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A simple formula describes what it takes to get me to like a song: male tenor + acoustic guitar + minor chords. Bonus points for hand percussion and depressing lyrics. These aren't the only kinds of songs I like, but that formula is close to a guarantee. (Exceptions for Jack Johnson and John Mayer. *shudder*)
You get these because they're the only ones I have on hand at the moment:
Neighbour Boy by Janove Ottesen (alb. Francis' Lonely Nights), a Norwegian rocker-turned-singer-songwriter who wryly described this song as "fake bluegrass" because his mother didn't play guitar. I love this song so much -- the harmony in the second verse especially, the banjo, and the hints of flute at the end.
Eli the Barrow Boy by The Decemberists (alb. Picaresque). If you don't know this already, The Decemberists are fantastic. Most of their stuff is much peppier than this, if not any more uplifting, and it's all very intelligent (Stephen Colbert once described their music as "hyperliterate prog rock"). Colin Meloy's voice is unique and endearing, though it may be an acquired taste.
John Wayne Gacy, Jr. by Sufjan Stevens (alb. Illinoise). Never was there a prettier song about a serial killer.
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Mm. Homemade potato leek soup.
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Dreamt all sorts of LJ-filled dreams last night, the sort of half-sleep where you seem to wake after every REM cycle through the night thinking you're doing something that absolutely needs to get done. The first few involved beta-ing "Aftershocks" epilogue chapters with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nightdog_barks and crew; then in a later one, the House con was going on, and daasgrrl and pwcorgigirl and I were hanging out at my "grandparents' house," which we were using as home base for the duration. A cow wandered in from the backyard, and I step-danced while holding its front hooves.
Hey, better that than last week, when my unconscious thought it'd be a lark to play movies in my head about my friend A. getting into a fatal car crash with her mother so horrific that when her father called to tell us about it, he told us not to eat anything before we came over because we'd throw up when we saw the photographs; and about Rodney hiding from zombie apocalypses (that one, at least, was explainable by a throwaway reference in one of the recent Nantucket 'verse fics); and about Sylvester Stallone getting most of the skin of his face and hands torn off by a guy wielding some kind of mace, and then taking his horribly mangled hands with the weapons still embedded in them and scraping them down the other guy's face despite the pain... But also there was one where a very masculine and reclining Al Pacino reeled me in for a kiss, so I guess it wasn't all bad.
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kassrachel has a beautiful post on fannish textual engagement as modern midrash.
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There are a lot of posts and story ideas swirling around in my head, and WsIP to finish, but still the brain-keyboard block to deal with. Let's try a couple of play reviews.
( Friday: Humans Anonymous, by Kate Hewlett )
( Saturday: Cry Havoc, by Tom Coash )
I was going to recommend this one tomaddy_harrigan (the playwright is from New Haven) and catilinarian for the political conflict and tense, gay love story, but having seen it... Well, forewarned is forearmed, as they say, so if it's still playing when you make it over here, maybe you'll want to give it a try yourselves. Or not.
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There was also Aaron Sorkin's The Farnsworth Invention last Saturday, but I'm reviewed-out for the moment and need to get back to work, so I'll just say it's worth a go, and the actor who plays Farnsworth is better than Hank Azaria (NBC/RCA president David Sarnoff), IMO, though Azaria's very good, and it's an interesting study in ferreting out the truth of history -- even recent history -- when you can't trust any of its narrators and some scenes are followed by declarations that none of the previous had actually happened.
--------------
And can I just say, in anticipation of a What I Am Thankful For post, that I am so grateful to have LJ-turning-RL friends to go to these events with and squee and discuss and eat delicious food. ♥
You get these because they're the only ones I have on hand at the moment:
Neighbour Boy by Janove Ottesen (alb. Francis' Lonely Nights), a Norwegian rocker-turned-singer-songwriter who wryly described this song as "fake bluegrass" because his mother didn't play guitar. I love this song so much -- the harmony in the second verse especially, the banjo, and the hints of flute at the end.
Eli the Barrow Boy by The Decemberists (alb. Picaresque). If you don't know this already, The Decemberists are fantastic. Most of their stuff is much peppier than this, if not any more uplifting, and it's all very intelligent (Stephen Colbert once described their music as "hyperliterate prog rock"). Colin Meloy's voice is unique and endearing, though it may be an acquired taste.
John Wayne Gacy, Jr. by Sufjan Stevens (alb. Illinoise). Never was there a prettier song about a serial killer.
----------------
Mm. Homemade potato leek soup.
----------------
Dreamt all sorts of LJ-filled dreams last night, the sort of half-sleep where you seem to wake after every REM cycle through the night thinking you're doing something that absolutely needs to get done. The first few involved beta-ing "Aftershocks" epilogue chapters with
nightdog_barks and crew; then in a later one, the House con was going on, and daasgrrl and pwcorgigirl and I were hanging out at my "grandparents' house," which we were using as home base for the duration. A cow wandered in from the backyard, and I step-danced while holding its front hooves. Hey, better that than last week, when my unconscious thought it'd be a lark to play movies in my head about my friend A. getting into a fatal car crash with her mother so horrific that when her father called to tell us about it, he told us not to eat anything before we came over because we'd throw up when we saw the photographs; and about Rodney hiding from zombie apocalypses (that one, at least, was explainable by a throwaway reference in one of the recent Nantucket 'verse fics); and about Sylvester Stallone getting most of the skin of his face and hands torn off by a guy wielding some kind of mace, and then taking his horribly mangled hands with the weapons still embedded in them and scraping them down the other guy's face despite the pain... But also there was one where a very masculine and reclining Al Pacino reeled me in for a kiss, so I guess it wasn't all bad.
----------------
kassrachel has a beautiful post on fannish textual engagement as modern midrash.----------------
There are a lot of posts and story ideas swirling around in my head, and WsIP to finish, but still the brain-keyboard block to deal with. Let's try a couple of play reviews.
( Friday: Humans Anonymous, by Kate Hewlett )
( Saturday: Cry Havoc, by Tom Coash )
I was going to recommend this one to
maddy_harrigan (the playwright is from New Haven) and catilinarian for the political conflict and tense, gay love story, but having seen it... Well, forewarned is forearmed, as they say, so if it's still playing when you make it over here, maybe you'll want to give it a try yourselves. Or not.--------------
There was also Aaron Sorkin's The Farnsworth Invention last Saturday, but I'm reviewed-out for the moment and need to get back to work, so I'll just say it's worth a go, and the actor who plays Farnsworth is better than Hank Azaria (NBC/RCA president David Sarnoff), IMO, though Azaria's very good, and it's an interesting study in ferreting out the truth of history -- even recent history -- when you can't trust any of its narrators and some scenes are followed by declarations that none of the previous had actually happened.
--------------
And can I just say, in anticipation of a What I Am Thankful For post, that I am so grateful to have LJ-turning-RL friends to go to these events with and squee and discuss and eat delicious food. ♥
