WALK NOT UNLIKE EGYPTIAN, O CHILD OF 80'S

Is it fantasy or reality that the song Walk Like an Egyptian is fucking hell yeeah rad and dance-inducing coma good. I recently gave it a re-listen and just thought this is the kind of enjoyable random thing that should go in our blog. Blogging, drumming and programming are my hobbies and this is my weekend off (by that I mean Saturday since Sunday is all about trabajar). On my spare time I shuffle around my workshop/ garage and toy with hobbies. You are a victim of my hobby since you are reading this.

But revisiting the Bangles brought me to a little memory I have of my sister, me, choir and the evil and sad Miss Mudge. Ginevra and I went to a snobby Catholic grammar/ middle school for a good many years until our parents split up and my dad began hoarding his hard-earned cash (or so my conspiracy theory goes. whatever the case, my mom plummeted to below poverty, while my dad stayed upper-mid). I loved music, but our school had a hardly existent music program. My publicschool neighbor had the choice of having an instrument to borrow and learn- I was so jealous- he also had Atari- ooh was I jealous.

Ginevra and I were in the choir since that was the only music thing you could do at St. Edward's Catholic School. Miss Mudge hated Ginevra and I, and hated our singing even worse. It's funny that I actually would teach music later in my life and feel paranoid that I don't become like Miss Mudge when getting frustrated.

For Christmas the choir went around a strip mall in Dana Point and sang carols to all the storefronts int this strip mall that has a bigger parking lot than store space. There used to be a pizza place there, a stationery store and a huge grocery store and lots of other stores. And at some point we had hot cider. And also at some point we were all dancing like egyptians to that song that played everywhere at that point in time.

IN WRITING TODAY... I complained about different things, very wistfully. Speaking of victims, I am the victim of my own memoir mindset. Here I am, with a cup a tea, warmly orange-lit room, crepuscly mood, going, well when I was a child- I was wronged. O the cycle of life. O the dreams and the wistful memories, haunting yet what I would give to go back. O me. O me. Would I were that child, sipping cider. There was a parking lot, big as the sands of time.