March 01, 2005

Culture Up The Yin Yang

Well, that poached egg experiment was a royal disaster. I did my homework: I read up on this supposed "vortex" that you've got to create in the pot of simmering water, and I added lots of vinegar which apparently aids egg stabilisation. Well, that egg died a sad and sorry death. Goodbye, my eggy friend. It looked sort of like a white bat with a yellow body in that pot. A flying egg, with wide papery wings. Disgusting. I threw it in the bin but the stench of boiled vinegar remains throughout the house, thank God.

Then commenced speedy egg experiment number two. (Well, I guess it could be considered egg experiment number three, actually, because M and I froze an egg that time to see what would happen. It burst, in case you were wondering.) My mother, a staunch WeightWatcher^TM, cooks her egg for breakfast in the microwave. Always wanting to be like Mummy (who is in Paris at the moment, might I add) I popped mine in a little plastic bowl, added a dot of butter and some salt, and hit two minutes on high. What resulted was a very dead and very burnt microwaved chestnut. I did not eat it. I couldn't get it out of the bowl, so I left it soaking and went to my tutorial hoping for the best.

So breakfast was a muesli bar today. As usual.

I got through my tutorial well enough though, so I did. I knew more than I thought I did about professional snob and culture industry critic Adorno, thank goodness. I now have all of my exam results back and they are a mish mash of 1sts and 2.1s. I am content enough. The 2.1s will hinder an overall 1st though. Damn 2.1s, tainting my genius. DIE DIE DIE.

So I have been a busy little jelly baby. In fact I have ne'er an evening free in the approaching week. I won't bore you with the details of my sordid little social life. I donned my pearls last night, however, to attend a Beethoven piano concert in the National Concert Hall with my dear friend Claero. This little shin-dig was filled with long-haired avant-garde chicks and their catwalk beaus, aging music teachers, crusty classical-loving hippies and pretentious music students. And of course not forgetting blind people, who are three times as cultured as your average burberry-yielding yobbo, on account of having malfunctioning eyes. It was a good evening, and an imaginative birthday gift from Claero, but during piano concerts my BRANE drifts off to an inward pantomime where mice dance and little plastic soliders come to life. I like classical music, but it's either got to be a full orchestra, or a full soprano/alto/tenor/bass choir. I rate things on the Goosepimple Scale^TM. Gives me goosepimples? LET'S 'AVE MORE OF THAT, MATE. No goosepimples? YOU'VE GOT TO BE HAVING A LARF, MATE. Also another black mark on the evening was that there was a monkey sitting in front of me. A rude, flea-bitten monkey. This was both surprising and uncomfortable for Claero and I but we are tolerant types.

Halfway through the second piece (something number something by Beethoven) I stood up and began conducting. This upset everyone, especially the monkey, because these events are so stuffy that one is required to hold one's breath and/or refrain from your coughing/nose-blowing until the pauses between movements, which are a veritable symphony in themselves of noisy bodily functions. My conducting was completely silent: it was the reactions that were noisy, so I take no responsibility for the disruption.

More later. I have no more time left for such frivolities. <languid sigh>

neuro-praxis -- Hey Heys With The Monkees

Posted by neuro-praxis on March 1, 2005 05:08 PM, in the category Bushy Hair