Bloglet, the gentleman's mock turtle soup -- Moss made it sweeter than myrrh ash and dhoup
Warning: this post is composed of absolutely nothing but boring, irrelevant, meaningless statistics. Please ignore.
It's late at night, and instead of packing and cleaning, I'm going through my mp3s. I haven't burned the latest wave of blogswap CDs yet. And I'm looking very much forward to raiding my parents' collection when I get back. Also the public and University libraries. I'll probably have to kill all the programs on my computer except for IE, Mozilla, Pegasus, Word, AdAware, and iTrick in order to get the space I need, but, damnit, it'll be beautiful.
Hard drive capacity: 20GB
Free space: 2.21GB
mp3s: 11.35GB
The Boys: 4.64GB
Mozart: 1.2GB
Bach: 646.6MB
Leonard Cohen: 598.2MB
Randy Newman: 473.6MB
Vivaldi: 401.7MB
Pink Floyd: 382.3MB
Handel: 276.2MB
Haydn: 233.8MB
The Beatles: 220.0MB
Beethoven: 216.5MB
Hm. I need more opera.
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(5)
04:40:50 AM,Wednesday 4 December 2002
I was walking back from class in the dark, trying to justify myself to myself. And I started counting on my fingers -- May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December -- that's eight months. It suddenly occurred to me: what if, in April, I had indulged in a little youthful indiscretion? Hm? Not such an uncommon thing to happen to a girl of good family. And by May it was discovered... so they ship me off discreetly, along with $10,000 and their good wishes... and I come back at the end of that time hardly the worse for wear and having spared them all but the tiniest twinges of shame at my own brash and wayward incontinence. They used to do it that way all the time, back in the day, and it was hardly a cause for irreparable anguish; just a small spot of trouble with a happy resolution and a vow never to do such a terrible thing again. So I suppose I'm not all that badly off, and I don't even have a living, squalling stain on my conscience to show for it. So I'll hold my head up high, and try to ignore the scarlet "L" burning inside my doublet.
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(8)
06:19:35 PM,Monday 2 December 2002
Ghee is clarified butter.
Gherkins are little pickly things.
Asafoetida is an aromatic resin.
Worcestershire Sauce is a savory marinade.
Albumen is a component of eggwhites.
Turmeric is a yellowish powder.
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(3)
04:51:18 PM,Monday 2 December 2002
I have gotten to the bit in Martin's novel wherein Todd Fear makes a peanut and butter sandwich for the Consequences Monkey. It inspired me, through its poetry and grace, to make one of my own. I collected the ingredients from the darkened refrigerator with a minimum of fumbling and made my way into the bathroom to assemble it. The bathroom is the only room containing a source of light that can be properly shielded from the Mongolian, sleeping, becurtained, in the living room. I used the last of my peanut butter. I also, unfortunately, used the fig jelly of which I am not overfond because it has a weird bitter rindy taste to it that it really shouldn't have, according to the ingredients and my own experience of figs... but it's the only jelly I have, so it will have to do. I also deviated from my usual practice -- see, I know most Americans will consider me reprehensible for it, but I don't eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I eat peanut butter and butter and jelly sandwiches. It's all the fault of my Norwegian mother, I suppose. But they're really tops, I tell you. You butter both pieces of bread, bejelly the one side and bepeanut the other, slap them together, and cut to suit your fancy -- it adds a whole nother cool and creamy layer to the hallowed experience. But I only have nasty grotty cheapo stick margerine, and it was too far back in the fridge to root around for it without making a hullaballoo, so now I'm going to try a bite of my puritanical figgy sandwich, and return to Martin's novel. I am happy, because it is so lovely and delightful, but I am also sad, because it will very soon be over. Curses. Well, he'll just have to write another one, I suppose. And damn soon. Damnit.
Mood: lackadaisical
Music: a cheesy string-quartet version of Mozart's Symphony 25 (the one that opened the movie of Amadeus -- my nephew's going to be acting in a UM production of the stage version later this month, incidentally, and I'm very excited -- which used to always make me think of Amadeus, until one time I was riding in a bus with one Ms. Ali Swisher, muscular shorn-headed violinist and subject of several lurid... well, never mind... and she, having proposed a game of "name that tune", tapped the opening of this symphony on my shoulder. To my shame, I wasn't able to identify it, but now every time I hear it, my mind hearkens back... heh. Enough of that. I haven't been to the 7-11 yet, because I want to finish the novel, and I've worked out a sort of equilibrium with the temperature; I open the door and sit up while the cool air rushes in. When my back starts to hurt from sitting, I close the door and lie back down with my head against it until the room fogs up my glasses and my soul again. It's a reasonable arrangement. I haven't taken a bite of that sandwich yet. Let me try it. Not bad at all. Quite nice, in fact. Back to the novel.
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(3)
06:40:30 AM,Monday 2 December 2002
The light in the refrigerator's burned out, too. But I found the milk with no trouble. If I had to lose a sense, I would rather it be sight than any of the others. I'm listening to a really cheesy version of "Little Son of Mine", with hammond organs, fake strings, and synthesized finger cymbals. It's awful. I'm going out to the 7-11 in a moment. But I have to dig around in the dark to find hat, shoes, wallet, jew's harp. And sometimes it's easier to lie on my back against the wall and look at the computer instead. But this room gets very very hot at night. It's fine during the day. The rest of the apartment is fine at night. I don't know what it is -- and I've got a comparatively high tolerance for mugginess and stuffiness and vast torpid infernos. I don't curse the darkness, though. Just the immobility?
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(2)
04:33:50 AM,Monday 2 December 2002
WHAT AM I GOING TO BE WHEN I GROW UP?
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(9)
01:19:45 AM,Monday 2 December 2002
I'm sitting in the dark, eating a soft sweet pink fruit with little slimy alien eggs inside it. I'm sitting in the dark because the lightbulb burned out. I should go and get another one.
They were playing crumhorn music on Comedy Central. I ate two boiled eggs. I didn't conduct the Marriage of Figaro overture while I was boiling them, and so they were overdone. Next time.
I miss listening to Magnus Magnusson while digging in the garden. I like wearing shorts in cold weather.
Our Lady of Solitude...
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01:00:26 AM,Monday 2 December 2002
Death.
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(8)
07:51:15 PM,Saturday 30 November 2002
Catullus, rendered into Scots by Douglas Young:
Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire,
et quod vides perisse perditum ducas
fulsere quondam candidi tibi soles,
cum ventitabas quo puella ducebat --
Catullus man, ye maunna gang sae gyte.
Scryve 't doun for tint, nou that ye see it's fled ye.
Umquhile the sun shone on ye, braw and whyte,
ye aye gaed eftir whaur the lassie led ye --
What I would like for Christmas: a silk handkerchief of green, black, gold, silver, Prussian blue, indigo, or any tasteful combination thereof.
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(3)
03:51:34 AM,Saturday 30 November 2002
A mystery.
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(2)
03:25:37 AM,Saturday 30 November 2002
Man, Jew's Harp players are such rebels. It's about the most politically incorrect instrument there is, right? Even though no one has any idea where the name comes from or what it means -- no amout of scholastic research has been able to find any link, derogatory or otherwise, to Jews or Jewishness -- people blush and shudder when they're forced to say the word, and they make up sly soundalikes like "juice harp" and "jaw harp" to avoid giving offence. Now a prominent jew's harp virtuoso has invented his own derivative instrument, the clackamore. Presumably, the name is supposed to be evocative of the infectiously delightful percussive nature, but, um... do you think he made it rhyme with "blackamoor", like, on purpose? Is he just being provocative? Is he trying to make a subtle political statement? Is his subconscious out to get him? Whatever it is, it takes balls. Have I mentioned how ecstatic I am about my new trump? It plays Vivaldi and goes boing!
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09:08:01 PM,Friday 29 November 2002
I now own the God of All Jew's Harps. In C. And a see-through green recorder with a bubble in the beak. It's so purty.
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(2)
07:59:44 PM,Friday 29 November 2002
You don't believe that I'm truly Indie Baroque, huh? Well, what if I demonstrated my intimate knowledge of one of the most prolific and least known of the many prolific and unknown Baroque composers* by linking to The Porpora Project?! Who's Indie now, hmm? WHO'S INDIE NOOOW?!!
*identify source of quote and win a beautiful virtual mink coat
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(6)
01:46:40 AM,Friday 29 November 2002
My brother is blogging again! Go see how much incomprehensible bum he whups!
There's only one thing that could possibly make me any flurging happier...
Looks sternly askew at a certain other not-to-be-named blood relative.
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01:24:21 AM,Friday 29 November 2002
Take this comic and reverse it. Indie Baroque Mirabai is moving outta her penthouse (which very nearly adjoins both a sex shop and a fish shop, though as far as I know they don't sell chips) out on Burke Avenue and right up into Mom's basement. Well, actually, I probably won't be allowed to live in the basement, even though I like it down there, because the task is upon me to sort through and discard great masses of the detritus I acquired during my infancy and pubescence, all of which is stored in my bedroom upstairs (across the hall from my parents), and in which I will be expected to hang my hat. So, um, just a word to all da fly-ass honeys... cool the jet-packs... don't wait up.
(the ghostly chops-licking smiley face in the last panel still applies, though, 'cause my mom's cooking be tha shnizzelzebub)
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01:15:04 AM,Friday 29 November 2002
I think I've seen the death of my pairing instinct. Not my breeding instinct, not my mating instinct -- my pairing instinct. Didn't take much.
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11:46:15 AM,Thursday 28 November 2002
I lied. But this isn't really an opera post. It's a food post. I promised I wouldn't make any more of those either, so maybe they cancel each other out. I listened to Semiramide yesterday with Jennifer Larmore as Arsace, and it blew my tiny little mind. Least I can do is link to her recipe. Besides, I like Chicken Provençal. Yum.
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(3)
03:30:23 AM,Thursday 28 November 2002
Ok, I know you guys are mightily sick of the opera posts, but just one more, I swear. I'm so freakin' happy! I went out tonight to buy groceries but before I went into the supermarket I thought I'd go into Record and Tape Traders just for a bit, y'know, even though I couldn't really afford to get anything and they don't have much of the stuff I dig anyhow, but... just to get out of the cold and drool over the DVDs. So I walk around a bit and I find myself in the ultra-bargain corner. Most of it was offal, of course, but -- ha ha! -- after digging through all the dreck and slime for about fifteen minutes, I found a 75 minute CD of Haydn arias from BBC Music Magazine, whatever that is, sung by people like Flicka and Jessye Norman and Wladimiro Ganzarolli, yeeee! And guess how freaking much it was?! One-Ninety-Nine! $1.99! I mean, most CDs-that-come-with-the-magazine are worth that much. They're usually short-sheeted flavorless empty cheapo mish-moshes of old stuff everyone's heard a million times already. But not this one, by some magical feat of felicity. I'm a pretty big fan of Haydn, but I've only heard two of his operas -- La Vera Costanza and Lo Speziale -- and even that took digging. But I don't freaking understand why he's not in the repertoire. It's wonderful music! Lively, brilliant, helplessly beautiful stuff. The performances on this disc are all magnificent, too. The silly songs were hammed up to the hills and the lovely stuff made me close my eyes and rock back on my heels. Hell, I was dancing and bopping like a nutcase the whole time it took to get my food. It's just glorious. Best two bucks I ever spent.
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(4)
11:35:04 PM,Wednesday 27 November 2002