I thought I heard a whisper, “Good luck.” Some sound engineers actually believe in it. I guess it exists. Really didn’t know what call letters to fabricate when I started running the network. There had to be Hollywood mixes, commercial-free, raw, and on experimental frequencies. The rest was cartoon history. What a small world.
The Technossance wasn’t a fair period in history. It’s amazing how some animals hustled to make money. So fucking lucky to have a cousin who cares so passionately about the dangers of high UV, mixing music, intoxicating drinks and purifying water before heading out into the desert. Losers rule in a celebrated fabrication business.
DJ Tony T stuck himself out in the desert one year. Before living in Nashville, before the Hawaiian curse, he lived in Las Vegas. Someone once told me he was a ventriloquist and an old, old man who always wanted to ride an elephant naked. He once saw stacks of funky fluorescent rocks in the desert south of Vegas, but it wasn’t a mirage. There he was in the middle of the desert smoking weed. Tony sat down in front of the quirky rocks, crossed his legs, and meditated. The next morning, the sun crept up over the sand. He survived. Sobering up was annoying for him, almost always high as a kite, his voice turned a higher pitch. Duke daydreamed of shallow, patronizing clichés.
It took a lot of rehabilitation. A year later, in his studio apartment on Sahara Avenue, he cranked out the earliest full-length deejay mixes recorded for Lionheart. Lower profits weren’t the inspiration from the middle of the desert. He actually thought he was “Days of Thunder” and “Cocktail” material. He was delusional and couldn’t stick to weather.
Tony got a real big dose of luck, finished his DJ mixset at Caesars Palace, and shouted “Fucking Oswald” after a final transmission from one of the casino floors. They escorted him out. Tony whined about it in his bed for a long time.
Too bad, but let the twerking begin.