Tom’s heading home / filken

I heard a little more about the accident from Lady Miss Banjola (I caved on more VCon, my eyes feel gummy and I’m aching all over…. not a good sign although I intend to go back tomorrow).  Tom’s face is next to “One Lucky Bastard” in the 2008 Lifebook.  It definitely partook of the quality of a freak accident, because he’s alive and not going to scar that bad. Honestly, he missed death by nanoseconds.

We sang “Falling Free” and “Quaddie Ballet” and the parody of Wings which is all about the Cat in the Hat and “Acts of Creation” and “Rodney Oh Rodney” and “Rodney’s Favourite Things” and “John’s Song” and “Mal’s Song”, and “Vampire Blues” and “Ivan You Idiot” and Dr Filk’s rebuttal which is “Donkey Work” (to the tune of Dirty Work) and Juliana’s Dragonriders of Pern teaching song to the tune of an old English folk song.  And I bought Juliana’s new album, which looks lovely and I can hardly wait to play it, but in the morning, ’cause I’m falling down tired right now.

recovery mode

Watching Sarah Palin struggle to assemble an English sentence while Joe Biden marshalled his talking points and droned through them was just about the most painful thing I ever subjected my eyes to.  Nor have my ears quit sulking.  Honestly I’m going to take a fresh look at Adam Sandler, I may have misjudged his talent.  The low point was “Her reward is in heaven” which just about had me barfing up my guts.  Biden wasn’t nearly as embarrassing but the idea of him being president after an assassination is just wretched.  The comments about marriage had Patricia muttering “Coward” to Biden.  I writhed in uncontrollable embarrassment and dismay (I do that, causing Patricia to ask me repeatedly if I was okay) but got through it in time to realize that two measly beers and the BEST DAMNED SMOKED GRUYÈRE evah were enough to put me in a sort of tryptophan coma and I slept for a couple of hours until I realized, on groggily awakening, that I wasn’t at home (strange cats closely inspecting my feet helped).  Then P called me a cab and I went home and – amazing! – changed into my jammies and then fell into bed like a downed Douglas fir.

Let me describe the Gruyère.  It was cave aged and smoked.  Little crystals of intense cheesiness blended into a smooth authoritative but restrained crumbly heavenly aroma and mouth feel.   The whisky cheddar was good; the incredible Port Salut almost liquefied.  And those crackers!  God, those are the best cheese crackers, I have to get some and then figure out where I store them so I don’t eat every single one as soon as the box comes home.  The cavalcade of cheese â„¢ abides in the West End – all is right with the world.  There is no political problem that cheese can’t solve, I tell you.

Tonight, The Con.