![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
quislibetFor some reason, many of my most bizarre postmodern multicultural moments have involved singing Swedes. I don't know why this should be so, or even why I'm thinking of it now, since the most recent one happened in 1991, when a Swede, two English guys and I, having consumed too much retsina, sang barbershop quartet ("Yes, sir, that's my baby") in a taverna in Athens.
Just one of those things, I guess.
Much of this weekend is about costumes. Tonight I will bear (not bare) myself as a stepchild of the night, all made up, if my makeup, some of it 7 years old, hasn't dried up irredeemably. As for tomorrow, tomorrow I will wear silver shoulder pads and a blinking helmet.
Sunday is not about costumes, but it does involve becoming (again) the sort of person who sits around a table and rolls dice and eats Doritos, quite apart from anything having to do with the actual characters.
Just one of those things, I guess.
Much of this weekend is about costumes. Tonight I will bear (not bare) myself as a stepchild of the night, all made up, if my makeup, some of it 7 years old, hasn't dried up irredeemably. As for tomorrow, tomorrow I will wear silver shoulder pads and a blinking helmet.
Sunday is not about costumes, but it does involve becoming (again) the sort of person who sits around a table and rolls dice and eats Doritos, quite apart from anything having to do with the actual characters.
