Sunday, December 18, 2005
Contrary to Popular Opinion, I am Not in Any Way Depressed, Unhappy, or Otherwise Disgruntled & I Offer to You, as Proof, These Following Truths:
I have put my purist tendencies aside and, beyond merely accepting Erin’s setting Snood to the “Christmas” option, find myself giggling frequently at the weird, new Santa and Ornament Snoods.
*
While walking home from the university last Wednesday night during a terrific snow storm—big, thick flakes in rapid succession and a still, crisp air—I felt as though I’d slipped into the musical drama version of my life, or, at least, a music montage segue between plot points, and, in order to supply the requisite soundtrack and still not quite comfortable enough when alone in the dark to wear headphones and deafen myself with the ipod, I sang, out loud, Nina Simone’s “I Got It Bad and That Ain’t Good” all the way home. While I’ll concede that it is indeed a sad song, the choice was made not because it twinned my own inner-self in some way but because I felt it better upped the drama of the situation, of the musical I had slipped into. These things happen. Directors call them artistic choices. Psychologists call them psychotic episodes. The few Kyrgyz I passed on the street called it funny. I agreed.
*
We visited the Meat House again and, as of this afternoon, we are now in possession of nearly two pounds of cured, smoky pork, spicy mustard, a block of white semi-soft cheese, and what amounts to a giant loaf of white sandwich bread. Have I mentioned that I love sandwiches?
*
Having watched the European finals, it appears the Norwegian curling team will be a favorite for the ’06 Olympic gold. I have no special allegiance to Norway, but curling, my god, could a sport possibly be any more ridiculously fun? I don’t think so.
*
And then I watched the Scottish lawn bowling finals and realized that yes, yes there can be a funnier sport in the world. Scottish lawn bowling—not to be confused with bocce, though other than the slightly-oval shape of the lawn bowling balls, I couldn’t be sure what the specific difference is—is genius to watch, full of men with the same athletic build as PBA stars in the US, glorious comb-overs, and a weird little stutter-step strut thing after every roll. Watch for it, it’s good stuff. Promise.
*
I saw a drunk man slip on sidewalk ice and slide ten feet on his chest, his arms and legs raised and spread in ecstatic revelry, then spring up from the ride’s end smiling, begin singing, and stumble on, unscathed. It was 2:30 in the afternoon.
*
I have managed to conjure, out of the few bits of produce not frozen inedible at the bazaar by the recent patch of serious cold and what I think was lamb and a smoked sausage of unknown origin, to make rather delicious and perfectly passable versions of both jambalaya and shepherd’s pie. Delicious, I tell you, delicious!
*
Among the Most Played on our iTunes right now, as I type this, are A Tribe Called Quest’s “Award Tour,” The Beatles “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da,” The Detroit Cobras’ “Shout Bama Lama,” and Dr. Teeth & the Electric Mayhem’s “Can You Picture That?”. This is not the soundtrack of a depressive ex-pat, people. These are the songs a happy man sings and dances to by himself in his apartment after a few hours of writing that’s been going well.
*
This weekend saw me surpass the 20,000 word mark on the novel. Erin and I shared a tiny apricot cake in celebration.
*
Lastly, I honestly believed that a bizarre, somewhat inedible sandwich and noises like cars being eaten by enormous lizards in the middle of the night were funny stories, not indications of my desire to be air-lifted home.
*
While walking home from the university last Wednesday night during a terrific snow storm—big, thick flakes in rapid succession and a still, crisp air—I felt as though I’d slipped into the musical drama version of my life, or, at least, a music montage segue between plot points, and, in order to supply the requisite soundtrack and still not quite comfortable enough when alone in the dark to wear headphones and deafen myself with the ipod, I sang, out loud, Nina Simone’s “I Got It Bad and That Ain’t Good” all the way home. While I’ll concede that it is indeed a sad song, the choice was made not because it twinned my own inner-self in some way but because I felt it better upped the drama of the situation, of the musical I had slipped into. These things happen. Directors call them artistic choices. Psychologists call them psychotic episodes. The few Kyrgyz I passed on the street called it funny. I agreed.
*
We visited the Meat House again and, as of this afternoon, we are now in possession of nearly two pounds of cured, smoky pork, spicy mustard, a block of white semi-soft cheese, and what amounts to a giant loaf of white sandwich bread. Have I mentioned that I love sandwiches?
*
Having watched the European finals, it appears the Norwegian curling team will be a favorite for the ’06 Olympic gold. I have no special allegiance to Norway, but curling, my god, could a sport possibly be any more ridiculously fun? I don’t think so.
*
And then I watched the Scottish lawn bowling finals and realized that yes, yes there can be a funnier sport in the world. Scottish lawn bowling—not to be confused with bocce, though other than the slightly-oval shape of the lawn bowling balls, I couldn’t be sure what the specific difference is—is genius to watch, full of men with the same athletic build as PBA stars in the US, glorious comb-overs, and a weird little stutter-step strut thing after every roll. Watch for it, it’s good stuff. Promise.
*
I saw a drunk man slip on sidewalk ice and slide ten feet on his chest, his arms and legs raised and spread in ecstatic revelry, then spring up from the ride’s end smiling, begin singing, and stumble on, unscathed. It was 2:30 in the afternoon.
*
I have managed to conjure, out of the few bits of produce not frozen inedible at the bazaar by the recent patch of serious cold and what I think was lamb and a smoked sausage of unknown origin, to make rather delicious and perfectly passable versions of both jambalaya and shepherd’s pie. Delicious, I tell you, delicious!
*
Among the Most Played on our iTunes right now, as I type this, are A Tribe Called Quest’s “Award Tour,” The Beatles “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da,” The Detroit Cobras’ “Shout Bama Lama,” and Dr. Teeth & the Electric Mayhem’s “Can You Picture That?”. This is not the soundtrack of a depressive ex-pat, people. These are the songs a happy man sings and dances to by himself in his apartment after a few hours of writing that’s been going well.
*
This weekend saw me surpass the 20,000 word mark on the novel. Erin and I shared a tiny apricot cake in celebration.
*
Lastly, I honestly believed that a bizarre, somewhat inedible sandwich and noises like cars being eaten by enormous lizards in the middle of the night were funny stories, not indications of my desire to be air-lifted home.
