Every Sentence is a Song

I’ve long said to myself that when I can write or find the right ones, I will post some interesting poems or quotes on this blog to provide a little bit of variety alongside the longer posts you normally get to read. At the moment, I can neither come up with nor locate anything worth uploading – but thankfully, something came to me by chance when I was least expecting it and I decided it was too good not to share. It was this blog, and where to go next with it, that I was pondering when I suddenly remembered a brilliant quote about sentence structure that a teacher had on their wall at school:

“This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It’s like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety. Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length. And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of the cymbals – sounds that say listen to this, it is important.”

This quote came from a man named Gary Provost, and whilst I’ll have to Google him to find out exactly who he is, his words intrigued me from the moment I first laid eyes on them. As I’ve written before, I’m a mildly capable keyboard player. I’ve been doing my best to improve for four years now, but it’s becoming increasing clear that no matter how much I play, I’ll never be as good a musician as I am a writer. It’s therefore reassuring to know that in Mr Provost’s eyes, we’re all musicians through our respective languages. We’re creating musical pieces of many different shapes and sizes in anything we write, be it a shopping list or an epic novel. And the very nature of language means that we’re often led to use shorter, medium-length and longer sentences in varying quantities, so every day we have an opportunity to be creative and expand our grasp of English in the process. Maybe we won’t even be aware we’re doing it, but think about two of life’s greatest gifts, language and music, combined as one. Isn’t that just something that beggars belief?

Mason

The First Sign of Maturity

Being a mere 19, I can hardly call myself old, but at the very least I’d like to think that I could describe myself as mature (apart from when I’m around Will, of course). I’m definitely growing up, becoming a man, and – let’s face it – not getting any younger, even at this early stage of life. What that means is that there’s already been a point at which I’ve noticed my rapid ascent into adulthood, and that observations have been made about how I’m looking, talking, thinking and acting as a result of this. It’s not just me that the observations have come from, however, because the wider world has offered them too – and sometimes in very random and unexpected places. I don’t even necessarily have to look for them, because in an instant they’re as clear as day and right under my nose.

Let me tell you about one particular example that I noticed. It’s something very run of the mill, and not at all like the earth-shattering realisation of all the adult responsibilities you’ll soon have as you get older, but I nevertheless found it interesting as well as mildly amusing. During my lunch breaks at my recent place of work, I’d take my wheelchair up to a patch of grass in a public space to eat my sandwiches, and this meant that I could peoplewatch to my heart’s content whilst I was at it. Peoplewatching is one of the simplest pleasures that life can offer, so long as it’s done discreetly and without a weird hidden agenda, and in some cases even observing from a distance can reveal quite a lot about life and those in front of you. On one occasion, I was minding my own business with my ham, lettuce and mayonnaise sarnie when my eyes darted across to the ice-cream which was often nearby – and which always seemed to be there when it wasn’t sunny and there were few people around to buy from it! Sure enough, business was very slow, but the treats on offer did have one taker.

This was it – one of the moments where the innocence of youth very briefly gave way to a cynical, straight-faced, humourless adult. Standing before this ice-cream van, waiting to receive his Mr Whippy, was a little boy – and not a toddler. He was at least seven and certainly didn’t seem to be ill, and it wasn’t exactly the height of holiday season at this point either. Therefore, my brain came to an immediate but unexpected conclusion, namely one that automatically led me to silently utter five immortal words:

“Shouldn’t you be in school?”

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that was the moment when I truly shocked myself into realising that despite being in the spring of my years, I was definitely getting older and had encountered the titular “first sign of maturity”. My reaction to the sight of this little boy surprised me because I thought it unlike me to be so judgemental, and of course I knew very well that there could have been any number of legitimate reasons why he was eating ice-cream instead of sitting in class. In that case, then, perhaps it wasn’t a conscious exclamation at all, but the sort of outlook that arrives unannounced as you gradually experience all that life has to throw at you. If that’s true, then maybe it’s even more of an incentive to stay positive, open-minded and chirpy – and to be a bit more considerate when peoplewatching!

Mason

Please Leave a Message After The Tone

That’s it. I have passed the point of no return. What’s done is done and now I must face up to whatever is to come in the next minute or so. I take a deep breath, doing my best to calm and mentally prepare myself while I still can. Here I go – I raise my trembling hand to my ear, and it is greeted with a moment of eerie silence. Then the tones, in bursts of a single second each, ring deep into my mind for what seems like an eternity. Will they ever pick up? There is silence again, but I barely notice it before the sinister crackle…and then a warm and familiar voice. “Hello?”

Yes, the amateur sleuths amongst you may have worked out that I have just described the build-up to a phone call. This is an act to which millions around the world would not even give a second thought, but to me – even as I approach the ripe old age of 20 – it is still something strangely alien. Indeed, you’re reading a post by a man who would rather conveniently “forget” to plug the phone in at his last job, just so that he didn’t have to answer it and risk making a fool of himself. I don’t answer the phone at home either, and have been known to ignore its rings even if I’m sitting right next to it. The main reason for this is very simple, and I believe it is also commonly known as “verbal diarrhoea”. It doesn’t matter how meticulously I may have any phone call or response planned out in my head, because any hopes I hold of a seamless and flowing conversation are usually dashed as soon as I open my mouth. This is something my friend – who I am normally more than capable of speaking to without a problem – fully found out when I rang them the other day, while feeling the crushing pressure of sticking to the script I’d taken the time to form to myself beforehand.

The nervous gibberish that ultimately seeped out from between my lips seemed so incoherent that it’s a wonder we aren’t still finishing an originally straightforward exchange now. I’ll definitely have to apologise to my friend when I next see them – I feel like I wasted their time! Maybe I can also attribute my lack of phone confidence to the added pressure of trying to remember important information when it’s quite literally going in one ear and out of the other. It’s especially difficult if you’re frantically trying to find a pen or paper to record it on at the same time – if what someone is telling me is really so crucial, why can’t they just text me, email me or send me a letter, so I have whatever I need in black and white before my eyes? It’s reassuring to be able to see such things as many times as I want rather than to hear them once, which is why this blog’s email address is open to collate however many messages it may receive. Besides, I like reading, and responding to one gives me an opportunity to do that. Plus I’m a creative bloke, and I get to carefully consider and write a reply, so what’s not to like about that?

No phone calls please. I won’t be available – so you’ll have to leave a message after the tone. At least I can replay those!

Mason

Mudflap Manifesto

The closest I’ve ever come to living life on the edge was probably when I saved 90% of my make-or-break A-Level coursework on a small, wonky USB stick without a lid, which I believe got lost because Dad Hoovered it up one day. The lack of a tiny plastic cap should have made the stick susceptible to dust, Dorito crumbs and other miscellaneous kinds of damage, but it miraculously made it through the entire two years of sixth form unscathed – and I still have it today. It’s been lying on a side table in my living room for a while now, and sat there largely untouched until I decided to plug it back into my laptop out of curiosity the other day.

I began to rummage through what it held, and alongside the aforementioned College materials lay some projects I probably started, but never finished, in the common room whilst I was supposed to be doing something else for a lesson. That seems to be the way in which all the best memories came about – when the teacher had left the room and we swiftly concluded that we’d “do this work later”. If I wasn’t mucking about with Will and co, however, I’d be writing something of my own. According to a file saved on my stick, I sat down one day in February 2014 to begin work on an autobiographical book that I gave the first alliterative title to pop into my head – Mudflap Manifesto, as the title of this post would suggest. It was something that would explore my oft-referenced love of motorsport and its significance in my life, over chapters that would collectively be divided into named sections. It would appear that I only got 11 pages in before becoming distracted and abandoning the project, but when I re-read what I’d written the other day, I was fairly satisfied and convinced that I might have something worth finishing at some point. And that’s pretty rare, believe me – because when it comes to writing, I often think that I am my own harshest critic.

The first section of the book was simply entitled “Guys, I’ve got a great idea”, and it opened by recounting a collision my wheelchair once had with a bench in the College quad on a rainy day. I must have felt that this was a good starting point for the book because it led to a visit to the folks in the Motor Vehicle Department, who took out their tools to bash my footplate back into shape whilst various decommissioned cars were being tinkered with nearby. As I could see them up close, I began to reflect on my lifelong passion for them, and particularly for when they are being driven at serious speed. I asked myself questions about where its roots lay, and what my feelings and standout memories are in relation to it, and I ultimately decided that the best way to express the answers would be in prose on a page. So I began with this anecdote, before proceeding to talk about how my wheelchair has always been seen as a racier vehicle than it actually is, putting forward my pitch for a less elitist form of motorsport that anyone with a working wheelchair can enter as I then paced about memory lane and my countless racing memories. Predictably, I seemed to have done this eagerly and fondly – of course, I wouldn’t ever say that the introduction was perfect, but I’ve probably written worse!

One thing that’s even rarer than a passable piece of writing from me is me giving any kind of written attention to the countryside, which many people know has never really appealed to me. Within the context of the book, I talked about our local Somerset Stages Rally and how – from our first visit in 2004 to the present day – it has been the only thing to significantly pique my interest in our local green surroundings. Whether we locate ourselves on a crest, a hairpin bend or any other sort of corner, it’s always a spectacle and one we’re very lucky to play host to in our secluded part of the world. When it leaves town, however, the forest tracks and trees lose their sparkle completely until the following year, and so does the rest of the extensive Exmoor tundra. The hills give me nothing apart from an occasionally acceptable location in which to eat a McDonald’s as the sun goes down, or a reason to prolong a leisurely evening drive with Mum, Dad or Louis. Or do they? Upon discovering the brief beginnings of Mudflap Manifesto, which have not been added to, edited or saved since April three years ago, I’ve realised that the great outdoors appear to have given me something worthwhile to build on, and something that allows me to bring back more awesome memories and connections to the sport I love. And I owe it all, in turn, to a single moment of College quad recklessness, followed by one of many fruitful common room laziness moments. Time well spent, don’t you think?

Mason

Life Is An Epic

Yesterday, I took a break from my computer screen at work to pluck a strawberry from a box that was just in front of me on the desk. They had been brought in by one of my esteemed colleagues, and were accompanied by a selection of cupcakes which I had also eagerly sampled. I had so desperately craved the sugar rush I received from them, but then I felt a compulsion to be healthy, and if there was one fruit I was happy to consume with this in mind, it was the strawberry. A tender nugget of sweet and juicy wonder that captivates all who savour it – normally. Just a week before, Mum had bought strawberries at home that had perfectly matched that description, but on this occasion at work I wasn’t to be so lucky. As I reached forward and placed the scarlet delight between my lips, the smile I had formed in anticipation of its taste quickly faded from my face. This hadn’t been at all what I expected. I disposed of the stalk with a furrowed brow, before returning to my seat and carrying on with my day’s work.

Of course, the consumption of a strawberry is a fairly mundane thing, and normally it would have been met with an appropriately mundane response, like “ew, yuck!” Not this time, however. Instead, I found that my mind was instantly formulating a somewhat more exaggerated reaction to what had just occurred, and shortly afterwards I described the particular strawberry I’d eaten in my head as a “wet, mushy and tasteless globule of disappointment, which was squashed as though it had no structural integrity.” There have been better descriptions of such things, obviously, but what intrigued me the most was that on this occasion, trying to explain the situation to myself in a creative way was something that came instantly, like a natural reflex of the human body. The whole thing led me to a second thought, a question I asked myself – “could this be how writers think?” I wondered if they did this too, perhaps with anything that life threw at them as a mental exercise to keep the creative juices flowing (there’s that phrase again – isn’t it a cliché?)

I don’t know the answer for sure, but I personally might start doing it more often. It gave me the material I needed to create this post, after all! Maybe if I keep this mindset close, I’ll find that nothing in life is ever truly boring, and that with the right amount of time and careful consideration, I can enlighten myself in a small way every single day. People say that life is what we all make it – so why not try to make it something epic, even if it’s only known to us?

Mason

Little Red Book

What you’re reading now is the 100th Third Time Enabled post – and I can scarcely believe that as I write it. Seeing as I didn’t really expect to get this far when I started the blog, you’d think a milestone such as this would require an extensive and predictable commemorative post about how proud I am of it. However, I’m pretty sure I’ve done that before, so something else is in order. I originally had a list of 100 things that made Will, Emily, Tamara and myself happy in the pipeline, and whilst that would be an uplifting idea (and I am keeping it on the sidelines for the future), I didn’t feel like it would be enough on its own. It would be somewhat underwhelming and unable to work without something of substance alongside it – so I discarded that idea.

While mulling all this over, however, I did come to realise that lists are pretty helpful things; not only in terms of looking to the past, but also to the future, which is what I decided this post should do. This revised plan stemmed from one day just a few weeks ago, when I took the opportunity to go to a bookshop during a lunch break at work and invest in a shiny new red notebook. Its original purpose was to help me create the aforementioned list of 100, but in subsequent days it took on a new project – forming the step-by-step future of this blog. In it I wrote titles and topics, prioritising the things I want to cover most in future posts through orderly, numbered lists. It felt like an oddly therapeutic thing to do, but it also helped me to overcome a hurdle that I would say has probably been the thing stopping me from getting this post done for so long – nearly a month, to be precise!

Getting to a stage I never thought I would reach led me to ask myself “where exactly do I go from here?” I wondered if I would either end up disappointing people with everything I wrote or simply repeating myself like a parrot stuck in an endless loop. The worry became so great that I recently tried to delegate the task of writing this 100th post to Will, so that it could come from a different perspective, but I eventually realised that only facing this fear myself would ever get me past it. If you have writer’s block, the best cure is to write, and the new list – written in the latest in a long line of small books – has certainly helped me do that. It might be never-ending, and now I’m about to finish the post I’ve thought so hard about, I feel like the world is mine, Will’s, Emily’s and Tamara’s oyster. The only way is up. Sorry this has taken so long – but here’s to the next 100.

Mason

Everyone’s An Expert

On Thursday I went along to our nearest polling station to cast my vote in the local council elections. It gives me a tremendous boost to know I’m now old enough to have a proper say in the development of society, and it’s an opportunity I’ll always be eager to grab, but in my experience nothing gets young people interested in politics like a general election – and we have one coming up! By the time we go to the polls again on 8 June, it’ll be just over two years since we last did the same, and the narrow gap between elections means some of my friends will be voting for the next Prime Minister for the second time. I was in the latter stages of sixth form last time we found ourselves at this point, and it was an environment that gave me a great insight into how all of the various campaigns really can reach out to people and get them talking.

As we got closer and closer to election day back in 2015, discussion was heating up in the common room, and by the time it finally arrived, it seemed like everyone had a degree in politics, knowing all that they needed to about each of the parties running and their respective policies. It was one of the most interesting points of the entire sixth form period, and I found it almost as intriguing to be an observer from the outside as others did who were old enough to vote. Everyone took whatever time they had between lessons or either side of the college day to do what they needed to, such was their eagerness to influence the future of the country, and it’s the memories of this that sadden me when I hear that young people supposedly aren’t turning up to vote. I always wonder whether the older population of Britain assume from this that we don’t care – because we really do, and we just need to go that extra mile to convince those who don’t that voting really is something worth doing.If you’re reading this, and you are one of those people, you can heed these words – register to vote before 22 May, otherwise it will be too late and you won’t be entitled to moan if the result of this election isn’t what you want. Surely you don’t need me to tell you that your input can make a difference?

I got further evidence of the political buzz in sixth form once we all made our tentative advances into the common room to watch the results roll in mere hours after the polls had closed the night before. We had a TV on the wall at that point (I don’t know if they’ve taken it down since), and my friends and I were all seated with our eyes fixed on the rolling news coverage playing before us. Many of us – including myself, Will and Alex, who was holding an unbelievably hot cup of black coffee that he could barely hold, let alone drink from – are very much left-wing, and we therefore began the day hoping that Labour would topple the Tories to get into Downing Street. As the morning progressed, however, the Conservatives took seat after seat, and our increasing misery was compounded when their victory was eventually confirmed – leaving them in power for what we thought would be another five years.

Labour will, of course, have my support once again at the 2017 election, and I remain confident that this can be their year, contrary to what some others seem to be saying. But if you should find yourself unable to decide on a party or candidate to throw your support behind, make sure you do your own research at your own pace and come to your own decision, disregarding what others try to tell you unless you genuinely agree with them. You should always vote honestly, in accordance with your beliefs and free from any outside pressure – it’s your say and you need to make it count. Furthermore, if you know exactly who to vote for but are hesitant to do so because you doubt their chances of victory, put your cross in their box anyway, because they’re much less likely to get in anywhere if you don’t vote for them than if you do.

In a nutshell, as I’ve already been trying to say, every vote counts. You can only ever waste one if you don’t use it – so don’t underestimate its power, even for a single second!

Mason

What Gives You The Right?

While waiting for the bus home after work recently, I found myself talking to an old lady who was also in the queue. We made small talk about various things – where I live, her previous career, my disability – and it passed the time quite nicely until the bus pulled up to our stand. At that point, we were discussing employment, since I will be leaving my current job in June, and specifically what my next one could be and where I could be doing it. It was then that the lady, who had seemed pleasant enough, made an admission that immediately brought her down in my estimations.

“I know this probably doesn’t sound very sympathetic,” she began, arousing my suspicions of what was to come, “but I’ve never felt very sorry for homeless people.”

I felt the smile instantly fade from my face and I had to work hard to suppress my disgust. “If you’re working in your wheelchair, why can’t they?” she added. It astounded me that someone of this lady’s age and life experience could be quite so ignorant. Granted, I’ve never been through any of the hardships that a homeless person has, but I know – and often make a habit of pointing out – that it’s very hard for anyone to get a job, no matter who you are, and the longer you wait the more disheartening it can be. In addition to this, you should never judge a book by its cover. We don’t know the reasons why people are homeless, and every case is different, so what gives anyone the right to judge them? I think many people need to do their best to remember some things that are quickly being forgotten in this day and age; namely that we are all human beings, that the differences between us should be embraced and celebrated, and that we should resist and reject anybody or anything that uses them to try dividing us.

As I may have previously written, I gave some money to a homeless man I encountered on my way to work late last year, and my ability to do that and subsequently provide him with a cup of coffee gave me a simple but significant boost. I give a smile and a “hello” to anyone I see sleeping rough, because that’s what you’d do to anyone else in the street, so why would I deny them that basic courtesy? I’m treating them with the same respect as I would anyone else, because they’re not aliens or people to be looked down upon. They’re people who might just have lost their way a bit, and if they have, we should help them to find their way back to normality – or at least show our support.

Anyone who doesn’t, like that lady I was talking to at the bus station, will simply not dignify a response from me – as Dad has recently pointed out, if I don’t agree with something but don’t feel it is necessary to start an argument, I’ll simply disengage and glaze over until the other person realises their daft attempts to get through to me have been fruitless. I have to say, it’s worked wonders so far!

Can I ask a simple favour before I go? Just give Grace’s short documentary Living Native a watch below. You won’t regret it. Thanking you muchly!

Mason

A Massive Thank You

Okay, so I asked Mason if I could write something on here, just because I want to say thank you for everything he’s done for me. So this isn’t your standard blog post – usually I’d send Mason a huge Facebook message telling him how grateful I am for everything he’s done for me – but that’s not enough, I want everybody to know how amazing he is and just how much he has helped me! The last few years have been super tough on me and I don’t think I’d have handled it the way I have if it wasn’t for Mason! He is always there when I need advice or even just to rant about my shitty day, and with one little reply he can make everything feel better again. He probably doesn’t see it but all his little messages are such a massive boost. It’s such an amazing feeling to know there’s someone out there who cares about you so much they’re willing to do anything and everything to see you happy and achieving what you want to achieve. I wouldn’t be where I am today if it wasn’t for him.

Mason has supported me through everything, family issues, starting a new college, dealing with rubbish friends and shitty people and he’s taught me to feel good about myself even when others try to knock me down. He builds up my confidence when others make me feel worthless, he makes me smile even when others have made me cry, he gives me courage to carry on doing what I’m doing even when I feel like I’m not good enough. I can honestly say he is one of the best people around me and I don’t know what I’d do without him. I’m sure anyone who knows Mason will agree with me when I say he’s an inspiration.. he doesn’t ever let anything stop him from doing something and I’m so lucky to call him my best friend. I hope this puts into perspective how grateful I am to have you in my life Mason, and just how much you mean to me! You know I will always be here should you need me!
I’m fully aware this is soppy and a bit different to anything else on here but it needed to be said – thank you for being you Mason 🙂

Tamara

The Funk Is Here To Stay

Picture this: it’s Friday 31 March 2017, just before lunch. I’ve waited patiently inside all day for a delivery I’m very excited about. I need to be there to take it myself, I’ve been waiting far too long for it to be dropped off with the neighbours next door. It’s roughly 12:30, and Mum will be back from work soon. I advance towards the front door, somehow sensing that the arrival of my hotly-anticipated parcel is imminent…and then I make out the postman’s orange high-visibility jacket through the translucent pane of glass. He rings the doorbell, and I answer. I restrain my excitement for a moment as I politely take the package from him and we exchange pleasantries. He sets off down the driveway towards his trolley, and it’s safe to close the door and let my glee run wild. At once, I set the item down on the carpet and tear wildly at the cardboard around it, ignoring all of the packaging’s instructions on how to safely remove its contents. Seconds later, it lies there in front of me – pristine, shiny, and a long time in the making, it is the latest Jamiroquai album, Automaton, on brand new vinyl.

This record was a long time in the making for the band (yes, they are a band – so kindly stop referring to Jamiroquai as “he”), meaning that for myself and all of their fans worldwide, almost seven years had passed without any new material. Their previous effort, Rock Dust Light Star, was released in November 2010, so it was an almighty relief when the banging first single and title track from the new album finally showed itself in January. I’ve had it on near-continuous repeat on Spotify ever since, such is its magnificence, and to hear it on the radio for the first time was to experience Jamiroquai’s music as a bona-fide proper fan for the first time. I got into them between the last album and this one, thanks to Mum of all people, and in particular the Magic Summertime compilation CD she had for the car – which was full of tracks the people behind it must have identified as the most summery songs out there. Among them was one Jamiroquai song, namely my personal favourite, their 1999 hit “Canned Heat”. As soon as I heard it, I knew I had to have it, and that I needed to start exploring the Space Cowboys’ back catalogue. I thereafter devoured every record I could just as much as I did Automaton when I put disc one on the turntable for the first time. The singles collection High Times, released in 2006, receives particularly high airplay on my iPod. But no matter where I find and enjoy these songs, and regardless of the format they present themselves in, they’ll always have a deeper significance for me.

Above all else, they make you feel good. That’s a very straightforward verdict, I know, but for me that’s a gateway to memories new and old, and they’ll make me smile however small they may be because I’m able to link them to Jamiroquai in some way. To hear “White Knuckle Ride” and its euphoric-sounding chorus takes me back to times at College when I was carefree and able to laugh with my friends all day long in the height of summer – as does “Canned Heat”, which I think my peers were mostly familiar with thanks to its use in Napoleon Dynamite. Whenever “Cosmic Girl” is played I think of Jay Kay, the coolest cat around, winding his purple Lamborghini around Spanish mountain roads in the music video, as well as – you guessed it – a rather cosmic girl I used to know. “Feels Just Like It Should” transports me to when I must have been about 8, when I remember hearing it on the radio once and not knowing what the song was or who was performing it, but still thinking that it was awesome with its beatbox intro, hip-hop style beat and funky guitar parts. I knew I wanted to hear it again one day, and was pleased when I eventually became a fan and rediscovered it to listen away to my heart’s content. As I have already said, I do connect some of Jamiroquai’s music to smaller, more everyday events – when I last went into the local card shop to buy someone’s birthday card, “Little L” was playing in the background. I left thinking they had very good taste indeed.

Alongside the memories that the songs evoke, there is of course the musical variety of the band itself that I so greatly admire. In my eyes, three of the most notable examples of this are the addictive buzzsaw bassline in their funk rock-style 1998 chart-topper “Deeper Underground”, the orchestral grandiosity of “King For a Day” and the didgeridoo that opens and fills their very first single, “When You Gonna Learn?” They can go all the way from straightforward retro funk to fully modern dance-pop anthems like the “Automaton” single, always making sure there’s something fresh to come with every album and scooping up millions of loyal followers while they’re at it – as well as millions more album sales to add to the 25 million they’ve already notched up. Regardless of how much more there may be to come from Jamiroquai, they’ll very much have a large presence in my life thanks to both the music and the memories. I can definitely say that as far as I’m concerned, the funk is here to stay.

“Sends me into hyperspace, when I see her pretty face” – “Cosmic Girl”, Jamiroquai.

Mason