OINTMENT
Ointments, balms, salves and poultices. Jonathan Franzen’s essays. The second half of the new Lou Reed record. Szechaun chicken soup. The Oxford Canadian English Dictionary. Vanity. Grappa.
At Mango Pudding Blues, we maintain a spectacular collection of boxer shorts in vivid colors and patterns.
At Mango Pudding Blues, we believe in magic, in karma, in the infinite possibilities of the universe unfolding. In the potential for salvation. In the healing qualities of red wine. In mathematics. In our shared innate drive to seek patterns and make meaning from chaos.
At Mango Pudding Blues, we are revving up the engines. We are blasting the gunk out of our carburetor. We are wiping the oil from our dreams and adjusting for maximum torque and traction.
At Mango Pudding Blues, we wistfully wish to one day see the list of every item we ever borrowed from the Calgary Public Library, convinced that such a list would accurately reflect the topology of our soul. Convinced that reading such a list would make us cry and cry like babies and release us somehow from the chains with which we have bound ourselves.
At Mango Pudding Blues we have failed to find a proper Balinese sarong.
At Mango Pudding Blues, we are playing a gamelan gig tonight, visiting the mysterious C in Montreal this weekend to eat meat like South Americans do and, finally, starting another new job on Monday.
Wednesday, January 29, 2003
WE ARE NOT BUSY
...no, we are simply brain dead. Despondant. Beaten into a hazy half-consciousness by a brutal cold snap cabin fever. As Linus Van Pelt once said to his sister Lucy, “Even my dry cereal doth taste of wormwood.”
We’ve been here before, and we always bounce back full of blood and fire. In the meantime, we recommend f-Train and William Gibson.
