In which I try unsuccessfully to drown out my neighbor’s obnoxious hip-hop music with “Impossible Germany”

Shouldn’t I be out enjoying the beautiful Saturday weather? Yes, but I’m in here, writing for you lot. (Gratitude checks can be sent to the usual address.) Also waiting for MY LATTÉ, DARN IT. You said you’d bring me a latté, HUSBAND.

Remember that guilt trip I went on a few weeks ago when a starling was stuck in our dryer hose for a spell? Yeah, well, I recant. Damn bird wasn’t stuck, she was building a nest. It wasn’t enough to just build a nest, either. She had to poke several air holes through the tubing before she was satisfied. That Guy had to take the whole thing off and stuff the hole in our outside wall with rags until our maintenance staff finally wandered in to install a grate some days later.  We haven’t gotten around to hooking up a new hose, so the whole “doing laundry” thing is way more hassle than it should be. If you notice my clothes are wrinkled from drying on the back of a chair, or if there’s a certain *ripeness* in the air when I pass, you’ll know why.

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It’s been a pretty sweet, arty week. That Guy’s been sick and/or deliberately poisoned by his wife (depending on who tells the story). That’s not the sweet part. Here’s where the sweetness came from:

1) getting last-minute tickets to the Wilco concert at the IU auditorium and paying less than full price for them;

2) receiving the awesome painting that I bought on etsy several days before I expected it to arrive;

and

3) being given a neat book with a prettily designed cover by my awesome-if-slightly-poisoned husband.

The benefit of not going to too many concerts is that each one means more to me than I suspect it otherwise would. We’re late-blooming Wilco fans, but we’ve listened to a LOT of Wilco for the past few months. We got our tickets Thursday night from a ditzy underclassman, downed a Chick-Fil-A sandwich and a smooth glass of Magic Hat No. 9, and headed to the show.

The concert was great. There’s nothing quite like the experience of hearing music you love live. I have real trouble with the concept that well-known figures exist in the same sphere that I do (namely, in actual reality).You’d think I’d have gotten over that by now, but I haven’t. I was weirded out the entire time. But it was a GOOD weird.

A squirrelly guy with a cabbie cap sitting in front of us showed us pictures on his cell phone of meeting band members earlier in the day. He sang along enthusiastically to all of the songs, and during “Heavy Metal Drummer,” when Jeff Tweedy sang, “I miss the innocence I’ve known/playing KISS covers, beautiful and stoned,” he thrust his right fist furiously into the air at every “stoned.”

STONED! <fist thrust>

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Sigh. I wish I could see the concert again tonight. I’ll leave you with a quotation from Mr. Tweedy: “Nobody ever comments on our perfect endings. We can stomp the shit out of a song.” Can they ever.

Moving on to more two dimensional art, here’s my new picture! The artist is Maron Resur – you can go here or here for more of her work. I believe this is only the second painting I’ve ever purchased. The first was from my sister, and then she framed it professionally for free, so I hardly think it counts. Of course, the size of the piece reflects our art-buying budget, but that doesn’t matter. It feels good to buy original artwork: GO DO IT.

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For the coup de grâce, His Sickliness recommends to you all the following book. Neither of us has actually read it before, but we will. It’s third on my list, right after Undaunted Courage by Stephen Ambrose and Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy. I am loving the first one, but I’m dragging my feet as I read it because I don’t want to return to a world with so few frontiers. I made substantial headway in the second several years ago, but now I’m sort-of in a book group. I have to read THE WHOLE THING by next Saturday, or The Sickly Child will beat me up. She’s cruel, that one, particularly when it concerns Russian literature.

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There you have it. I’m planning to post Easter pictures tomorrow, but now we’re going to go hiking in Yellowwood and then enjoy watching Bottlerocket and drinking beer with friends. As soon as I have my latté, that is.

“Where did that husband of mine go?” she says, reaching for her secret cache of arsenic. “Oh, husband…”

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~ by themeansister on April 18, 2009.

4 Responses to “In which I try unsuccessfully to drown out my neighbor’s obnoxious hip-hop music with “Impossible Germany””

  1. I have mafia connections, you know, so you’d better watch it. Also, shouldn’t you be reading Anna Karenina right now?

  2. I have nothing witty to say. Thanks for blogging, and I’m glad you enjoyed the bargainous concert. Birds are a nuisance: the nutty nuthatch you observed at Easter is still hanging around our car and front window, at which he periodically makes a half-hearted swoop. Tell Himself that the warblers have finally reached the frozen Northland, and been seen from the window by my chair. Blog on, dearie!

  3. My feathered pest of choice is an Affiliated Woodpecker who shows up periodically to peck the living hell out of my siding. (…on my house, that is.) He usually does this before the sun rises.

    I run out on the deck, my housecoat flowing behind me like Darth Vader on a Saturday morning, and shriek “clear off”, “gerouvit”, or “begone foul beast from hell”, or some other Britishism suitable to the occasion.

    Ah, nature…

  4. I thank you for your comments. Firstly, Sickly Child, as you now know, I READ THE WHOLE DAMN THING. And, dude, I once worked for a crooked veterinarian. Your Russian thugs got nothing on me.

    Secondly, Mom, it was great, and I did! We both did, even though He was doped up throughout, and not in a fun way. I wonder what’s wrong with that nuthatch. Maybe those bird noises we were playing? Psh…birdbrain. Miss you! Come down to visit in the convertible some weekend?

    Thirdly, yeah, nature’s not all good. Half and half, I’d say. Still, it doesn’t talk back, it doesn’t play favorites, it’s conducive to practicing your swearing (Britishly or otherwise), and heck, it’s even pretty much of the time. May I recommend a .22 for your fluffy little problem, however…

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