The dessert party was cancelled due to my cold-ling. (The -ling signifies that it's only the slightest effect of a cold. Cold-ette would also be appropriate). Guest D did come over, but she only lives a few blocks away. I have fulfilled my cookie, cake, and pie quota for the rest of the holiday season.
There was no mashed cauliflower at Thanksgiving at my parents' house. My brother also told my mother that I had been making a stink on my website about this. Since she doesn't know a URL from an HTTP, I thought that would be my little secret (shared with the whole world).
Thanksgiving was nice. Just nice. I had this nagging feeling that it would be better to spend the holiday itself with Brian. On Friday my father and I rode the PATH train in to the newly-reopened World Trade Center station. The experience was very disorienting--I was trying to figure out if the massive escalator bank is in the same location. (As far as I can tell, it is). I had forgotten how often I used to take the train into and out of the Manhattan by that route.
William sent me his folk-rock mix of the Left Banke, the Byrds, Dylan, Nico, Buffalo Springfield, et al. He also wrote up a song by song guide over at Tangents). I've had a soft spot for the Left Banke since I read that Leonard Bernstein proclaimed the band as a "perfect example of what rock music could be". (And when Leonard recommends something...). Over the past few years I have also been able to appreciate Bob Dylan for more than his "hha-eyyy". Driving around in the car the other weekend, I was listening to Blood On The Tracks, feeling particularly hip, until I realized I am twenty years too late (as usual). Today, however, I'm nursing a sore throat in bed and only dreaming of the open road.
On most occasions when people approach me on the street, I concentrate on moving my two feet away away as quickly as possible. Those dirty Greenpeace kids can easily be avoided by telling them I am already a member. Those slightly less dirty comedy club kids can be avoided by telling them that I don't like to laugh. So when a guy came up to ask if I knew anyone who should be taken to Style Court, I was caught off-guard. A coworker of mine is an atrocious dresser and should have her wardrobe sentenced to Sing-Sing. I took his flyer and left it in a public area of the office.
The fashion victim thinks her clothes are fine so, in a Law & Order plot-shift, plan B came about. Coworker Glitter asked in passing if she could go on the show; I called the number and explained that my friend usually dresses in gym clothes and sweat suits at work (it's true). Well, that was a chuckle, we decided. Until the next day when a lady from the show called me back to discuss Glitter's clothes. Next step is to send some pictures of the Glitter's crimes in action in for evaluation--she promises to wear a hoody every day next week. Frighteningly, the show lady asked me about my height and weight. Will Glitter charge a counter-suit?
According to Gays Respond: "I Do," "I Might" and "I Won't," just because same-sex couples will be able to marry in Massachusetts as early as May does not mean that these couples are rushing to the altar. What? Homosexuals aren't massing in angry mobs at city halls and houses of a religious nature demanding marriage. Of course not--that's missing the point. The point is that gayists can get married and receive the same civil benefits as other committed couples.
Back in high school I covertly read Gore Vidal's The City And The Pillar and finished the novel feeling slightly upset. Ah, but back then I thought all love and sex were necessarily linked and both were romantic. Article "The Name of Love" discusses the novel upon being republished next month. The novel isn't a masterpiece by any means, but something about it lingers in the mind.
Etiquette should require that the host does not ask the guests about special dietary concerns. A few assorted friends are coming over on Saturday night for dinner and dessert. I ran a sample menu idea by the guests. Turkey, though seasonal, is out since no one will want any of that by the time leftovers are finished on Friday. Pork loin? No, guest A does not eat pork. Meatloaf? No, guest A does not eat beef either though he does eat poultry and fish. Chicken curry? No, guest B does not like curry.
Apparently, no one has any issues with flour, sugar, or butter so the menu is now only dessert. The resulting sugar highs will certainly make UNO a much more intense game than usual--I hope the party does not devolve into running through the streets howling like monkeys. Again. (And next time, the menu is not for negotiation).
Rumor on the street is that my mother might try to replace mashed potatoes with mashed cauliflower this Thanksgiving in order to cut back on the carbohydrates. While I am certainly not averse to new delicacies and doubly certainly not a fan of the carbs which are, obviously, the root of all American obesity. (No, not overeating, rampant consumerism, and increasingly sedentary lifestyles, nope). But, one should not mess with such a tried and true Thanksgiving menu on such short notice. My parents' refrigerator used to be full of an unending supply of chocolate tarts and cookies. Now the contents is soy yogurt, low fat, low carb, low taste rubbish. The house is really a new country since I moved.
Thanksgiving itself should be a low-key affair with only my parents, sister, brother-in-law, nephew, and myself. I consider the day just a detour and necessary hurdle to its more popular holiday-sibling Christmas. As usual for the overnight trip to the wilds of suburban New Jersey, I will pack more than enough distractions, including two or three unread books, Buffy The Vampire Slayer Season 4 DVD, etc. (Yet I always find myself reading old issues of Country Living).
Someone at the public relations firm for domestic felines was obviously napping on the job (hardly a surprise) when Dr. Seuss' The Cat In The Hat was greenlighted. Cats in cinema are never shown in the best light. The mean Siamese in Lady And The Tramp did more damage to cats in film than even The Aristocats could deflect. The New York Times review says this:
Neutering, to prevent this beast from spawning sequels, is perhaps the most humane solution. Or maybe it is best to follow the advice of that wise fish: "Make that cat go away! Tell that cat in the hat you do not want to play."
When my own personal secretary and housecat Alice was asked to comment, she replied that Gunga Din was the pinnacle of film-making and she gave up on the medium afterwards. Big words for someone easily entertained by watching squirrels.
Today is a rough day for musicians whose glory days aren't... right now. After the stories about threatening the Ramones with a gun in the studio and his treatment of Ronnie, Phil Spector's murder charge is slightly unsurprising. As for Michael Jackson, the police grabbed the wrong man. The mugshot makes is very clear that Joan Crawford has been taken into custody in a strange bait-and-switch. Certainly Elizabeth Taylor put the deceased Joan up to this!
William told me about A Word A Day at Wordsmith.org. A new word (and its definition) is sent via email each morning for incorporation into your vocabulary.
Here are my efforts from the past two days:
My day at work can be very banausic, but I have yet to become an automaton.
America's and France's efforts at rapprochement were destroyed by America's lactose intolerance and France's insistence at offering cheese at every diplomatic function.
Well, the Beatles being over-rated is true for the most part. I can imagine that most reviews of Let It Be... Naked are going to go something like this: "While the original is a classic masterpiece of rock music, this new version offers new insights into the band's creative process." Blah. I'm happy with listening to 1 every now and again and wondering why every third song on oldies radio is by the Beatles. Also, how large does one's ego have to be to change the songwriting credits to "McCartney-Lennon" after the usual "Lennon-McCartney" twenty years after your songwriting partner's death. Granted, taking pot-shots at the Beatles just doesn't seem very urgent at this time.
In a continuation of my Christmas preparations, I signed up to participate in Secret Santa 2003. The real Santa can not access my apartment on December 24th due to the lack of a fireplace so this anonymous gift-sharing from Amazon Wishlists will have to make do. Below is the personal description for my Santa:
I wish I had been a Brill Building song tester. I could have helped Carole find the right beat and warned her about Lou. I wish I had told Napoleon not to go to Russia, but at least we got 'War and Peace' out of it. Or, I wish I had given young Jackson the advice that his painting doesn't have to look like anything. But I didn't.
This is it for Christmas posts until Saturday at least. November deserves respect as much as October did. That reminds me that I bought a bag of cranberries but have no idea what to do with them. Fortunately they are not as confounding as the run-in I had with a pomengranate a few weeks back.
Oh, well, let us just admit it's begun now that November remembered to lose the heat: holiday season. Downtown Jersey City felt it fit to put up their wreaths on the streetlamps already so I followed suit and rigged up the blinking Wreath In Dock. It lacks the evergreen scent but stuffing pine needles in the keyboard of an iBook is not recommended (so rumor goes). I'm at a loss for anything I desperately need as a gift this year since Brian outdid himself last year with both an iPod and a coffee maker with a timer. Nothing means love as much as a pot of fresh brewed coffee when stumbling out of bed on a cold morning. Well, I would like a car or a house or an Italian greyhound, but other things are more practical.
Someone needs to break the news of this "winter thing" to the geraniums in the window boxes. They fancy themselves poinsettias and are bundling down for the season. They should heed the warning of that Truman Capote story "Lola": "'She thought she was something else.'"
Finally, an announcement that Gilmore Girls is to be released on DVD afterall. The worrying part is that I estimate about thirty hours of Buffy The Vampire Slayer Seasons 3 and 4 DVD sets to get through still, and Season 5 is nearing release uncoincidentally near gift-giving time. (Between those two shows, television is wasteland only filled with chestnuts of Family Guy and Simpsons repeats (and those two can be patchy at times)). The plan has always been for some miraculous sick day where illness obliges me to stay in bed yet leaves me clear-headed enough to concentrate on moving images. This has yet to occur: the two sick days I have taken in the past three years involved ingesting enough Dayquil/Nyquil to get through the day. The best course would be to avoid a flu shot and to stop eating that apple a day to court illness so I can catch up on series boxsets. A cold winter with many blizzards will suffice. Pray for snow.
Set list from Belle & Sebastian's show at Town Hall, NYC, 10 Nov 03:
Slow Graffiti
Expectations
Step Into My Office, Baby
Wrapped Up In Books
Seeing Other People
If She Wants Me
Waking Up To Us
I Believe In Travellin' Light
Beautiful
You Don't Send Me
Lazy Line Painter Jane (with audience member)
Dirty Dream #2
If You Find Yourself Caught In Love
Piazza, New York Catcher
Asleep On A Sunbeam
Dog On Wheels
Roy Miller
Stay Loose
You're Just A Baby
------
Sleep The Clock Around
Get Me Away From Here I'm Dying
The band and I were on a little wilderness trip the past year or so but, I must admit, that I really like Dear Catastrophe Waitress. Apparently the album is a dividing line for some fans. Well, people are often wrong.
Mole real esate has returned to normal size. A nice woodland friend pushed me through the door and got advice from the wolves. I'll tell you about it one day when we are old, sitting around the fireplace in our rocking chairs, and taking bets on which log turns to embers faster. If, that is, any memory is left in my noggin.
Mole considering position with regards to mountain
I think I might have made an error, rather four of them. However, I might not have made an error at all since the entire circumstance is so stupid. My mind keeps running over the variety of possible circumstances and hypotheticals. It's like a big, fat mole getting stuck in his mountain door (property recently expanded from a mole hill, naturally). Mr Mole had a discussion with the door and accepted his position. Then Mr Mole got advice that he wanted before he came to terms with his position in the door and became all flustered again. And it doesn't help that when one is stuck in a doorway, there is little else to think about but being stuck in that door. Especially when the other woodland animals are snickering at your mole bottom on improper display.
Sara realized her error in a case of mistaken identity--she won't be emailing me any longer. In a word, good. Her parting email seemed well-written and nearly made me sorry to see her haunting go away. But I didn't really want to play that stupid game. Plenty of other writers' words "betray a love of Wordsworth"... I hear some young rabblerouser named TS Eliot is getting quite popular.
One of my favorite lines in Belle and Sebastian's "Piazza, New York Catcher" does not exist. Instead of:
"Elope with me Miss Private and we’ll sail around the world/
I will be your phantom man and you my wayward girl"
there is this, according to the lyrics:
"Elope with me Miss Private and we’ll sail around the world/
I will be your Ferdinand and you my wayward girl"
The notion of a phantom man and his wayward girl fits together much more nicely. Especially according to this later phrase:
"I know it wouldn’t come to love, my heroine pretend
A lady stepping from the songs we love until this day
You’d settle for an epitaph like 'Walk Away, Renee'"
Perhaps I have ghosts on the mind. A lot of former thoughts make an encore in autumn to keep the mind brimming over.
Also, my brother found the chords to the song (assuming the guitar is tuned down a half step):
Intro: G
song:
G - - - C - G -
Am - - - Em - - -
Am - - - D - - -
Am - - - D - - -
C - - - Em - - -
Am - D - Em - - -
Missing last month's pledge drive doesn't seem so bad now (next time, I swear). All the gift options were daunting anyway. What if I get the tote but realize that I really want The Fortress Of Solitude instead. Or should my more sanctimonious self forgo the gift? I think I need a show devoted to discussion for this issue with Terry Gross.
My neck is apparently broken since I can not turn it to the right at all after waking up yesterday. As a left-handed person, this should not bother me too much but the rest of the world has this thing about the right side. Various people have give me various reasons why this happened.
1) "You were hanging from a chandelier after a wild party." (No, I watched Gilmore Girls on Tuesday night and ate macaroni and cheese).
2) "You slept curled up on your side." (Likely--I do sleep on my right side).
3) "A gigantic ball of bad energy is lodged in the muscle." (Goodness, of course that's true, I know that. The only way anyone can get through a day in New York City is with a ball of bad energy lodged somewhere in their body).
Also, take some advice here, don't rub Ben-Gay on your shoulder and then rub your eye. The eye will burn and fall out. Yes, it's true!
Dear Sara,
I still do not know who you are, or why you keep writing to me. Your only excuse would be if English is your second language. I fear for your country.
Ello Matthew
So what are you doing?
It was odd seeing your Matins section this morning. I woke thinking about lying in bed with you, and went into town wondering where you were. How I enjoyed (to an extent) the absence of communication between us at the moment. I felt you needed time away from me so that you could see me as a woman rather than as a patient.
I went to the church and said a prayer for you and for me, and for the dead souls that we'd left behind. I stared at the statue of Virigin Mary and thought about how different she had appeared when you were Bill and I was a virtuous nun.
I lit a candle for us, its probably burning still.
Thank you to Matt for helping me fix the code for PC users to view the site. Apparently the world isn't switching to Macs en masse this week so I capitulated to the PC hordes. I wonder why Apple never used Napoleon for their 'Think Different' (sic) campaign--he certainly thought differently when he singlehandedly redrew the national boundaries of Europe. Oh, those were the days!
(Also, no, there is no RSS feed currently available).
Over the past few weeks whenever I mentioned Xmas shopping ideas, Molly would warn me to respect October. I insisted I was since my actual Xmas shopping spreadsheet wasn't even going to be created until November 2nd--it's not like I was wrapping and sending gifts already. But, no, in spirit I had bah humbugged Halloween away. Of course, I was not the only one since all the shops near my office had begun filling their windows with lights, tinsel, (fake) greens, etc. Our collective punishment: 70 degrees Fahrenheit weather for the first week of November in New York City. This is neither right nor natural. Please forgive me, October. I will drink apple cider and eat candy apples as penance, I will wander though a maize maze blindfolded, but please give me back my sweater weather.
