coffee bean and tea leave
"Ho ho ho! Who needs a pancreas?"
It’s only December 9, and already my body is exhausted from all the sugar and booze it’s ingested. I know, oh my readers, why Santa is a fat man. Santa, in fact, is probably suffering with diabetes. It would explain last year when, as he was trying to stuff the life-sized, life-like Annette Funicello robot I had asked for into my San Francisco 49ers stocking (a last-minute purchase at Target – it was either that or a Hannah Montana stocking that had a glue-gun scar); Santa was working his magic but, in-between “ho ho ho” he was mumbling about polyuria, polydipsia and polyphagia in a manner not so jolly.
That last sentence was epic. Somewhere, the ghost of Proust just got a boner. Can I say boner on the Amoeblog? I’m not well.
My boyfriend, Corey, and I just hosted our annual Christmas party. I was in charge of the food. I went for a “dip” theme. That is, rather than merely offer chips & salsa or chips & guacamole, our dips included:
• Pumpkin pie & fresh whipped cream dip, served with cinnamon/sugar pita chips
• NY Cheesecake dip, served with thick graham crackers
• Chocolate fudge dip, served with fresh & dried fruit
• Peanut butter / mustard / honey dip, served with pretzels
• Red wine dip, served with
The other day, a customer at Amoeba Music stopped me and asked:
“Do you have the correct time?”
Long after I told him what time it was, I still pondered his specification of the type of time he wanted. That adjective, correct. What had transpired in his days of life that he should deem it wise to emphasize that he didn’t want just any time quoted to him; he didn’t want me to make up a time (“Oh, it’s a quarter after eight billion o’clock”); he also didn’t want to fall trap to any inaccurate time, as perhaps others who’d come before me had given him. No, he wanted the correct time.
And while I would have – on this I vow – I would have given him the correct time regardless of whether or not he had made certain to choose that sort of information, I feel that, by both catering to his need and also not remarking on why I thought it odd he should make lengths to get only “correct” time, I have somehow contributed to his neurosis that, unless he asks for correct time, alternate times may well be offered.
What does any of this have to do with theremins? Very little, and for that, I apologize.
So, without further ado, please enjoy the following clip:
“Do you have the correct time?”
Long after I told him what time it was, I still pondered his specification of the type of time he wanted. That adjective, correct. What had transpired in his days of life that he should deem it wise to emphasize that he didn’t want just any time quoted to him; he didn’t want me to make up a time (“Oh, it’s a quarter after eight billion o’clock”); he also didn’t want to fall trap to any inaccurate time, as perhaps others who’d come before me had given him. No, he wanted the correct time.
And while I would have – on this I vow – I would have given him the correct time regardless of whether or not he had made certain to choose that sort of information, I feel that, by both catering to his need and also not remarking on why I thought it odd he should make lengths to get only “correct” time, I have somehow contributed to his neurosis that, unless he asks for correct time, alternate times may well be offered.
What does any of this have to do with theremins? Very little, and for that, I apologize.
So, without further ado, please enjoy the following clip:
The woman is the above clip is the splendiferous Clara Rockmore, widely regarded as the finest theremin player of all time. A pupil of the instrument’s inventor, Léon Theremin, she remained a stalwart champion of the man even after he suddenly and mysteriously disappeared behind the
It seems like only a year ago that it was November 24. How time flies. Time flies less often than it did, it seems. Probably due to all the crazy “safety” precautions that airports employ now.
You know, they can make sure I don’t carry-on my switchblade, my flame-thrower, or my collection of vintage anthrax samples onto my flight, but they can’t confiscate my NINJA ABILITIES. Think about that one, my friends. My lightening moves don’t fit in no Ziploc baggie.
It was on this day, in 1963, that Lee Harvey Oswald was gunned down by man-about-town Jack Ruby, which brings to mind a song I quite like by Camper Van Beethoven, which brings to mind an album I rather fancy by Camper Van Beethoven.
The album is called Key Lime Pie and it takes me back to my high school days; though not actually my high school itself, because I never listened to rad tunes on campus. Only the
From the scene in which Juliet drinks Romeo's blood while clutching her highly-prized, ball-point pen
It’s a wonder I love The Bard as much as I do considering that nothing was more painful than listening to a classroom full of barely literate teenagers haltingly fumble their way through
Bryan Fuller
$%(&$*%#%@*^%$%^*%^!!!!
You just insert whatever cuss word sounds best screamed out loud and that’s what that opening line is. Why am I yelling obscenities? Because I just learned that Bryan Fuller’s fantastic TV show, Pushing Daisies, has not been renewed.
Honestly, I guess I should be used to this by now. The phrase “too good for TV” has left my lips too often, and has applied to every Fuller creation.
For those of you who aren’t familiar with his work, treat yourself to Wonderfalls or (most of) the first season of Dead Like Me, and definitely check out Pushing Daisies.
For cynical, intellectual blokes like me who are more excited by an evening of psychologically tormenting Swedish films or whose idea of a catchy pop tune includes Scott Walker moaning in an echo chamber about the Plague, Bryan Fuller’s programs offer a rare opportunity to enjoy a romantic-comedy, a genre that otherwise tends to leave me feeling spiritually grifted.
I can only hope that Mr. Fuller turns to the film industry. There, he could dream up elaborate whimsy that, while never very far divorced from the unwelcome bedfellow of finance, might nevertheless allow him more breathing room to realize his visions.
I
You just insert whatever cuss word sounds best screamed out loud and that’s what that opening line is. Why am I yelling obscenities? Because I just learned that Bryan Fuller’s fantastic TV show, Pushing Daisies, has not been renewed.
Honestly, I guess I should be used to this by now. The phrase “too good for TV” has left my lips too often, and has applied to every Fuller creation.
For those of you who aren’t familiar with his work, treat yourself to Wonderfalls or (most of) the first season of Dead Like Me, and definitely check out Pushing Daisies.
For cynical, intellectual blokes like me who are more excited by an evening of psychologically tormenting Swedish films or whose idea of a catchy pop tune includes Scott Walker moaning in an echo chamber about the Plague, Bryan Fuller’s programs offer a rare opportunity to enjoy a romantic-comedy, a genre that otherwise tends to leave me feeling spiritually grifted.
I can only hope that Mr. Fuller turns to the film industry. There, he could dream up elaborate whimsy that, while never very far divorced from the unwelcome bedfellow of finance, might nevertheless allow him more breathing room to realize his visions.
I