Day x of n

Notes to self:

1. less brandy in the eggnog
2. the brandy is European, hence "40" is "%," not "proof"
3. 1% = 2 proof

You'd think someone who converts between standard and metric on a daily basis with minimal conscious effort would realize something like that. But you'd be wrong. Again. I don't even know what I'm going to do with the rest of this brandy after I finish the eggnog. Although I suppose now if anyone ever sees fit to faint in my apartment, I'll have something for them.

Today was a music day (in addition to a shopping day: aside from the aforementioned eggnog and brandy, I also bought various foodstuffs, and presents (!) for people from Hampden--that new antiques store that opened up next to Avenue Antiques is where it's at--I mean, I've never seen, say, vibrators from the 1940s on display anywhere else): I recorded a very abrasive beginning-of-a-song right after I got back from farmer's market; there's a beat, but it's decimated, and there's this funk kind of guitar riff, but it sounds like it's been through an abattoir. Earlier this evening, Monica, the last singer in my old band (saw a musicians ad she posted today on Craigslist--"No Republicans or generally right wing people"--I remember thinking back in the day if Trafalgar went to hell, as it did, I would rather just start a band with her; I wonder if I should email her and say that), sent me a scratch track--just guitar and vocals--of a song, called "White Space." A few hours later I had basic instrumentation worked out for the first two verses. It was just beats, bass, and severely processed guitar (what passes for a synthesizer pad in my world). It sounds like Peter Hook and Stephen Morris barged in on a DJ set by The Field and started covering "Everything In Its Right Place" by Radiohead. I don't know. Facetious analogies are about all I can manage now.

I read blogs. They describe families. Mine does no such thing. I wish I had stories of funny things my parents say when we're out shoveling the snow from our driveway, but the truth is, even if I were home right now, there wouldn't be any snow, nor indeed do we have a driveway. My room doesn't really exist anymore, nor has it since freshman year of college or so; all my stuff got moved out to the study, which got combined with dad's old room into one big study, and my brother moved into my room. Every time I go home, my brother has to share a bed with my mother, and I sleep in my old bed. He's 15; this can't go on forever.

When I think about it, it seems I come from a markedly ascetic background; very little sentimentality involved in my childhood (what there was of it), except for that which I invented and kept to myself, and I turned around and annihilated even most of that through the years. I guess it doesn't matter. I'm here now. Even if "here" isn't always warm and comforting.