Desmond and The City of Black & White.

Whoopee! Mat Kearney's sophomore album is out!
(And in my opinion, better than his first!)

Changing my playlist to this, since playlist has the entire album.
And because I can.

Desmond and the Cold Tap-water.

Weather-wise, Today has been splendid.

The morning started off with a rain shower that did two things for me. First off, the soft sound of rain falling on the ground, gently nudged me awake. Second, that very same splishing, splashing, rain-is-falling, cradled my consciousness into a state of indecision -- "back to precious sleep, or get up to a beautifully cold morning?"

My said-Consciousness finally settled for "laze in bed half-awake". I agreed, of course.

The cold morning carried on to a cold afternoon which, considering the recent spate of oven-weather, I welcomed with opened arms.

I love waking up to cold mornings. And snuggling under my oft-unused-blanket. And turning the tap to find cool water drenching my hands. Rainy days like today do these for me.

Even now, 60 ticks to midnight, the roads outside are covered in a sheet of fallen-rain, reflecting the warm orange glows of the street lamps.

I love these sights.
I love rainy days.

Desmond and gRoss.

Of all the Friends, Ross is my least favourite by a far mile.
Enough to want to blog about it.

Desmond and Other-Him.

It is the bustle removed from the room. The TV droning no more. The sink always unfilled, uncluttered. The water boiled a day ago still sitting unfinished in the jug. The claustrophobia breathing down on you expelled. Make space for Space.

You are silent for the most of the day, because being alone dismisses the need to talk. Until you realise you should talk, even if out loud to other-You. So you begin a necessary self-monologue, the starting of which startles you -- "has my voice always been so low and muffled?"

Therein lies the necessity of talking: because I need me to sound like me. I need my voice opened, not closed. Posture straight, chest out, deep breaths. Chest out (again). Resonating the things already known to myself out of my head, through my head. Am I more supported now? Maybe.

Maybe support is not as pressing as the need to remember voices. To clear your head. So we talk, of bustling rooms and jugs half-full. Of blackened TVs and empty sinks. And of Claustrophobia as a man. We talk to empty our heads.

Or maybe, we talk to our empty heads.
Shush, other-Me.

Desmond and the Modified Ice Cream.

(Click to view video: How Smelly is the Durian?)

Durian season is back in town, and so demands the arising of the Pro and Non-pro-durian factions.

For the record, I am Pro-durian.

Why? Because I love the durian, and it's creamy goodness. There is a bittersweet taste that lingers after you bite into the soft, tangy, flesh of the yellow drop of heaven. It's like ice cream that has been modified to melt slowly, so that the delight of the durian is prolonged, stimulating every tastebud. That, and because it irritates my friends who hate it.

That said, I have to admit I'm not a fan of the durian's interesting smell. I don't appreciate its funky smell on my fingers, even if I do not think it is as smelly as the video above suggests.

But we must pay the price for the things we love: Smelly fingers, and ten dollars a box.

(You may go out into the highways and the by-ways, into markets and super-markets, to feast on the wonderfully-and-fearfully-made-durian. Afterall, it is the durian season. And while this individual does not hate the smell (prefering to say he is unappreciative of it), you might want to use a spoon or chopsticks, like he has done in the past. Although, he reckons bare-fingers is the way to go.)

When the doctor said, "2 servings of fruit a day," he probably didn't mean the durian.

Desmond and Stupid Game Show Answers.

Suddenly the 1980s seem so much cooler.
Although, 1987 has always been so.

(While it may be so that I embedded the videos, view at your own risk. I take no responsibility for the things you might hear, or the stares you might receive from bewildered family members.)

(Not kidding about the stares. Turn volumn down.)

Desmond and the Sky High Mic.

Along with Carrie Underwood and Melinda Doolittle, Michael Johns shares a special place in a part my brain that's labelled Memorable American Idol Contestants. (Kelly Clarkson doesn't count because I didn't watch the first season.)

"Michael Johns," you say?

"That Australian guy who sang Bohemian Rhapsody? Who got axed on Idol Gives Back? With that quirky-jerky-dancing? Who sticks out his butt, and lifts his mic high into the sky? That Michael Johns?"

YES.

I still think he got prematurely booted out of Idol.

Season 7 of American Idol was crazily fun. With Brooke White's restarts, to David Archuleta's lyric flubs... right up to the disastrous cover of Shout to the Lord, where they colour-coded white, as if Idol night was Laundry night... Season 8 never replicated such insane fun, in my opinion.

(Not like it matters though, because this individual had to strain his brain to remember the names of this year's finalists, Adam Gokey and Kris Lambert. Guess they're just not in my MAIC happy place.)