Labor Day not lost

No laboring today, except the washing machine is humming slightly in the background. Ours is a functional computer/laundry room. The dogs have been fed, the kitchen back to its normal condition, and I am having my coffee. I try to relish days off like this, since holidays come so few and far between. It has been rainy and has the feeling of a season change already. Once the calendar changed, so did the season. I like autumn.

This was a low-key weekend.
L made pomegranate martinis Saturday night after a few friends we had over left, and we watched Firefly until I fell asleep and L finished the episode we had started to watch together. It was a cozy weekend. We did some porch sitting, and I've been knitting, reading, cooking and playing with the dogs. We met Lucas this weekend, the 10 day old son of some friends. We had them over for dinner last August and now they have a kid and we are married. It's like the soap opera phenomenon I experience at work. You may not even realize the mother is pregnant, and the next time she's in she has had the infant or it's even walking!

Anyway, I'm off to Waterville and Bull Moose to exchange some CDs. I've been going through and putting what I want on the itunes and then taking them in for credit. It's been breathing new life into my music. I just finished importing the Libertines. It reminded me that yesterday BAD came up on a mix L had playing in my ghetto car, and I told him that Mick Jones was kicked out of the Clash. I suppose in my lust for Joe Strummer I had forgotten about Jones. I also remembered yesterday that Jones produced the Libertines. I was never into the Kevin Bacon game but it does seem that musically, parallels occur through the decades. I just wonder why no one ever learns. I don't remember why Mick Jones was kicked out of the Clash. But Pete Doherty definitely was bumped because he life is in the shits. I read an interview with his mom last week claiming that as a nurse, she had no idea he was addicted. She then went on to defend Martin Gaye's father, claiming he killed his son to put him out of his misery. I think the interview was very self-serving. Filicide aside, while you can't blame yourself for the actions of your offspring, you can admit some responsibility. If she or Mr. Gaye didn't, they'd be lacking compassion. I might even think they were more fucked up than their kids. That might explain My Prodigal Son, Jackie Doherty's new book exploiting her son's problem. It's too bad this isn't in May, because this would make a fabulous Mother's Day post (or in April, when they celebrate it in the UK).

On a cheerier ending note, I watched Elling the other night. It was difficult at first because I couldn't knit and to concentrate on the subtitles, but it was lovely. I worry sometimes that I can relate better to the crazies or at least the terribly OCD people than my peers. I'll settle for any high functioning people who want to be in my gang.