Before I forget

Did I mention that I did finally catch up with House? And that it won me over after much House-like cynicism on my part? And that it made me cry? I mean proper sobs.

Clearly someone has slapped some sense into the scriptwriters at last. Or perhaps it was a cunning plan all along. Hm.

Like Sunday

Trudging slowly over wet sand
Back to the bench where your clothes were stolen
This is the coastal town
That they forgot to close down
Armageddon - come Armageddon!
Come, Armageddon! Come!

Everyday is like Sunday
Everyday is silent and grey

Hide on the promenade
Etch a postcard :
"How I Dearly Wish I Was Not Here"
In the seaside town
...that they forgot to bomb
Come, Come, Come - nuclear bomb

Everyday is like Sunday
Everyday is silent and grey

Clearly, this is the Sunday we all know and love. Only this one was quite nice instead. Most peculiar.

Please the press in Belgium

So in case no one noticed, I have a tendency to overcommit; and because I also believe in living up to one’s commitments, this can be a problem. Oscar Wilde is right, one can resist anything but temptation. When someone says to me “how would you feel about joining such-and-such?” or “there’s this play/show/game, want to go?” I promptly forget everything and say yes.

So I have an outstanding invite to join an Outlander blog for a Belgian paper. I haven’t responded to it, and given how often I blog these days, probably shouldn’t. But hey…

Not as advertised

If you go to a museum lecture about Elvis, I feel that it is fair to expect one of two things:

- serious scholarly enquiry

- some serious glamour

The talk in question had neither, only a multitude of anecdotes, a lot of pictures and lots of cheap shots. It did have wine and cheese though, so perhaps that makes it better.

So instead I find myself listening to Aloha from Hawai’i and, for some reason, Big Girls Don’t Cry. But perhaps that latter choice has more to do with Dirty Dancing and its wonderful soundtrack than with anything that happened yesterday. The late lustrous Patrick Swayze aside, I do still find the movie better than it has any right to be, and the soundtrack one of the best I know.

Still, there is nothing quite like early, early Elvis. It occurs to me – again – that fifties music is inexpressibly filthy in all of its blatant reference. Baby let’s play house – ah, wonderful, as explicit as possible, and a little violent.

Favourite about moving to the US: the discovery of new music. Through the Spouse – Johnny Cash! Through the first radio station to best my old favourite StuBru back home, WTMD. It perpetually amazes me how much more involved I am with Baltimore than I ever was anywhere else – all the volunteering, shows, theatre, tai chi and general events. At the same time I am less (socially) involved in my work than ever; one wonders why that is, and I suppose I should say that it seems mostly because the organisational tendency towards social control makes me very wary.

Alas, poor Tom

I was listening to Tom Lehrer, my old dear Tom, to whom I have listened with such pleasure since I was quite little. Suddenly I realised that while of course one has to love Oedipus Rex, a lot of his stuff is really quite smug and annoying.

Alas.

In other news, I saw four bald eagles this weekend. No, really, I did.

Peculiar detai

When a few weeks ago I was lying in a Jacuzzi on the deck of a giant ship, I noticed that the giant screen mostly used for showing sports and Mamma Mia (lord, why didn’t anyone stop Pierce Brosnan from singing?) was showing a Morrissey show. I know, the minor miracle here is that Morrissey actually had a show that he didn’t back out of at the last minute, but the bigger point is: who the hell thinks that exquisitely referential, angst-riddled and irony-filled songs are a good thing to play to rich retirees having drinks by the pool?

The Spouse and I hypothesized that the manically cheerful cruise director, who for the purposes of this post we shall refer to as Celsius Happy*, was secretly nursing a Morrissey-filled dark side, and had sneaked this onto the program without explaining the implications to his angst-ignorant staff.

*No, this pseudonym is not sillier than his real name

This picture would be so much better if Robert Whatsisface had a rose between his teeth. His body language tells me I am fierce and sexy, and this woman is mine. Also, I am emo. Don’t mess with the emo. We get, Robert, all it needs is some…tango. Proper Argentinean tango, the kind that started as fighting way back when.

Will I see New Moon? Meh, perhaps I’ll rent it sometime, or wander over sometime when I’m bored and lonely…

Dear Science,

I love you. I love nothing better than to sit on your lap reading about chaos theory (except –well, let’s not get into that). I can gaze into your eyes for hours on end. Science, don’t let the fact that I frequently confuse Brian Greene with Brian Austin Green distract you; I will pick string theory over Beverly Hills 90210 any day, except perhaps late at night after a few drinks because, science, everybody makes mistakes, and I too was young and foolish once.

Science, it’s too much. I must know you; yet my love for you is platonic, even after our many encounters by way of Star Trek and Nova. When, at parties, late at night and somewhat drunkenly, a scientist sidles up to me and talks about baryon acoustic oscillations I admit, my beloved science, that my love fails. When the drunken scientist tells me all of the science I should know before I understand the enigmatic BAO, I falter. It seems that love falls short – for I will not learn calculus, and I always was abysmal at physics.

My soul, most non-scientific of all, is not at fault. It is the mere matter of my brain that thwarts my love, dearest, for it prefers pretzels to pumpkin soup and Harry Potter to Maxwell’s equations. The will, unquantifiable entity, is there, but the squishy grey mass is uncooperative. Forgive me, science. I would have loved to make lovely music with you. Yet reality dictates most unyieldingly: I will only read popular science.

Your humble,

Beast

Important information

Rule number 1: Never get involved in a land war in Asia
Rule number 2: Always remember to bring a book. You will need one.
Rule number 3: Don't read Jody Picoult, apparently
Rule number 4: Don't make things from scratch with pumpkin unless you are willing to spend numerous hours subduing the pumpkin
Rule number 5: If attending a Tragically Hip show, be aware that it is important to know the words to At the hundredth meridian. It helps if you've seen Due South.
Rule number 6: Watch Due South whenever possible

That's all I got for today, folks