Luckily, I don't often get that much free time. KG has gone to Br*ckt*n to snuggle with her love muffin right now, so I'm left on the sofa with the cats and my copy of "Hyacinths and Thistles" as consolation. KG reminds me, as I told her upon her departure, that people can heal. KG is Love, people.
KG and I went to see Pacte des Loups tonight. Huh. Appealed to my inner fourteen-year-old boy with some very pretty violence, to my inner seventeen-year-old boy with the yummy people looking really yummy, and my inner middle-aged queen with the costumes. O, sweet Dioscuri, I don't think I need to tell you all what I feel about eighteenth-century French fashions, especially when re-interpreted in space-age fabrics. I will be dreaming in technicolor brocades for a fortnight, par Dieu! I am also a slut for cinematic appearances of harpsichords (I didn't get a good enough look at the harpsichordist, though: she was playing J S Bach, and unlikely choice for French aristocratic circles of the 1760s. Ahem.) Watching the film piss away its dramatic potential was like watching a baby seal dissolve in hydrochloric acid: slow, pathetic, but not un-interesting. We like sexy, intelligent Italian courtesans. And bookish, ineffectual aristocrats, malgr� leurs mullets. This is not going to stop us from playing Guillotine, however.
The Mountain Goats mailing list are trading vegan dessert recipes. I cannot wait until I get home from work tomorrow. I love the people on that list: I follow their lives like a slow, heartwarming soap-opera. I will never be active on it, though, since I learned my lesson on the Magnetic Fields mailing list. It's like this: I got "Post of the Week" once, back in the day, on Stephinsongs. It was a pretty funny post, and so I felt I had a failsafe imprimatur on gleeful, self-deprecating, rambly posts. Well, there's a limit to their patience, and I was too embarrassed, after I signed off in embarrassment, to sign back on again. I'm going to pretend that was a different Riatsala. And I'll never ever post a long rambly post, ever again / no, no, no / not until the next time.
Current music: We've moved on to House of Tomorrow. "If we find an old signal box / you can write your dissertation." Oh, yeah.
Current mood: Missing the KG that was in my life for a few moments. We watched the Anniversary party, reminisced, bought unfiltered Luckies, drank coffee.
Current neolo-gism: "Sexicographer". Ask Smilketta.
Current sexuality: rubbing up against streetlamps. In love with pasta, passersby, and the past (both passato remoto and passato proprio, in addition to passato con panna, the passato eterosessuale optativo, and passato imperfetto). More interested in heavy cream sauces than people. It's a good thing I have an eager metabolism and a dexterous hand in the kitchen. Give me sheets of filo dough and butter to lubricate them.
Current deepest desire: bald henchmen to dig up the corpses of men I've poisoned.
Oh, yeah: I think you should know: the orange cat is snoring. It's keeping me awake. [cf. Bankhead, T.]