I'm not sure what that $ is doing there, but I agree with the larger proposition.
My return flight last night was turbulent. God frowns on people who fly and he punishes us for our hubris with turbulence. And fiery crashes. You'll apologize for everything you've ever done wrong when the ride begins to buck.
I'm in Boston staying with family for three days. My cousin died suddenly and I'm here to pay my respects and help where I can. She's being buried on the cape, in the Bourne military cemetery, or she will be when the ground thaws.
There were twelve of us cousins growing up, eleven now, and she was unique even for this group. She was what she was, and then some: conspicuous and colorful, unflaggingly friendly and decidedly un-autistic; rough around the edges, she had more heart than two average people put together.
Her family are grief stricken and bereaved, while remaining outwardly thoughtful and composed. But they're Catholic and Irish so that's what you get. We're tough motherfuckers, I tell you. We have to be, we go to our graves carrying everything that's ever happened to us, a lifetime of effort and sorrow. But we love to laugh, and live to love, so there's some hard-won balance there.
And she was well loved. Notice of her death was on the front (and second) page of the Patriot Ledger, and the line at her wake was long and robust. Life as she lived it was a bold, feet-first adventure, and she deserves her rest.
Amen. Amen. Amen.
Sidebar after work with Rashid. JB joined, as did Joey K, and we rattled about football, which was tons o' fun despite what you might think, snob. We also talked about women, and my odd luck these days. I was drinking scotch - my new fave, Johnny Walker Black.
Now playing at the Nunnery: MC 900 foot Jesus. Yeah, that's right, MC 900 foot Jesus. What? Picture the Beastie Boys enjoying an aperitif with Milton Berle in LL Cool J's unfinished annex. Back in like '91.
Apparently Heath Ledger died today. I've gotten several messages about it tonight. I'm only vaguely aware of who he is, but... god bless. We'll all be pushing up daisies soon enough. Not much time left friends. Memento mori.
And Jennifer's going to drop my jacket by tomorrow. I'm having it let out a bit. Not about the waist, mind you. I'm actually pretty trim these days. In fact, I don't think I've been in this much shape since I was like eight years old, give or take. So no, I'm having the sleeves let out a little. It didn't hang quite right. These things matter.
So I'm here at the Nunnery, drinking the House scotch, a 15-year old Pinch blend. Better than the paint they sell at Sidebar.
I was told by some off-duty bartender tonight, Mandy something or other, who asked to be introduced to me, that I bear some resemblance to tom Hanks. Strange. I'd never heard that before. You don't think I look like Tom Hanks, do you? I mean... Tom Hanks? The motherfucker from Toy Story?
So yeah, I yelled at her I guess. And I may have gotten a little carried away, or you know, whatever, I admit. But I'm Irish, and roses don't grow on stocks of clover, so whatever, she fucking had it coming. My family tree is like a willow, weeping all the way to the goddamn ground under the weight of surnames like Kelly, O'Neill, and O'Connor. I can't help it. It's in my genes. Sue me.
Snow again. This was the Nunnery yesterday, the back porch facing west:
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I got sleep finally, Friday after sidebar and six fingers of my bro Johnny Walker Black. The core crew was yours truly and JB, but we were joined by lovelies Laurel and Elizabeth, good girls both. Spank dropped by, always good to see her, and J made a brief appearance. Liz, Laurel and I left early. I went home to dry out and ended up sleeping, early 'til late.
Mark was over last night. We polished the Don Julio and fucked with Ableton a bit more.
And r.i.p. Bobby Fischer. Bobby was a Glenn Gould of strategy and a Brando of brutality. I reviewed game 6 of his '72 match with Spassky the other day. It must have been terrifying to face him. His openings were erudite and dispassionate, his middle-game patient and robust, his endgame ruthless. He had more attention than his opponents, and seemed to know what they were thinking.
It's snowing here. Everybody was standing outside today, looking up. It was Noman's first time seeing snow.
I stopped next door after work for a scotch with J and we were joined by David B. We sat and we talked and we listened to the jukebox and watched the sky fall outside the windows.
Later J and I returned to the Nunnery for some Armagnac and we watched the Professor Brothers on superdeluxe. Hilarious.
Listening now to A Love Supreme.
The first half-hour of my work day brought me tales of suicide (attempted), cancer (thyroid), and classes (dropped), in that order. And there's a glitch with the tuition waivers I'm trying to procure for three music students.
Mark and I weren't very successful last night, if you were wondering. The absinthe was good though, which isn't nothing. This was the third time I've had absinthe in the last two months. This particular bottle was shipped direct from France (courtesy of Wanda) and was the best yet.
A mid-day meeting across (a fucking freezing) campus was not the best use of my time. Plus I felt like "Jack," Ed Norton's character in Fight Club (who is never properly named in the film) - pre-transformation Jack, sleepy under fluorescent skies.
Maybe sleep will visit tonight.
January 13, a traditionally significant day.
Saturday, yesterday, I calibrated the Nunnery in the afternoon and met up with Jennifer for dinner and drinks later. Pasta at Figo and margaritas at La Fonda.
This morning being Sunday, I also hung with the Quakers. And now I'm eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and drinking iced espresso.
I have a few things to take care of this afternoon and Mark is coming over later tonight. We've set ourselves the task of figuring out a problem we've met with several times while transferring files between laptops.
Today was the first day of classes for all the little music school ducklings. Non-fucking-stop from dawn till dusk. Two students infiltrated my lunch to accost me with questions, and two more were lying in wait outside of Slice to ambush me and hijack my attention when I left.
Inside the restaurant one of the students, the one perched over my pasta, suggested that since he'd been to see me so many times over the years, he'd probably learned so much osmosis-wise, that he could do my job for me. Umm, yeah... So I reminded him that "nobody could do my job but me," a statement not shy on truth.
Anyway, whatever, because I was solving problems, trivial and complex, from the moment I entered my office until 15 minutes before I left. Fifteen minutes which allowed me to begin to address email.
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Last night:
Couldn't sleep until 02:00, not at all unusual these days;
I woke at 03:00 with acute intestinal pain, so intense I almost vomited from the sheer physical overwhelmingness of it. This peaked for 45 minutes. I'm guessing food-poisoning;
Watched the first half of 25th Hour while waiting for the pain and adrenaline to fade over the horizon;
Sleep at 05:00;
Woke at 07:00, 20 minutes later than I'd planned, but still early enough to sit before leaving for work.
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Dinner tonight at 18:00 with my boyz, aka: The La Fonda Business Consortium. Tons of good times, good conversation. And J and R both had significant dreams about marriage.
Listening now to Patsy Cline, I Fall to Pieces.
Last night I sent word that the Nunnery would be open to a select group for drinks. The call was heard by Tracie, Redmond, and Rashid (all something of regulars here), Jeanette and Caleb (who are well on their way), and good girl Chelsea (a newbie).
After conversation, music, and drinks we ended up all seven of us in my room, sprawled everywhere and watching Purple Rain, the Greatest Movie Ever Made, or so it seemed last night. Ladies and gentlemen, the Revolution...
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And earlier R and I were at Sidebar where my drinks were on the House, picked up by the lovely Sally, delicate flower that she is, hitting me back for reuniting her with her camera some weeks ago. Best damned bartender from Timbuktu to Portland Maine - or Portland Oregon for that matter.
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I went to Borders with a gift card from dear sister Karyn and bought several DVDs, which it'll probably take me months to get through, busy as I am these days. For the curious:
* Tony Rome, with Sinatra;
* Miller's Crossing, the Coen Brothers in their prime;
* 25th Hour, which I haven't seen since the last time I was in Amsterdam;
* Summer of '42, which, okay this is a little obscure, but here goes. It's the film Wendy's watching in The Shining during the scene where Danny asks permission to go to his room to get his firetruck and ends up having a creepy conversation with his disturbing dad (Dad, you would never hurt Mommy or me, would you?).
When you think about it though, Danny was a bit of a pest, wasn't he? A very naughty boy, if you don't mind my saying. Forever blacking out or engaging in "auto-hypnosis" (careful there son, you'll go blind) and worrying his parents to... well, to death.
And poor Jack. A man cut down in his prime (just when he was really getting into his work), distracted at every turn by his coddling wife Wendy. Wendy, who's had her whole life to think things over; Wendy who hasn't the slightest idea what a moral or ethical principle is. Things would have been okay if she had only left off interfering and allowed her husband to get on with caring for the Overlook;
* And lastly, I got another of those 50 films on 12 DVDs for 20 dollars things again. We already talked about this, you'll remember. The other one I bought was called Sci Fi Classics, but this one's called Horor Classics. It's got films with Lon Chaney (jr and sr), some with Bela Lugosi, Boris Karloff, Vincent Price, even one with Jack Nicholson of all people.
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All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
A story about my left ear...
After my flu, which we discussed earlier, I lost hearing in my left ear for nine days. Yeah I know, nine days... fucked up, right? And since I had soon to fly in an aeroplane to be with family and old friends for the holidays I visited a doctor, my first time in several years, to get checked out. Two, really - an audiologist and an otolaryngologist. Sabitathica's official assesstimate: the ENT was reassuring at least, even if he was in no way concretely helpful; the audiologist was dishy.
Anyway, after nine days I began to regain hearing again, except now my left ear was hearing at a different pitch than my right ear -- a 3/4 step difference. Has this happened to you? I can tell you it is disorientating.
And now both my ears are hearing at the same pitch (though I still have hella-tinnitus), only now they're exaggerating frequencies they usually don't. They're eq'd differently. Know what I mean? Frinstance, an instrument I never noticed in a song I've heard 1000 times will now stand out loudest in the mix.
I know, fuck, right?
Anyway, I'm listening now to Midnight at the Oasis. Not the Maria Muldaur version we all know and love, but the Brand New Heavies, who are just a little too slick (on this record) to be convincingly convincing, but so what.
