February 01, 2004
VERY SOON, WE'LL ALL DISAPPEAR UP OUR OWN EXISTENCE
Got that tripod, y'all. For this, we hug the Lady. And for the best birthday card ever, we hug the child.
Watched Yellow Submarine with the boys, who had never seen it.
"That's not a cyclops. It's got two eyes."
"Well, then it must be a bicyclops."
OR
"Go Glove, point. And having pointed, pounce!"
OR
"I haven't laughed so much since Pompeii."
The Beatles speak so quietly. Ringo is easily the best. John is unexpectedly flat. George is expectedly quiet. Paul is unexpectedly deep-voiced.
Older. Interesting round of questions at the party last night: How old do you feel? Mentally? Emotionally? Physically? No median answer.
Psychic update, which could have been issued at any point in the last two years: I cannot get it up for details and repeated iterations. I have no diminution in feeling for pop music--I could name 100 songs right now that I'd scale an oily, bad-smelling obstruction to hear. And those 100 may have grown in potency for me: some pieces are like back-up engines or sofas now. But the passable imitations, endless commentaries, rough drafts, ephemera, bad revivals, deep hagiographies? I could care less.
This is nothing but good.
A long, chatty music post soon.
