is when they come over to the house for a reception, when I'm having a pain thing (cidp). Actually, it wasn't bad at all (except the pain part). My wife teaches in the art department and they like to party. Talk and party. Party and talk. Talking about parties. Tonight, she and another faculty member (younger, passing through) hosted a visiting artist, which entailed a 2-hour talk and then a reception at our house. I've done a million of them myself, with composers, so it's old hat. While I was at home, taking care of the pizzas, my wife was at the talk. She said the artist had a very cool idea, with some very inspiring things to say (inspiring meaning worthy of stealing), but that the physical result in the gallery looked humdrum and nothing special. Most of the talks I've heard by artists (and not just any artists: any faculty member will tell you how scrutinized requests for visitors are), have been pretty good, where not only are the ideas, which are usually outcomes and variations of a primary idea, interesting (and stealable), but the physical works themselves can really reach out and smack you. But sometimes you hear the spiel, then see the outcome and you go, this is it? My wife is an anxious entertainer, who begins days before, re-arranging the furniture and moving my stuff. No matter whether she or I moved a particular thing, it seems that I always have to make a special trip to find it. I haven't figured out the economics concerning the way we move my stuff out sight whenever artists, my students, and random people come over, but the biggest problem is that we don't move everything at one time, to one location. By stuff, I mean my laptop and wooden box of sundries, and whatever deep-tissue torture devices happen to be out. The reception seemed to go OK (I had to lay down in the bedroom--some of them are used to it), and Mei-Mei, as usual, was the star beauty cat. She was prancing around for an hour after they left. Every party has a downer in some form, and this one was that my wife's co-host contributed two cases of Pabst's. But when offered one, he declined and got one of the craft beers in the kitchen. Junior faculty are so entertaining, because they are just starting to become of aware of the attitudes and expectations that none of us ever saw as students. We are not laughing at them; we are laughing at ourselves, and trying to recall what was in our minds when we were doing that stuff, trying to fit it and adapt to the job. Some pizza slices, cookies, and chips were left behind, and maybe even a can or two of Pabst. That's sort of my end of the whole deal.