Frosti

When I was in charge of the radio station at camp this summer, I would let the campers in my block class (the two hour activity block for the oldest kids) choose DJ names for themselves. Without shame, I'll admit that most of the names were kind of stupid. Some examples are Direct Input (d.i.), Snow White, I Love Rascal Flatts, Wii-mote, and the Daredevil. My favorite DJ name, though, was DJ Frosti.

I can't remember whether or not I prompted the kid to use this name or not. He may have come up with it, which is very likely. I'll bet he was thinking of the frozen deserts you can get for a dollar at Wendy's. In my mind, though, I was thinking of this beautiful two-minute song written by Björk that appears as the 6th track on her 2001 album Vespertine. I named the one recording I did with him as "Interview with Frosti." That's with an "i," which is the way Björk's song is spelled. I doubt he envisioned the spelling of his DJ name, but I'm sure that if he would have written it down, it would have ended with a "y". But this was my own way of paying homage to a wonderful little tune that seems to be so shadowed in the rest of the glory that Vespertine oozes. Here's to you, "Frosti" -- and to you too, Frosti.

Autumn's Cornucopia of Dreams: potentially less heat and frappuccinos

Today, September the 22nd, is the autumn equinox. In celebration of this blessed day, we are going to eat pizza. I might even smoke my pipe.

The Hippopotamus by T.S. Eliot

The broad-backed hippopotamus
Rests on his belly in the mud;
Although he seems so firm to us
He is merely flesh and blood.

Flesh-and-blood is weak and frail,
Susceptible to nervous shock;
While the True Church can never fail
For it is based upon a rock.

The hippo's feeble steps may err
In compassing material ends,
While the True Church need never stir
To gather in its dividends.

The 'potamus can never reach
The mango on the mango-tree;
But fruits of pomegranate and peach
Refresh the Church from over sea.

At mating time the hippo's voice
Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
But every week we hear rejoice
The Church, at being one with God.

The hippopotamus's day
Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
God works in a mysterious way--
The Church can sleep and feed at once.

I saw the 'potamus take wing
Ascending from the damp savannas,
And quiring angels round him sing
The praise of God, in loud hosannas.

Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
Among the saints he shall be seen
Performing on a harp of gold.

He shall be washed as white as snow,
By all the martyr'd virgins kist,
While the True Church remains below
Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.