Well, I achieved some of what I set out to do yesterday, but the most important thing is I got my Easter half day off. Yay. I always miss out, but this time I pouted and sulked and was let free. Yay.
Half days are good. I actually go out and do things, whereas whole days off are usually spent on trying to sleep or housework and nothing gets done. Next time though I'll try to remember to wear the comfy shoes to work and not the office shoes for tramping all over town. Ouchie, owie, ouchie, and the poor feet don't magically restore overnight any more, as I discovered to my shock when I rolled out of bed this morning. Owie, ouchie.
So I managed to get into the art gallery, yay. I even managed to run into Bro, who gave me the tour, which was highly informative. I owe him an afternoon tea. Doubt he'll take me around again though, as I was muttering things re the Archibalds to the effect that I'd seen better in the Royal Easter Show and HSC works, and I had (hell, I've seen better stuck to parent's fridges) and how a great many of the paintings in the Archibalds, as opposed to elsewhere, were so stuck in the 80s, and why do only painters think themselves important enough to paint? So, twas a room full of badly painted huberis and I had to pay. Grizzle. Bro didn't, lucky cove. It's like going out with the AP: "You are free, but YOU, you pay TRIPLE." Yup, me, full fee paying me. No discounts, no concessions, no coupons. I don't even cheat on my taxes (I don't rat my hair, I get ill from one cigarette...).
Never mind. The one thing I like about the gallery is that it always has several exhibitions on at once because, as is so frequently the case, the one you go into see leaves you slightly underwhelmed, but the one you wander into by chance leaves you absolutely entranced and delighted. And so it was with the Man Ray exhibit, which I'd wanted to see as his images are rehashed annually in the pages of Vogue, etc, and perhaps that's why seeing the originals lacked the punch it should have. There was a distinct feeling of been there, done that. And they were so tiny. In magazines, they're always A4, but on the wall they were half the size of postacrds and having to squint over the shoulders of a scrum of pretentious posers in black, well, can you say bad viewing experience and loss of impact? I'd rather just have the book, thanks. Weird, how paintings are indescribly better in person, but photos, not so much. Especially teeny weeny little ones.
What I really loved was the Fantastic Mountains exhibit, featuring lots and lots of wall hangings, scrolls and fans featuring maginicent LOTR looking Chinese mountains, ie they were all very important looking, mysterious and often shrouded in mist. My favourites were the autumnal ones and any one that featured lots of little people in them that you had to look for. You could spends days just staring into one painting. Lovely, beautiful, magical stuff.
I managed to get a catalogue, which peeved Bro because they're hard to get hold of (demand outstripping supply).
Finished off my afternoon which tea and cake in the AG cafe. Now, don't lecture. Tea at the gallery is a quarterly treat and I'd not eaten all day. It was lovely tea, too, I forgot to ask the brand. It's an okay cafe, too. Not overly posh (that's the restaurant upstairs) but posh enough compared to the sleazy sanger bars out here and if you sit outside you get a lovely view of Rusty's pad if nothing else :D
After that I did my magazine run but not my comics run, alas. It was just too far and by now I was hobbling like I had bound feet, so I hopped on a rattly old bus and made it home in time to see Xander do the snoopy dance. Perfect.
Without a Trace was repeatoville, yawn, and other than the Who, nothing else was watched. No, I tell a lie, I revelled in a bit of Starsky and Hutch while waiting for the kettle to boil. It was the voodoo island episode (look carefully and you'll see they're actually in Sunndydale). What a classic. So sad that my 70s childhood makes me just love this to bits, and wish that WaT could liven itself up a bit with a spot of voodoo (it's a recognised religion now, anyays).
Had weird tossy turny dreams about a very, very evil Jude. It was like I'd overindulged in some early, very bad Jude films and too much gooey cheese, with some Charmed, Books of Magic, Hellblazer, Omen and bits of other (very) obscure comics thrown in. It was the weird sort of a stew of a dream that stayed with me. I might borrow bits for fics.
I think I was upset at my breaking my promise to myself re the comics. Especially now. I used to read them in the before time when I was too tired for proper books and they'd serve me well now, too, keeping the imagination firing, but without the headaches straight black and white text can bring after a long day. Damn, I miss my comics. Gave most of them up on account of expense. Hmmm, might pick myself up a graphic novel, just to ease the sudden, aching, need.
At least it was better than my Sean nightmare the other night. He was at a con and I was queued up, them they made the other end of the line the head of the queue, as they so often do, and as I turned around, between me and the man was a line of people I dislike intensely. Hey, just like real life. The alarm went off before I got anywhere near the front. Hey, just like real life. Give me SuperEvilJude any day.
I miss Viggo, though. DreamViggo always solves it all and makes my nightmares less angsty. Yay him. Now if he could only sort out my real life just as easily.
Ack. I knew it when I read about it in the paper that I'd be working all day on politically sensitive site X. What I didn't figure on was having to liase with E., who hates me with such a deadly passion that folks in the regional offices 500km ring up to talk about it with alarm and pity. Oh, fun, happy day.
Maybe EvilJude could fix her little red wagon, and messily. Heh. I like EvilJude. I want to write EvilJude. Or at least, a character by any other name that is still EvilJude. I mean, we never did find out when exactly he turned evil or how, for all his dangerous co-conspirators messing things up...
I had my very first full on Dirty Nanna moment yesterday. I mean, I've felt a bit squirmy lusting after what my pals primly call "age inappropriate" chaps, ie young actors in their twenties (I think they forget I'm still in my thirties, thankyouverymuch), but this time, I gakked. It all happened innocently enough. I was flipping through the latest (for out here, ie very outdated as our magazines still have to round the horn via clipper) issue of Details and I came to page and thought, in my best Lord Flash: Woof! Woof! Who's the honey?!!!:
The answer, upon closer inspection, was Lucas Black, ie the little kid from American Gothic. Reel! Stagger! Gasp! Wheeze!
Okay, so fit me up for a plastic raincoat. Hey, at least I didn't start with the oggling until he started shaving, right? Right?
Nevermind. In the meantime, I will leave you with EvilJude, my mad, bad muse:
PPS. I've moved on from guh to squee.
The Three Questions Meme:
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|Which poem are you?|
Sonnet 17 by Pablo Neruda
Aw, you're a romantic. You believe in true love and all that sort of stuff. How cute are you? To you, love is incredible and amazing.
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