Welcome to mostly sunny, slightly more autumnal than I was expecting Maryland. As I got onto the shuttle from the airport to the trains, nearly all of the people around me were bonding over the fact that they had come to D.C. for "the rally." I found myself saying that I was visiting my godchild. The one conversation I struck up went abruptly flat as soon as I mentioned classics. I said mildly that I liked dead languages. "Of course you do. All the smart kids do Latin. And you have a couple of cats, right?" I said that I had no cats. He said everyone he knew who was a classicist had cats. Maybe I was allergic to them? No, I said, I'm not allergic, I just don't have any cats. That was the last word on the subject. I went back to reading about Ludwig Wittgenstein.1
(As I type this, however, a small tabby named Benjy is kneading her claws in my stomach and purring indecently. Her motives are wholly selfish, but I'm still cheered.)
As it turned out, there were only mentions of Arsenic and Old Lace in The Big Broadcast of 1946, but there was a guest appearance by William Henry Pratt and a jazzed-up version of "Oh, How I Hate to Get Up in the Morning" and a wonderful bit of foley art with a cabbage, so I'll gladly tune in next week for the Frank Cyrano Byfar Hour, whenever it may be.2 I would not mind seeing Tomes of Terror become a regular feature, either. "Oh, What Happened to Hutchings!" is a nice little short sharp Victorian shocker (with music by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sen_no_ongaku), but "The Sirens of War" was just lovely. "Shenandoah" is one of the most hackneyed songs in the American catalogue. Everyone and their high school chorus endures an unbearably treacly four-part arrangement at some point in their lives. This production made nothing more than the crackle of radio static and a woman's voice repeating, a cappella, 'cross the wide Missouri . . . chilling. Points to the sound designer, to Kamela Dolinova's many-voiced Ligeia, and James Scheffler and Marleigh Norton as a combination pair of unwilling Odysseuses. Renée Johnson as the dangerously sweet Bookkeeper is great frame-narration.
It does not appear that I will be able to watch TCM's Frankenstein marathon tonight after all, but anyone who wishes to tape Peter Cushing being four films' worth of brilliant and amoral will be in my eternal debt. Or at least a substantial one, since eternity is a dangerous concept to throw around in this context.
We are off to dinner at Hard Times. Any friendlist-type people I'm going to see at this rally tomorrow?
1. In this case, Bruce Duffy's The World As I Found It (1987), having read Alexander Waugh's The House of Wittgenstein (2008) over the summer and Terry Eagleton/Derek Jarman's Wittgenstein (1993) last year. I have no idea when he became someone I'm interested in. I don't remember ever being particularly drawn to his philosophy, except for the inabilities of language.
2. I bought a button for Byfar Coffee Syrup on my way out. It'd kill me if I drank it, but I appreciate its existence immensely.
(As I type this, however, a small tabby named Benjy is kneading her claws in my stomach and purring indecently. Her motives are wholly selfish, but I'm still cheered.)
As it turned out, there were only mentions of Arsenic and Old Lace in The Big Broadcast of 1946, but there was a guest appearance by William Henry Pratt and a jazzed-up version of "Oh, How I Hate to Get Up in the Morning" and a wonderful bit of foley art with a cabbage, so I'll gladly tune in next week for the Frank Cyrano Byfar Hour, whenever it may be.2 I would not mind seeing Tomes of Terror become a regular feature, either. "Oh, What Happened to Hutchings!" is a nice little short sharp Victorian shocker (with music by
sen_no_ongaku), but "The Sirens of War" was just lovely. "Shenandoah" is one of the most hackneyed songs in the American catalogue. Everyone and their high school chorus endures an unbearably treacly four-part arrangement at some point in their lives. This production made nothing more than the crackle of radio static and a woman's voice repeating, a cappella, 'cross the wide Missouri . . . chilling. Points to the sound designer, to Kamela Dolinova's many-voiced Ligeia, and James Scheffler and Marleigh Norton as a combination pair of unwilling Odysseuses. Renée Johnson as the dangerously sweet Bookkeeper is great frame-narration.It does not appear that I will be able to watch TCM's Frankenstein marathon tonight after all, but anyone who wishes to tape Peter Cushing being four films' worth of brilliant and amoral will be in my eternal debt. Or at least a substantial one, since eternity is a dangerous concept to throw around in this context.
We are off to dinner at Hard Times. Any friendlist-type people I'm going to see at this rally tomorrow?
1. In this case, Bruce Duffy's The World As I Found It (1987), having read Alexander Waugh's The House of Wittgenstein (2008) over the summer and Terry Eagleton/Derek Jarman's Wittgenstein (1993) last year. I have no idea when he became someone I'm interested in. I don't remember ever being particularly drawn to his philosophy, except for the inabilities of language.
2. I bought a button for Byfar Coffee Syrup on my way out. It'd kill me if I drank it, but I appreciate its existence immensely.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}