Yet, as good as it was—and you can see from the clip that it was riveting—the biggest goose bumps I ever got at the opera were from what I believe was Vickers' last performance at the Met, Parsifal,. That one shouldn't have worked at all, if you follow conventional wisdom—he was too old, his voice was growing coarse . . . .
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My computer tech is coming over this afternoon, I wonder how I'll convey 64-bit problems in 18th Century lingo.
Kelli often catches me staring into a mirror. "Checking yourself out again?" she asks.
Honest, baby, I ain't vain. I don't know what it is. Seriously, I don't even know what I'm looking at / for half the time. I'm just looking. I've been this way forever. I remember when I was maybe four or five years old, waking up in the middle of the night, walking into the small green bathroom, closing the door behind me, standing in front of the tall, gold-trimmed mirror, and just looking. And looking.
I used to enjoy watching myself cry. Sorry if that sounds weird or…
One of my favorite shops in downtown Santa Fe used to sell antique scientific equipment, which was pretty cool in itself, but the owner's passion was obviously for the tools of quackery, so it was filled with impressive-looking torture devices. It's a good thing I wasn't burdened by prosperity or I'd have bought him out.
My fave? Dylan does Big Boy Cruddup's "That's Alright Mama." Let's see, that makes Elvis' cover my #3 favorite version.
Via Grow-A-Brain.
Great writing worthy of its great subject.
While the music was interesting, Per Se was less so. Portions fit for…