So I’ve been reconstructing my beloved 103.9 WDRE in the form of mp3s of their playlists which I will keep all at once on an iPod now and forevermore, and

1. Some of the songs are proving hard to find. This is because they were vinyl-only and not classics that would get compiled in the 00s by, say, Rhino. Singles like Wolfman Tap by Electric Guitars or So Afraid of the Russians, Made For TV (who aren’t even on AllMusic).
2. Some of this shit is making me cry. Like 1982 Talk Talk Talk Talk, so far ahead of its time, or Yaz, Nobody’s Diary. “Doo do do do do - Anyway. I can’t believe you want to turn the page / I don’t want to be a page in your diary / another page.”

So what? Do this: listen to Gerry and the Holograms [5.7mb mp3] and then listen to Blue Monday. Hm!

Other thing: I came across this essay on Waggish about zombie consciousness (hang in for the epiphenomenal suicide pill bit) and he mentions a well-reviewed philosophy text by Thomas Metzinger which I maybe should read called Being No One in which TM argues - let me bottom-line it for you by saying “for eliminativism,” which means no such thing as a fixed self (d’accord; belief in an unchanging I is a holdover from sky-worship) OR INDEED FEELINGS; instead, we have, and I’m going to quote this review instead of paraphrase:

phenomenal self-models, that is continuously updated dynamic self-representational processes of biological organisms. Conscious beings constantly confuse themselves with the content of their actual phenomenal self-model, thinking that they are identical with a self. According to Metzinger, this is due to the nature of the representational process generating the self-model. The self-model is mostly transparent - the information that it is a model is not carried on the level of content - we are looking through it, having the impression of being in direct contact with our own body and the world.

It’s hard to philosophize about consciousness without sounding like a college freshman trying to get that half-cute goth girl from the fifth floor into bed. And the truth about our consciousnesses might be that they are indeed soft and fluffy and resistant to attempts to firm their states into solid metal plates to stack and etch. I wish for the latter but suspect the former.