The great unwashed: Came to the house today to see if they wanted to buy it.
Hell's Belles Lettres: I wrote a few long over-due paper letters to various people, since it was Sunday and I knew that I'd lose them, tear them. or spill Amarula liqueur on them before I'd get a chance to send them.
Bang! Crash! twiddle-iddle-iddle-sigh: Beethoven, Klaviertrio Op. 1 Nr. 3. Marilyn McDonald, giving her Jacob Stainer violin the fright of its life, while Lambert Orkis spares not the rod with his Walther copy. I'm not particularly susceptible to Beethoven, since whatever subtlety exists in his music tends to suffocate under shellacked layers of self-advertisement. "Listen to me!" shouts the first movement, "I am tempestuous but conceal my hidden depths of quiet, desperate melancholy right here on my sleeve!"
Quiet desperate melancholy: JLH has gone back to New York tonight. She, LJT and I watched Velvet Goldmine last night (not, as we were planning to, Hedwig). Afterwards, we went through my photo box and reminisced; it's a good thing I'd only had two mojitos. All right; come off it, AT, you're nostalgie-ing about the fucking boue.
The night before: We (ECG, AS, SP, GK, LJT and I) went to see Erin McKeown at the venerable Cl*b P*ss*m. I shrieked like a girl when she said that her new album was partially inspired by Judy Garland.
Movie: Little Voice. See it. I told JF about seeing it, and he responded, "the mother in that is my hero. One day I'm gonna be a fat loud scary housewife just like her and I'll scream at passersby in my mumu." I knew I liked JF for some reason.