Hey kids. I’m writing to you this morning from the kitchen of Science Manor. Science Girl and Lucy are fast asleep upstairs, so it’s just me and Martin down here bein’ niteowls. Martin has an ongoing anti-literacy campaign, usually manifested by his sitting directly on top of whatever paragraph one might be reading at the moment. Just now, he’s been getting up on the desk and sitting on the keyboard from time to time. Everybody’s a critic.
I’m having the first of probably three Mongoose IPA’s. It’s full-bodied and bitter, just like yours truly. It was also on sale, which is where we diverge. On the box is the blues comp that came with the new issue of Mojo I picked up today. So far, so good. That soul comp they put out with the last issue is gonna be hard to top; this one’s much more about the basics. Which is just fine with me. You can’t have too many versions of T-Bone Walker’s “Stormy Monday”, can you?
Outside, the lights across the valley twinkle in the dark. Every now and then I can see a car moving through the night, but for the most part Seattle slumbers on.
The sunshine that was so disturbing to me earlier in the week has gone elsewhere, replaced by a slow, steady rain and a fair amount of wind. Good for me, but less so for all the blossoming trees in the back yard. They seem to be holding up pretty well so far, but if this weather keeps up all week – as is forecast – the blossoms stand a good chance of being wiped out too early. As much as I hate all the pollen, the trees themselves are, to use SG’s word, glorious.
The sunshine is gone, but the depression it invariably brings me is sticking around for awhile. Winston Churchill used to refer to the coming of his darker moods as being visited by the black dog, which has always struck me as a particularly apt turn of phrase. I have borrowed it occasionally. I don’t think he’d mind. Do you? Sometimes I can see the dog coming, and sometimes he sneaks right up on me. It’s usually the latter, now that I think of it. He’s a sneaky dog, slinking up behind the bushes to leap out and knock me over when I’m looking the other way. Not very sporting, but then dogs don’t always play fair.
In an attempt to shorten the black dog’s stay this time around, I’ve decided to forgo reading the newspaper for awhile. This is a fairly radical move on my part, as I’ve been reading the news daily (the odd camping trip aside) for about thirty-five years now, give or take. It’s a hard habit to break, but I’m doing my best to stick with it. It’s not that I’m trying to be an ostrich with my head stuck in the sand; I think it’s vital to stay at least somewhat acquainted with the events of the day. Lately, though, I’ve found myself getting worked up into an impotent rage (or, y’know, something similar) every morning while reading the front page. It’s not the best way to start the day, as you might imagine. Some people seem to be fueled by bile alone; I spent a good portion of my twenties that way myself, but I’ve found that as I get older the bile tastes worse and stays longer in the throat.
I had intended to review The Delgados' CD I picked up a while back, but I’m finding it tends to reinforce the melancholy mood rather more then it needs reinforcing right now, so that’s gonna have to wait for a bit. It’s generally gorgeous stuff, if a little heavy-handed with the strings now and again. It’s difficult to pick out what the band is playing at times, but it’s usually worth the effort. The thing is, though, I find myself being dragged back down when I listen to it these days. The fault is mine & not the band’s, but any sort of close review is just not in the cards right now. Ditto for Camera Obscura, although the effect isn’t as strong with them. I just find myself wondering if Belle and Sebastian get a cut of their royalties.
Well, I’m finishing that third ale, the blues comp has given over to Teenage Fanclub’s Bandwagonesque, and even Martin has gone off to bed. As much as I love that album, I suppose I should follow his lead.
Nighty night.
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