Coming Down The Hill

All I wanna do is listen to greasy funk from Guyana with a Jamaican bass line that jolts me like a Beaver Buzz. And see the Dog of the Sea. Even if the Scandinavian's latest record is unexceptional and grease-free, we gots the classics: go forth and buy her some candy now. Of course the former record being melancholic from Sarah's depression, whilst with this new record, she comes out into the sunshine. What happened to the nadir, my dear? Also I'd communicate in Godardesque eloquence, drifting in the Mediterranean with Odile, complaining about sunshine and spinach. If there is a time for happiness -- this is not it. You're not from a golden egg, you know, so stop acting like it. All I wanna do is toss a candy cane towards the stage on a Saturday night.

My Family And Other Animals

66 Madison is a funhouse.

This Boy

Fame can no longer be eluded. Become a hit on my confrere's website and be prepared to endure a massive attack.
Click the "members" linkster to read a subjective Dutchman's synopsis of me. Further click the "bands" linkster to hear I'm From Barcelona featuring Loney, dear.

Rechargeable Batteries (Bunny)

By now I'm sure you've all noticed that Steve Harris' acclaimed blog Theological Journeying is on a moratorium. I know many of you were avid readers of Journeying and enjoyed his keen insights on Scripture, and on his coverage of subterranean church movements. His academic banter on New Monasticism was always a splendid and favourite read of mine.
You counterbalanced my Reformed indoctrination Steve-- if I turn into Kuyper I blame you.
Please, confrere, return someday.
Side note: I intended to endure an upper level history class at McMaster this summer to suffice for my Western Civilization core at Redeemer but Facebook Richard vetoed my intentions because this would be pursuing too high of an education.

Optimistic

Look at me: I'm an optimist! And by 3.6 points too! Not that I wish to preen of my healthy mental state but perhaps you'll learn something from these reflections from an optimist:
1. I contact acute coryza, and blissfully pronounce this "a most strange and deadly pestilence" and diagnose myself with chronic death.
2. I rosily prepare my Missions presentation absolutely positive that I will self-destruct like Inspector Gadget.
3. Lose my camera battery (with a memory card chalk full of pictures), and become embittered yet happy that I will never receive negatives.
4. Blithely rent a picture that unbeknownst to me I have already viewed (and thus reflect on how memory will surely improve with age).
5. Damage a cardboard box due to excessive joy and bright future.

Shannadee- ah dee ah dee

Stumbling out of my dorm this morn'in, I was engulfed by a wave of sultry air that reminded me of a handshake with carbon monoxide. If I desired to live in a jungle-like climate, I would move to Burma. Why has the Northernly breeze and permafrost abandoned me? How does one prepare for the upcoming foliage (safe word) and the pounding sunbeams saturating the pale and fleshy?

Perhaps my journey into the chick incubator was a dreary dream; my senses have abandoned me too. I am afflicted with some strange pestilence that is massacring some of my favourite blood cells. Accursed be you acute coryza or Irukandji Syndrome! or whatever you are. I adore suffering and you fill my heart up like a landfill. I would elaborate on my plagues but that would maudlin and I've no desire to babble about Radiohead B-sides or Luc Besson.

My only bandaid is Marissa Nadler, and oh, she is a butterfly bandaid! Ethereal and dreamy her neo-folk heroin injects me with profound pleasures like these:

I know that I'm glad to see you
Even though you're comin' home
In a box of cedar
Shannadee- ah dee ah dee

No, Nadler, no; please don't be my undertaker.
I'll just wait for the train to the other world.