burning violin
Monday, November 19, 2007
Cringing lefty that I am, I try to avoid references to 'political correctness gone mad.' But how else to describe the use this morning, and with trademark National Radio earnestness, of the phrase boy racer community?
Spent all of yesterday playing klezmer at a Bar Mitzvah in Nelson (my first whole day away from Maggie, who wasn't the least bit bothered by my disappearance apparently.) Perfect weather for flying over the Marlborough sounds, and setting for the festivities ludicrously scenic: we played on a deck overlooking Tasman Bay and the snow-capped mountains beyond while suntanned children plopped in and out of the pool at our feet and their elder siblings lounged on cushions at the poolside smoking hookah pipes. After a while the breeze stopped tossing our music around, which was helpful, but then the heat really began to pummel down and I began to edge closer to the pool to catch the splashes, until I remembered that I was playing Dave's violin and was therefore wired for sound, and edged away again hastily. Meanwhile, Rebecca spent the day streaking around her grandmother's place stark naked save for the liberal application of factor 400 sunscreen, while her dad bailed out and then washed down the fishpond before playing Hunt the Fishy in the adjoining herbacious border. In spite of which he claims that it was the best day ever. Except for Lucky the goldfish (as he has now been christened). But then he probably won't remember it anyway.
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