Sinister: ease a mint into your mouth

[pamela berry]

hello all,

it's been ages. what's the word? it's thunderbird. I know that, I was
just making conversation. anyway...

don't despair, todd herrmann. I had your exact job at the university of
maryland many moons ago. this kind of thing will put hair on your chest.
worked for me. if I'm not mistaken and the job hasn't changed too much,
aren't you pretty much the mailmeister for the dorm? no time for crying
over music differences when you've got that much power. it would be a
damn shame if chickyboom lost her keys and that care package full of
sweets and money from mom and dad in the same week, wouldn't it? back in
my days at university, when dinosaurs regularly hogged the front row at
the hoff's midnight flick, the mail system there was incredibly
reliable. I once wrote a friend's address on a sock with a magic marker
and dropped it in the mail just to see if they'd send it. I was not
disappointed. oh the stories I could tell! 

christopher told us about his good friend robin williams. I have that
kind of relationship with steve buscemi and steve martin, both of whom
I've yet to meet. so I've never had my picture taken with them, but in
one of my many many spy dreams steve martin and I were being chased by
the baddies, and while hiding underwater in a swimming pool together, he
asked me to marry him. imagine my involuntary giddiness when I watched
that omnibus on him the other night and found out he's single again!
alas, I'm not. doesn't that just figure? our timing's always off, me and
steve. we're like two ships. the lambchop and pet sounds box set stuff
on the soundtrack of that show helped check my spiral into depression.

I'm with trousers, the royle family is indeed fantastic. sometimes I
can't make out immediately what ricky tomlinson's saying. on this week's
show I'm sure I heard him exclaim 'mick cooke's grazing in the grass, my
ass.' he's not wrong. that fabulous song was originally made hugely
popular by hugh masekela in 1968, it's sold millions of copies. in 1969,
the friends of distinction did a cover of it that stayed in the charts
for weeks, adding crazy groovy words, like 'grazin' in the grass is a
gas baby can you dig it!' this version with lyrics is the one I'd really
love to hear mick and friends do. can I get a witness? 

to kick off october, the hubby and I went to audition a chi-chi
turntable at a hi-fi store yesterday afternoon. after the salesman
doesn't recognize the records you bring (what!? no hotel california?
good god man, where's the pink floyd?) you get to sit in a big room by
yourselves. there's a big black leather couch, a coffee table with a
bigass bowl of mints on it, and a door with windows so the salesguy can
keep an eye on you and his overpriced stuff. and way up there ahead of
you sits a turntable and an amp and some speakers, apparently at the
optimum distance away to hear it all perfectly if you're sitting exactly
in the middle of the couch (knowledge that will come in handy if mike
and I ever move to a park or a large auditorium). the stylus cartridge
alone was £800, which doesn't really meet my needs. after a boozy night
out sometimes I need to drop the needle on the mat a couple of times
before actually finding the edge of the record. 

naturally we took along some of our favorite records. we listened to
'ease your feet into the sea' really fucking loud and then that thing
happened where everything was perfect and right in the world, and I said
to myself, self, you should post to the list that brought you and the
hubby together in the first place and introduced you to lovely and
hilarious people and paved the way for you to have that sexy dream about
peter miller. awwwww. and then someone, I'm not naming names, ruined the
mood by putting a 15-year-old seven inch on by everyone's favorite
Effeminate Futurists. From The Eighties. the salesguy, not passing up
his only opportunity to bond, stormed in with an excited 'hey I have
this album!' our makeout session on the big black couch was over, just
like that.

next week: we test-drive a porsche armed only with a fourth generation
tape copy of tigermilk! I'll let you know how it sounds.

xopam

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