Of An Evening (I Like to Kick a Pig)

I lay in bed getting into recovery mode. My body is like warm taffy, like I have been poured inside of my bed into a mold in the shape of a human. I got up in the twilight hours and listened to the first movement of Beethoven’s 5th symphony, or “Beethoven’s Fifth” or “B5” or “A Fifth of Beethoven” or “the single most recognizable opening melody of any composition in human history.” I listened to it many times, and wrote down a variety of strong adjectives. While it must be admitted as fact that Yours Truly has roughly zero “new” things to say to “the world” about “Beethoven’s Fifth,” it is nonetheless pretty fun to write a paper about it. During my third run-through of the development section, I went outside into the darkening evening, which was quiet and chilly and the air was soft. My landlord, who I think is a very interesting and cool lady, was out there with the small dog. She related a story about an event that had only just transpired–namely, Bird and the dog exchanging fierce, heavily-meaningful glances. Privately I doubted this, if only because I don’t think Bird has intense emotions about anything but “the Sea.”

We sat on my little porch or portico or “stoop” and talked about life for many long minutes. I felt good, to be nearly thirty years old, and in this place at this time, with iTunes paused on the minor dominant back in the warm bedroom/cave wherein all my secrets and dreams do lie. I felt good, to sit on the stoop and “rap” with my landlord, who has teenaged daughters and who is very wise. The dog ate many rocks and sticks, Bird was nowhere to be seen, and I abruptly remembered that people are coming over for bagels in about 10 minutes. “I’m writing a small paper on Beethoven, so you can only stay an hour,” I told them. If this made them feel awkward, they did not let on, which I appreciate.

In other news, Marisa visited me, and we went shopping for “work clothes,” ate a lot of vegan nachos, and saw “the Departed,” which I liked in spite of my feminism. It was an important film, because it reminded us never to trust a dirty rat, and to make sure we always use “the F” a lot when we join “the Staties.” It was also an important testament to the power of Jack Nicholson, who, even now, I would french. Finally, it was a “good show, old boy” get-out-of-jail-free card for one Marty Scorcese, who, you will recall, recently lost the favor of all conscious human beings by creating the film “Gangs of New York.”

“Did Cameron Diaz have one leg in that movie?” Marisa asked. “I don’t know,” I said, “something was wrong with her. Wait–she got stabbed in the uterus or something.” “Oh right, she had an abortion,” said Marisa. “Whatever,” I said.

I have been feeling persnickety, as you can see.
No, I haven’t.

In other news:
My tall, bony gentleman caller will finally be calling on me Wednesday of an evening. He will be bringing with him his scruffy beard, his shaggy hair for me to cut with kitchen scissors out in the yard, and his bountiful quest for knowledge, a thirst that will be quencheth at the informational session he plans to attend on thursday while I am handing out attendance sheets and running the DVD player. He has also promised to “bring [me] a drink and rub [my] shoulders,” but frankly I believes it when I sees it.