"Imagine having a birthday song sung for you that celebrated the joy of being, held no old associations and was energetically clear of old birthday consciousness."
Yes, imagine that. But whatever new-age melody you might have concocted using that fruity description, Chris James' "Joy-Full Birthday" will manage to surpass its shittiness. It's like the intro to "Sixteen Candles," as performed by the moaning zombies of long-dead doo-wop singers and the ghost of Color Me Badd's career. (Historical note: "Sixteen Candles" performers The Crests sold the trademark to their name to this greasy hair avalanche.)
Chris James boasts a wide array of vocal torture implements: If you click on his picture, he'll emit some sort of pan flute/dial tone noise for 15 excruciating seconds. This "esoteric healer" bases his workshops on the dubious, self-disproved premise "Everyone is born with a beautiful voice." In this case, telling people what they want to hear results in music no one wants to hear.
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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