Artist	Song
They Might Be Giants	The World's Address
Ted Leo	My Vien Ilin
The Dismemberment Plan	The Face of the Earth
The Verve Pipe	Cattle
Blanche	Another Lost Summer
Queens of the Stone Age	In the Fade
Tom McRae	A & B Song
Modest Mouse	Shit Luck
Pearl Jam	God's Dice
The Cardigans	Hanging Around
The Dismemberment Plan	You Are Invited
Nickel Creek	Seven Wonders
Rival Schools	Undercovers On
Mogwai	Ratts of the Capitol
Alice in Chains	Nutshell
Bright Eyes	Lover I Don't Have to Love
Lake Trout	Shiny Wrapper
Radiohead	The National Anthem
Nickel Creek	First and Last Waltz

Comment:

(WARNING: melodrama and Hitchhiker's Trilogy spoilers follow.)

The last man from Earth was at least a few years away from getting the hang of Thursdays. Then all days were taken away from him in one fell swoop, by beings who might not have been evil, but who were decidedly unpleasant. He discovered his long-lost crush, the last woman from Earth. The lack of mutual sparks in this reunion certainly had no malice behind it, but it was a little unpleasant. He rediscovered Earth and found a new love when the logic of the universe hiccupped. The follow-up cough that took away both in the blink of an eye surely wasn't intended to cause any harm, but it was, nevertheless, terribly unpleasant.

He settled down after making one final glorious discovery: he was an excellent sandwich maker, and there are villages out there clamoring for that skill. He had a job. It wasn't magnificent, but it suited him perfectly. Surely he'd be allowed to hold onto this much.

The dice are rolled. Fates are sealed.

Light years away, a former employee of the Guide found the new Guide, produced by beings who might not be evil, but who are decidedly unpleasant. He began obeying its unpleasant edict, written in small, alarming letters: PANIC.

The dice are rolled. Fates are inextricably sealed.

A Random occurrence comes to be, and the last woman from Earth drops her off at the last man's door. Naturally, this Random variable doesn't feel like she's ever had a home, doesn't feel like she FITS. Then an invitation, which previously granted something other than calm, arrives and gives her hope.

The results aren't very pleasant.

The parallel universe fails to justify the hope. The two worlds, which couldn't be more different otherwise, share one aspect: she doesn't fit in either. She grabs for another deep contrast, in desperate hopes of another possible fit: a nightclub. Trailing behind her are the people from the alien world, who are nothing like her, and the people from her world, also nothing like her.

Surprise, surprise! No fit there, either. Just a bunch of vapid personalities, descended from a hive of useless exiles, interested in nothing but empty physical contact. It's a fucking nightclub, what did you expect?

The last woman from Earth is there, and she's trying to explain to the Random occurence that lately no one has been exempt from this eternal homelessness, that no one really FITS anymore but we have to leave NOW or we won't be able to enjoy our homelessness anymore.
The former Guide employee and the last man from Earth are there as well. The former notices something on the ground, examines it, and hands it to the latter.
He stares in bewilderment, for it's the Question to the Answer.
Where can one find a God-forsaken, all-forsaken nightclub with shitty music and overpriced drinks, the second in a line of such places created by some random guy named Stavro Mueller? Where's yet another place where the hopeful can go to be disappointed? Where is the scene of the ultimate crime, the location where possibility itself is to be murdered?

The worthless noise continues all around, but these strangers begin feeling the unexpected: relief. Laughter in the background. A wave of immense peace. I'm inclined to agree with these sentiments. The finite universe has failed me for the last time, and I'm ready to resign myself to something else. Good riddance to bad possibility.
It's just as well; I hate dancing.
Mix #55, the invitation, made in July of 2006. Inspired by Douglas Adams' Mostly Harmless and by a little of the writings of Soren Kierkegaard.

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