Date: 29th January 2014
Place: My bedroom
It's two minutes past the twentieth hour of the day. Which means it's late evening of course. But for some reason, I did not want to say that. I wanted to use 'past the blah blah hour' - for some reason, that sounds very Jane Austen-esque. And using it - I would like to think - brings me close enough to that lady for me to consider myself some sort of distant relative of hers!
It's stupid, really. My thinking that way that is. But well, I think each of us should be allowed a stupidity each day. And this - my masquerading as Jane's distant relative (cousin, to be precise!) - is mine for today.
Why? Well, there's no reason. It's just that I thought of it as I sat down here at my desk - at two minutes past the twentieth hour! :) - and listened to Connie Francis crying her heart and soul into Who's Sorry Now and various other cranky melodies.
I feel sorry for Connie. She sang some nice chocolate-and-syrup-laced songs about puppy love, light peppy teenage heartbreaks, happy searches for love, and what not. And unfortunately, all that was NOT what she went through.
The mafia killed her brother sometime in 1981 and a while later, she was in and out of around 17 mental hospitals because of manic depression. A few years earlier (1974), she was raped at the Howard Johnson's Lodge, New York (no one knows by who). ThensSome year before that incident - somewhere in the 1950s - she was written off as a commercial failure. And to top all this, her rather strict conservative father - Italian by origin - did his best to make mincemeat of her relationship with Bobby Darin.
Connie never married. She does do the occasional tour even to this day; and some of her singles still await a release - an event music studios seem to have postponed forever. Probably, her demise is what they seem to be waiting for. After all, nothing sells like the death of a lovely vintage songstress.
And Connie, with Stupid Cupid, Someone Else's Boy, Where the Boys Are, Lipstick on Your Collar, Robot Man, etc., etc., more than answers to that description. Her voice has a very innocent tone - it's as if it's not quite willing to accept the devious ways of this world. That with her perky rhythm and half-cranky half-giggling way of mouthing her lyrics wraps her in a quaint pure aura.
Probably, it's that quaint pure aura that reminded me of Jane Austen - of Ms. Austen and her pure prim romances - the ones that no teenager knows nor wants to, the ones that cannot accommodate violent acts of crime, the ones in which every one has to be happily married by the time you reach the last page, and the ones in which every walk and every dinner happens some minutes past an hour.
And probably that's why that stupidity became mine to possess at two minutes past the twentieth hour of this day!
Place: My bedroom
It's two minutes past the twentieth hour of the day. Which means it's late evening of course. But for some reason, I did not want to say that. I wanted to use 'past the blah blah hour' - for some reason, that sounds very Jane Austen-esque. And using it - I would like to think - brings me close enough to that lady for me to consider myself some sort of distant relative of hers!
It's stupid, really. My thinking that way that is. But well, I think each of us should be allowed a stupidity each day. And this - my masquerading as Jane's distant relative (cousin, to be precise!) - is mine for today.
Why? Well, there's no reason. It's just that I thought of it as I sat down here at my desk - at two minutes past the twentieth hour! :) - and listened to Connie Francis crying her heart and soul into Who's Sorry Now and various other cranky melodies.
I feel sorry for Connie. She sang some nice chocolate-and-syrup-laced songs about puppy love, light peppy teenage heartbreaks, happy searches for love, and what not. And unfortunately, all that was NOT what she went through.
The mafia killed her brother sometime in 1981 and a while later, she was in and out of around 17 mental hospitals because of manic depression. A few years earlier (1974), she was raped at the Howard Johnson's Lodge, New York (no one knows by who). ThensSome year before that incident - somewhere in the 1950s - she was written off as a commercial failure. And to top all this, her rather strict conservative father - Italian by origin - did his best to make mincemeat of her relationship with Bobby Darin.
Connie never married. She does do the occasional tour even to this day; and some of her singles still await a release - an event music studios seem to have postponed forever. Probably, her demise is what they seem to be waiting for. After all, nothing sells like the death of a lovely vintage songstress.
And Connie, with Stupid Cupid, Someone Else's Boy, Where the Boys Are, Lipstick on Your Collar, Robot Man, etc., etc., more than answers to that description. Her voice has a very innocent tone - it's as if it's not quite willing to accept the devious ways of this world. That with her perky rhythm and half-cranky half-giggling way of mouthing her lyrics wraps her in a quaint pure aura.
Probably, it's that quaint pure aura that reminded me of Jane Austen - of Ms. Austen and her pure prim romances - the ones that no teenager knows nor wants to, the ones that cannot accommodate violent acts of crime, the ones in which every one has to be happily married by the time you reach the last page, and the ones in which every walk and every dinner happens some minutes past an hour.
And probably that's why that stupidity became mine to possess at two minutes past the twentieth hour of this day!
Comments