Why Lucy should not listen to Copland after bar night...
After superstitiously drinking a couple of Canadian beers (because I want Calgary to win the Stanley Cup) at the last bar night of the year, I told a couple people I was leaving and left. This marks the first time I've told anyone at all that I was leaving a party since the swimmers' party in February. Does that make me more mature? I wonder. Perhaps just a bit less cynical. Mick gave me a bisou without even knowing he was doing it. Aw. That just makes me miss Lo that much more. And Sandy and Marie-France. I should really write them. I wonder if Sandryne's mom is still alive. Oh wait. No one who reads this in Claremore, Chicago, or elsewhere has any idea what I'm talking about. Never mind. I'm sorry. I'm a little drunk.
Wait. Maybe Mick was just leaning in and I gave him a bisou out of habit. If that's the case, sorry. Didn't mean to. I swear.
Anyone walking by the Hotel at 1:30 this morning could witness Drunk Lucy listening to classical music and fucking loving it. Charles Ives and his post-modern twentieth century peers strike something in me that no other composers can. "Variations on America" is just a bunch of ways of presenting "My Country Tis of Thee" on organ. Why the hell do I love it so much? Cage's prepared piano makes me shiver. My twelve-tone compositions failed. I guess that has something to do with the fact that it's been done. I should come up with something new. Oh, fuck that. "Variations on America" isn't anything new. Schoenberg would argue that my awful twelve-tone compositions are a pure form of art while a bird's song isn't anything even close to art. I disagree. Schoenberg obviously never heard anything I wrote. My twelve-tone compositions sucked ass. A bird's song beats them any day of the week.
Okay, Colleen just walked in and caught me singing "Simple Gifts." I'm going to take that as my cue to stop this here drunken ranting. Good night. 'Nuit. And to those of you who know what I'm talking about when I say this--gros bisous.
Wait. Maybe Mick was just leaning in and I gave him a bisou out of habit. If that's the case, sorry. Didn't mean to. I swear.
Anyone walking by the Hotel at 1:30 this morning could witness Drunk Lucy listening to classical music and fucking loving it. Charles Ives and his post-modern twentieth century peers strike something in me that no other composers can. "Variations on America" is just a bunch of ways of presenting "My Country Tis of Thee" on organ. Why the hell do I love it so much? Cage's prepared piano makes me shiver. My twelve-tone compositions failed. I guess that has something to do with the fact that it's been done. I should come up with something new. Oh, fuck that. "Variations on America" isn't anything new. Schoenberg would argue that my awful twelve-tone compositions are a pure form of art while a bird's song isn't anything even close to art. I disagree. Schoenberg obviously never heard anything I wrote. My twelve-tone compositions sucked ass. A bird's song beats them any day of the week.
Okay, Colleen just walked in and caught me singing "Simple Gifts." I'm going to take that as my cue to stop this here drunken ranting. Good night. 'Nuit. And to those of you who know what I'm talking about when I say this--gros bisous.