Sunday, June 06, 2004

I'm back from my brother's wedding. It was, as expected, very sad, but it was not as excruciating as I thought it would be. Actually, it was totally surreal. It's hard to even describe the surrealness of the event: suffice it to say that there was a barbershop quartet convention taking place in the hotel at which we were staying, so all the drama was accompanied by show-tunes sung in four part harmony. And there was a lot of drama, involving, among other things, a missing ambulance, which meant an absent father of the bride, which was something of a problem considering that the whole point of the affair was for the father of the bride to be there. The ambulance was eventually located, the father of the bride showed up, the restaurant was threatened and cajoled into not canceling our reservation for the post-wedding brunch (and yes, I think they deserve to burn in Hell for even thinking about canceling the reservation, considering that the only reason that we were late was that the terminally-ill father of the bride couldn't make it to the ceremony on time because the ambulance that was meant to pick him up was late. Anytime the people from hospice call your restaurant to ask you to hold a reservation, I think it's a good idea to say yes, on the off chance that karma exists), and my brother and his fiance are now husband and wife.

I think that part of the reason this whole thing was so difficult for me is that it creeps me out when the parents of people my age get sick and die. It makes me think about my parents' mortality, and I just don't want to deal with that. In some ways, my parents' mortality is much scarier to me than my own. I know that I'll die one day, and when I think about it, it scares the shit out of me. But my own death doesn't seem that immediate, despite my recent health issues. My parents' mortality doesn't seem so distant.

So anyway, any event that makes you contemplate death quite that much isn't but so joyful. But it was a lovely wedding, strum and drang and mortality notwithstanding.

Oh, and it really bothers me that there was a professional photographer there and that my ugliness has been recorded for posterity. And I do realize that this is a sign that I am a shallow, horrible person.

In other news, I have mapped out in my head a murder mystery based on my dissertation. I mean, there aren't any actual murders in my dissertation (unless you count war and other forms of political violence as murder, and all of that occurs offstage), but I'm thinking it would be very possible to set a historical murder mystery in the milieu that my dissertation discusses. And since some of the people in my dissertation were involved in other, equally colorful milieus, like the Harlem Rennaisance, the Greenwich Village bohemian scene, and the Wobblies and assorted other radical movements, there would be potential for a fun series. It's too bad I'm not a better writer. I think a novelization is the only way I could ever actually make money off of my dissertation.

hahahahha... you just made me think of what a novelization of my dissertation would be like. It could be quite dashing, in a James Bond sort of a way, because the KGB are involved, and there's lots of trauma, melodramatic love affairs, and characters sitting around in icy Moscow apartments drinking too much vodka and saying nasty intense things to each other. Set against the panoramic backdrop of an opera about betrayal and murder, of course. And Stalin persecuting everybody. It would be fantastic! (It's about Dmitri Shostakovich in the 1930s). Unfortunately, I am a rotten fiction writer, and incapable of spitting out a single sentence that doesn't have one of the following words in it: hermeneutics, phenomenology, .. well, you get the idea.
Mine could also be novelised, except i'm continually being nagged to stop focussing on the historical aspects... or maybe i'll channel my urges to detail history into writing fiction on it.
Right now the baby moorhens outside my window seem more compelling. ;)
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