Our orchid decided to die last night, though that isn’t entirely true. The four blooms, which were in their height of regality, chose to wilt at the same time, as if in protest to the broken air conditioner, Michael Bolton’s nomination, or perhaps in deference to Cannes, what-have-you. However, I should think heat wouldn’t be an obstacle for orchids. Just poachers, screenwriters, and journalists.
The night before last N. and I were hanging out on the couch after supper — myself staring at the ceiling and he reading an article in The Atlantic — and the baby started to jump around with much gusto. I eventually noted how rhythmic and centred its kicks were and pointed it out to N. who was quite bemused. We decided that we must immediately buy the infant a percussion set that he might get an early start. A few minutes later I realised it was our baby’s first case of the hiccups. Hic c u p. Hiccccuuuppp. 27 weeks 5 days.
Saw this new, electronic side project of David Bazan’s reviewed the other day on Pitchfork. Hadn’t, I don’t think, really heard anything about it until reading this, although I’m pretty sure I heard Pedro the Lion perform a number of these songs at First Ave last spring.
N.’s sister graduates from Rocky Bayou’s high school tonight. Congratulations to her.
My father bought us a Baby Jogger. It arrived in the mail a couple days ago. It’s pretty neat.
I’m currently reading Salman Rushdie’s Fury. It’s pretty great so far. Postmodern absurdism hiding somewhere in New York City in the months before September 11. Somewhat in the vein of White Noise and DeLillo’s other pop culture oriented absurdist works.
Our Roma tomatoes are almost ripe. Much excitement.
