Happy Beethoven’s Birthday!!

Aaaughh . . . just realized. (hanging head in shame)

I was so pooped that I missed Frank Sinatra’s birthday back on the 12th . . . I’m by Jingo not gonna miss Beethoven’s!

This is also Phil Dick’s birthday.

I salute them both. Thanks for all the fish–I mean, art!

Today doctors could recognize and treat Beethoven’s lead poisoning. Maybe they could also find out what was amiss with Phil (re the possible temporal lobe epilepsy and of course the strokes that killed him later on). But would people appreciate it if the geniuses walked among them again today? No. They’d continue buying those puerile teen vampire novels and rap MP3s. It’s the way of the world. A genius is never appreciated in his own country or in his own time–at least, seldom appreciated. (Just look at ME, for example!! **rimshot** Though I _did_ get a phone call today from a neighbor who wanted me to come wrap all her presents. I told her that I have way too much to take care of just here at Casa el Dumpo, but that was flattering. She was given permission to go to the dollar store and get gift bags–it’s the thought that counts. But be sure to drink your Ovaltine–I mean, buy Scotch Brand/3M tape and other products!!)

So this evening, in honor of our geniuses, those of us who are not entirely conformed to this world can enjoy a grand pounding-out of the Sonata in C#min (“Moonlight”). At least I can manage the first two movements somewhat–I can’t manage the third movement yet, especially not anywhere near at tempo. Maybe we should listen to a good recording instead. Probably Uchida’s, or even Cliburn’s. *grin* And then go re-read _Ubik_.

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Author: shalanna

Shalanna: rhymes with "Madonna" and "I wanna," and is not a soundalike with "Hosanna" or "Sha-Na-Na." Aging hippie with long hair, husband, elderly mother, and yappy Pomeranian. I've been writing since I could hold a crayon. I started with fiction, which Mama said was "lying." “Don’t tell stories,” she would admonish, in Southern vernacular. “That's all in your imagination!” When grownups said this, they were not approving. So, shamed, I stopped telling stories for a few years--rather, I stopped letting anyone read them. I'm married to a fellow computer nerd who doesn't really like hearing about writing, but who reads sf/fantasy and understands the creative drive. I'm actually a nonconformist/hippie still wearing bluejeans and drop earrings and the Alice-in-Wonderland hair with headbands and sandals. Favorite flavor is chocolate/orange, favorite color is either Dreamsicle orange (cantaloupe) or bubble-gum pink, favorite musical is either Bye Bye Birdie, Rocky Horror, or The Producers . . . wait, I also love The Music Man. Is this getting way too specific and irrelevant yet? Obvious why I don't sell a ton of flash fiction, isn't it? To define oneself, I always say, it is good to make a list. How about a booklist? Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird Frank and Ernestine Gilbreth, Cheaper by the Dozen C.S.Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (all the Narnia books) J.R.R.Tolkien,The Hobbit/LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy Gail Godwin, The Odd Woman F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby J. D. Salinger, Catcher in the Rye (before dismissing it, actually read it) George Orwell, 1984 Kurt Vonnegut, Cat's Cradle Donna Tartt, The Secret History Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn James Allen, As A Man Thinketh Mark Winegardner, Elvis Presley Boulevard James Thurber, My Life and Hard Times The Wizard of Oz, L. Frank Baum Winnie-the-Pooh/House at Pooh Corner, A. A. Milne Peter Pan, J. M. Barrie The KJV and NIV Bible (each translation has its glories)

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