Rumor has it it's a nice day outside, but I've only been out to rescue my newspaper from the sugar-crazed churchgoers who usually nick it on their way to prey on their knees every week. I am drinking a fine oolong and listening to Christoph Graupner, wishing that there was another day this weekend.
On Wednesday, I got my rock on with Yo La Tengo in the company of CC, J, and some guy named S. To celebrate the Passover, they sang Little Eva's Locomotion. The concert went on simply forever; CC and I were compelled to take a cab home. I had dinner beforehand at B*ddh* D*l*ght, B*st*n's sorry excuse for a vegetarian restaurant. Had pretty good pho, though. The service, however, is intensely strange, since it seems only to be provided mostly as a personal favor.
I am coming over all bourgeois about my harpsichord and the upcoming puppet opera. I haven't spent any time maintaining The Beast since I got fired from P**t's. Rather than replace quills in the mid-treble, I cannibalized jacks from the top five or six notes, with the result that I'm running out of usable range. It pushes the voicing out of wack, too. I tuned it today, which is always a start, but I stopped short of ordering more delrin for the quills or doing anything at all to repair the music desk. And now I'm having some kind of panick attaque about people who actually know something about harpsichords seeing what an horrifick mess I've made of a relatively decent instrument. MUST RE-VOICE HARPSICHORD!
I am pleased to announce that I have a male brain, according to this article. It is funny, then, that I think of myself as a sentimental, over-emotional fool. Funny, in that apparently-you-have-to-explain-jokes-to-me way.