I don’t know if it actually will be or not – I just like Monty Python, and this is the best method I’ve ever seen for introducing an irrelevant tangent. See, watch:
AND NOW, FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT!
See what I mean? I look at that and I think, “Ooo! This sounds very exciting! I wonder what it will be! Cookies? A peacock? A viable moderate political party? It could be anything!” With Monty Python, it’s usually a rude song or an even ruder cartoon of Margaret Thatcher, not that I’m complaining, of course. But today, I am so ridiculously tired that I decided to just sit down and write and see what comes out.
I tend toward a train of thought that not only leaps the tracks but also folds space and time and comes out five sentences farther along than it started out. It makes sense to me, of course – I was there for the thought process, and it makes perfect sense to me that I jumped from the topic of horses straight to how good blackberries taste when you pick them at the end of a hot summer day. (Horses -> my childhood neighbors had horses -> we used to start by their horse pasture when we went “around the block” (which was a 2-mile trip) -> there was a great berry patch halfway between Sleater-Kinney and Abernethy Rd. See, perfectly logical.) But my poor listener can only think, “Whoa. Serious ADHD there.” So for tonight’s post, if I can tell that a mental Holtzman effect is imminent, I will give fair warning.
Like this: AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT!
Gosh. I had almost forgotten about those peacocks. They were MEAN little suckers. My parents and sister and I were on vacation near the Columbia River in Washington State, and we stopped at a historic home on the bluffs with lovely grounds, a fabulous view of the river, and peacocks. They were so pretty, the males with their marvelous feathers, and we thought we’d just bring one or two home with us. (The feathers, not the peacocks. We got a dog once when it jumped into the car with us, but I think my parents would have drawn the line at hissing flightless birds.) So we went out to collect feathers – and hotfooted it straight back to escape the Nasty Aggressive Birds of Terror. I think my sister, deep down, still may be afraid of peacocks.
Alligators, though, that’s a weird phobia. Fer real. Not kidding. I am afraid of alligators. Not just live ones at the zoo (they don’t even have a LID on the cages, somebody could climb RIGHT IN THERE and get EATEN), and not just the digitized monsters in the movies. All alligators. Even little ones. Even pictures of them, if they’re big and I’m not expecting them. They’re just so TEETHY. And they can eat you, or drown you and then eat you, or eat bits of you and then drown you and then eat you some more. Look, I’ve got goosebumps just writing about it!
AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT!
I’ve been insanely busy with work lately. I counted it up – in the next fourteen days, I have twenty-six rehearsals and seventeen performances on thirty-four songs (more than that if you count all the mezzo-soprano solos of the Verdi Requiem Mass as separate songs), with one professional vocalist, seven high school students, eight college students, and a choir. No wonder I don’t make any sense. You’re lucky I’m even speaking English, instead of just typing a bunch of Italian musical terms and calling it good.
Have you ever noticed that Italian musical terms sound like a courtship ritual? Ballabile, capriccio, viola d’amore, affretando, rallentando! Mia bella, mia cara, ti amo! Calando, affetuoso, bel canto, con amore, grazioso! See? Language of love, no question about it. I wonder why the Language of Love is Italian, but the City of Love is Paris? That makes no sense at all.
AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT!
Because even I can’t figure out how writing about Paris suddenly made me think of chickens. Live ones, with the feathers on. Why are people are always asking why chickens cross the road? How did that even become an issue? Have you ever seen one try it? Now, asking why the opossum crossed the road, that would make sense. I grew up on a rural road where the speed limit was viewed as a mild (and somewhat humorous) suggestion, and I was nineteen years old before I ever saw an opossum that still retained all three dimensions, rather than the traditional two. Why do they keep trying? Don’t the parent opossums warn the kids about what happened to Great-Aunt Bess?
(I think my new facewash may be making my skin break out. Rather counterproductive, don’t you think?)
I suspect that lack of sleep may be contributing to my more-random-than-usual thought processes. It’s only partly my fault – I keep staying up late folding laundry and watching back episodes of Glee. I mean, watching educational programs on the History Channel. No, I mean Glee, I’ll admit to it. (Only because I don’t get the History Channel, though. If I did, I’d never sleep.) But then the cat walks on my head at 4:30 and the sun comes up too early and my sheets are irritating me, and it’s all a lost cause. Tonight, though, I’m actually getting sleepy.
AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT:
(Yes, I know. If I dream of Italian opossums wooing snarly alligators with gifts of blackberries and the Gloria from Verdi’s Requiem Mass, I have only myself to blame.)