Jeezus what a week
Dec. 6th, 2005 07:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
malsperanzaFamily members descended for T-day and stayed for 5 days, so I got no work done. Purely as a defensive measure I took them to as many art exhibitions, movies, and plays as I could find. I recommend The Dying Gaul, which I went to see out of curiosity, because the title is that of a Roman sculpture that I particularly love. The reasons I love it turn out to be the reasons it is in the movie title. Clever bit of writing, with a few rough patches. An updated film noir.
Saw the nice production of Albee's Seascape that was the only thing on Broadway I could stand to go to. Yay! Giant Lizards! W00t! For some reason I had remembered it as having a much darker ending... maybe 25 years ago it seemed more ominous to me. Anyway, good play, good production.
And of course, Johnny Depp the the intriguing but slightly disappointing role of the Earl of Rochester.
When Innocence, Beauty, and Wit do conspire
To betray, and engage, and inflame my Desire
Why should I decline what I cannot avoid?
And let pleasing Hope by base Fear be destroyed?
Rochester is Don Giovanni his own self: (not work-safe):
The Dying Lover to His Prick
Happy spark of heavenly flame!
Pride and wonder of man's frame!
Why is pleasure so soon flying?
Why so short this bliss of dying?
Cease, fond pego, cease the strife,
And yet indulge a moment's life.
Hark! cunt whispers. Don't she say,
Brother pego come away?
What is this absorbs me quite,
Seals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my prick, can this be death?
Now you recede, now disappear!
My eye looks round in vain; my ear,
Fanny your Murmur rings:
Lend, lend your hand! I mount! I die!
O Prick, how great thy Victory?
O Pleasure, sweet thy stings.
Those who are interested in the riper sort of Cavalier poetry, might go here.
Saw the Memling show at the Frick Collection, which was as lovely as one would expect. The Prague show at the Met was disappointing, though. Did they not remember Rudolph II, the mad alchemist emperor? Apparently not. Pity. Tried to convince my relatives to go to South Street Seaport to see the exhibition of flayed humans, but they seemed to feel it was inappropriate for the season. Damned provincials.
So all that was nice, but then the crap really started, because one of my cats has acquired a skin rash somehow. I've had cats--numerous cats--all my life, including cats that went outside, but have never spent so much time and money at the vet as with this lot. The really thrilling bit is that I have to dip all three cats in a sulphur solution once a week. This involves taking them one by one into the bathroom, wetting them down with the shower hose, and then sponging them all over with a neon yellow liquid. The white cat is now a tasteful lemon-meringue color. I have to do this once a week for 6 to 8 weeks; the cats are only slightly more horrified than I am. And I have to wash and vacuum the whole house massively once a week, swab floors with bleach etc. The whole thing is just disgusting.
On the plus side, the boxed Complete Monty Python set arrived the other day, so in between sterilizing my home and (supposedly) doing a little of the hideous backlog of editing and whatnot that has piled up, I seek solace with the All-England Summarizing Proust Contest, the fellow who translates Shakespeare into anagrams, and the cheeseless cheese shop. It occurs to me that Wallace and Gromit are direct descendants of Monty Python, including the visual aesthetic of that genius Terry Gilliam.
Saw the nice production of Albee's Seascape that was the only thing on Broadway I could stand to go to. Yay! Giant Lizards! W00t! For some reason I had remembered it as having a much darker ending... maybe 25 years ago it seemed more ominous to me. Anyway, good play, good production.
And of course, Johnny Depp the the intriguing but slightly disappointing role of the Earl of Rochester.
When Innocence, Beauty, and Wit do conspire
To betray, and engage, and inflame my Desire
Why should I decline what I cannot avoid?
And let pleasing Hope by base Fear be destroyed?
Rochester is Don Giovanni his own self: (not work-safe):
The Dying Lover to His Prick
Happy spark of heavenly flame!
Pride and wonder of man's frame!
Why is pleasure so soon flying?
Why so short this bliss of dying?
Cease, fond pego, cease the strife,
And yet indulge a moment's life.
Hark! cunt whispers. Don't she say,
Brother pego come away?
What is this absorbs me quite,
Seals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my prick, can this be death?
Now you recede, now disappear!
My eye looks round in vain; my ear,
Fanny your Murmur rings:
Lend, lend your hand! I mount! I die!
O Prick, how great thy Victory?
O Pleasure, sweet thy stings.
Those who are interested in the riper sort of Cavalier poetry, might go here.
Saw the Memling show at the Frick Collection, which was as lovely as one would expect. The Prague show at the Met was disappointing, though. Did they not remember Rudolph II, the mad alchemist emperor? Apparently not. Pity. Tried to convince my relatives to go to South Street Seaport to see the exhibition of flayed humans, but they seemed to feel it was inappropriate for the season. Damned provincials.
So all that was nice, but then the crap really started, because one of my cats has acquired a skin rash somehow. I've had cats--numerous cats--all my life, including cats that went outside, but have never spent so much time and money at the vet as with this lot. The really thrilling bit is that I have to dip all three cats in a sulphur solution once a week. This involves taking them one by one into the bathroom, wetting them down with the shower hose, and then sponging them all over with a neon yellow liquid. The white cat is now a tasteful lemon-meringue color. I have to do this once a week for 6 to 8 weeks; the cats are only slightly more horrified than I am. And I have to wash and vacuum the whole house massively once a week, swab floors with bleach etc. The whole thing is just disgusting.
On the plus side, the boxed Complete Monty Python set arrived the other day, so in between sterilizing my home and (supposedly) doing a little of the hideous backlog of editing and whatnot that has piled up, I seek solace with the All-England Summarizing Proust Contest, the fellow who translates Shakespeare into anagrams, and the cheeseless cheese shop. It occurs to me that Wallace and Gromit are direct descendants of Monty Python, including the visual aesthetic of that genius Terry Gilliam.
