When I was your age

When I was a kid, there was something called a Marvel no-prize. Marvel comics teasingly offered them to people who offered plausible explanations for plot holes, or who did something noble and comics-related, like donating comics to a hospital. I’m sure they stopped doing that years ago, but it stuck with me, and when I had to winnow a lot of my stuff recently, I called up a local hospital and said, “I’ve got about a hundred comics I want to donate to the pediatrics wing. Do you want them?” Their answer? “Sorry, none of our kids read. They’re all into video games.”

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Night Music

So yesterday my boss comes into my office and gives me last-minute tickets to the New York Philharmonic that she can’t use. I called Susan, she dashed over after work, and I had rice pudding for the first time, which tasted really weird but really good. Then we made a mad dash over to Lincoln Center for some really gorgeous Rachmaninoff, Tchaikovsky and Scriabin. Box seats, incredible acoustics; there’s something so amazing about watching a classical concert, the way the performers’ bodies move like they’re lost in it, the way the violin bows shiver in perfect synchronicity. This is the second time in a week that I’ve heard classical music live and really loved it. I can’t tell if the reason I didn’t get into it before is that I wasn’t ready for it, I’d never heard it live, or the fact that my dad really likes modern composers with plenty of dissonance, which sets my teeth on edge. Either way, I’ve got a brand new addiction.