Into the “research topics that I’ll never get around to” stack goes: trace the development of the literary convention of the post-mortal strike monologue. The old stab & blab, “Ai! I’ve just been horribly shot/stabbed/crushed/impaled but instead of going into shock I will now deliver a speech.”

Secret research assistant posits that this might have worked its way into literature from stage drama, pointing to Dido’s death in Aeneid as an early example.

Part of me feels like a teenager again, weird and awkward and confused. Maybe I should know better, but I’d like to think I’m past the point where I think I know better. If that makes sense; I’m still verbally akimbo.

Presently, I’ve got a rather foreboding pile of books demanding to be read, and had best get to it in the next few days before they conspire against me and crush me while I sleep.

In Boston once again.

I visited some of my childhood haunts over the weekend. I went to The Mall. Taking advantage of the cost of living change, and just because it was fun, I went in to my old hair salon and got my hair cut. I got my hair cut for prom there. It was a relaxed experience, and I chatted with the stylist about Boston, which to her sounded like a place out of science fiction. A city where people don’t have to drive every day, imagine!

Newly styled, I drove to a favorite half-price book and record store and pored over the stacks. I ended up getting a rocking Vienna Philharmonic recording of Felix “Lucky” Mendelssohn’s Italian Symphony, and il Zazzerino, a really fine set of songs by Jacopo Peri. Fun fact: I once stepped on Peri’s grave marker in Florence (or was it Venice?) and cried out “Ai! I’ve stepped on a father of modern opera!”

I’m a bit topsy turvy right now, but things are really good.

The part of town that I grew up in has expanded. Much like L.A., when Houston grows, it grows out in a sprawl of strip malls and planned neighborhoods. I find myself disoriented when I find myself confronted with Targets and Best Buys where there once was pasture. Chain stores and restaurants infinitely duplicated on the grid. It’s so very different from Boston, but space is cheap here, and somehow it all makes sense.

I’m flying down to Houston for a few days. I will be good and write if anything interesting happens; as I don’t have blue hair this time it will be marginally easier to be inconspicuous.

I don’t know why I made this, but if you’ve ever wanted to know what a woman with a fish instead of a head would look like on an 80s pin-up poster, today is your lucky day. With apologies to Patrick Nagel. And to fish, for that matter.

It’s been a wonderful and weird April so far. I’ve just finished up the first building stage of one big project, and now am onto the feedback, polishing and analysis phase. Creative coding is, right now, more of a drain than it should be, so I’m happy to set that aside for a bit.

In college, I took a trip through Europe with two good friends, moving from Austria to Scotland in two weeks. We pushed through Italy, Germany, Switzerland, France, and England, and in the course of the trip amassed as much culture as possible. The result was museum overload, and by the end we were jaded; meh, just another da Vinci. Whatever.

In some ways, that’s the way I feel right now; absolutely everything is fascinating, and what I need is to be able to fully experience every slice of life without becoming desensitized to the wonder of it all.

P.S. Stimmung is the arguably best piece Karlheinz Stockhausen ever wrote. If nothing else, it’s the only one I can sing along to.

I should apologize for all the images this week, but I’m decidedly non-verbal. So yeah. The image originally came from a seafood restaurant menu (lovingly snapped by V).

Taken at the Boston Waterfront.

Long, long day, made easier by some marvelous weather. I’m ready for something resembling a restful weekend, which I believe will involve shoe shopping and if I’m lucky catching up on some reading.

Death Cab for Cutie and Franz Ferdinand played in Boston last night, and we were there. Our seats were directly to stage left, and pretty good, so not only could we see the bands, but also the army of roadies, engineers, and technicians required to support a production of that magnitude. I caught myself making googly eyes at the mixer more than once. So many faders!

We missed the first song or two from Death Cab, which was sad, but they made up for it for the rest of the set. Somehow I’d managed to not ever hear a song of theirs, so going in fresh was a treat. It was technically good music; the sonorities they were able to make and hold were often subtly complex. Their drummer astounded me with his efficiency of motion and precision. They didn’t whip the crowd into a frenzy (with perhaps the exception of a tight and thumping double drum solo – 2 kits! – at the end of the set), but they did play some damned fine music.

Franz Ferdinand was pure adrenaline. If Death Cab were more competent at their musical craft, Franz Ferdinand took the crown for showmanship. V said in her write-up that the lead vocalist took his moves from Mick Jagger; if so, he learned from the masters. He worked the crowd and quickly had them on their feet. The soft and atmospheric lights of Death Cab were replaced with relentless strobes. And it was loud.

Oh gods was it loud. We’d picked up some earplugs from First Aid, but aiming for some sort of vérité I took them out when we took our seats. The first part of the concert was loud, but when Franz Ferdinand started playing, the sonic aggression started. There was nothing but sound. My entire body vibrated; my ears had nowhere to run. It was an assault, louder than it needed to be, and I liked it lots.

Not to be outdone by Death Cab, Franz Ferdinand managed to pull off a triple drum solo, with three guys all banging on the same kit. There was a balletic, ballistic energy to the minute or two they spent pounding the hell out of those cymbals; the kit writhed and shook, and I felt that there was a real chance that the entire thing could physically collapse at any moment.

There was a brief break from the rocking to praise the work of Scottish poet Ivor Cutler and admonish the audience to read him.

I could blather on for a very long time about some technical aspects of the show and so forth, but what I’ve written hopefully paints a sufficient picture of my experience. To conclude I present a picture of Franz Ferdinand I took. It does not look like they are rocking hard, but trust me, they are in media rock right now!

Link, with credit.