Beastly Saturday

Not the weather, which is gorgeous, and promises to stay so through el V's performance on Tuesday at Roulette (and the CDs of Kiss You Down South have arrived already too!). Computers and the modem link. Or something. Troubles increasing throughout the week. El V poo-pooing until it hit him too today.
We messed and screwed around with it and called Time Warner, blahblahblah.
Finally we did what I'd been trying to get him to do all week -- reset the modem (I didn't do it myself because it involved a great deal of bending and it remains just out of my reach, since, tadah! Ned picked where to put it and it's convenient for his significantly longer reach ....). It's evidently true -- one's modem does need to be reset fairly frequently or else problems. Why can't I remember that until the problems actually manifest? We spent most of today on this. We had other things we need to do.Everything's fine now. But he got the blue screen of death. And recovered ....

Now there's Windows 8 -- which by all accounts is as much a merde as was Windows Vista, and probably even more so. Have I mentioned how much I HATE touchscreens?

One good thing came out this latest digital stall out. While I waited and waited for my back up to run I removed about the equivalent of two cotton balls of lint from inside my keyboard.

Maybe tomorrow we can some things accomplished. Next week's nights are mostly busy, including among other events, watching the last debate in Harlem with the Treme crew, el V's performance at Roulette, having dinner with the foremost linguist-scholar of Haitian Kreyole, a salsa night in the Bronx.

Nevertheless, all day in the background, niggling at my mind was a phrase which deals with music and improvisation I've read in a novel, which, in context of the paragraph and anything to do with music, is meaningless.  Why do fiction writers do that?