KEENLY APPRECIATIVE

If you've read a number of my essays on this blog you will undoubtedly be quite aware of my sensitivity and finely tuned appreciation of the finer things in life. Culinaria, artistic endeavors, and lyrically unflattering descriptions of members of the Republican Party verging on epic poetry, veering into calumnial hymns and paeons. It's beauty.
Anyhow, I am a very sensitive man.


You can stop laughing now.


For the past few days, Sydney Fylbert, the turkey vulture who lives in the chamber next door, has been singing his own praises to the tune of 'Ode To Joy', as channeled by my apartment mate. Alternated with a happy aria about juicy inner thighs grilled to perfection, that being an intellectual conceit, because he's actually never had them.

It just keeps getting better and better.

When properly channeled.

Artistic.


There was that time a while back when I accidentally saw her resting in bed happily tweaking to Madonna, so I have my doubts on occasion about her musical tastes. She also went through a long phase of fondness for Glibert and Sullivan. Again, doubts.

There was also a passion for jazz, so I've been spared the worst. Life is merciful. And seeing as I myself can't sing for diddly, can't even hold a damned tune, you can judge accordingly. No one wants me to channel joyous song for anybody, not even a carrion-lusting stuffed creature with dubious judgement.

So I have no idea whether it's art or madness.
Let's go with art. This is Sparta.



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