Allow me to bury the lead. Of late I am listening to the New Pornographers' most recent offering. I like it. You should like it too, if you have any sense. They are playing here September 28. You'd go, if you knew what your ears needed, and what they need is... that's right. I will buy you a drink at the show if you have to travel more than 300 km to get there. (And if we make it.)
I have also dug into the Stranglers' back catalogue for this old chestnut. The people who write liner notes say it represented an important thematic shift for the band. I say bring on the nubiles! The one thing this album lacks (ok, one of them) is the song "Nuclear Device." This may be on account of the fact it appeared on an earlier album. I guess that could be it. Why can't the artists I like make an album for me, with the really good songs on it, the ones that I like? I hope one day, before we wipe out our species in some ignominious fashion, humanity can develop a technology which permits people to record all of their favourite songs in one place, and that the listeners can then carry the music around with them and listen to it privately. All I can do is hope. The song, Nuclear Device, is a good enough song to make it onto any such device I would own in this speculative future world. I think it is about Australia.
Which brings me, painfully, to today's subject: Mo Ma. Not the fine warehouse of culture but Mo's ma. I have mentioned elsewhere that this woman irks me. It's a fairly cliched relationship, all things considered. She has this habit, or spastic verbal affect, which involves looking at a thing, say, a nuclear device, and then drawing attention to thing, becoming involved with the thing, and not really (in the case of a 3 year old and one year old child) giving due consideration to factors such as safety, mealtime, naps, bedtime, hygiene. The small stuff with which we parents occupy ourselves.
She had Miss Fancy today and they did something, I am unsure what, because either I don't trust her reports or I am not listening to the breathy nonsense about how my daughter is capable of doing many things (like breathing and eating) of which I was already slightly aware. In any event, she had the girl today, for which I was grateful, but returned in the dinner hour, which was slightly annoying, and led to the following exchange.
MoMa: Look, Miss Fancy, a nuclear device!
Miss Fancy: Let's eat it!
P-man: Listen, don't eat the nuclear device before your dinner. You'll spoil your meal.
MoMa: Ok, let's pick it!
P: Hey, did you hear what I said, no nuclear device before dinner? It's spaghetti.
MoMa: Here's a good nuclear device, nice and ripe. Can you pick it? Oh look, p-man, Miss Fancy can pick a nuclear device! Do you know that? Oh, Miss Fancy, you're incredible!
P-man: Did I mention it's dinner?
Moma: Oh, look, an unexploded landmine! Let's dance!
Miss F: Wheee!