Tchaikovsky - "Pieces, Op. 72: 14. Chant élégaïque" [Buy]

I was 16 when I first visited Budapest. No one believed me back at home when I told them it was a combination of two cities; Buda and Pest. I guess you're less likely to believe something about a foreign country than about your own. I got there in October, I was supposed to visit my Muka (we called her that) who was visiting an old friend, but I had taken the train a day early from Paris where my parents were touring. I didn't tell my Muka, I thought I would surprise her. I got to the station and got my bags from the porter who was very nice in his green suit and shook his hand. An older woman asked me for help with her bags and I put them into the trunk of the cab.

"I'll need someone to help me bring them in," she said, the tips of the fur on her hat swaying in the breeze like little lazy fingers, or grass. I said I would help and rode with her back to her apartment. I carried the heavy black one first, as I thought I'd have the most strength for the first one. Then as I went halfway back down the stairs, the woman was carrying her other two, and the cab driver was coming up with mine. I made a sound--

"Oh, don't worry," she interrupted, "you might as well come in for tea now." The cab driver didn't speak English so I didn't bother.

We had tea in the speckled sunlight of her small living room, and I looked around at the Goënberg novels and Reitmann paintings that peppered the peach walls and the chestnut bookshelves, irrespectively. I was sweating slightly in the warmth of my blue sweater that my Muka had bought me for my Ratification the previous year.

"I want to show you the best part," said the woman, leading me by the fingertips to the kitchen window. "Here, look at this," she said, her chin pointing to an ivy plant that sat beside the open window. The plant had grown out of its pot, out the window, and had covered almost the entire exterior wall of her building.

"That's neat," I said, immediately hating my childish choice of words. I noticed an urn with a nameplate on it next to the windowsill, but before I could ask, the woman had begun kissing gently the back of my neck.

We made love, or rather she made love to me, on the Zulu throwrug in her living room, the afternoon sun half warming us up to the knees. She insisted I have a spot of soup before I left, and I was still able to surprise my Muka by dinner hour. I've been back to Budapest twice since.

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Collective Soul - "Good Morning After All"

I'm guessing it's not a secret anymore, but there was a time when I was championing the idea that Collective Soul was not-so-secretly harbouring the not-so-secret of being a Christian Rock band. I was much fought against in my opinion. But this is incontrovertible evidence. This is proof that Collective Soul is Christian Rock, and here is an instance of a genre being equal to an essence. The two words of that genre are the only two words I can think of to describe it. [old stuff]

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My review of Stardust is up at The Movie Binge.

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Happy Birthday, Roger. You're great.