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.

Photo by Brett Jordan, featured in an old article in Ars Technicha (click on photo to link to site)