Listening: Handel's Faramondo, which should have been a massive hit, but, alas, wasn't. It was 1737: the Opera of the Nobility (Handel's theatrical nemeses) had just failed spectacularly, and Italian opera in England was suffering a bout of what today would be called "bad publicity." Knowing that his preferred genre was about to sursauter le requin, Handel enlisted the talents il Caffarelli, a somewhat testy castrato who would later spend time in gaol for flipping off the prima donna on-stage. Anyway, Handel set the half-completed Faramondo aside when, in December 1737, Queen Caroline died. This new musical [!] suggests that Handel and Queen Caroline were lovers; it buggers the mind to imagine so many ample Hanoverian chins piled into one bed.
Many of my friends get baby-lust; I get Italy-lust. The combination of recitativo secco and the gently odoriferous rosemary which is growing into its new terra-cotta pot not two feet from me isn't helping, either. Green-eyed looks of envy are directed at CC, who is there at the moment.
JH writes in her blog that there exist people, nay, many people in the higher reaches of the online world who would fain diss soccer. Now, I am quite simply not into sport. However, even I am not unsusceptible to the World Cup. For gods' sake, it's the single most popular sport on the planet for a reason: it moves quickly and kaleidoscopically, it doesn't stop every three seconds so somebody can put up another orange flag, and, unlike a certain other "World" sporting competition, actually involves people from multiple continents. [Oh, all right, yes, it is the little shorts they wear. Damn you.]
M�tro, in P*rt*r Sq**r*, is doing something right. It's an informed attempt at recreating a French bistro deep in enemy territory. Although the d�cor is a little sterile (it reads a bit like a theme-restaurant inspired by nouvelle vague cinema) it's terribly evocative -- shell-patterned mosaic on the floor, the right chairs, the right bar stools, the right beers on tap, and, fascinatingly, the menu actually features old-fashioned French food, unmucked-with by the bastard hybrids of the last half-century (which means one can't eat a meat-free dinner there, but the desserts and cheese plate more than make up for that.) MG wolfed down a massive plate of steak with frites and I sat and had a few Hoegaardens with him (I'd already dined on sushi earlier that evening with ECG). Omnivores of C*mbr*dg*, I summon you: eat there often, so I can have a pleasant place to sit with my bi�re blanche and a love-worn copy of Sodom et Gomorrhe of an evening.
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I feel like the Lord of the Flies or something: for the last three days, I've been a magnet for insect life. Flies and bees and wasps and ants, of course, but I also found something colossal (three crawling centimeters) and hemipterous on my coatsleeve yesterday afternoon. If anyone knows the True Bugs of New England, and knows what sort of thing has a bright red marking on its shoulders, please let me know. I flicked it off myself with my copy of Clarissa and went to photocopy some sheet-music.