Oh for the love of Rothko

Someday, I want to be Simon Schama. Where I can say things like this, "The blaring horns of mustard-colored cabs, screeching cell phones- and those screaming into them bury the pulsating, meditative hum emanating from the sequence of paintings hung from the facades of buildings covered in a thin film of city exhaust." in a British accent and not be looked at like I'm crazy. 


Speaking of Simon, I had forgotten about baby Schama who shows up in the Rothko one. Heavens, just the best. Oh, and he cooks? Yeah, that's ideal.  That's basically what I want to do with my life. Speak in a British accent about art. 


I suppose that applies to Sister Wendy too.....  But it's a life choice. 


In later news, choir auditions were good (now I can go hug a frickin' tree!--shout out to Paige) Then some Linus: funny as per usual.  It was good to have a hearty laugh in the midst of Stressville, MN.  Shortly followed by the ever classy Midnight Express where you stuff yourself to plumb full and call it a day. 


And now that I've caught you up on my entire life, (It's the most depressing when nothing has happened and it's a really short post and then I say something expansive like, my entire life, and it was encapsulated in under 300 words.) I am hitting the books again and trying not to get distracted with art theories and intelligent British men spouting snapshots of art history.


Wish me luck!