Something is terribly wrong. I woke up this morning, a Sunday, at 6am. I had no planes to catch, no people to pick up at the airport, no mountains to slide down half on my skis, half on my bottom. In fact, I had no place to be at all. I could, quite rightly, have stayed snuggled up under the duvet, a cat curled like a comma in the crook of my arm, for another two hours, maybe three; sleeping in on the weekend is one of my most cherished pleasures. But my brain would have none of it: you're up! it said, you're awake! Let's get productive!
Our house is in disarray again because I decided to paint the living room this weekend.
It was probably totally illegal. They’d call it bullying now, or harassment. Someone would write to the headmaster these days, someone would phone the school board, someone would no doubt call an urgent meeting, and all the banker fathers would show up in their Beemers, parking illegally, muttering concernedly, slinking late into the dining hall, and glancing guiltily at their watches as the talk of discrimination droned on. The term “hazing” would be bandied about, the word “victim.”
This weekend, we had a bit of a Furniturepalooza.
I hesitate normally to write about any kind of music on this site, partly because there are so many people who do it better than me---my brother Luke being one of them---and partly because I'm always so frightened that someone's going to be all "Oh, you just heard of so-and-so? That's adorable! And how nice of you to join us in this century, you peon. I was listening to so-and-so in the womb."
(My imaginary critic speaks in italics a lot. Also smells like boiled eggs and disappointment.)