I'm in the apartment, nuking Lean Cuisine Supreme Pizza (my ancestors roll in their graves as I type this, I'm sure)
and I realise that I better start packing - tomorrow I'm D.C. bound. It's the Library of Congress Book Festival and it's John Irving, Neil Gaiman (yes, again) and, I must confess, Outlander
's Diana Gabaldon. D.C. is the National Portrait Gallery and my love for museums needs some nurturing - sadly neglected on this trip, it's been sulking in a corner, lamenting the state of the world. D.C. (or close enough you can drive there)
is also the Renaissance Faire. Sue me, but I've never been to one and got pretty much stoked when told I could actually just... go there. I'm trying to get my thou
s and thee
s straight - fake Renaissance English is not my first language.
So that's the future - though what little details, brush strokes and colour Destiny will add to this particular painting, I do not know. *Sarah Bernhardt pose*( Does yesteryears mean yesterday? )
Something funny I came across reading LJ (and not even trying to catch up)
- the benefit at CBGBs (Where most of the staff was less than pleasant, but hey... they are being evicted so perhaps that's why they basically ripped me off a ticket)
was a really cool evening. When Mr. Gaiman started to read everybody was riveted - and I don't think it was only
relief that it was finally his turn - and both the poem and the story were pretty frelling good. The new short story, How to Talk to Girls at Parties
managed to be funny, scary, touching, and a autobiographical
[story] full of lies
. Mr. Gaiman has a good reading voice, but also knows how to act the parts out and we were all captivated by the story - one could almost hear a pin drop during the pauses the author made.
But... wait, this is CBGBs
! During the CMJ Music Marathon
? How could it be so damn silent?! This is how
We, there to hear the readings, would have been silent anyway - the story was just that
good. It's very un-Ramones-y of me, but I'm glad they kept the bands "quelled".
And a overheardinny
moment of my very own!
Goth chick on St. Marks talking about punk rockers:
They spit and fart, but they are still sweet.