Quiet, It's Sunday.

Channel surfing, I came across the PBS version of Oklahoma, based on a British revival of a few years ago. The guy playing Curly looked familiar. After a moment, I realized with a shock that it was none other than Hugh Jackman! I had no idea he had ever done a musical. While his accent did tend to slide from broad mock Oklahoman back to his native Australian from time to time, his acting was good overall, and, surprisingly, he's not a bad singer of the Broadway musical style -- no Gordon McRae, but still more than adequate to the part. His dancing is not as impressive. (Neither was McRae's -- in the movie version Curly's part in the ballet was taken by a professional dancer, while Jackman did it himself in the television version, with some awkwardness.) This revelation of Hugh's vocal talents has given me a splendid idea. I can see it now: Wolverine -- the Musical! But who could we get to write the score? Not Elton John, to be sure. Bowie, perhaps? Maybe Jacko could do it. He's going to have lots of time to work on such projects in prison -- in between rapes, of course. Or maybe The Artist Prince, Formerly Known as The Artist Formerly Known as Prince, would be available. So many options, it will be difficult to decide. But I'm convinced -- this must be done!

Before I wandered into the nether world of the television, I left the house for a while to watch the night. Standing on the porch about midnight, I heard the soft clopping that told of the arrival of deer. They rustled the wild plum bushes along the side yard. Because the night was moonless, I knew I'd never see them unless I used my flashlight, but I didn't want to disturb them. I sneaked back into the house as quietly as possible. They probably heard me but, sensing no danger, went about their deer business by wan starlight. I was happy to leave the chill, breezy air to them. If I had deer's skin, I might be able to enjoy this season more.

Later, I spent a bit of time reading, and found something to post which, given the repetitive content of my journal most days, strikes me as singularly to the point.

( Sunday Verse )

Shiver

Every day and in every way, I'm getting later and later. And I'm freezing my balls off. It's only been getting into the fifties every day, and dropping into the thirties at night. I have half a mind to turn the heat up and just give Sluggo a night off.

The trees only recently turned color, and in the last few days more than half the leaves have fallen. That was a short autumn. The clear skies have gone, too. I just went out and saw that the stars I had enjoyed for the last few nights have been obscured by clouds. No rain is expected, though that means nothing, since it was expected a few days ago, and never arrived. So maybe there will be rain, and maybe not. Maybe there will be snow, and maybe not. Maybe there will be a Fortean event, and haddock or pecans will fall from the sky. I just don't know anymore.

At midnight, I will go see if anything is on television tonight. I at least want to get out of Sluggo's icy room and into the comparatively warm living room long enough to let my ears thaw. And I think I'll make some hot cereal. Mmmm, cereal. Mmmm, heat.