Stolen with permission
[I’ve started many a blog post where I just trailed off, got called away from the computer, or had to escape a bear. In lieu of working harder on something that might remotely make sense, I’ve decided to just plagiarize old writing. Of mine. I swear.]
I happily expect different things to happen in my daily life. And sadly, I know that an increase my expectation for and experience of small amusements and adventures will be a much welcome by-product of slowly trying not to let work take over my life.
When meeting new people, and they ask my name, I often want to recite my fullest name – most of it not-official. When I was younger, I would recite my name, middle name, mother’s maiden name, maternal grandmother’s maiden name, and last name. Introductions ran long. Plus, I have a bonus confirmation name, Catherine…yes, I got the full Catholic school and cathecism upbringing. Catherine wasn’t the confirmation name I wanted. I wanted to be called Lawrence, because urban religious myth tells us that they burned him at the stake. After a while, he called out, “you can turn me over; I’m done on this side.” However, St. Lawrence church CCD teachers wouldn’t let me choose it (patriarchal bull-sugar-honey-ice-tea). So, I chose the name that came in second in the vote my 8th grade homeroom class took. I went with 2nd place because Axl Rose just didn’t seem right, after some reflection.
I know in today’s consumer & ‘ammenity’-driven, mocchachino land, it really seems to require intention and commitment to live the ‘simple life’. Pretty much everyone I know who’s left the metro-NYC area just can’t imagine coming back. Most are gracious enough to temper the you’ve-gotta-be-crazy-not-to-leave conversations to only every once in a while. But they do feel free to extoll the virtues of virtuous living 🙂 As all that I’ve ever shared about myself and all that I will likely reveal, I doubt I’m suited for communal living.
I am no obsessive connoisseur, but I’ve been to my fair share of record stores (about 6 in 4 days in San Fran alone). And remember, I work in Brooklyn, where apparently ALL music comes from these days, and those musicians all need indy record stores to be seen looking so disaffected in. But I am a big fan of vinyl, and I specialize in a homegrown musical anthropology. It’s not an official designation or anything, but whenever I hear about someone who’s cleaning out their house/apartment/storage locker, and they have vinyl they”re trying to get rid off, I always volunteer to pick it up. Usually it’s friends’ parents, etc. I love experiencing people this way. And this probably explains why I own so much Englebert Humperdinck.
Music…ahh, yes, at once the great equalizer (who doesn’t have a personal theme song?) and the great divider (I still don’t get Steely Dan). I like Pink Martini because they’re a lot of the big-band stuff (which I love) with new and ironic (some) originals and covers. As can be determined by my vinyl collection, I do listen to all sorts of music. Some of my favorite records are my Time Life Opera collection (who couldn’t use a little Gounod?). But the soundtrack to my current life situation (breakup music sounds so pedestrian) would probably be comprised heavily of the Pernice Brothers, Magnetic Fields and Garcia/Grisman. I don’t tend to recommend music…too many disappointing results. I just share what makes me happy…even when they make me sad.
I must admit, I’ve been a little distracted in writing this, as I’ve been watching Planet Earth Extremes for the last 2 hours. We (mom, stepdad, sister, stepsister, a partridge in a pear tree) had been watching it earlier, and it repeated, so now I can watch it without all the commentary. So, if this falls below earlier standards of wit, charm and effervesence, blame science.