This is the voice of Hermoine Gingold
...coming to you on wax in your own home. Isn't civilization ghastly?" That's a line that just popped into my mind as I sit here doodling on the laptop (Thanks, kiddo!) that will accompany me into my new life. The "wax" Hermoine was referring to stretches back to a time earlier than Long-Playing records, for those of you who can even remember LPs. If someone had told me, back in LP days, that one day I would be writing on a machine that sits comfortably on my lap and that would send my words out into a Great Otherwhere for all to read, I would have asked to have a little bit of what they were smoking, please.
What do you suppose Ms. Gingold would have thought about the ability to put her songs, "Cocaine" and "The Borgias Are Having An Orgy," and indeed all of John Murray Anderson's Almanac on a machine along with all of Tchaikovsky's and Beethoven's symphonies, and Mozart's and then some, all of that in a tiny little oblong of plastic about the size of a hat-pin box to listen to whenever one wished, wherever one was? Isn't civilization ghastly?
I think I've thrown out about a hundred things in these two paragraphs that nobody in the world but about three people could possibly understand what the fuck I'm talking about. Beginning with who the Hell is Hermoine Gingold? If you don't know, look her up.
Change of subject: thanks to my son with the uniqe first name, I heard from someone I haven't heard from in years. Google my son's name and he'll be the only one found. Easy to track him down, while I have a name that is as dull and common as dishwater: first name, middle name, and last name. But because she remembered his name after all these years--and even how to spell it!--she was able to track me down. How cool is that? And that can't help but make me think of sychronicity, and what it means that she should contact me at this particular time of my life. My guess is that it is a good omen--about as rare as a coherent sentence from Dubyah--so I'll believe that until Fate proves me wrong.
Visit "The Grey Matter," all ye my Liberal friends. The owner, "The Angry Liberal," is being bombarded with foolish Right-Wing drivel in his comments section. Angry publishes sarcastic, amusing bits of information--which his commentators try to refute with totally off the veranda ripostes. They even bring in Ann (the Harridan) Coulter. It's fun to spar and make them splutter. It's kinda sorta easy, though--their wits are flying at half-staff.
A lightning bug has entered the room and PT has turned into a jungle cat, leaping from stack of boxes to stack of boxes--it would be just his luck to tip over and get crushed under a box of Henry James instead of some lighter reading.
Priorities: save the bug, save the cat, and put us both to bed--the cat and I that is, not the bug. Remember that Friday the 13th falls on a Wednesday in July. Isn't civilization ghastly? Fun, but ghastly. Interesting, but ghastly. Amusing, but ghastly. And whoever said that ghastly is a bad thing, anyway? I'm meandering. And I'm off to bed. Talk amongst yourselves. I'll see you at breakfast. Tell Cook I'll arise around Eleven, if you please? Good night.
What do you suppose Ms. Gingold would have thought about the ability to put her songs, "Cocaine" and "The Borgias Are Having An Orgy," and indeed all of John Murray Anderson's Almanac on a machine along with all of Tchaikovsky's and Beethoven's symphonies, and Mozart's and then some, all of that in a tiny little oblong of plastic about the size of a hat-pin box to listen to whenever one wished, wherever one was? Isn't civilization ghastly?
I think I've thrown out about a hundred things in these two paragraphs that nobody in the world but about three people could possibly understand what the fuck I'm talking about. Beginning with who the Hell is Hermoine Gingold? If you don't know, look her up.
Change of subject: thanks to my son with the uniqe first name, I heard from someone I haven't heard from in years. Google my son's name and he'll be the only one found. Easy to track him down, while I have a name that is as dull and common as dishwater: first name, middle name, and last name. But because she remembered his name after all these years--and even how to spell it!--she was able to track me down. How cool is that? And that can't help but make me think of sychronicity, and what it means that she should contact me at this particular time of my life. My guess is that it is a good omen--about as rare as a coherent sentence from Dubyah--so I'll believe that until Fate proves me wrong.
Visit "The Grey Matter," all ye my Liberal friends. The owner, "The Angry Liberal," is being bombarded with foolish Right-Wing drivel in his comments section. Angry publishes sarcastic, amusing bits of information--which his commentators try to refute with totally off the veranda ripostes. They even bring in Ann (the Harridan) Coulter. It's fun to spar and make them splutter. It's kinda sorta easy, though--their wits are flying at half-staff.
A lightning bug has entered the room and PT has turned into a jungle cat, leaping from stack of boxes to stack of boxes--it would be just his luck to tip over and get crushed under a box of Henry James instead of some lighter reading.
Priorities: save the bug, save the cat, and put us both to bed--the cat and I that is, not the bug. Remember that Friday the 13th falls on a Wednesday in July. Isn't civilization ghastly? Fun, but ghastly. Interesting, but ghastly. Amusing, but ghastly. And whoever said that ghastly is a bad thing, anyway? I'm meandering. And I'm off to bed. Talk amongst yourselves. I'll see you at breakfast. Tell Cook I'll arise around Eleven, if you please? Good night.
posted by DMP at 2:37 PM
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