There was an earthquake last night.
A 5.2 on the Richter scale.
I vaguely woke up, roused to semi-consciousness, and quickly returned to sleep after wondering what my housemates were up to in our basement.
That is co-op life: you get awakened by an earthquake but fall back asleep in a split second, comforted by the assumption that other coopers are simply conducting a morning activity.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
Sunday, February 10, 2008
chili & pizza & creativity jam
A couple dozen people passed through last night.
I discovered that Brian took 11 years of piano lessons, and has a black belt in tae kwon do. I confirmed that Haymarket is the heart of attendance on many of the co-op-wide activities I plan, perhaps in part because I can berate them over kitchen chats. I concocted a white chili, set up a help-yourself scrabble game where players could come and go, and found out that a kazoo made out of a paper towel tube can sound pretty excellent in a jazzy jam session.
Personally I trotted out the old clarinet, got tipsy enough to do some improv vocals, and was particularly delighted to hear how well Cat's Cradle, Chapter 33, fit into the melody of Scarborough Fair. Thank you to Colin for co-vocals, and Brian and Rachael for musical arrangement. (They also were my orchestra for reading the flavors of jelly bellys and a suprisingly successful beatnik interpretation of an extract of an article on Obama's drug experience.)
And, erm, the guy who was tearing it up on the bongos gave me his CARD.
I love our basement on a Saturday night.
I discovered that Brian took 11 years of piano lessons, and has a black belt in tae kwon do. I confirmed that Haymarket is the heart of attendance on many of the co-op-wide activities I plan, perhaps in part because I can berate them over kitchen chats. I concocted a white chili, set up a help-yourself scrabble game where players could come and go, and found out that a kazoo made out of a paper towel tube can sound pretty excellent in a jazzy jam session.
Personally I trotted out the old clarinet, got tipsy enough to do some improv vocals, and was particularly delighted to hear how well Cat's Cradle, Chapter 33, fit into the melody of Scarborough Fair. Thank you to Colin for co-vocals, and Brian and Rachael for musical arrangement. (They also were my orchestra for reading the flavors of jelly bellys and a suprisingly successful beatnik interpretation of an extract of an article on Obama's drug experience.)
And, erm, the guy who was tearing it up on the bongos gave me his CARD.
I love our basement on a Saturday night.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
artistic process
My plans of a "Apocalyptic Prophet Musical in the CTA" is brilliant! Just not very concrete yet...
-an email from german lisa
Sunday, January 20, 2008
the point in winter
It was the coldest day of winter so far, clocking in at -2 f/-19 c. Being the hardcore of haymarket, we elected to trek to the Point at night to burn our Christmas tree.
Do we need lighter fluid? someone asked, and was reassured multiple times that the tree would combust almost immediately and without struggle. No one, however, took into account the task of massaging a flame out of a lighter while standing on windy lake shores.
After 10 minutes of bumbling with flameless results, Glenn caught a single sheet of twisted newspaper which sparked the tree at last. (He and Ben kept jumping around somewhat IN the firepit, to the distress of Lauren. She calmly requested Ben stop picking up the burning tree.) We stood circled around ignoring our toe-cicles and sipping spiked hot chocolate (soy milk, mexican hot chocolate, kahlua, & peppermint schnapps).
The tree was quickly naked of needles, but we couldn't feel our fingers much less stand to stick around for the grand finale of total disintegration. Ben volunteered to stomp out the tree and the rest of us returned to the car, marvelling at our original plan to WALK to the Point and saying grace that our idiocy had not reigned.
Do we need lighter fluid? someone asked, and was reassured multiple times that the tree would combust almost immediately and without struggle. No one, however, took into account the task of massaging a flame out of a lighter while standing on windy lake shores.
After 10 minutes of bumbling with flameless results, Glenn caught a single sheet of twisted newspaper which sparked the tree at last. (He and Ben kept jumping around somewhat IN the firepit, to the distress of Lauren. She calmly requested Ben stop picking up the burning tree.) We stood circled around ignoring our toe-cicles and sipping spiked hot chocolate (soy milk, mexican hot chocolate, kahlua, & peppermint schnapps).
The tree was quickly naked of needles, but we couldn't feel our fingers much less stand to stick around for the grand finale of total disintegration. Ben volunteered to stomp out the tree and the rest of us returned to the car, marvelling at our original plan to WALK to the Point and saying grace that our idiocy had not reigned.
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