I was handed a CD of MP3s last week; a compilation of digitally captured songs from the incredibly elusive musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, �Once More With Feeling�. No, I’m not going to tell you who did it for me. Suffice it to say that he’s an incredible sweetheart and a perfectionist to the point of obsession, which means that this CD is practically of professional quality, well-balanced, and complete with added bonuses (which I have yet to access). It also means he thinks it isn’t good enough. We love him in spite of this. (Sometimes because of it.)

It�s catchy. Damned catchy. I mean, I knew it was catchy before, because I�ve been humming various selections since I saw it months ago. Now that I have all the songs here, though, and I�ve listened to it two or three times, I can say with all confidence that yes, it�s catchy, as well as actually being completely plot-driven musically. Whedon has created an alarmingly accurate Broadway/Disney/1950s �hey, let�s put on a show!� kind of musical where the lyrics are decent, the musical styles are varied and excellent satires/homage to their genres, and a surprising number of cast members can actually sing.

Buffy is a guilty pleasure for me. Musical expression is an innocent pleasure: while I’m enthusiastic about most kinds of musical expression, I enjoy musicals a lot. To have the two together like this is, well, cool.

Well, here we are in not-so-sunny YUL, looking out the windows at the brave little lilac buds carrying about ten centimeters of snow. (That�s about four inches for you Imperials.) This is unreal. It�s all a bad dream, and when I wake up it will be sunny, and warm wind will be blowing, right?

If I�m dreaming, then I get to see Amadeus again and compare my dream version of the director�s cut with the real version.

I never saw the original film on the big screen, only on VHS. I’ve seen a stage version of Sir Peter Shaffer’ Amadeus, and it was terrific in and of itself. The film, however, offers a completely different dimension. Shaffer describes it thusly:

When I asked [director Milos Forman] what he would do with the piece he replied that a film based on a play is actually a new work�an entirely different fulfillment of the same impulse that had created the original. The adaptor�s task was to explore many variant paths in order to arrive in the end at the same emotional place, and that the director must collaborate with the author in order to achieve this.

An interesting view. I wish I could be that optimistic regarding movies based on novels; but then, most filmmakers don’t consult the author of the original work in an adaptation. Once the rights are sold, it no longer belongs to the person who created the story, spent years crying and laughing and sweating the story out until at last it exists in tangible form. This is how you get atrocities like making the protagnists of A.S. Byatt’s Possession Americans in the upcoming film. Ahem. But I’m not bitter.

The director�s cut was fabulous. They restored an entire twenty minutes, including a deleted storyline about Mozart trying to take on a student; a scene in a dressing room between Salieri, Katerina, and Mozart; and a scene of Constanze visiting Salieri after dark to, um, further her husband�s career. As Monica said, for a twenty-year-old movie to still be that good upon a general theatrical re-release is pretty impressive. It still has the power, drama and wry, wry humour of the original, explains a couple of reactions later on in the movie, and damn, has such amazing music.

Actually, if I have a complaint (about something other than the seats, that is), it�s about the sound quality. For a movie that revolves so entirely around music, you�d think they�d re-balance the soundtrack and give it to you in surround sound, or Dolby at the very least. Instead, when the opening crash of the first chord of the Don Giovanni overture crashed into the theatre, I felt like I had vertigo: it came from the front speakers to either side of the screen, and only the front speakers.

About the seats: okay, I know I have back problems, and I haven�t seen my osteopath in three weeks, but like seats on an airplane, the seats at the AMC are designed for someone a foot taller than I am. What ends up happening is my back curves into it and my head is pushed forward and down by what would be the neck rest on anyone other than myself. If I were shorter, I�d be fine; if I were a foot taller, I�d be fine. As it was, I fidgeted a lot, and eventually ended up stuffing both my sweater and my coat by degrees into the small of my back to re-align my spine into some sort of correct distribution. MLG swears he didn�t notice the gymnastics, but I think he�s just being nice.

Everyone came back to our place for baked Camembert (with sage and thyme on top � mmmm), a shrimp ring with home-made seafood sauce (because I realised too late that we didn�t have any left in the fridge!), and a guest appearance by Devon Julia!

The general reaction: Wow, she�s really small. Smaller than all three of my cats, in fact. Well, maybe not Maggie-cat�

May soon. Hah.

It is currently blizzarding outside. We have accumulation. Apparently this is supposed to keep up overnight.

May soon. The fifth month. Where the heck is this year going?

May means:

– The Mediaeval Baebes concert
– Spiderman
– Star Wars Episode Two (the soundtrack to which I heard bits of last night… damn. Must buy.)
– Beltaine (let’s not forget that one, shall we?)
– Victoria Day weekend – which means seeing my parents
– Sandals (after Victoria Day, that is)
– Iced cappuccino instead of hot cappuccino
– Crabapple trees in blossom
– More sun, more green, more allergies

Today, in the last gasps of April, I get to see the director’s cut of Amadeus on the big screen, spend time with friends, and generally enjoy life. What a novelty to be doing this two days in a row. (Last night was NSW, and yes, Shawn and Saiyedra are back as a team! Too bad we couldn’t prevent (a) losing the artefact we were trying to keep out of the hands of the Bad Guys, (b) being humiliated in battle, and (c) being captured. Tune in two weeks from now….)

Stuart McLean is playing They Might Be Giants on The Vinyl Cafe:

I’m your only friend
I’m not your only friend
But I’m a little glowing friend
But really I’m not actually your friend
But I am

(and while you’re at it
Keep the nightlight on inside the
Birdhouse in your soul)

And Maggie-cat is facing me, sitting in front of the monitor, trying to shoot her paw into the bowl of freshly popped popcorn on my lap when I dip my own hand into it. It’s a game for her; the popcorn rattles and she can sort of see a shadow moving through the plastic bowl. (Yes, popcorn; I’ve been up for hours. Again. Besides, corn is a cereal; it’s morning. What’s wrong with that?)

Ye gods! We’re at 990 visitors, after only two and a half months of what Kat calls mindspillage.

I wasn’t expecting to be celebrating one thousand visitors so soon. I recently changed my counter because I was getting suspicious at how many visits were being clocked in. I kept both counters on the site for a while, and sure enough, they were disagreeing; the original counter must have been counting page views as well as visits. So I dropped it and felt virtuous.

And yet… here we are. When I log on tomorrow we just might have passed the thousand mark.

Hmm. People must be reading this or something.

(Ha! I know the truth. People were just hitting the site over and over in the last three days, desperately seeking news about The Peanut…)

My husband makes me feel about two inches high sometimes.

Minutes after I snapped at him about reading over my shoulder (something I cannot stand), complained about being sick, and pointedly did not ask about his day, he returned from a quick trip to the grocery store with the makings of dinner and…

…a pony.

The significance of this goes way back to the first day we met. He arrived at a game one evening, was introduced, chatted a bit, then said that he was off to the dep for some Coke – did anyone want anything? People called out their orders, and he turned to me, bowed, and said, “Is there anything my lady desires?”

“A pony,” I said. It was my standard answer at the time. (Now I ask for world peace, or a million dollars.)

He bowed again and said that he’d see what he could do. He left, I went back to whatever I was doing, and when he returned, he passed out the chips and soft drinks everyone had ordered, then handed me a yellow inflatable pony with a flourish. There had been a vendor with a cart of kid’s toys on the corner.

Well, I was stunned. I had asked the impossible, and he’d succeeded in the quest. Okay, so it was a lot smaller than I had envisioned, and less fuzzy, and not exactly rideable, but it was a pony. That was about six years ago. The pony got lost in a move, but that’s not the point.

So when he walked in tonight and handed me a floppy stuffed pony, I felt warm, loved, lowly, and vermin-like at the same time. It’s a fluffy pony – it’s so soft to the touch, like baby blankets or towels. I am naming her E-Pony. You know – like Epona the Celtic horse goddess, only little and fluffy instead.

How can I feel so terrific and crawly at the same time?