Artist	Song
King Crimson	Fallen Angel
Ani Difranco	Untouchable Face
Iggy Pop	Jealousy
Nickel Creek	Can't Complain
Radiohead	Karma Police
Rogue Wave	Perfect
Snow Patrol	Somewhere a Clock is Ticking
The Verve Pipe	Ominous Man
Rival Schools	The Switch
Super Furry Animals	No Sympathy
Failure	Segue 2
Modest Mouse	Tiny Cities Made of Ashes
Iggy Pop	Hate
Silverchair	Satin Sheets
Stone Temple Pilots	Sex and Violence
Finger Eleven	The Last Scene of Struggling
Queens of the Stone Age	Someone's in the Wolf
Of Montreal	October is Eternal

Comment:

In order to ascertain just how little certainty there is in the world, Descartes constructed

a demon. This demon had the power to cloud the senses completely with a false reality. How,

it was asked, can one know with certainty that this demon doesn't exist and doesn't

blindfold us as we speak? How do we know that this is the real world?

Descartes supposedly got out of this dilemma by asserting that God exists, that God is good,

and that a good God wouldn't allow such deception. But there were a number of flaws with

this escape to certainty. One such flaw is the blatant absurdity of that third step;

whatever characteristics one might ascribe to God, He is clearly not a God that stands in

the way of deception. Matthew, Muhammad, Dawkins and Cruise can't all be right. One way or

another, billions are constantly being duped into accepting a false reality.

But it can all be made right, my benevolent past whispers, all accounts can be balanced out.

I agree, but my agreement comes with the caveat of different, more reliable means.

Good karma is a fragile thing, a thing that can fall victim to a murderous tyrant, a

devastating flood, a random mugging or even a mere housecat. Bad karma is much more sturdy.

Bad karma is a force of nature fed by two endless reservoirs: bad deeds and bad weather.

Either will suffice. Either way, a benevolent breeze inevitably finds itself trampled by a

hurricane of misfortune or revenge.

Revenge is where I come in. Black lies are my weapon.

My uncle, a most beautifully malevolent figure himself, assists me with the tactics of my

whisperings. I settle the accounts through subtle verbal chaos. Self-righteous evangelicals

regain the terror of doubt. Insulated Godfathers of commerce fall to bruised hands and

skinned knees. Proud working men find shame in their dirty blue collars. Self-absorbed,

unjustly happy couples become reacquainted with the loneliness of single life. That object

of unrequited love gets shoved into the world of rejection and I am there to guard all

exits.

It's aesthetic communism: all are made equally aware of the ugliness of existence. No one

gets off through damnable luck.

No. No one. Damnit. A slip-up. My best efforts create a miserable existence for one bright-

eyed couple, but my best efforts fall short. In some irrational and inconceivable way, they

manage to salvage but one good thing from my storm of destruction: happiness. It's

completely irrational, really, I've left them with nothing to support good feeling - I even

decimated their belief in the afterlife - and yet they find their pathetic condition to be

adequate. Or even, seemingly, good. I'm furious. But as it turns out, my fury is dwarfed by

the fury of my mentor.

They say misery loves company. Well, Misery doesn't care much for my company, but given my

subpar work and the resultant slim pickings, misery will take what he can get. My spirit is

now nothing more than a means to his temporary intoxication.

And when I think about it, it seems that he's given me what I've wanted all along: an

infinite oasis for that black emotion I've come to crave, an eternal supply of resentment.

Hate has swallowed me whole.

Mix #58, the indignation, made in October of 2006. The inspiration is roughly composed of

one part nonexistent sequel to Amelie (you know, the one where she starts using her

aesthetic talents vindictively), one part Screwtape Letters, and one part Either/Or.

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