone our separate ways. We were just too incompatible, one of us wanting to pursue his professional career, and the other wanting to live in the past, when four vinyl albums and plenty of drugs would keep the crowd unaware of the fact that the same music is filling their ears and draining their souls. So to you, 107.3, I say, “Adieu, adieu; parting is such sweet sorrow.”

I need some mental floss

It’s super annoying when you get songs stuck in your head. It could happen because of any influence; I find it to occur when I hear a song right before I go to sleep or as I get off of the bus going to school. And all day (or until another nestles itself within the friendly confines of your memory), you’re whistling and singing that bloody song over and over again. Even when you have to be quiet, respectful, or the like – there you are, gently humming it until someone hits you on the back of your head. It is as if your head is a broken jukebox hit too hard by the Fonz that unceasingly permeates that one song.

It wouldn’t be so bad if you knew the song, either. But you just have a general idea of the chorus and a vague recollection of the tune. So you hum the tune and think the lyrics until you get to the point of the song that you don’t know; then you start again, as if you were given the holy power to alter, nay, completely slaughter the song in question. This process goes on for hours, in some cases days, until one of two things happens: you die, or another stupid song stages a coup and throws the currently domineering ditty from power within the realm of your consciousness.

And so I leave you now, wishing to purge Kansas’ Carry On My Wayward Son from my mind.

No Boat Drinks

We were on the floor, so we had to use a special entrance, which they opened up a little over an hour before show time. We went in right when they opened it, and the man in front of us was the most obese man alive.

No, not the same kind of obesity people are suing McDonald’s over, but the sort that affects the Earth’s rotation and tides. I was telling this story to a group of three friends as we walked to pre-calculus class in a line (sort of West Side Story-esque), and the man had a girth that spanned longer than our line of Spic-hating Jets. He was so insanely large, I sort of pitied him.

We figured, “Hey, the floor seats thousands of people – this guy won’t cause us any trouble.”

We figured wrong.

We walked up to our seats and what do you know, the man (who we shall refer to from now on as Roger the Last Surviving Wooly Mammoth on Earth) is sitting there and greets us with a smile. Luckily for me, Ian sat next to him. Unluckily for me, problem number two was waiting to show itself.

If you’ve ever been to a Buffett show, then you know how it is pre-concert in the arena. Beach balls, loads of drunks, and people who don’t come to their seats until two minutes into the first set.

I swear, two seats in front of me came Dikembe Mutombo, painted white and heavily intoxicated. I think it was God punishing me for making fun of Roger the Last Surviving Wooly Mammoth on Earth. In any case, my 5″6′ self was a bit miffed.

No worries though, Roger the Last Surviving Wooly Mammoth on Earth didn’t intrude much on our parade (except for taking up 1½ seats) and the Jolly Drunk Giant was dancing and left every 2 songs to get another cold one, so the show was prime viewing. Jimmy had an awesome set list (not that it matters to any of my non-parrothead friends that may be reading this) and during Fins they launched a giant inflatable RC shark that flew into the rafters of the St. Petersburg Times Forum and got stuck.

Love,
Casey

P.S. Sorry to the dude in front of me who got his beer knocked out of his hand by a beach ball hit by yours truly.

P.S.S. Sorry to the people in front of him who got doused with Corona. Don’t blame me, blame the moron who held his beer up above his head at a Jimmy Buffett Concert.

P.S.S.S. I would like to officially retract my apology to the man whose beer I spilled. You’re an idiot; drink it – don’t flail it around.

As the Table Turns

Thursday evening, approx. 7:00 PM EST
Sharf is at the house, and after working since 3 on Kolhoff’s project thing (that we didn’t have to present anyways), the English homework, and the Math project, we decide to hang out in my room. Soon we’re playing with the turntable I bought a week ago for a dollar at my church. On was the Sound of Music soundtrack and, us being the curious teenagers we are, decide to speed up and slow down the turntable. Not such a good idea, because as we (in Doug’s words “tried to make Julie Andrews sound like Barry White”), the turntable stops completely.

Now, I’m no electrician, but I was able to dissect it and I found that a fuse blew inside the guts of the beast. So I spent all of Saturday night trying to find one of these bloody fuses that apparently haven’t been manufactured since 1974. On Sunday I ended up going to Radio Shack with Nikki and the fella there said, “I didn’t know turntables had fuses in ‘em!” Knowledgeable associate, indeed.

After getting a fuse with the lowest voltage they make, we decided to look for a thrift store to buy some tunes. As I should have known before, not many thrift stores are open on Sundays. Oh well, after 3 hours of searching, one open thrift store, and $9.15, here’s what I got:

Steve Miller Band – Fly Like and Eagle
Steve Miller Band – Book of Dreams
Peter Frampton – Frampton Comes Alive!
Yes – 90125
Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Brass – South of the Border
Herb Alpert – Rise
Harry Belafonte – Folk Songs with Harry Belafonte
Bachman Turner Overdrive – Best of BTO
Electric Light Orchestra – Face the Music

I found $.95 a bit steep for used LPs, but who am I to complain?

Shoutcast

Now presenting:

The Least Sucky Radio Station on the Internet

…at least, when my Winamp’s playing.

Edit (2/13/2011): Of course this isn’t still active. You can access my last.fm profile here, though.

My Father and Me: True Rockers

Today I’m riding with my family in the car on the way to the Adam’s Mark Hotel for the all you can eat prime rib buffet and someone pops in the REO Speedwagon Greatest Hits CD. My father, who is known for being aggressively anti anything that could reflect any effeminateness on his part, sits in the front seat.

So, naturally I comment to him that this isn’t the sort of thing we should listen to, and he quickly responds with, “Yeah, but I like that one song – you know – with the drums.”

“DADADADADADADADADAM!”

“What song is that, Dad?”

“I dunno – that one, you know – with the drums! DADADADADADADADADAM!”

After pressing “next track” on the CD player a few times, and with every song that begins inciting a defiant “Fag song” from my father, we finally get to it.

DADADADADADADADADAM!

And with that, my benevolent progenitor proceeded to serenade me with a fury of air guitar solos while at the same time attempting to play the fictitious drums that lie in his lap in our ’94 Maxima. All the while, succeeding in making a high-pitched yelp all to the tune of Roll with the Changes. It was the closest bonding moment we have ever had.

Yes, even while listening to “Fag music.”

REO Speedwagon Rocks.