The final installment to Wet Ink, a nostalgic tribute to late nights. Fingers crossed, last and least, we’re moving on.
A lot has happened since my last post. I graduated from college. I drove across the country. I spent 4 months rowing vacationers down the whitewater of the Snake River. I explored the West. I drove a ton of miles.
I look back on all those hours behind the wheel and I miss it. Not because I like driving, but because I was always heading towards something sweet – a Montana weekend for the books with flowebro, a fly fishing trip in Yellowstone, the red rock of Utah, or simply my daily commute to the whitewater – I was always driving to exciting experiences and strange adventures.
Now the newest Aftermath member to join the 9-5 world, I’m severely missing those drives of anticipation and getting in the zone to some jams. (Most often Thomas Jack Tropical House sets). We can all agree there is nothing better to put you in the mood to send it than music. So whether you’re on your way to the slopes, the surf, or South Africa, I hope this playlist gets you stoked for the destination ahead.
Head towards something sweet.
And we’re back: Back to memorizing supreme court cases, analyzing ethnic conflicts in Sri Lanka, and plugging in regressions to see the effects race and religion have on voting turnouts.
As the last college degenerate left in the Aftermath crew, I bring you the second coming of Wet Ink, the playlist that aims to bring some rasta-vibes into those dusty courtrooms, and some deep drops to drown out the click and clack of the keyboard.
Finals are daunting, but the image of barrels thrashing against the shores of Jay Bay are close on the horizon. This January (contingent on passing these exams…) I’ll be following in the bootie-prints of Aftermath heavyweights D-man and WalterCronkTight, to live under the shadow of Table Mountain in Cape Town, SA.
Cheers to last minute-cramming, all in the pursuit of great adventures ahead.
Seek to live big. Personally, I want to live like a character out of a Gabriel Garcia Márquez novel (I’ve only read One Hundred Years). His players tromp through their chapters with obsessive ambition. Whether they launch thirty-two revolutions, construct little gold fishes, or seduce their sister, the characters are completely engrossed in an often blind pursuit of purpose. If you want to be a writer, lock yourself in your room and write. Learning to skateboard? Obsess about it. Stay out on that street and skate until the street lights flash on and the sweat soaks through your shirt. Craving to be loved – or lusted for? (I find this one’s the easiest to obsess over and the hardest to control.) Haven’t figured out that last one, but if we live large enough, as largely as we possibly can, and I think we’ll be walking in the right direction.*
*Then, say fuck it, and run the other way.
Pic: Ghetto by the sea
Something I love about the AFTMTH is the diversity of the bloggers on here. For example: While Jamboys and I are scrambling to finish term papers, drinking the cheapest light beer we can get our hands on and getting sweaty to deep house in dark basements, D-man and Francois are racing to meet project deadlines, sipping aged red wine and swing dancing to live string instruments.
While our weekend antics might take different paths, come Monday, we’re all pushing the pencil for the man (or at least we should be). So whether you’re writing that Philosophy 210 paper on Popper’s Falsification Principle or plugging CamelBak’s daily coverage report into an Excel spreadsheet, here’s something to get your ink wet:
“You can’t lie to house music. House music is a true music.”
Deep House. Persistent and unapologetic. While the steady four-on-the-floor or boots and cats beat invites the listener that commits to it for the long-haul, it also alienates the one who seeks immediate gratification.
Yes, not everyone understands it and yes, its doors are closed to many. However, those closed doors are not accompanied by the pretentiousness of an exclusive club. Rather, they only weed out the listeners who selfishly demand everything from the song and nothing from themselves.
Deep House is itself demanding, requiring the listener to reciprocate by intently opening up before inviting him or her in – I believe the ability to reciprocate is what makes one a “true souldier.” Then again, maybe I am lost.