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Saturday, September 23, 2006
Really good Aimee concert tonight at a creepy location in Wayne, NJ with absolutely no light on the signs and no signs that point to where you want to be.
Still made it nice and early and our seats were fantastic. Plus she sang ancient stuff from Whatever, her first album, including my favourite from that album, "I've Had It". That's one song I never, ever skip when it comes up on random on my iPod.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 11:57 PM | shower me with attention
Still made it nice and early and our seats were fantastic. Plus she sang ancient stuff from Whatever, her first album, including my favourite from that album, "I've Had It". That's one song I never, ever skip when it comes up on random on my iPod.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 11:57 PM | shower me with attention
Friday, September 22, 2006
If you don't have something reasonably cheerful to say, don't say anything at all.
Sorry, blog.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 10:54 PM | shower me with attention
Sorry, blog.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 10:54 PM | shower me with attention
Thursday, September 21, 2006
J. hates the tie I knitted him. That is the only explanation for why it is still sitting on his desk five days after his birthday.
I'm never knitting for anyone but myself ever again.
That purple monkey motif was fabulous.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 11:38 PM | shower me with attention
I'm never knitting for anyone but myself ever again.
That purple monkey motif was fabulous.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 11:38 PM | shower me with attention
Sudoku, sudoku, all is sudoku.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 11:37 PM | shower me with attention
Why are you in Tavie's head? 11:37 PM | shower me with attention
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
I saw another celebrity on the subway today. This time it was that blond guy from the first season of Project Runway. I did a tiny double take and then fell into my sudoku as usual.
Random celebrity sightings make my day more interesting.
Today I tried a new thing where I would go through the whole day without complaining. I made a mark every time I caught myself complaining.
I complained five times. I just can't do it. Complaining is crack to me.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 7:17 PM | shower me with attention
Random celebrity sightings make my day more interesting.
Today I tried a new thing where I would go through the whole day without complaining. I made a mark every time I caught myself complaining.
I complained five times. I just can't do it. Complaining is crack to me.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 7:17 PM | shower me with attention
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
I'm still here. I've forsaken the blog temporarily for a private, paper journal scribbled by candlelight with a fountain pen, because I have dark thoughts you don't need to read, and because I like to shun electric lights and ballpoint pens and pretend I'm a monk. But my neo-Luddite tendencies never last long, as you can see. I'll be back.
Dim candlelight flickers are more conducive to heavy eyelids than the unrelenting glow of a cracked LCD, so I'm putting this away, yanking my cowl over my head and wandering back down the musty stone hallways of my cloister in search of sleep.
(Yes, I'll blow out the candles before I nod out. If that ever happens.)
Why are you in Tavie's head? 10:53 PM | shower me with attention
Dim candlelight flickers are more conducive to heavy eyelids than the unrelenting glow of a cracked LCD, so I'm putting this away, yanking my cowl over my head and wandering back down the musty stone hallways of my cloister in search of sleep.
(Yes, I'll blow out the candles before I nod out. If that ever happens.)
Why are you in Tavie's head? 10:53 PM | shower me with attention
Monday, September 18, 2006
OK. Yes. Now I remember what I wanted to say.
J. P. Morgan had one of the largest private collections of antique books in the world. Books from the dawn of books. Books handwritten by monks or printed on Gutenberg's first machines. Really, really old and rare. In his private library, the one off his private study, there are shelves and shelves of these books locked behind sheets of glass, which are encased in ornate iron bars like little book prisons. The room is very large for a private library, because he was, you know, J. P. Morgan. It was reminiscent of Belle's first glimpse of the Beast's library, if you remember that scene, stacks and rows looming overhead for three stories. The books were all leather-bound, gilt, richly decorated. Some of the most beautiful, expensive, old book-bindings you ever saw in your life.
It was so, so depressing. Not one ugly, well-read, well-loved book. All they were were ghosts of books that no one is allowed to touch, that no one will ever read, that maybe no one has ever read. I bet even John Pierpont Morgan himself didn't have time to thumb through most of them, busy as he was being the richest man in the world.
Maybe they were boring books (a lot of them were bibles, so there you go.) But there's an audience for every book in the world, and so chances are there are millions of souls that could have been entertained, enchanted, or enlightened by any one of these books. But they weren't allowed to do anything but be locked up as treasures.
Poor, sad, lonely, unread, unloved books bought only for their covers. They must know how supermodels feel, those books.
Gina calls it heresy, and I always treat books that I'm borrowing from others with care, but as for my own, personal libarary, it is largely comprised of ugly, dog-eared, coffee-stained, margin-scribbled, yellowing, crumbling, broken-spiked affairs with sketches and poems crowded onto inside covers, front and back. There's nothing I love more than a well-loved book. Except maybe Wo Hop's roast duck Chow Fun.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 12:02 AM | shower me with attention
J. P. Morgan had one of the largest private collections of antique books in the world. Books from the dawn of books. Books handwritten by monks or printed on Gutenberg's first machines. Really, really old and rare. In his private library, the one off his private study, there are shelves and shelves of these books locked behind sheets of glass, which are encased in ornate iron bars like little book prisons. The room is very large for a private library, because he was, you know, J. P. Morgan. It was reminiscent of Belle's first glimpse of the Beast's library, if you remember that scene, stacks and rows looming overhead for three stories. The books were all leather-bound, gilt, richly decorated. Some of the most beautiful, expensive, old book-bindings you ever saw in your life.
It was so, so depressing. Not one ugly, well-read, well-loved book. All they were were ghosts of books that no one is allowed to touch, that no one will ever read, that maybe no one has ever read. I bet even John Pierpont Morgan himself didn't have time to thumb through most of them, busy as he was being the richest man in the world.
Maybe they were boring books (a lot of them were bibles, so there you go.) But there's an audience for every book in the world, and so chances are there are millions of souls that could have been entertained, enchanted, or enlightened by any one of these books. But they weren't allowed to do anything but be locked up as treasures.
Poor, sad, lonely, unread, unloved books bought only for their covers. They must know how supermodels feel, those books.
Gina calls it heresy, and I always treat books that I'm borrowing from others with care, but as for my own, personal libarary, it is largely comprised of ugly, dog-eared, coffee-stained, margin-scribbled, yellowing, crumbling, broken-spiked affairs with sketches and poems crowded onto inside covers, front and back. There's nothing I love more than a well-loved book. Except maybe Wo Hop's roast duck Chow Fun.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 12:02 AM | shower me with attention
Sunday, September 17, 2006
I finished my first knitting project in months and months yesterday. It's a birthday gift for someone who, if he doesn't read this blog himself, definitely has spies who do, so I can say no more, but it came out pretty okay considering I broke every rule in the book in making it and it's a really goofy thing to make anyway. But it was fun. Then I got all excited about intarsia and started making wristbands.
Also, I've mastered the kitchener stitch, finally. That means nothing to anyone reading this, but it means I can now graft in a way that isn't completely ugly, and thus make a garment that doesn't bulge at the seams. This is a big deal, since I suck at finishing, and have been trying to learn this stitch for years.
Yay, boring me. Yay.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 10:51 PM | shower me with attention
Also, I've mastered the kitchener stitch, finally. That means nothing to anyone reading this, but it means I can now graft in a way that isn't completely ugly, and thus make a garment that doesn't bulge at the seams. This is a big deal, since I suck at finishing, and have been trying to learn this stitch for years.
Yay, boring me. Yay.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 10:51 PM | shower me with attention
Happy birthday, Dad!
Mom took Dad and I to the Pierpont Morgan Library dining room for brunch. Good, strong Bloody Maries seem to be a newfound Sunday ritual for me.
A'course, Dad demanded a wheelchair to get around what has got to be the smallest museum in New York, but that was fine. It's his special day. I know his feet hurt. He's a sixty-nine year old diabetic who's suffered numerous mini-strokes, so he can have his wheelchair for the teeny museum if he wants.
Dad latched onto any stranger he could find to lecture at, as usual, but a funny thing happened outside the Rembrandt exhibit. Dad was sitting there in his chair, lecturing in a relatively soft voice as befitted the silent atmosphere of the gallery. He was sitting in his chair in the antechamber and I was in the gallery proper, squinting at the little drawings (Rembrandt suuuuuuuure loved himself, did he not?) and I did notice that his voice was audible from inside the gallery, and that it was the only audible thing besides breathing and shuffling of feet on the floor. It wasn't loud or obnoxious, but I thought that I would make my way out and gently remind Dad that we could all hear him talking.
But then.
This harpy, this nasty old lady in a tacky orange tee shirt, I heard her voice ring out-- shrill and nasty-- in the room. Her companion (husband? brother? friendly stranger?) murmured something and she shrieked, "It's a gallery, not a church! It's a gallery, not a church! If I have to shut up then I want him to shut up!" and she brandished her guidebook towards the doorway through which my Dad was blithely chattering on (to a smiling, nodding captive who seemed, now, less annoyed than his usual victims.)
The guard came over to her and whispered to the woman that she had to keep her voice down and she ranted on and on that she paid to get in like everyone else and she shouldn't be forced to hear lectures from him (pointing again and again at my dad, who hadn't a clue this was going on.) The guard said, "If you're going to be rude, you're going to have to leave." She said she was going to get the manager to have my dad thrown out. The guard repeated, quietly but firmly, that she would not be permitted to be rude and she should keep her voice down or she'd have to leave.
After she was gone, I slunk quietly out the door and whispered to Dad that he was doing nothing wrong, but that his voice was audible in the gallery. The woman he was talking to remarked upon what a kind thing that was for me to do.
I can't convey how satisfying it was that my Dad, my obnoxious, lecturing Dad, was the good guy in this scenario. It was some crazy old bat making a scene for no reason.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 6:48 PM | shower me with attention
Mom took Dad and I to the Pierpont Morgan Library dining room for brunch. Good, strong Bloody Maries seem to be a newfound Sunday ritual for me.
A'course, Dad demanded a wheelchair to get around what has got to be the smallest museum in New York, but that was fine. It's his special day. I know his feet hurt. He's a sixty-nine year old diabetic who's suffered numerous mini-strokes, so he can have his wheelchair for the teeny museum if he wants.
Dad latched onto any stranger he could find to lecture at, as usual, but a funny thing happened outside the Rembrandt exhibit. Dad was sitting there in his chair, lecturing in a relatively soft voice as befitted the silent atmosphere of the gallery. He was sitting in his chair in the antechamber and I was in the gallery proper, squinting at the little drawings (Rembrandt suuuuuuuure loved himself, did he not?) and I did notice that his voice was audible from inside the gallery, and that it was the only audible thing besides breathing and shuffling of feet on the floor. It wasn't loud or obnoxious, but I thought that I would make my way out and gently remind Dad that we could all hear him talking.
But then.
This harpy, this nasty old lady in a tacky orange tee shirt, I heard her voice ring out-- shrill and nasty-- in the room. Her companion (husband? brother? friendly stranger?) murmured something and she shrieked, "It's a gallery, not a church! It's a gallery, not a church! If I have to shut up then I want him to shut up!" and she brandished her guidebook towards the doorway through which my Dad was blithely chattering on (to a smiling, nodding captive who seemed, now, less annoyed than his usual victims.)
The guard came over to her and whispered to the woman that she had to keep her voice down and she ranted on and on that she paid to get in like everyone else and she shouldn't be forced to hear lectures from him (pointing again and again at my dad, who hadn't a clue this was going on.) The guard said, "If you're going to be rude, you're going to have to leave." She said she was going to get the manager to have my dad thrown out. The guard repeated, quietly but firmly, that she would not be permitted to be rude and she should keep her voice down or she'd have to leave.
After she was gone, I slunk quietly out the door and whispered to Dad that he was doing nothing wrong, but that his voice was audible in the gallery. The woman he was talking to remarked upon what a kind thing that was for me to do.
I can't convey how satisfying it was that my Dad, my obnoxious, lecturing Dad, was the good guy in this scenario. It was some crazy old bat making a scene for no reason.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 6:48 PM | shower me with attention
I look at this dress and it's so not me, and yet I really want it.
Is that weird? Maybe I want to be someone else.
(Well. Duh.)
Why are you in Tavie's head? 12:57 AM | shower me with attention
Is that weird? Maybe I want to be someone else.
(Well. Duh.)
Why are you in Tavie's head? 12:57 AM | shower me with attention
