Nevertheless I reverently prepared my coffee in it this morning and raised it with both hands to my lips. It was um. It was, um. Um.
You know how wine magically transubstantiates into the blood of The Dude? Well, imagine what coffee does.
I have suffered from mysterious aches and ailments ever since. My advice is to take it easy on the knee, and to consider amputation from the waist down. I have noticed a dramatic reduction in minor aches and pains from my legs following their abscission, and hope to get back into serious training again come Spring.
He leaves; it's up to ME to throw scoopfuls of sand over it while wishing I could solder my own nostrils shut.
Okay, some examples of it make me stop and go "hmm, nice I guess". Like I would at a museum. And then I move on. BECAUSE I'M BORED. Because it is like being at a museum. It's music that once was alive, but now is set in lifelike poses.
One particuarly fine example was a concert I attended to see my sister play with an orchestra. She's professional, and I like to see her play because she's very serious and she strikes the piano so hard she bounces in her seat but then flows like water over the keyboard and it's like watching a dancer, really. So that I enjoy. But then comes the filler, where the orchestra plays a few numbers without the soloist. At this point, I know I should get up and go to the lobby, the bathroom, the car, the waffle house down the street, anything to escape the may-cause-drowsiness effect of music that is dead but hasn't been decently buried.
But no, I am hemmed in by Social Obligation Bylaw 3077, which states that any concertgoer, no matter how cramped his legs are in those diddly little seats they designed back when the average patron was a PYGMY, no matter how strong the wafts of Yperite No. 5 from the old ladies in the row behind who apparently SUBMERSED themselves in it before stepping out this evening, no matter how long this sentence stretches out in an attempt to convey the out-and-out buggery tedium of such an evening spent trapped and chafing, the concertgoer in question must remain seated until the bitter end, which shall be signalled by the susurration of many hands striking other hands in a symbolic gesture of appreciation and/or effing relief.
So there I sit, eyes bulging slightly. And the guy who stands up in front of all the other people with a little stick, who is wearing black, and they're wearing black, and it's all as cheery as a Puritan wedding in November down there, he turns around, and I can tell it's time for him to "address the audience". Sigh. Okay. These next pieces, we are informed, were originally conceived and performed as party music. The gentlefolk of the time would get together in these salons, party it up and dance the night away to these lively tunes. And he didn't say it, but you know, also get drunk to these tunes, get laid to these tunes, and generally pass out behind the buffet table after vomiting shrimp cocktail on their manservant. So this is the club music of its day, music to have a good time to. Well okay then.
Not one of the orchestra members smiled while playing this party music. Frowns, mostly. They were serious musicians playing seriously, because ooh, it's classical. And there I was, surrounded by an audience of stiffs, collars tightly buttoned, hands folded in laps, thin lips set primly, and nobody moving a muscle in the dark auditorium, nobody drinking, nobody dancing, nobody vomiting.
It was wretched. We were corpses in a tomb, with a painted wooden diorama of what it was to be alive nailed to the stage in front of us. If you could take that music and play it in its originally intended context, I would probably like it. I like shrimp cocktail. But nobody is going to do that. And most every concert, recital, symphony, opera, you name it I have ever been to, has similarly suffocated with a stale lifelike-but-not-quite-alive feeling because the music has been preserved, stuffed, put behind glass, museumed. So I hate it.
Thank chthulhu for P.D.Q. Bach.
I sort of have to say sorry to all the members of my family, both sides, who love their classical music and have a right to defend it. Are we not to love the sinner, but hate the sin? I love you, family. You just gotta give that bad stuff up.
Come, Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,Come back, little blonde one! I hate spending weekends on my own!
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low.
--Sir Philip Sidney 1554-1586
Teaching is a thankless job. It seems you're constantly caught between the hammer of government cutbacks and the anvil of high community expectations. And most teachers I've met (not you, Mr. Cruze) have high expectations of themselves and feel guilty for not being able to meet expectations with what little they've been given.
But that's the teaching personality. It requires a certain amount of earnest belief in the value of education, but more than that, it means they hold themselves personally liable for another person's success or failure. Which is, in my personal code of ethics, nuts. But admirable.
Here's one of the grapes, in mortal danger.
The cat is two inches in front of my face. He has successfully conjured me from extreme bathysleep by mere force of gaze. Coma victims would have stood as little chance. Lazarus would be getting up to put food in his bowl. Dead Cthulhu would drag his Great Old One cephalopodian butt from drowned R'lyeh just to let him outside.
That is not dead which can eternal lie. I wish.
Yes, I'm on strike against, um, plumber-style butt crack, yes. I've been picketing this one fat bastard's hairy canyon for a few days and let me tell you, it's no picnic. I lost a couple of my signs in that sweaty abyss. "Crack of Dawn, YES! Crack of Don, NO!" That was one. Gone now. Ground up into kindling between those massive bum steaks.
Here's a typical extract:
what more heaven power you need than that than clouds and things that grw. huh what tyou.Three pages' worth! I am so embarrassed. I think I was into some kind of flow-writing where you just sit down and write everything that comes into your head as fast you can. Kids, don't try it at home. Because ten years later you'll want to disown yourself.
A good enough answer. Is there anything the Internet can't do? Now we're even, Internet; let's never speak of that Las Vegas hotel toilet again.
Getting back on track here: I want to say what I'm thankful for, in no particular order. I am thankful for a husky-headed cat. I am thankful for a wife who STILL hasn't given up and tried to kill me, even after being married two years. I am thankful for a pre-teen daughter who has a heart of gold despite a crazy upbringing. I am thankful for a family I can snipe and grump at who nevertheless hug me goodbye after a weekend spent together. I am thankful I work for people who have turned out to be some of the best friends I've ever had.
Tomorrow I'll try real hard to return to all things sardonic.
Not to mention he bought her a Vespa! I think it's probably this one, in Aurora Blue. I looked at the specifications, Xtina, and I note that the clutch sports an "automatic dry centrifuge with damper buffers". Just so you know. It sounded important.
I had high expectations coming from the series. High. My expectations for fantasy and sci-fi movies are always absurdly high, considering how accommodating the genre is to schlock, and I quickly turn me thumbs down when I believe the untertainment warrants death. Like LOTR. No, I take that back. LOTR does not deserve a quick death. LOTR deserves a slow roasting followed by thumbscrew, bastinado, and red-hot tweezers.
But I digress. No, actually, I don't. Forgive me if you think LOTR was "endlessly spectacular" or "one of the seminal cinematic achievements of our time". No no, I'm not interested in critiquing it as a film. That would imply I give it enough credit to continue to exist as a film. I'm more into destroying every copy on Earth and erasing the memories of those who saw it, so as to remove its stain forever from the multiverse. If ever these eyes have witnessed incontrovertible evidence of Satan's hand at work on our planet, it was seeing the story I love best pimped out for Burger King meals. Merciful Buddha, part of me died that day.
Okay, NOW I digress. Or I'm done. Whatever. Anyway. I LOVED SERENITY. AND I DON'T CARE WHO KNOWS. A slice of genius is what that show is. Thank you, Mr. Joss Whedon, sir. And my wife thanks you, because we watched the whole series together on DVD and you made her cry when her favourite character died. I admit I was also shocked. In a good way, Mr. Whedon. Because you have balls. How and where you grew them and to what diameter exactly, I do not know, but this movie you made, it makes all the other moldy crud I've been forced to endure in recent years look like moldy, er, crud.
Floog. There I said it.
I will keep writing for the ADB, but I really will stick to dev/inmagic/andornot topics over there.