You are at a nice Italian restaurant early one Saturday evening, trying to enjoy your meal, but a four year-old child, apparently high on amphetamines and a six-pack of Coca Cola, is bouncing off the walls. You are distracted from your scampi and risotto as she swings from the back of a stranger’s chair and tells her parents fantastic stories at the top of her voice despite them protesting under their breath. Then she runs back to the bar, climbs up onto a bar stool and smells a vase of yellow tulips there.

You wonder what the hell her parents are thinking, and why they ever bothered to reproduce if they can’t even keep their child quiet.

They are thinking this:

Father: “Gamma’s going to fall off that bar stool and hurt her leg.”
Mother: “I wonder if they’ll ever let us back into this restaurant after this production? Eh, oh well. Sure is nice to sit and have a glass of prosecco after a business trip to Japan. Cheers.”
Father: “Cheers. Only four and hanging out in bars. [Girl falls off bar stool and hurts leg, limps over to parents, complaining loudly.] I told you to sit down. I hope no one complains about the kid, cause then I’ll have to tell them to fuck off I was sorry.”
Mother: [To 12 year-old daughter] “What was that luxury hotel we stayed at in Japan, the Meridian or something?”
Older daughter: “Le Meridian.”
Father: [To no one in particular] “I have a daughter who corrects her mother about Japanese luxury hotels? I’ll have to blog this.” [Watches younger daughter run off again to get into more trouble.]

Far as I know, there is nothing you can do about an unruly child. Beta was always well-behaved in public, Gamma is only most of the time. But sometimes she gets tired and hungry and it is as if she were on drugs. Nothing gets through to her. The only alternative would have been to drag her, kicking and screaming, back out to the car. And that option was out because we were hungry, among other things.

Mr. Woltron: [answering telephone] “Woltron residenz.”
Anonymous Caller: “Mr. Voltron?”
Mr. W.: “Speaking.”
AC: “The Mr. Voltron? Could I ask you a question?”
Mr. W: “Yes, zis is Woltron, go ahead, I tink.”
AC: “Are you really made of lions?”
Mr. W: “Vat? Oh, not again…”
AC: “How many bombs will it take to win the war on terrorism?”
Mr. W: “Oh, go avay.” [Hangs up telephone]

For a number of reasons beyond my control, including lethargy and lacksidasicality, I’m only now able to express my gratitude and surprise at being the proud recipient of two coveted Blorgi awards, the winners of which were announced earlier this month here at BobtheCorgi.
The first award was in the category of #1 Soup Supporter for support rendered to BobtheCorgi’s Plog (=souP log).
Secondly, in the category of Multiple Lifetimes Achievement, I received the award for Oldest Continuous Weblog In Existance. (Check my archives for more on that).

Zella had old parents, thick glasses and a heart condition, which killed her in fourth or fifth grade.

Zella missed a lot of school to spend time in the hospital. When she’d come back, the teacher always assigned me to help her with her school work. When we had square-dancing, the teacher had me dance with Zella because I was never mean to her, although I feared if I was too nice she’d want to marry me.

In high school, Zella’s sister went crazy and talked to dead Zella until they locked her up in the mental hospital.

Every now and then I think of Zella for no reason.

Why didn’t I decide to learn theremin? Something so exotic the fewest people know if you’re playing well. I was thinking uillean pipes for a while, but those are expensive, and have a 2-year waiting list when you order them. And besides, there are tons of uillean pipes geeks out there.

Of course, now I find out that every instrument is expensive, except tin whistle. More on tin whistles some other time.

So I picked cello. Right now, I have a cheap Chinese-made rental cello with a spike that doesn’t want to come out. So my cello equipment goes like, cello, bow, case, flat-nosed pliers.

What I’m referring to as a spike here is that spike-like metal bit that sticks out the bottom of the cello and holds it up at the right level. For all I know, “spike” could even be the proper term.

Usually I leave it sticking out a little ways so I can get a grip on it. But yesterday when I sat down to practice it had gone all the way in and so I sat there, cursing and breaking fingernails, trying to get ahold of this little protrusion of metal until finally giving up and looking for the flat-nosed pliers.

Which of course have gone AWOL. Not in the drawer of odds and ends in the entry way. Not in the drawer of chaos in the kitchen. Meaning I have to go all the way to my shop in the cellar to look for a pair. Found them, pulled the spike out to the proper length, practiced.

This morning, I noticed the pliers next to my PC in the office, no idea how they got there.

Anyway. Tonight is cello lesson night. I appear to have reached the point in my musical development where I can now have musical breakdowns, and I’ve been having some. No doubt there will be another one tonight.

You know – I reach a level with a tune, where I feel I have it down, maybe I know it by heart or can get through it with no big mistakes. Then a new element is added – the teacher says something like “stop moving around so much,” or “try playing more expressively, varying intensity, instead of playing every note the same,” and this new factor causes the tune to collapse into its individual elements again.

Then, basically, you start over and put those elements back together again, but when you finish, you find yourself at a higher level. I remarked on this to my teacher who said, “yeah, don’t feel bad, it happens to everyone.”

And I suppose it does. Things progress until you reach a deadlock of one kind or another, then some crisis breaks the stasis, everything collapses, but if you can manage to get it all back together, you end up on a higher level. Perhaps.

If you can manage to get it back together.

In which Melly promotes condom use.

Creepy QOD at michele’s place.