I just drank a warm cup of Ancho chili cocoa.
Tonight I made Japanese curry from scratch--I found a recipe that deconstructs the premade roux. I poured it over tonkatsu, which I also cooked for the very first time. Add that to my list of meals I won't order anymore.
I read their relationships via where they sat in the room.
Two shared the same desk and one sat alone behind 'em. The front two weren't wearin' headphones and I'm guessin' chatty with each other whilst the one in back paid 'em no attention. Not that they weren't all acquaintances.
I was invited to shoot the dress rehearsals for this year's opera production.
The pianist asked if she could leave her music with me--she'd a heavy stack of scores, too much to carry 'round all day. "I'm your locker," I clowned as I didn't deny the offer to lighten her load.
Today I cleaned my shower.
(2.8.10)
We've got a copy of Ram at work. I don't own that album. It's been like over a decade since I last heard it. Personally, I've always liked the homemade charm of McCartney's first solo album--I've got that and've played it more often than in ten year spans. And to be honest, aside from Lennon, my appreciation of the ex-Beatles is hardly complete--I ain't familiar with every studio outtake that Harrison ever recorded but never officially released or know what the B-sides were to all of Ringo's post-70's singles, if he even had any, etc. So as I awaited a pianist to pick up some photos that I'd edited of her and her 'cellist, I put on McCartney's second solo album.
It's the opposite, production-wise--whereas the first one's got a minimal aesthetic, the followup almost goes overboard, in a good way, with layers of Beach Boy-esque harmonies and Pet Sounds era orchestrations, plus a bit o' the ol' Abbey Rd. patchwork configurations. I also like how Lennon heard anti-Lennon messages in the lyrics. But to me, it sounds like another time, well, the early '70s, even though I don't consciously remember hearin' any of those songs. I mean, I think The Beatles're close to timeless as they were on the forefront of the '60s, but the solo stuff seems to age, revealin' how they joined the times. I can't wait to listen to the CD again tomorrow.
(2.9.10)
ACT the FIRST: I awake from a dream--my lawyer was pregnant, which took me a while to register, you know, via dreamtime illogic, cause he ain't female. After releasin' my first piss of the bright'n'early 10 o'clock day, I take a shower durin' which I meditate upon The Temper Trap's track playin' scene in the last Zooey movie that I watched--the moment on the train, scented with a tainted past, painted in late afternoon light, and uncertain of a potential future. I pick a black collared shirt for tonight's gig--shootin' a dress rehearsal for this year's UCLA Opera production of the West Coast premiere of the three-act Baroque Giasone, the colour bein' consciously inconspicuous. Mental note as I drink my orange juice after I combed my hair: don't forget my camera. This was my second night's assignment--they've got two semi-rotatin' casts. I need to charge my battery at work today--last night used up 'bout 60 percent of my mathematical juice. I pack my wallet with four 20 dollar bills, turn on my cellphone as I stuff it in my left pocket, and reserve my right for the keys to my abode, mode of transportation, and loads of official entries into my place of employment. Oh, and I don't forget my backpack full of photographic equipment. There's one key that's not ringed with the others--my garage. That's cause if it's hooked with the one for my car, I gotta detach somethin' whenever I come home. Nah, keepin' 'em separate is less of a hassle. Tomorrow I'm gonna talk 'bout my path of laziness with my ex-assistant as she model's a tie for me, spinnin' in my boss' chair, namely my lack of white clothes due to my slothful doin' of only one load of laundry per week, which means I don't separate my colours. Yesterday I watched the first episode of the last season of Lost with Ted Ed Fred, Zaggs, and Calvin--JM was feelin' sick and stayed home. I can only guess that Seymour's (my lawyer's) wife tuned her pregnant self in. Flash-sideways. Vegas. I listen to disc one (sides one and two, plus Anthology outtakes) of The White Album (in stereo) as I drive to work. The freeway's'ren't ridiculous as I only got to "Piggies" when I reach my parkin' lot. However, I find a spot when "Julia" is over--I drive 'round in circles 'til a spot opens in the it-could-be-better-than-this structure.
(2.10.10)
ACT the SECOND: I eat my lavash wrapped tuna sandwhich. And for the fourth time in the last three days I pop in Ram. It's really not a bad album--if I could indulge in another concert with my beloved quartet, I'd passin'ly consider performin' that song cycle next year. Alas, they're seniors or masters degree students, and unless by some stroke of luck they've to all decide to return to school here. Anyways, I ordered my own copy--the import remaster that includes "Another Day" and its b-side. I always feel stupid buyin' music--especially the CDs that we've already got at work. But it's the legal thing to do, I suppose, like no one's watchin' me. Tomorrow the supertitles operator'll complain 'bout my focus on certain opera singers. Yesterday I got an email from Woman's Day magazine askin' for permission to use some of my photographs and to not only answer a few questions 'bout my high-res JPEGs, but give a few sentences 'bout myself--I ignored 'em. And today I got more pesterin' from the Seven Sisters publication. I asked my assistant if she read the rag--if she did I might consider replyin'. She didn't. So I deemed the request uncool. I mean, I don't need the validation anymore. Tomorrow I'll eat a lavash wrapped egg salad sandwich. Meanwhile, after lunch my 'cellist decides to use my computer to print somethin' to fax to her dentist or someone, whatever. I think of somethin' funny to say to my second violinist. In the 'fridge at work I've got aluminium foil wrapped leftover mozzarella and cheddar pizza. On my break, I walk to the convenience store by the law school and pick up a bottle of sparklin' apple juice to go with my dinner. Later tonight, my sausage book'll arrive along with the soundtrack to (500) Days of Summer. I'll admit that I wished to see her, but it's never in blood, or at least, I don't like to think that my soul's been exchanged for heaven--cause, honestly, her name goes 'round in my brain at least a million times a minute. And I think back to that Zooey train scene--if I were involved, I'd walk away, cause it might never be any better than this--albeit I'll've takin' a photo. My battery's charged.
(2.11.10)
ACT the THIRD: It's my second time shootin' and I've got a better grasp on the first two of three acts havin' seen the scenes before. I'll keep the aperture steady and shift the shutter speed whenever the lights change, which is very often. I found a recipe for chicken enchiladas, includin' homemade corn tortillas--I'm gonna give it a try this weekend. Tonight, after the opera dress rehearsal photoshoot, I'll pick up some Masa harina from the market. On Saturday I couldn't find the necessary chili peppers (Ancho and Guajillo) at the supermarket. Luckily, there's a tiny Mexican grocery store down the street, which I've never visited before--it was a treat to browse the foreign aisles. And before the third act, as the house lights turn down, I power-on my camera, focus on the second most important subject in the world that I needed to shoot, and hear her say "Is anyone sittin' next to you?" "No," I point with my free five fingers, "have a seat." So she sits down next to me in the front row--she's to my left. "Monkberry Moon Delight" drifts thru my soul. At first her leg's crossed away from me. And so's mine, cause I'm mirrorin' her as I try to capture the opera in pixels. And then her scent connects with the memories in my nose--of yesterday, of everyday, and of now as she's sittin' next to me, laughin' at the funny duets. Tomorrow I'll joke with her 'bout my camera wantin' to take her picture. "Who?" she misheard. "My camera," I played along with her personification of inanimate objects and she finally laughed. I can't stop--"He said he really preferred to be shootin' you, but he had a job to do..." "Hahaha," she continued. But in the diminished illumination, she's loopin' me in intoxication and I was back in my seat pretendin' to care 'bout the opera as I rolled with her chuckles--she's got a nail bitin' habit that won't stop 'til I surrender my mind's eye. She's frackin' sittin' next to me. "Sweet Disposition". I can't help but wonder who to thank for this. The third act is where it happens. That deserves to be repeated. Durin' the third act of my day is when she sat next to me in the third act of the opera. A moment. This was another rung. A goddess in the adjacent spot. I could search every alternate universe'n'still come to the same conclusion--it don't get better than this.
(2.12.10)
I didn't know what a "European Capital of Culture" was until I looked it up in an online encyclopedia after receivin' an email from an advertisin' representative of Istanbul. Seems they're interested in my sculpturin' skills to commemorate their city--every year some cities in Europe're chosen (sometimes it's one or two, once it was nine) to attract tourism based on the European notion that an arbritary title means somethin'. So the 2010 selections're Essen, Pecs, 'n'Istanbul...my dog he got three legs, your dog he got none...
...ram on...give your heart to somebody soon, right away...right away...I wanna try my hand at kare pan (curry doughnut). All the recipes that I've consulted call for "leftover curry". So for dinner tonight I made some specificially to be kept for later, namely to fill deep-fried bread. However, this was the first time that I've tried the recipe with an apple, caramelized onions, 'n' homemade roux--it wasn't bad and I'm confident that it'll likewise be a nice fillin'. We're so sorry but we haven't heard a thing all day...we're so sorry Uncle Albert...
VL2'n'VC entered the library together--the former attached herself to the computerized catalog, the latter sat at a table and plugged herself into her laptop via headphones. VL2 borrowed a pen from the circulation desk, where I lounged...I was walkin' down the street the other day...smile away...And she returned with a call number of a piece that was supposedly 2/3rds checked out--a trio with only one part still available. "Where is it?" she asked. "Upstairs," I pointed. "Thanks," she ran. If there's one thing I'll always remember, it's her enthusiasm.
In a drunken stupor, I made a batch of corn tortillas. I was smushin' the dough with a plate. Sixteen times. And I don't remember the sober details cause it all went by in a blur. The followin' day, my arms were sore as Hell...so I sat in the attic, a piano up my nose, and the wind played a dreadful cantata...(cantata)...And I'm guessin' that I'm gonna be makin' more corn tortillas in the future. And they want me, an American born of Chinese-Indonesian'n'Japanese parents, to depict their Turkish city with toy bricks conceived in Denmark.
Come on little lady, lady let's eat at home...I like how I've snubbed magazines (Woman's Day), broacastin' corporations (BBC), and now a city (Istanbul). I mean, come on, they wanted me to make shit for malls. MALLS? When did culture orbit 'round those consumerism traps? Yesternight I fried some tortillas with my new cast iron press--it totally made it painless on my arms...we're just busy ridin', sittin' in the back seat of my car...Now, if it'd been Belgrade, I'd've cooperated. This entry is brought to you by The Thunderbirds.
(2.17.10)
I've been rentin' DVDs of The Big Bang Theory. I think Penny is cool. The Indian character is funny when he gets all Harpo 'round her. And the Jewish guy steals the scene every time--the horndog, like Barny from How I Met Your Mother, but a zillion times more nerdier. The theme song by Barenaked Ladies ain't bad, although the cinematography is your standard sitcom neutral focus. But I'd've to say that the stegosaurus in the openin' credits is definitely a plus.
Today I got a request to perform a concert on my harpsichord. At first I laughed thinkin' I might be a joke, but as I got to the third paragraph of the plea, I began to suspect that they were really serious. Um, I can't do that, not on such short notice--they want it to happen next month. Let alone the maintenance and tunin' needed at this point in time--the instrument's so outta calibration and coordinatin' a playlist when I'ven't played the keyboard since last summer...
...is insane. "Times're tough," the harpsichord specialist relayed. "Really?" I conversed after the Vivaldi concert at the library rotunda. "Yeah," he continued, "many o' my friends're outta work--and it's gonna get worse." I helped him pack the harpsichord and walked with him back to the music buildin'. In the basement I waved to VL1 and VL2--the former touched my shoulder tonight, the latter has an audition tomorrow and thus'll be praciticin' late tonight.
I found a recipe for taquitos. I can't stop eatin' homemade corn tortillas warmed in my microwave with a sprinkle of a Mexican blend o' cheese. Here I go again. Wait...was she tryin' to seduce me?...well, anytime I find myself in the dark with a chick, I get that urge to make a move, even if it's unnecessary...DON'T GET LEFT BEHIND...And I'm back at home practicin' The White Album--some songs're more groovin' than others, on different days, oh well...
(2.18.10)
Well, well, well, oh well
-John Lennon
Well, well, well, well, well
-Paul McCartney
(2.19.10)
On the can, I flipped thru a "500 Greatest Albums of All Time" list in a popular pop music publication--it was 'bout seven years old, a discard from the library. Immediately I located The White Album--number ten, Sgt. Pepper was at the top, Revolver resided at the third spot, Rubber Soul placed fifth, Abbey Rd. 14, etc.
I've never really liked the album Imagine. I prefer its predecessor, but ain't always in the mood to hear Lennon scream 'bout his parental issues. No, the followup, if I could sum it up in one word, is a bunch of "statements"--it's like he's tryin' too hard to be an artist. After all these years, I've never owned the CD.
Of course, that album came in at #76, Plastic Ono Band was #22. And Harisson's All Things Must Pass took #437, Wings' Band on the Run #418. None of this I'd've much to argue with, 'cept where was Ram? The more I listen to that album, the more I'm inclined to call it my favourite ex-Beatles record.
There's so much goin' on, that even after a dozen listens, I'm still discoverin' new sounds that're mixed into the elaborated production--it's Paul's Pet Sounds, but all the more tuneful'n'rockin' than Brian Wilson's dour masterpiece (#2). Sure, the lyrics'ren't cool, but if Dylan can sing outta tune, McCartney's got a pass, too.
I certainly'd listen to Ram over Imagine anyday--although, honestly, I think the greatest ex-Beatles album is Lennon's Rock'n'Roll. But as a collection of originals, Ram's got my nod. Cause in my humble opinion, Lennon peaked durin' the White Album, Harrison Abbey Rd., and McCartney on the climactic wail at the end of "Back Seat of My Car".
(2.22.10)
12:12
(2.24.10)
Morally, I couldn't accept a request to sculpt the mascot of a mass produced breakfast cereal.
My lawyer told me to quote a ridiculous price. "Three million dollars," I didn't joke. "No," he realistically coordinated, "how much is the cost of materials?" I gave him an amount--I consider the exact number a trade secret given my connections in the business. "Times that by 20," he advised.
Nevermind the money, it simply goes against my ethics to help promote a product that I don't believe in.
"Don't tell me you're concerned 'bout kids eatin' too much sugar," my lawyer sarcastically sighed. "Not at all," I cut him off. "Then what do you care if you're bein' unscrupulous?" he scoffed. "That's not the point," I pointed out, "I don't believe in eatin' breakfast--'tis all a silly scam to sell more food."
"It's the most important meal of the day," he robotically stated.
"I'ven't eaten breakfast for more than half of my life," I added, "and I'm fine." "You've got too much hair," was all my lawyer could argue against my "fineness". But seriously, the older I get, the more "righteous" somethin' is claimed to be, the more suspicious I've become of the motivations behind such claims.
So I replied with a lie and told 'em that I was too busy.
(2.25.10)
Her words rang in my ears for the rest of the day.
"Are you done hittin' on your violinist?" my assistant greeted me. I had to be at work at 9AM, two hours earlier than normal, for a staff meetin'. I mean, I ought to shut up, cause I should be so lucky to've a job thesedays, but my thoughts were still asleep 'til I caught up with my regular schedule. Not to mention, I was shootin' photos at 8PM, for an early music concert at the library rotunda, so I was geared for a long day. However, the best thing 'bout bein' on campus at a time when I usually am not was that I caught VL1 sittin' in the lobby all by herself. So I struck up a conversation.
"You've got a fan," VC laughed. "So do you," I returned.
"Can you translate somethin' for me?" I asked my assistant, who's been takin' Italian classes, as well was in that country last summer. Cause someone commented on the video clip of me and my string quartet's performance from last year--and it was in Italian. "Aw," she pointed out, "he says he cries whenever he listens to you." "How do you know it's a 'he'?" I clarified. "It could be a 'she'," she agreed. But what was creepy was "he" or "she" mentioned VC by name--which is odd cause I didn't include credits other than for myself (and Larry McFeurdy in case his fans forgot my real name).
But overall, the comment translated as bein' positive.
After the concert, I took Zaggs and his NA buddy to a '50s dinner for a late night snack, which my instrument conservationist friend recommended. And the symmetry was fascinatin'--Zaggs' buddy used to be in the military, my friend was a CO. The former a recoverin' drug addict, the latter never took any narcotics. One has five kids, the other none. Maybe I was tired, but it'sn't everday that I find myself in the same room with such exact opposite characters. Not that one's "better" or "worse" than the other, but I do for whatever deranged reason, enjoy noticin' such distinctions.
"He's an asshole," VL1 whispered.
(2.26.10)
Here we go...
Henry Lim and His String Quartet Perform The Beatles
Saturday, May 8
8 p.m.
In 1968, after seeking enlightenment in India, John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr recorded their double LP The Beatles. Commonly called "The White Album," it featured a wide ranging collection of musical genre parodies, psychedelic nursery rhymes, and stark serenades. Composer Henry Lim, on vocals and acoustic guitar, will perform the entire song cycle accompanied by a string quartet comprised of students from the UCLA Herb Alpert School of Music.
courtesy of the UCLA Library webpage
(3.2.10)
I just got back from a jam session with my ol' band, The Meanwhilers. JM Allevato's written two new songs, of which we recorded a demo of the first and're still figurin' out parts for the second--I'm playin' keyboards on both, piano in the former, organ in the latter. A couple of weeks ago, we layed down the basic tracks. I came up with a catchy riff--I'm always amazed at how fast and outta nowhere those come to me. Zaggs played a variety of percussion--an Afro drum beat, Latin bongos, and a variety of shakers'n'things.
Ideally, I'd've played on a real piano--JM's neighbour's got one. But she wasn't home, so I tickled the sampled ivories on his synth. Well, this's all just a demo just to get an idea of the arrangement. And so I improvised a bunch of fills between his vocal lines, as well as did a solo durin' the fadeout. Also, I came up with a celeste part durin' what JM's callin' the "pre-chorus". Again, the first thing that came to my fingers was what got recorded--where it came from is beyond me. But it fit, and that's all that matters to me.
Anyways, tonight I sang some ideas that I've been playin' 'round with--simple lyrics (although the rhyme scheme is somethin' I'ven't tried before--entire verses correspond with each other). The melody is spacious, which allows for JM and Zaggs to do some fancy doodlin' between my vocals--Zaggs put in a neat shuffle, which is perfect for the song. And what I thought of as a possible throwaway suddenly came alive--they totally unlocked the vibe, which is why I'm gonna give 'em co-composer credits.
I've been dreamin' of her
Ever since the day
I first fell asleep
In her bed
I've been meanin' to concur
Convince'n'convey
That at worst I could keep
From losin' my head
-The Meanwhilers
(3.3.10)
In the midst of a menial task at work, I was able to watch two documentaries online. Oh, some background for this entry--I bought a small charcoal grill last week, in which I cooked some Indonesian chicken sate. And in my quest to plan ahead, I thought 'bout makin' hamburgers next. So it's no surprise that I viewed Burger Town and Super Size Me.
The former was short'n'fun, whilst the later was the opposite. Of course, the superficial aspect of my personality enjoyed the cute carhops servin' nostalgia in the feature 'bout the history of Southern California burger culture and wanted to strangle the tree huggin' girlfriend of the main character of the New York based anti-McDonalds rant.
I mean, you couldn't get two more polarized views on the subject--one's so sentimental that it portrays the closure of one of the original McDonalds as sacreligious, the other wishes death upon the clown's empire. But honestly, Burger Town inspired to try my hand at the iconic American food, and Super Size Me just made my eyes perpetually roll.
Well, here's why I couldn't stand the negative film, despite the medical facts that prove the harmful effects of fast food--the protagonist's attitude was just too dramatic. Like, I couldn't trust him when he revolved 'round in pain from eatin' too many burgers'n'fries. Good grief, you don't need to ham it up for the camera just cause you can't evolve.
Not that I condone McDonalds--nah, I'm not a McFan. But there are good burgers out there, especially in Southern California, like the ones mentioned in Burger Town, which gave a positive, if not overly glossed, angle of the ground beef patty on a bun. In a way, I'm lucky to be located in the center of some of the best burgers in the world.
Fervent readers ought to know what my favourite burger is--Tommy's chili cheese. I found a clone recipe that I wanna try, as well as homemade buns. It doesn't look too complicated, not to mention, I'm lookin' forward to eatin' 'em for dinner for several days in order to get rid of the batch of chili. And I wouldn't mind dyin' from 'em.
(3.4.10)
I read an article comparin' The White Album with Ulysses, specifically how both mocked genres in their respective artforms--"Yer Blues" is a parody of the British based blues craze of the late '60s, "Ithaca" is written in a pseudo scientific style, etc. I can't say I can disagree. But what I did find mildly amusin' is the paragraph that tries to establish The White Album as bein' parallel to a novel.
"Did I do somethin' wrong?" my new VA defended. Long story short, my old VA graduated so my string quartet needed to find a replacement. VL1 suggested someone, VL2 and VC agreed, and so I went 'bout recruitin' her. It just so happened that she was in the library when I did--call it fate, but a circulation student outta the blue announced VA's presence and I simply followed thru.
Followin' that logic, I guess Sgt. Pepper is like a variety show and Abbey Rd. resembles a symphony, whilst all their other albums're, duh, pop albums. But yeah, The White Album does've a sprawl that goes beyond those shorter forms. Akin to a book? I suppose, if epic length is a factor. I mean, it's fun to play these little academic games, but in the end, it is what it is--an album.
"Oh, I thought I was in trouble," she relieved after I gave her the details of my planned Beatles concert plus all the kind words of recommendation from the other three musicians. But supposedly, my position at the library preceded me as she was afraid that she might've an overdue book. It was funnier than it sounds. Anyways, the best part is she agreed to join us.
(3.5.10)
Sadly, it seems I don't react to other people's milestones and/or tragedies at the moment upon hearin' the news--like someone's retirement, divorce, pregnancy or death. I mean, maybe it's my detachment from life that keeps my emotions in check, or perhaps it's the artist in me that compartmentalizes feelin's to be later accessed for some project. However, more often than not, it's the little insignificant unforeseen things that bring on the tears.
Ever since I was a kid, I memorized my dad's office telephone number--I've got fond memories of callin' it and askin' his secretary to talk to him. And I can still see the digits printed on his business card. He announced his retirement 'bout a month ago--we've got a party planned for him next weekend. I didn't give it much thought, even though I should've--without his lucrative internal medicine job, I wouldn't've been so spoiled.
One of the most popular requests I get is doin' weddin' portraits outta LEGO--be it based on engagement photos, anniversaries, or simply memories. I've stared at couples for the usual month it takes me to complete a mosaic. And I like to think that I'm symbolically gluin' together their relationship--at the expense, of course, of my brain cells from the toxic fumes. But I've always believed that it's all worth it--I'm celebratin' their love.
When my brother announced that he and his wife were expectin' a child, I was on the surface happy--hey, I was gonna be an uncle, and more importantly, the burden of bearin' offspring in my family was relieved. And I'm bein' completely honest in sharin' their joy, but really some of those sonograms're just plain abstract--I can't tell what's up or down in those fuzzy images. Is that a head? So emotionally, you can't blame me for bein' neutral.
It's been almost a year since my aunt died. I've paid my respects and've glossed over a lifetime of memories. But it never hit me like it did her daughter, who kept it to herself for a long time--she didn't tell her friends. And I could tell she experienced it way more profoundly than I could ever imagine--they had a complicated relationship, nevertheless, she suddenly placed prominent importance to her by placin' a photo of her mother on her dresser.
It hit me that my dad retired when I scrolled past his work number on my cellphone.
My sister's impendin' divorce became all the more apparent when she asked me if I wanted their LEGO portrait back.
And there's one sonogram of my brother's kid that's so obviously humanly formed.
I've never seen any of Michael Moore's movies--he seems too soapbox hoggin'. And I can't completely say I agree or disagree with his point of view, even if they might be congruent. But for whatever crazy reason my aunt thought he reminded me of him--a scruffy American. And when I saw a review of one of his "documentaries" in an old issue of Rolling Stone, I couldn't help but make the stretch of a connection and lose it.
(3.8.10)
"A comprehensive look at the Beatles sprawling 1968 self-titled double album masterpiece"
(3.9.10)
I apologize for the consecutive entry focused upon The White Album. (The White Album, The White Album, The White Album, alright already with The White Album). But as my performance of it with my string quartet on Saturday, May 8th, 2010, is approachin', you can't blame me for rampin' up my obsession. And honestly, after the concert's over, I'm pretty sure that I'll shut up 'bout the subject forever.
As you know, the original pressin' of the "legendary" (Amazon.com's adjective) double album included individually stamped numbers LP (based on what I've read). Like the first copy was 0000001, the second 0000002, etc. And the official mythology (per the Anthology) is that The Beatles themselves claimed the first four. Those numbers're collectors items for sure. 0000005 sold for about $30,000 in a 2008 auction.
There was some quote of a quote from McCartney that I found online--essentially, it claimed that one of his favourite memories is hearin' Lennon sing "Goodnight" as he taught it to Ringo. And for some reason, the aural image put a smile on my face. Cause that'd surely be a sound to hear. Especially since there're no known bootlegs of the composer singin' his own song. Although if he ever sang it to Julian, and you heard that...
Hilariously, I'd've liked to've gotten the week before my concert date--cause that've been my birthday, and side three would've coincided, not to mention it's VC's boyfriend's birthday, too. But alas, the girls've got some Philharmonia duties to attend. Hey, in a stretch of the imagination the names of the four gals in my group correspond somewhat with the Fab Four. Well, obviously, VA's the feminine form of McCartney's middle name.
Remember that his first name was James. VL2's name is based on John, via Johann, Giovanni and Ivan. VL1's name is spelled with a "J" (although I think she told me a "S" is more correct), nevertheless, I sound it out as a "G" a la George. And VC's name begins with a "R" not unlike Ringo. OK, I'm bein' overly reachin' for links, but hey, sometimes I need to see some pattern in the chaos to at least pretend to understand
the White Album. Come on, it's schizophrenic, to put it mildy. I need to get into all four of the Liverpool lads' heads--which I've transplanted into my string quartet. They've got the number four on their side. And speakin' of numbers, there're two instances when someone audilbly counts to eight--"Don't Pass Me By" and "Birthday". To which "Revolution 9" speaks of the numeral that follows those evenly spaced breaks.
Well, if no one's lyin', Ringo's got the number one White Album, which Lennon originally claimed, but outta the mulitcharacteristically goodness of his hearrt, gave it to the drummer of The Beatles. And he's got that kept in the UK, whilst his 0000004 is in America. So presumably 0000002 and 0000003're in Paul'n'George's estates' possessions. Please show me another album that's got half as much nonsense in'n'outside of its sleeves.
(3.10.10)
I taught my assistant a new term today: "call girl".
One of the problems at the music library is space--we're runnin' outta of it everywhere, in the stacks where we keep the scores and books, and in the cabinets where we store the CDs. One solution that we've instituted is transferin' the compact discs from their bulky jewel cases to thinner plastic sleeves.
It's a menial task, but due to its non-involvement with variously open windows of catalogin'n'acquisition clients and the Online Computer Library Center, I'm able to watch episodes of television shows online. Yeah, I don't've digital TV at home, but that doesn't mean I don't watch it. Lately, I've been tunin' into The Universe.
The documentary series that debuted in 2007 on the History Channel is entertainin' (I don't've cable). I suspect the openin' sequence of The Big Bang Theory (which I finished watchin' the first two seasons of via a DVD rental service) segued me into a nerdy interest in space'n'the planets'n'whatever. I mean, Penny is hot...
When my assistant auditioned at my former assistant's current graduate school of music, the latter posted a status on an online social network. To which, my assistant former to my former assistant interrupted with an "Uh?" For a brief moment I joked with the idea of creatin' a group called "Henry's Current'n'Former Assistants".
Anyways, so far I've liked learnin' 'bout the Impact Theory of the origin of the moon, the retrograde spin of Venus, the Red Spot of Jupiter and his four lovers, the lightnin' storms on Venus, the dream some bird'd of the Olympus Mons, solar flares, microscopic life on Mars based on meteorite evidence, and Mecury's deadness.
Or I'll be assembly linin' the task with my assistant--I'll break down the CD cases and magnetically strip sensitize 'em whilst she prints out'n'sticks on the call numbers. We talk a lot 'bout non-serious subjects--my favourite topics. And I mentioned a Japanese movie 'bout "schools girls by day, call girls by night".
"What's a call girl?" she wondered.
(3.11.10)
<< Back to main page