Southwest Seekers Series of Digital Paintings

Then I Saw Her Face
Digital Painting, May 2007
29 in h by about 28.5 in w

Click here for all posts belonging to the “Southwest Seekers” series of digital paintings.


The title is of course drawn from the song, “Now I’m a believer”, keeping with the UFO museum’s theme of “The Truth is Here”. She’s a sort of modern day Madonna/angel, with UFO halo, standing alongside the modern equivalent of Michelangelo Buonarroti’s “The Creation of Adam”.

The most fun part of the painting to work on? The dots and the transparent fabric over the skirt of the dress. The most tedious part? The starry sky.

Thanks to Phoeebstock at Deviantart for the stock image for the model.

Background ref my own stock. At the Roswell UFO museum.

'Tis the Season for Festivals

‘Tis the Season for Festivals. H.o.p. missed music at the Dogwood Festival a couple weekends ago as the weather was nasty, but he had fun playing around on the kiddo installations. Made up for it today with an earful at the Inman Park Festival. Saw Gwen Hughes and the Swimming Pool Q’s and some of Ike Stubblefield and Bruce Hampton. He met Gwen and all the guys in her band. A little conversation with Jeff Calder and Tom Gray (who was singing his “Money Changes Everything” with the Q’s and hadn’t seen H.o.p. since he was small). He had fun hunting for souvenirs at the different stalls and brought home a rusty horse shoe for which he paid a dollar and a lovely frog percussion instrument…and a handful of melted candy from the festival parade which he won’t eat but it’s a souvenir!

He likes souvenirs. He brought home a magnolia leaf from the zoo yesterday as a souvenir. Actually, he brought home two magnolia leaves. One was given him by a little cousin and was only half a magnolia leaf and pretty decrepit but since his cousin gave it to him it was a must-have keeper. Now it is on the table and will remain in our possession for the next ten years.

So do we hang the horseshoe? Do the ends point up or down?

At one stall a woman was breaking down old Cracker Jack boxes for the prizes within, selling them as separate pieces. A festival goer was rather offended by this, arguing that this was history and she ought not to be selling the pieces separately. She said well if he paid such-and-such cents for an unbroken box he would be preserving history but this remark passed him by and he continued on about how really really she ought not to be defiling Cracker Jack in this manner.

H.o.p. enjoyed the music this time as one was able to sit and listen. He was fine with the old hippie contingent but towards the end when the old hippie/yuppie crowd (J. Crew) piled in for the Hampton show he wasn’t so comfortable with them and decided it was time to pack it in. And he didn’t care for the smell of stale beer. He never has been comfortable around drunk people.

An awful mess

Good griefinicious, there lies my brain, on the floor, all drippy puddled and entreating me to try to mold it so it has some measure of coherence again. But it ain’t happening. When I nudge it, all I’m getting are little burps of H.o.p.’s computer game music. Oops, now it spits out anxious images of dismal global-warming futures then resettles in a mess on the floor. More computer game music burps. I stomp it.

“Need coffee,” it says.

“You are beyond caffeine resuscitation.”

“I hear the kettle’s whine. Get coffee.”

“You need something, but whatever it is is beyond my power, seeing as how you are lying in a mess on the floor, leaving me witless.”

“Quit stomping me and get that coffee.”

“No. Get up and exercise, damn you. Work it!”

“Caffeine! Music! Some John Coltrane. How about John Coltrane?”

“Everyone’s asleep but me, resting up after the past week’s exertions. The apartment steeps in dreamy silence. I don’t want to wake them up.”


“OK. How about this?”

Listen to Coltrane.

Not good. Takes over three minutes for my brain to start moving at all.

And it woke Marty. He’s not ready for Coltrane so I say what else and we volley it for a few minutes, he keeps saying no no listen to what you’re listening to that’s fine, if you want to listen to Coltrane go ahead, and I keep saying no come on I’m not sold right now, what else.

How about some Art Blakey.

I listen to Blakey.

Damn, not doing it for me this morning. Which is bad.

Bill Evans? Fish around and find “Waltz for Debby”.

While “Waltz for Debby” plays, I’ll get the dust pan and shovel my brain up off the floor, flog it with some coffee and see if I can get its electric self remotely registering again on the voltage meter. But I can see this is going to take some time.

(Time passes.)

H.o.p. (from the bedroom): OK, dad! I’m getting up!

Me: Your dad’s taking a shower right now!

H.o.p.: But…

(Time passes.)

“But what?” I’m thinking. “But what?”

(Time passes.)

Me: But what?!

(Time passes.)

H.o.p. is up and munching gummy vitamins while I listen to a Danish guy announce Monica Zetterlund and Bill Evans, “Once Upon a Summertime”.

Wasn’t thrilled with that selection.

Dum de dum.

OK, here we go. Yo Yo Ma and the Sesame Street Honkers.

(More time passes.)

(Quite a lot more time passes.)

What can I say? Nothing’s working. I’m at a loss…

H.o.p. asks "What's your most embarrassing moment"

H.o.p. is wanting to know things like “What’s your most embarrassing moment” and by this he means two or three dozen. As my whole life is an embarrassment I was unable to make a selection. But the co-adult is less tragic and does have a segment that he has always related as “most embarrassing”.

He was about 21 years of age and was playing in Augusta with a band that had toured opening up for James Brown. I remember the incident as having happened a few years later than 1977 but he insists it was when he was 21. I remember the club as having a back room with a couple of arcade games that were more late 70s or early 80s than mid 70s, but there were a lot of clubs and it gets fuzzy. Considering the line-up of musicians it may have been as early as co-adult says it was and I do have a hard time imagining my spouse with a few more years on him being this stupid. And I should note that co-adult had so embarrassed himself it was a while before he told me this story, which is probably why I remember all this as being later. Anyway, they were playing a house gig at a club owned by a friend of The James Brown, Godfather of Soul. The club wasn’t doing very well and trying to boost it and help his friend, James Brown often came in and performed with the band.

Co-adult was young, by far the youngest guy in the band, James Brown was one of his big heroes and co-adult was so in awe of James Brown that he couldn’t bring himself to speak to him, which the bass player noted and asked why and co-adult explained this to him. Co-adult said James Brown was an easy guy to talk to and if he was nervous about it then go with a mission, ask him what song he wanted to sing.

Which co-adult did. During the break, he went over to James Brown and asked him what song he’d like to be singing next.

James Brown smiled and said he thought he’d like to do, “Try Me”, a hit from 1958.

Co-adult knew nearly all these tunes, but his brain had shut down. Had he been on stage and they’d started the song, no problem, but standing in the presence of the Godfather of Soul he lost all memory. He said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Brown, but I don’t know that song.”

James Brown smiled and said well, then how about “Please, Please, Please”, another 50s song.

Co-adult again found his brain a blank, and apparently determined that he should profoundly embarrass himself as penance, said, “Mr. Brown, I’m sorry but I’m way too young to know any of that old shit.”

James Brown smiled and said that was all right, how about “Poppa’s Got A Brand New Bag”. Having properly humiliated himself, co-adult regained his memory and that’s the end of that story. I suppose if you’re not a musician you might not be properly appalled but whenever I hear the story, though I snicker in appreciation of co-adult being properly embarrassed all these years by that moment, I can’t kick the sensation of ants crawling all over, nipping at me painfully.

Turns out we haven’t properly educated H.o.p. He used to love one of James Brown’s albums when he was a tiny tot, but it’s been a while, and he asked, “Who’s James Brown?” Talk about cringing in embarrassment of having failed to do one’s duty! For which reason we now have some new James Brown CDs and I’ve been showing him some of the performances archived on Youtube, such as the below “Please, Please, Please”.

If you’re not screaming and pulled out of your seat by the middle of this performance, there’s no redeeming you.

The music for the day was Arvo Part’s "Miserere"

For a few minutes yesterday AM H.o.p. woke up saying he was sick, something about his chest hurting etc. and fell back to sleep. Marty was worried. But on Saturday at acting class the regular teacher wasn’t there as she was sick and I’ve heard a lot about “sick” going around and I figured that H.o.p. was getting a cold (hopefully, and not the flu) and this was the first vague symptom (like his mom, irrelevance comes naturally to him)…plus his conking back out for hours was a good clue that the little boy wasn’t up to par. What it meant though was we didn’t make the couple hour drive to Marty’s mother’s for her birthday and that H.o.p.’s Uncle David went on alone. And H.o.p. stayed conked out and stayed conked out and stayed conked out and then was suddenly up and feeling quite good and then was quickly conked out again and then was up and bright again and then was conked out again.

And now here I sit in my red, black and white cotton penguin jammies (not plush though) with a Tazmanian Devil cup of Throat Coat with honey and a big roll of white toilet tissue (have a 6 pack so don’t have to worry about running out) from which I keep peeling sheets, whittling it down quickly, blowing mountains of goo out of my head (believe me, this is not unexpected, after the way I was feeling and sounding earlier today) and H.o.p. is feeling better than he was yesterday in that the cold has now focused itself where it belongs, in his head, and he has been in baby bear fashion helping momma bear whittle down the toilet paper roll not quite twice as fast as his head cold is thankfully not as gooey, but is made up for with dramatics such as when he qoke up today with a plaintive wail of, “Help me!” followed by, “I want Tylenol!”

“I’m having sinus problems!” he complained.

“You’ve got a cold,” I said.

“Oh.” Toilet tissue jammed up his nose. “It’s my allergies,” he said, resistant. He hates allergies (he’s got them, like his mom) but he’ll take them any day of the week over a cold.

Yes, the observant note that H.o.p. has toilet tissues as well, whereas I’m making do with toilet paper that’s not newsprint ready but will still leave me with a roughened nose eventually. That’s because…well, I don’t know why. But H.o.p.’s got the few remaining, coveted sheets because I’m too lazy to go over and bully him over it and take them from him.

He could tell earlier today I was getting sick too. Mom not being able to speak was a good indication. Because I couldn’t speak he did sign language for “I love you” hoping that it would make me feel better. Because I couldn’t speak and he was feeling better than I was, what this mainly meant to H.o.p. was that we did no spelling or math or anything else today, and we will likely not be tomorrow, and he was smart enough to hide his pleasure over this behind sympathy and hugs. As he told his dad, “I don’t want to make her feel any worse.”

Now I’m trying to figure out what medicine I want with this cold. Like I have any choices sitting around in my cabinets. I thought I did have some Tylenol Cold medicine but can’t find it. I may have thrown it out since anything that is Tylenol and for sinus or cold and is a white caplet makes me ill. The yellow caplets are fine but the white ones upset my stomach. Oh, wait, here I have two white caplets of Tylenol cold medicine left over from last year which escaped being thrown away. Good, I will now take them and risk the upset stomach.

OK, so I took the Tylenol cold caplets that on better days have a gag-me saccharine bite to them that reminds actually a good deal of why I resort to Throat Coat as a last resort as well, and I remember distinctly now how I felt the last time I took this stuff, like someone was thrusting fizzy balloons up my sinuses and calling it delightful and head-clearing and soothing when in fact it’s discombobulating hell that has the rest of my unsettled body wondering where went my head and unable to interpret the world and how to act without it…AHCHOO…excuse me, so sorry, while I discharge another 30 pounds of goo. Then I burp, because this stuff makes me burp. “Poor you,” H.o.p. says.

Update: It’s later and I’m drowning my sorrows in a bar of dark chocolate. AHCHOO! More tissue. More chocolate. This is our first bonafide major snotty cold of the season and I’m actually pretty pleased about that.

What music did H.o.p. choose for the day? Arvo Part’s “Miserere”. He does have a broad range of tastes, that kid does.

Don't know why I'm reminded of Alice's puzzling over which side of the mushroom to eat

I don’t know why, when trying to think of how to describe Sondra Prill, Alice puzzling over which side of the mushroom to eat comes to mind. Maybe it’s the uncertainty of whether fate will take you to the home for which you long or drop you in disaster’s lap.

Came upon the below at YouTube via Idolator. The siren is Sondra Prill, who had had her own show on Tampa Public Access in the late 80s to early 90s, and she’s performing Addicted to Love.

This woman gives me the goosebumps.

Yes, Addicted to Love in what appears to be a fern bar in a mall. Not trusting that Sondra, chewing up the mental ties of Yuppies with gnashing teeth, was a comic genius, but hoping that she was, I was hesitant to watch any more of her videos for fear I’d learn she was operating on fantasiesof hip, musical grandeur rather than sheer guts.

But of course I had to watch more and I opted next to see what her take would be on The Star Spangled Banner.

Nearly beyond description. A latter 20th century shades of Gibson Giirl sultress cocking eyebrows at the Red White and Blue’s stamina. With a split hair’s breadth allusion to Bernadette Peters. Still not confident that she was self-aware, but hooked regardless, I watched the below interview.

Then I read at Youtube a comment by the producer of the interview, that everyone on the public access crew got the joke but Sondra, who had as agent her mother, who was also her best friend, who made her costumes and did her hair. Who also went everywhere with her, and Sondra complained in Part 2 of the interview, with a premade sign, that because of this she had a disease called MIA-SEX. Perhaps her mother also scripted her act because after presenting the gag, Sondra didn’t quite know what to do with it and let it sit in her lap.

I read elsewhere that the big theater show didn’t go too well for Sondra. The tickets topped out at $50, which was a bit pricey in those days. A confused reviewer wondered why honey was poured on her. I’m just sorry we don’t have footage of it.

Wherever Sondra is now, here’s hoping she’s happy.

Anyway, though Sondra Prill’s adaptation has its curious charms (indeed, I’ve watched the video several times now and my enjoyment is steadfast), if your mind is now craving the real thing (as was mine eventually) here’s Robert Palmer in his classic “Addicted to Love”.

What a fine voice. Died too young.

What’s your favorite Bach Passacaglia in C Minor (serious, looking for good one)

I’m looking for a good version of Bach’s Passacaglia in C Minor. One with drama and nice flavoring. I’m only coming up with lifeless versions, and this should be a powerful piece. Any suggestions? Hope so.

Listening to Tuva overtone music

We had the pleasure of learning a little about Tuvan overtone music (throat music) today. Was showing H.o.p. a little video on different types of music, the what of music place to place, and they focused some on Tuvan throat singers. So we’ve been listening to a few files online and now I’m watching this video of Bugotak.

As H.o.p. noted, this type of singing sounds a lot like a digi.

Meanwhile, in science, H.o.p. wanted to learn a little about plastics, an experiment provided being making a simple plasticy substance out of just boiled milk to which you’ve added vinegar and allowed to cool. Wouldn’t you know that we failed at making the milk/vinegar curd? Only a few curds were produced and were powdery, nothing which could be molded. Maybe because I used 2 percent milk?

I tried out some low-style Tuvan vocalization and after just a couple of tries my throat is irritated.

You can even purchase online lessons on the basics of overtone singing. Something I won’t be doing as it’s $30 a pop.

H.o.p. wanted to learn more about the Great Wall of China today. Each of the several folk stories we read on it, interestingly, had to do with death and the Great Wall of China. People dying in connection with their forced time of labor. One of the more interesting ones a popular story for opera, of a woman whose new husband is taken and forced to work on the wall, he doesn’t return, she goes to the wall and learns he has died there and that his bones are buried within the wall. The woman grieves and thus part of the wall collapses revealing a river of bodies of those who died while forced to work on the wall. She cuts herself and is able to find her lover through his skin absorbing her blood. She buries him and then commits suicide.

So we talked about these folk stories and how the wall is indeed remarkable but like so many large and breathtaking achievements something to be remembered is the forced labor that wrought them.

Pretty good memorizing and drawing of skulls

Smithsonian can be a great place to visit online with H.o.p., so Friday after a difficult time with math we went to Campfire Stores with George Catlin. H.o.p. liked Peter Matthiesson’s introduction and wanted to listen to it several times, and at his request we listened several times to Peter Nabakov talking about Sacred Geography and we talked about the concept of land ownership and how different cultures can view land–all great with H.o.p., he loves that kind of thing. There’s a good deal available at the site and will take many returns with him to view it all, so today we just looked at three paintings and discussed them (only a portion of Catlin’s catalogue of paintings is up though which means foraging elsewhere for other paintings). That’s all great with H.o.p., talking about the paintings and sacred geography and reading the brief bios and bits of info that go with the paintings. Pull up the art and he talks about what the people are wearing, how they’re decorated, asks to see several times the image of a Blackfoot man in his grizzly bear robe, its head hiding his face, and asks a multitude of questions on that, why have they decorated the bear’s eyes with red, why are the leggings blue, wants to know about the rattle and spear he is holding, wants to know exactly what it means, what is happening.

We didn’t use the book for science. Instead he went to Brain Pop to do their Flash bit from the techology section on television, then the Flash bit on Natural Selection–his choices, he loves loves loves these flash animations and the dollops of information he gets there. Very visual.

He watches the Brainpop flash on extinction and starts conversing on how we need to get rid of certain things to save animals and plants.

He asked to listen to Peter Nabakov again.

Put on Xi-Lin Wang’s2 Pieces for Lu Xun’s Sword Casting, Op. 28, 1993 and there’s immediate focus (which is what we did for music today). He sits. He leans forward and intently listens. He’s recently discovered Chinese music and loves it.

He’s learning to wrestle. When I fiinally said let’s quit the math and come back to it later, H.o.p., already irritated, diverted the anger in another direction and said to me, “No, you’re not going to quit! You’re not going to give up!” He continued to fuss a little but got through the problems.

And he seems to finally be starting to accept what I’ve told him for years, that there are no wrong answers when you’re learning. He’s said it to me several times the past few days. I plan to take big advantage of it.

After some other things, finished the school day going to the BBC companion website for “Walking with Cavemen”, reading there, looking up maps of Olduvai Gorge. H.o.p. memorized some of the skull shapes at the BBC website and went to his desk and drew the below:

H.o.p. pictures evolution (8 years old)

He’s very disappointed that we’re going to be sending “Walking with Cavemen” back to Netflix, he likes it so much, but that disappointment was eased somewhat by “The Magic School Bus, Space Adventures” arriving today.

So did Altman’s “California Split”, which I’ve not seen before and am looking forward to viewing.

Dreamhost is having problems again and the blog is slow and now I can’t ftp. They’re shutting down everything for 45 minutes Monday night.

If you’re feeling whimsical, Tubby the Tuba

Audio link is gone so am placing the Pal instead, now online.

We used to have a trash copy of Pal’s Tubby I was able to tape off some program years ago, but can’t find it anymore. I went looking online today as H.o.p. was asking about it and found the audio, which H.o.p. also enjoyed and though it’s been years since he saw Tubby he kept asking when was the part with the frog. When I was a child, it was the music which won my heart (along with Tubby’s joy at finding his song) when I saw the animation on Captain Kangaroo, at the age of seven. And I waited and waited for it to play again one day, which it did but I only caught a couple of seconds, then didn’t see it again for another thirty years. But I never forgot Tubby.

“Catch me, cried the little tune, “Catch me.”

“Caught you!” cried Tubby

“Oh you’re sitting on me,” said the Little Tune.

Poor Tubby picked up the flat Little Tune and tried to squeeze it back into shape.


Poor Tubby, indeed.

Danny Kaye also did a recording of Tubby, a portion of which is up at NPR, commemorating Pal’s creation upon his death at the age of 91 in 2002. I prefer the Victor Jory.

Would Juliette of the Spirits have turned down a sangria mixed up by Andrea Bocelli?

Another pledge drive by PBS and tonight it’s the program, “Andrea Bocelli, Amore, Under the Desert Sky”.

I suffered through listening to their presentation of “Great Performances: South Pacific” the other night because because we don’t have cable so I don’t know what’s on other television but if we have the television on and a DVD isn’t playing then it’s PBS that’s running because when the television is cut off H.o.p. makes sure it’s on PBS and thus when it’s cut on by H.o.p. it’s turned to PBS, which is something he’s grown up doing not so much because he thus far accepts my disdain of television but because commercial television is kind of scary to him, and since a little child he’s avoided it. If Marty has a show he wants to watch, he retires to the bedroom and H.o.p. closes the door and avoids the room.

Maybe you liked “Great Performances: South Pacific”. Did I like the movie as a kid? Would I now? I didn’t like it as a kid not so much because of the music but because I didn’t like the leads, I didn’t believe Mitzi Gaynor as some plucky mid-American, didn’t get the French guy, didn’t believe any of it really, and I’ve not tried it out as an adult. Still, I don’t get “South Pacific” without the staging, and here was PBS telling me that this was our “classical” music and how important it was our children got to hear it performed at Carnegie Hall blah blah. It was running in the other room while I was working and I was thinking, “Boy, that’s certainly some flat, uninviting performance, doesn’t convince me at all, I don’t believe a word of it” but I left it on, despite the fact no one was watching, because because I was too lazy to cut it off.

And at some point this week I passed the television, which was again being watched by no one despite our apartment being small enough that the television on in the front room means it’s unavoidable as an old Drive-Inn movie screen staring down at the cows in the next field (somehow we still manage to avoid) and there was Andrea Bocelli singing, without sound, because at least the sound was off, and I admit I’m clueless enough that I was fooled, I caught a brief glimpse of the background set which looked kind of real and I thought it was some performance somewhere in Europe and thought to myself well the Europeans sure like it American don’t they or vice versa.

Well I discover tonight that the show was filmed at Lake Las Vegas, a resort with a fake Italian setting. This time the sound is turned up and I don’t turn it down because I’m trying to absorb why millions of people love this, I don’t get it, simply don’t get it, and I’m torturing myself with not getting it (and the fact that the on/off button on the one year old television stopped working last week and tonight I can’t find the remote control). The overdone orchestration, no feeling to it at all. And if Bocelli has any feeling for a song, I can’t tell it either, someone whose singing I don’t care for and am ever amazed whenever I hear about how huge, how popular he is, which I very rarely hear about because I’m not tuned into the media that sells him. To me it’s all bad dinner music that isn’t easy on my ear. But I leave it on for some reason, though not because I’m entranced, and not because I haven’t thought to pull the plug, I guess because I’m waiting to hear if it ever possibly gets good, if there is anything I might like at all. I look up on the internet to see if there’s anyone else who dislikes his music and if they do they’re buried by the fans. Lots of static about Bocelli performing on “American Idol”. Believe it or not but I’ve never watched “American Idol”, not one episode. I’m just not turned in, so not tuned in I hardly realize it’s going on out there.

These arrangements! Agh! How to describe it? I can’t. The only thing that comes to mind is Fellini’s “Juliette of the Spirits” and the scene where the boat of the barbarians is being drug along by the guy on the beach, Juliette looking on, but instead in my head there’s appeared Juliette looking on in stunned amazement as PBS drags “Amore” past in that boat, chandeliers clanging. That is the only thing that grabs me and it only exists in my head. And I’m seriously surprised that when I’m trying to dream up a way to describe this music and PBS’ presentation of it, that Juliette of the Spirits appears, not to compare Amore with the boat of the barbarians and Suzy and her entourage, but to contrast the sense of humor of Suzy’s barbarians–that are somehow equal parts exotic and K-Mart–and the oh too flatulence inducing seriousness of Amore’s production values. Reminds me of a nice but very prim young woman with whom we once ate dinner, whose intestines were surprised by the beans.

God I suddenly miss Nino Rota’s music. Am going to have to dig up “Juliette of the Spirits” or “8 and 1/2”.

Back to PBS selling me how much we all adore Amore and Andrea Bocelli.

“Listening to him play Neil Diamond, on the piano…” the host gushes.

Oh. Ok. I think I’m getting what’s going on here.

And they’re talking about how amazing it is that Bocelli can sing without the added dimension of sight-reading helping him.

Yeah, now I get it.

(What in the world is going on in their brains, that it’s amazing Bocelli can sing without being able to sight-read?)

Oddly enough, and I’m not sure if this is something I like or don’t like about myself, but if I was in someone else’s environment, someone I liked, and this music was naturally a part of their environment, something they liked, then I wouldn’t like it any better but I’d get it as far as their envionment goes and would accept it and wouldn’t quibble about it and might even enjoy it as far as being part of the overall environment of the person, part of their setting. Well, I wouldn’t quibble so much, perhaps. If it was Neil Diamond then I would be in misery, as weasels ripped my ears tearing my smile to pieces.

This from probably the only person you’ll ever virtually meet who actually does enjoy Schoenberg.

Now PBS is telling me that the 50s music is no longer being heard on commercial radio and how we can’t let our history die, we can’t let it be erased. Songs like, “How much is that doggie in the window?” I have no argument with Nat King Cole singing “Mona Lisa”, but how they can talk about that and “Oh my pappa” in the same breath, I don’t know.

This from a person who actually likes Dean Martin singing, “When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, that’s amore…”

And I’m wondering why in the world PBS, for their pledge drive, isn’t instead featuring, as works which must not be forgotten, Schoenberg and John Cage and, well, Gavin Bryers.

I go to Amazon because I’m looking for something by another composer whose name I can’t remember. I check out too Bryers’ “Sinking of the Titanic” to see what versions they have of it. I look at “Customers who bought this item also bought”, thinking the other composer, whose name I can’t remember, might show up there, and the results shown are:

* Bryars: Jesus’ Blood Never Failed Me Yet ~ Gavin Bryars
* Aria: A Passion for Opera ~ Tito Gobbi
* Trout Mask Replica ~ Captain Beefheart
* Prison Songs (Historical Recordings From Parchman Farm 1947-48), Vol. 1: Murderous Home ~ Various Artists
* I Have Heard It Said That a Spirit Enters ~ Bryars
* In the Wee Small Hours ~ Frank Sinatra
* Solo Monk ~ Thelonious Monk
* Texas-Czech Bands, 1929-1959 ~ Various Artists

And yes, that’s a snapshot of part of our music collection.

Ah, blessed silence. I found the remote buried under H.o.p.’s drawings and cut off the television. For now. Marty called, is on his way home from the studio, and is saying he’s thinking of stopping and getting a cheap DVD player since ours is going bad. I tell him to pick up a copy of “Juliette of the Spirits” as our videotape of it is worn out.

Lake Las Vegas? Somewhere around here is our copy of Sugar’s “Copper Blue”. Time to pull it out and listen to “Hoover Dam”, which can only be appreciated at appropriate volume.