Walsh and I are hiding out in the hidden Republic of Remsenberg for a few days, out here near the tip of Long Island, hard by the mansions and estates of the uber-rich, the ocean unseen but everywhere, always right around the bend.
My uncle Ambrose and my aunt Mary have a cottage out here and the cottage was rocking last night. Spirited discussions, as always, broke out between the four of us. Never that important what the original topic is, we range and shout and turn the music up and down. Drink is usually taken, bottles of red wine to complement Mary's world-class cooking.
Last night language itself seemed to be the issue, has it coarsened, is there a difference between written language and spoken language and does it even make sense to speak of "correct" or "incorrect" or "right" and "wrong" when it comes to Language?
Can't even begin to list all of the salient points made by the debators, so I'll just sum up by saying that I was right and Mary was wrong.
Way wrong.
And on Friday night Tim Russert dropped dead.
Can't believe I'm typing that. His is one of those deaths that I don't know what to do with in my mind. It's not sorrow, I didn't know the man, it's a strange, empty incomprehension. My little world makes less sense now. One of my guides is gone and I'm not sure I trust anyone who may step up to take his role.
Russert.
Gone.
Unthinkable, but true.
On Tim's last night here with us, me and mine were carousing it up proper at Deirdre M. Clancy and Brett Weatherton's wedding bash. My cousin got married and my aunt threw one hell of a soiree. We were out at the Brooklyn Navy Yards and I don't think any crew of sailors ever had more fun than we did Friday night.
Congrats, Brett and Deirdre, long life and happiness.
On Saturday morning Melanie Stewart and I led a wild, sweaty dance/theater workshop down in Philadelphia as part of the nEW Festival.
Good lord. Don't even know what to type about that one.
Dancers are a brave and flexible lot.
That will have to do until I wrap my sprained little mind around everything we're finding in that rehearsal room.
This morning's MMMQ comes from a poster I saw at Fergie's pub down in Philly last week.
The great Return to Forever has re-grouped and is out on tour. Remember these guys?
Al DiMeola, Stanley Clarke, Chick Corea and Lenny White.
So much talent on one stage it gets silly.
I was never a big fusion guy, most of it sounds like a soundtrack for some corporate industrial video:
How Telecommunication Changes the World and Your Role in This Exciting New Industry
with music by Pat Methany.
But Return to Forever caught groove after groove and laid it all down for the rest of us to marvel at.
Their masterpiece was:
1. Romantic Warrior
2. Mystic Warrior
3. Unsung Warrior
4. Reluctant Warrior
Winner gets a Mystery Prize, losers get mocked and scorned, just like real life.
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4 comments:
...I don't know.
You can't imagine how much it pains me to admit that. The desire to Google is strong, but I am stronger.
I don't even have a guess. Apparently I can't read your mind when you're hiding out on Long Island.
Either that or I'm just extremely hung over.
I like the idea of the Reluctant Warrior, always did.
Having just watched 'Inner Space' with Martin Short recently, that has only be reaffirmed.
A hypochondriac in the beginning, by the end he is driving a flashy red car and telling off the girl he had once only dreamed of dating, tearing off to save his newly wed friends, Meg Ryan and Dennis Quaid. How cool is that?! I wanna be Martin Short. Oh yeah. Reluctant and all. :D
Ah.
The lampshade queen has a blindspot.
This is important to know.
*had* a blind spot. You better believe I spent the afternoon listening to Return to Forever and a bunch of Pat Methany.
I like to not know things roughly about as much as cats like to swim.
Speaking of knowing things, did I or did I not tell the fabulous and amazing Nan Walsh the Celtics would win in 6??
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