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Now you've had your Waterloo, sir—tell me what am I having with you, sir?
Back from D.C. Summarized in the usual fashion, i.e., while waiting at train stations, bus stops, and airports—
Eureka (2006—) is a charming show. I'm so glad Joe Morton has a regular job.
My god-daughter is Leora bat Chana u'Maya. There is at least one adorable photo of her having commandeered my hat at Adas Israel; she was valiant and only started to scream her displeasure the third time![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
strange_selkie immersed her. I had never been to a mikvah before. I do not think it is a ritual I would take up on my own time; I would feel more sacred in the sea. But I was glad to be there for it nonetheless.
(I brought her a kiddush cup with a motif of peacocks: di goldene pave, the messenger of loved ones, symbol of poetry and distant lands in Yiddish literature and folksong. It may have another significance in modern Judaism, but that is the spirit in which I gave it. She thought it was pretty, but the bubble wrap was really fun.)
I have no idea if The Far Side of the World (1985) is the right place to start with Patrick O'Brian, but I loved the book. Like, finished day before yesterday and then re-read on the flight back loved. I wonder if the Harvard Book Store still has the rest of the series remaindered. I might be able to get matching editions for my trade paperback with the scientist pin-up cover.
I am weirdly proud of myself for thinking that "What I Want Is a Proper Cup of Coffee" sounded like something that should have been sung by Harry Champion, because it turns out to have been written by R.P. Weston and Bert Lee. Alas, I cannot find a contemporary recording on the internet, but at least Trout Fishing in America don't do a Herman's Hermits on their version—you can actually learn all of the verses, albeit with very funny voices.
I was amused by the existence of the Noyes Library, since everyone pronounces it like the decibel level, not like a one-room children's library named after . . . somebody Noyes, I assume. It contained a number of picture books I hadn't seen since the early '90's, although not the one about the sea ghastlies that I've never been able to find again. Selkie couldn't explain why I don't own Mary Pope Osborne's Mermaid Tales from Around the World (1993), either.
I don't think my opinion of the extended edition of The Fellowship of the Ring (2001) has changed any from seeing it on a big screen, but it was incredibly fun. I wish I could follow it up with the rest of the trilogy, but I feel like it was dumb luck that I got a ticket on the day to this showing at all; I have no confidence that the other two haven't sold out already in Boston. I might try anyway.
(The realization of the world is gorgeous, almost all of the characterizations work for me, the pacing is shot to hell and after the initial sequences in the Shire, the script never really figured out how to integrate humor without it sticking out like a broken bone. I stare determinedly offscreen during the Ring's temptation of Galadriel, which would have been as powerful as it is in the book if only Peter Jackson had dialed down one hundred percent of the special effects.)
I was staying with Selkie and Rami on this trip, so I had no chance for Ishtar to shed on me (their three cats are either jealous or indifferent gods), but B. has now introduced me to Ray's Hell Burger, which demonstrated that the only thing better than a near-tartare burger is a near-tartare burger that has been crusted in black pepper. Also, it doesn't hurt if you throw mushrooms on it.
B. also introduced me to the tinfoil shrine in the folk art section of the American Art Museum. I am perhaps more immediately disconcerted by the painting of the Great Whore of Babylon filled with neon-pink dashes and helpful labels like "Waters = Nations" and "She Is A City" (which I think should be the title of a 16 Horsepower album), but the shrine looks more convincingly alien than the set design of many well-regarded films and television shows I've seen. There was also this giraffe covered in bottlecaps. I am informed the only reason Henry Darger isn't in the same exhibit is he's got his own museum.
York Castle Tropical Ice Cream in Rockville does not appear to have a website, but its regular flavors include mango, guava, lychee, soursop, and sapote, and their seasonal flavors have included jackfruit and tamarind. It is probably just as well that I don't live in the D.C. area, because I don't really want to test the effects of overdosing on Annona muricata, but it was the best ice cream I've had in months.
Wow, having a stranger's hands jammed into your crotch is an unpleasant experience. Thank you, TSA. I couldn't have figured that out on my own.
Happy Bloomsday.
The grainy sand had gone from under his feet. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada. Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a midden of man's ashes. He coasted them, walking warily. A porterbottle stood up, stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough. A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. Broken hoops on the shore; at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. Human shells.
Eureka (2006—) is a charming show. I'm so glad Joe Morton has a regular job.
My god-daughter is Leora bat Chana u'Maya. There is at least one adorable photo of her having commandeered my hat at Adas Israel; she was valiant and only started to scream her displeasure the third time
strange_selkie immersed her. I had never been to a mikvah before. I do not think it is a ritual I would take up on my own time; I would feel more sacred in the sea. But I was glad to be there for it nonetheless.(I brought her a kiddush cup with a motif of peacocks: di goldene pave, the messenger of loved ones, symbol of poetry and distant lands in Yiddish literature and folksong. It may have another significance in modern Judaism, but that is the spirit in which I gave it. She thought it was pretty, but the bubble wrap was really fun.)
I have no idea if The Far Side of the World (1985) is the right place to start with Patrick O'Brian, but I loved the book. Like, finished day before yesterday and then re-read on the flight back loved. I wonder if the Harvard Book Store still has the rest of the series remaindered. I might be able to get matching editions for my trade paperback with the scientist pin-up cover.
I am weirdly proud of myself for thinking that "What I Want Is a Proper Cup of Coffee" sounded like something that should have been sung by Harry Champion, because it turns out to have been written by R.P. Weston and Bert Lee. Alas, I cannot find a contemporary recording on the internet, but at least Trout Fishing in America don't do a Herman's Hermits on their version—you can actually learn all of the verses, albeit with very funny voices.
I was amused by the existence of the Noyes Library, since everyone pronounces it like the decibel level, not like a one-room children's library named after . . . somebody Noyes, I assume. It contained a number of picture books I hadn't seen since the early '90's, although not the one about the sea ghastlies that I've never been able to find again. Selkie couldn't explain why I don't own Mary Pope Osborne's Mermaid Tales from Around the World (1993), either.
I don't think my opinion of the extended edition of The Fellowship of the Ring (2001) has changed any from seeing it on a big screen, but it was incredibly fun. I wish I could follow it up with the rest of the trilogy, but I feel like it was dumb luck that I got a ticket on the day to this showing at all; I have no confidence that the other two haven't sold out already in Boston. I might try anyway.
(The realization of the world is gorgeous, almost all of the characterizations work for me, the pacing is shot to hell and after the initial sequences in the Shire, the script never really figured out how to integrate humor without it sticking out like a broken bone. I stare determinedly offscreen during the Ring's temptation of Galadriel, which would have been as powerful as it is in the book if only Peter Jackson had dialed down one hundred percent of the special effects.)
I was staying with Selkie and Rami on this trip, so I had no chance for Ishtar to shed on me (their three cats are either jealous or indifferent gods), but B. has now introduced me to Ray's Hell Burger, which demonstrated that the only thing better than a near-tartare burger is a near-tartare burger that has been crusted in black pepper. Also, it doesn't hurt if you throw mushrooms on it.
B. also introduced me to the tinfoil shrine in the folk art section of the American Art Museum. I am perhaps more immediately disconcerted by the painting of the Great Whore of Babylon filled with neon-pink dashes and helpful labels like "Waters = Nations" and "She Is A City" (which I think should be the title of a 16 Horsepower album), but the shrine looks more convincingly alien than the set design of many well-regarded films and television shows I've seen. There was also this giraffe covered in bottlecaps. I am informed the only reason Henry Darger isn't in the same exhibit is he's got his own museum.
York Castle Tropical Ice Cream in Rockville does not appear to have a website, but its regular flavors include mango, guava, lychee, soursop, and sapote, and their seasonal flavors have included jackfruit and tamarind. It is probably just as well that I don't live in the D.C. area, because I don't really want to test the effects of overdosing on Annona muricata, but it was the best ice cream I've had in months.
Wow, having a stranger's hands jammed into your crotch is an unpleasant experience. Thank you, TSA. I couldn't have figured that out on my own.
Happy Bloomsday.
The grainy sand had gone from under his feet. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada. Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a midden of man's ashes. He coasted them, walking warily. A porterbottle stood up, stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough. A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. Broken hoops on the shore; at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. Human shells.
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Also glad you're enjoying Patrick O'Brian. I really need to finish reading through the Aubrey and Maturin books--I've much loved the ones I've read so far.
I can't seem to see the cute photograph, unfortunately.
Happy Bloomsday!
*I've not flown in years, and sometimes I think this is a very good thing. Last fall the TSA damaged my dear friend A.'s concertina by shaking it, apparently because they couldn't believe in the existence of a musical instrument not seen on MTV or in a symphony orchestra. Fortunately, she was able to fix it herself before the gig, but she was in a terrible state of nerves.
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Oh, that's subversive stuff.
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Oh, God. Eat your heart out, Tom Paxton! I'm glad her concertina was all right.
I can't seem to see the cute photograph, unfortunately.
Hm. Can you see it here?
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Indeed. On the same subject, did you see the video "United Breaks Guitars" that was going round a couple of years back? I dread having to fly again. Last time I did, I stuck a little soprano banjo in my suitcase, wrapped up in socks. I'm still not entirely content with said instrument--still haven't found the right stringing for her, as she started out a banjo ukulele--but I really should get her up and running, just in case. Sometime when I've the dosh I need to locate the cheapest possible playable octave mandolin, for the sake of having something I can sing to, which will fit into an overhead compartment, and which wouldn't leave me heartbroken if damaged.
I'm glad her concertina was all right.
Thanks.
Hm. Can you see it here?
I can. Nice hat!
More importantly, the wearer is adorable. Congratulations once again, and I'm sorry I'm so late getting back to you.