Last night saw me naked in Walden Pond (take that, Thoreau, you nancy prick!) and sploshing about in the ocean swapping virginity-loss stories. SB, much to her credit, did not lose her virginity. She knows just where she put it. She showed us all the house. It was white clapboard and more or less unremarkable, I suppose. Perhaps one day it will be a literary landmark like the passageway where Moll Flanders almost murdered, but didn't. Or like Walden Pond, which would have been the more obvious choice, I suppose, if, and only if, you don't think like me.
SB, SWW (distinct from SW), JK and I were up to our chins in pond, and it was so warm with a lovely sandy bottom. SB and I, well-insulated and Officially Crunchy, felt no cold; JK and SWW were mildly uncomfortable, for, lo, they did not have that healthy layer of subcutaneous blubber which has saved me from inconvenient bruising and chilblains on more than one occasion. I say: if the gods had meant us to be whippet-thin and 98% muscle, they would never have created beer, tempura, or donuts.
The frogs made fantastic noises, there was no piggery to drive us from our watery Eden, and a good time was had by all.
This weekend had difficulties. Saturday was too hot and then Sunday rained with an iron fist. Firmly uncomfortable in my wet socks, I was disappointed not to get to the Neil Gaiman / Magnetic Fields show in NYC. Least said about that aspect, soonest mended. But even setting aside Neil and Stephin, I also missed out on meeting MB's friend John, who sounds lovely. If you're out there, John, call me, 'kay?
Moreover, since I didn't know I wasn't going to be getting to the NYC show, I forsook a rare non-European opportunity to see both Pierre Hantaï and Hugo Reyne, in what amounted to an all-star double recital. PH is, if I had such a thing, my favorite harpsichordist (do purchase his gut-tearing renditions of JSB's harpsichord toccatas, if you love me).
So I suppose it all comes out in the wash.
love and heartbreak (inevitable, no?)
alastair
(NB: the best thing you can do to entertain yourself at your second viewing of Moulin Rouge is just to sit there and watch. Should you, however, need something else, you might do worse than to put into effect a little game I've been playing with myself lately.
It goes like this:
- "Love" basically sucks ass.
- "Love" is a noun and a verb, and occurs with alarming frequency in popular music.
- "Pork" is also both a noun and a verb, and although I remain resolutely vegetarian, pork is considerably less objectionable to me than love is.
Therefore:
Substitute "Pork" wherever "Love" occurs in song, poetry, or prose.
- All you need is pork.
- I pork to pork you, baby.
- Tainted pork.
- 69 Pork Songs.
- How do I pork you? Let me count the ways.
- 'Tis better to have porked and lost...
- The greatest thing you'll ever learn...
QED.)