March 28, 2008

Evenings in are the best, which I suppose is good because there are so many of them. Recipe for happiness on a night that’s uneventful, but where we are simultaneously so twitchy and unfocused that friendly sniping grows dangerously close to reality and computers have to be abandoned? 15 minutes for pasta with spinach and ricotta (mmm), 45 minutes spent researching horses, Clydesdales in particular for their enormous feet (the size of dinner plates!) and general hilarity, for the imaginary house we will buy or build once a winning lottery ticket is found. 30 minutes of manic work, then 2 hours watching Castle in the Sky, which is yet another environment-touting Miyazaki animation that I loved with a childlike abandon. He wasn’t so sold on it, as he’s a little less able to abandon basic rationality and not question things, such as: Why does the bad technological part of the castle have to be destroyed? My answer: because the baddie is there, of course. And because technology and weapons are EVIL. Duhhhh. He: not convinced. Anyway, we sat there, me knitting on the sock I bring out for our movie sessions, and him vaguely simultaneously reading a poker book. He was actually watching the movie, but his eyes instantly shot back to it whenever I caught him dedicating masses of attention to the screen.

So yes, a humdrum day, but a good one. Before the evening, my main joy for the day was wearing a pretty blue dress and finding my pearl earrings. The punctuations alternated good/bad, but the overall effect was good. Now there are drums playing somewhere along Mass Ave. It would be tremendously annoying, but it’s somehow adding to my general state of pleasure. Hurray for pocket-sized happiness.

And on a side note, my favourite word for the day is  humdrum. I enjoy the fact that it rhymes, and I just really like writing it. I think it would also be delightful to see a man with a large walrus moustache and a pince-nez repeating it to himself under his breath.


 When I was little, my dad possessed the largest record collection known to mankind, as far as I saw it. A whole long role of titles, spanning one of the walls of our Milan apartment, later sectioned into five boxes and carried around the world with him on his travels. Alone at home, I ran my chubby fingers over the spines and marvelled at the names and colours. I had many favourites among the titles, mainly in his collection of sixeties psychedelia, but for some reason I keptfinding myself drawn to Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. I believe it was the platform boots he wore on the cover. Apparently, aged six, my aim was to be a drag queen. Regardless, I insisted that my dad play this for me and would dance along, howling “you know I read it in a maga-ZAY-ee-ee-een…”.  Between the howl, and the naughty thrill I got out of thinking that she had electric boobs (tee hee), rather than boots, this song was the apex of my young musical loves, only to rivalled by the joy of yodelling “Bee-el-ze-bub has a devil put aside for me, for me, for meeeeeeee!”, whenever I convinced him to put on Queen.

I have many other fond memories of this record collection*  but this is the particular one that comes to mind tonight, as for some reason I have been humming “buh-buh-buh-Benny and the Jets” to myself all night. Not to mention doing little sidesteppy dance moves in the street, much to the amusement of the panhandlers in Central Square and the cool kids hanging out outside of the Middle East. That’s what Elton John’s tinkly little piano does to me. Public bopping. Lordy.

*one of which is of myself, again aged VERY young, absolutely stark raving furious, because I was utterly, unshakably convinced that the Beatles and the Rolling Stones were the same band, and so it was simply selfish of them to put out records under two names. I believe the logic there was Rolling Stones–> Rolling stones gather no moss (god knows where I heard that expression, aged that young)–> Cover of Rubber Soul contained greenery, and was thus considered mossy–> My insane six year old self concludes that these so-called “Beatles” were obviously the Rolling Stones in disguise, meant to confuse astute young listeners like myself! An obvious conclusion!

Enough randomness for now. I’m heading to bed. Hopefully, my telepathic communications will rouse my father and convince him to send the entirety of said record collection to his loving daughter. It really is amazing.

I love this page from a romance comic that I found on Mike Sterling’s webpage (via Neil Gaiman‘s blog… wow i’m big on citing correctly today.) The conversation between the mouths is wonderful, and I’m a sucker for anything over the top and cheesy like this.

On a semi-tangential, semi-related note: Did I ever tell you about the glorious summer my cousin and I spent lying around eating popsicles and plowing through an immense stack of trashy romance novels we got at a used bookstore for a pittance? Pure bliss, I tell you. With lots of ripped bodices and heaving bosoms. I think we had to resort to shamefully taking more books out of the library once we made it through the stack. I would always get out one real book at the same time, and put it on top of my pile, so it didn’t immediately look to the librarian as though my brains had been replaced by fluff.