I never hang around airport bars so why I dreamed myself into one is anyone’s guess. I was in a small group gathered around the end of one of those horseshoe-shaped counters that stick out into a too brightly lit concourse, this one with an open-sky glass ceiling that was actually a continuous arch with the high walls looking out onto the tarmac. Everything was too white. I don’t know how that exact group had collected or what else we were talking about to pass the time, but a man with a Russian style of speech was more or less across from me and when I mentioned “during the Boston flu epidemic” (there has never been any such thing, as far as I know), he appeared a little baffled. “What is ‘Boston flu’?” “You remember — there was a nasty flu that got going in Boston, everyone there was sick, but of course people travel so it got around the country and it was pretty bad for a while?” “Oh! yes!” he exclaimed, putting the picture together. “I spent the whole time at home, jerking off.”
I don’t make this stuff up. Consciously.
After a decent bout in the gym earlier today I stretched out and dozed by a window that lets in the afternoon sun (cats will usually come and sit on you if you sleep there). Not quite asleep, I had a sudden hypnagogic vision of a midget Dick Cheney — well, sort of child-sized, except with a regular Dick Cheney head, little glasses and all — wearing a propeller beanie, otherwise attired in a T-shirt and short pants like any typical 1950′s child cartoon character, little bare legs and feet chugging through a similarly dated domestic interior while he looked back over his shoulder, waving his arms awkwardly overhead and cackling with merry, mocking laughter.
Anyone’s interpretation of this vision will be considered.
And a few unwanted facial hairs, but at sixty next month, that can’t be helped.
This is the showiest damage, though the most serious and painful part involved the quartet of bite punctures on the opposite side of my jaw. They are in a condition consistent with a resolving abscess (the term used by the hand surgeon who treated my first cat bite over twenty years ago). They may or may not drain but I’m packing them, when I have time, with a revolting soup of warm Irish breakfast tea heavily spiked with Epsom Salt.
–The blood all came out of the shirt.
–Due to the antibiotics, which have otherwise proved innocuous so far, I can now fart a descending tonic triad, and possibly the Marseillaise. The change in tone quality and melodic precision is significant.
–He actually got me inside my left nostril, something I didn’t realize until I washed my face with oil and salt.
A person of a spiritual bent was briefly in my house last night, and offered to channel Torvald’s point of view. “I’m sorry I hurt my Mom,” she reported. “It was really big and I was scared but I coulda taken him! I coulda taken him!”
Sounds about right.
That’s Fergie’s ear on the left, by the way — the paragon of cats, giving me aid and comfort. And trying to type on my keyboIOURD.
I think I’ll go back to my bowl of tea now, and make up a story about Schlager fencing in my student days.
You don’t want to see my face.
I think it was a raccoon outside. Torvald was looking intently at something out the screened porch, and when I stepped up beside him and bent down to see what it was, he went ballistic, launched himself at my head, bit me on the angle of the jaw and mauled me with all four paws. These were not scratches, these were slashes. I’m still finding and cleaning up the droplets that fell from the curtain of blood I saw when I ran to the bathroom sink to pour peroxide over my head.
Five hours in the emergency room for an antibiotic prescription, a tetanus shot and some bandages. He would pick a Friday at midnight when people were coming in with acute alcohol poisoning.
The Cute Engineer gets a solid-gold star for driving me. I probably would have run off the road.
I’m working on clients, but then, they can lie back and shut their eyes. Eeek.
And he doesn’t even know he’s a dick.
I posted about this ages ago, when there were only two minute clips available online.
Now YouTube can blessedly make the whole thing available, no longer limited to those ten minute segments even.
What it is, is the local station broadcast one of Foote’s other chamber pieces — the Piano Quartet — and it set me off, so that I went looking for this, then went for the gold and found the entire score for free, along with a gazillion others by the same composer, Goddess bless the Internet. I restrained myself as much as I could and only printed out this one, so that, despite a pianistic dexterity that could be bettered by a bonobo chimp armed with a two-by-four, I can (as long as I’m alone in the house) go down to the music room and fumble my way through the easier passages to my heart’s delight. I think Foote’s hand must have spanned a major ninth: the piano part keeps heaving them up. (I can just about flog a tenth if I go on the edge of the keys, so I’m safe.) I believe I have heard somewhere that Rachmaninoff had a twelfth. People with these gifts like to show them off.
Right there at 7:35. Or again at 25:00. Shamelessly lush, ruthlessly dense, like drinking Spatlese in a room full of velvet curtains and chandeliers, or a chapter from Huysmans. This guy was a Unitarian kapellmeister? It would probably be bad for your triglycerides to listen to this kind of thing every day but some Bach or Arvo Part ought to be a tonic.
There are a load of vocal pieces, too, with dedications to such entities as “The Impromptu Club of Walton, Massachusetts” and lyrics by the likes of Tennyson. I’m in big trouble here.
I have it on the best antiquarian authority.
Golden lamps totter drunkenly
In the autumn chill;
Should we not do likewise,
we whose little lamps
will gutter in Winter’s breath?
Torvald — large, loutish and ungainly — decided earlier this morning that he needed to get down from the mantelpiece in a tearing hurry. Owing to prudent habits, I was able to replace the original shade, whose fragments are still turning up in odd places, but the lamp standard itself seems awkwardly hors de combat. I ordered a new one from Overstock.
Really: Li Po would have liked the air breathing through the screens of my sun porch, a few days past the Harvest Moon. And my lamp.
Because now the dirty energy industry can proudly say it’s making people “aware” of breast cancer.
“Our hope is from the water cooler to the rig site to the coffee shop to everywhere, someone gets this information to their spouses, their girlfriends, their daughters so we can create awareness and end this disease forever,” said Bill Debo, director of operations for U.S. land drill bits at Baker Hughes.
I don’t know what alternate reality is inhabited by a guy who thinks that it takes a guy who’s seen a pink drill bit to enlighten the women in his life on this subject. It does take “mansplaining” to a whole new level of creative idiocy.
Never mind that the Komen Foundation, the mother lode of the ubiquitous pink things, has made the issue of women’s cancers into a travesty by allowing any and all products, however carcinogenic — cosmetics teeming with xeno-estrogens, or water in BPA-laden bottles, for example — to adorn themselves with that saintly little twist of pink that says the manufacturer is donating a few cents per purchase to “research” and “awareness,” while doing adorable things like trying to off-load Planned Parenthood and utterly ignoring the role of medical, commercial and environmental hormone mimics in triggering cancer.
The fastest way you can make me put your product back on the shelf is to stick a pink ribbon on it.