Feb. 26th, 2012

whatho: (Default)
Hello. I hope you're keeping well. I've done my back in by breathing at the wrong angle and I can't quite shake my cough, but I can't complain. I've been mostly turning on Word and then breathing out noisily through my teeth, with the telly on in the background. I'm staying with my brother again, where there are many channels, but there's still nothing much on. So hurrah for DVDs.

I watched the Simon & Garfunkel Concert at Central Park DVD the other day. That might be my first stop-off if I were to get hold of a backwards time-travelling device type thing. Really I'd be en route to the Beatles at the Royal Variety Performance, but 1981 would make a nice stopover. Imagine hearing and seeing John Lennon do his 'the rest of you just rattle your jewellery' line in person. I'm not ambitious. I don't actually know how good a Beatles' audience member I'd make. Obviously the main point of going to a Beatles concert is to put your hands over your ears and scream at them, and that's sort of a marvellous thing to do, but in reality I get quite annoyed when people make noises at concerts. Even singing along. Especially singing along. That man who sang along to 'I'm Your Man' in Manchester in 2008. I really didn't like that man. So maybe I'd just shush people instead. I don't know. Actually, irritating Manchester man aside, all four (count 'em) concert audiences I've witnessed (Leonard Cohen, Paul Simon, Kris Kristoffersen and Willie Nelson, 'cause apparently the only music I care for comes from male American singer-songwriters over the age of 70) have been respectfully quiet during the actual singing. I love that thing people do that I sort of stereotypically suspect might be a British thing, but maybe probably isn't - where they clap in time to the music during the intro but as soon as Cohen/Simon/Kristoffersen/Nelson starts singing, the clapping politely stop. 'Cause we came here to listen to singing, not to clapping. I like that.


My point is that it's the first time I've seen Garfunkel sing 'How terribly strange to be seventy' after he turned seventy. I read an interview with him a few weeks ago. I think he interviews rather well, especially for a man still engaged in a decades-long feud with his one true love. Of course the interviewer asked him 'Is it terribly strange to be seventy?' And he said, no, not really. Not after having been alive for seventy years. It's quite normal. It's only strange to be seventy when you're actually twenty-two, or whatever. I liked that too.

('It may be possible to one day create "an unlimited source" of human eggs, according to US fertility doctors.' Oh good. That's just what we need.)

End of interlude.

I can't think what else to say. I've been reunited with all my stuff, and now I need to decide which of it to burn. Not burn. It's just that it's all in a house that's going to be sold and it won't all go in my parents' home and I have no access to a vehicle nor money for a removal service. I should maybe look into storage, or get really really fit and learn to carry nine backpacks all at once. Or just nurture a potent sense of detachment. And burn it all. (My Boglins! My first guitar! My sheep collection! My SRK action figure!) There's some more stuff I want though, like the DVD of The Trip. I'm all about bitter hateful irritated love right now. I don't see the point to any other brand. This is a rubbish update. I've been trying to watch the sort of telly that you watch, but I can't find it on any of the channels or on On Demand. Sorry. I go there now.


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