OK, how cool is it that I just got a yahoo search hit for "What's with" "Portuguese water dogs"?
Finally printed off some of that Lurvely Internet Music at work tonight in between leading the unhappy incompetent and the snappish incontinent. Domenico Zipoli is my new hero, for a little cantata for soprano: it's just so campy and irreverent -- the word sospiro is set with lit . . . tle . . . rests . . . be . . . twee . . . ee . . . een the syllables. Very endearing.
My real-life friends are stupid selfish jerks who never call me or bring me spring rolls or rub my back.
ECG is the main exception to this. ECG and I had serious chocolate at B*rd*ck's and walked down by the Charles on Monday afternoon when I had a few unexpected hours off work.
Music: Buxtehude sonate a doi, op. i. If merely saying "Diederic Buxtehude" doesn't make you happy, you're insane; if listening to the manic, giggly B-flat sonata doesn't help you realize how wonderful the world is, the strings in your soul have lost their tune.
Mess: My room is slowly shifting over time, like sandbars in a no-longer-commercially-viable river; at the moment I can make it from the door to the bed and from the harpsichord, but not to the harpsichord from the bed. Also I have finally hung my reproduction of the L*nd*n Nat'l Gallery version of Caravaggio's Boy Being Eaten By A Lizard (Il s'agit du sexe, mes possums!). It is well-hung, although you can't quite tell behind all that chiaroscuro.
What has become of the popular culture? MB IMd me at work to tell me that N**m*n M*rc*s will now, for a mere $7500, make two scale-model action figures of you. Odi et amo, et nescio quare; nescio mighty quare.