Perfection

One of my extremely famous friends has recently decided to adjourn on the path to perfection.
Besides for this being a stupid idea, it brings up a very boring question that everybody always talks about. Still, this is not the fanny pack page, it is the argyle page, so it is thematically defensible to explore threadbare but strangely enticing subjects.
So, what is perfection?
For a while I figured it was just an American spelling of Obama, but recently I’ve been having second thoughts. I don’t like rich white people either, but they do wear a lot of cool sweaters, which is a point any rational person would consider.
At one point it seemed like perfection was Michael Jordan, but his stint with the Wizards made him look about as magic as Shaq.
I’m pretty sure, ultimately, that perfection does not exist in any form more pure than The National’s most recent album Boxer. Paste Magazine calls it the best of 2007, but the biggest trick of perfection is longevity. The National’s layered instrumentals and deep, resonant vocals get better with every listen, so allow me to mystically predict that it will also be the best album of 2008. Which doesn’t make sense, until you admit to yourself that the listening experience is practically reinvented with every listen. It’s not lyric-driven, but the words are every bit as poignant as The Mountain Goats… just with a far more ambiguous application.
The music sounds at times like an orchestral waterfall, crashing into the undercurrent of singer Matt Berninger’s rumbling vocals. Listen to it during thunderstorms, on too-bright mornings, on gross muggy nights, or on glorious walks through meadows of dainty, effervescent (?) wildflowers… you won’t find any weather or mood that can’t be considered in conjunction with this sound.
Excuse the previous poetry. It is idyllic because I am sullying The National by calling them Perfect.
Don’t worry about it. They will rise above my groveling words.
Maybe my famous friend’s next viral video will sound a little more like this