This past week’s vacation did not go quite as planned. But I still got some downtime and managed to spend a few hours at my upstairs desk, zoned out and colouring in Jenny Lawson’s new therapy manual slash colouring book:
Here are some photos. I really have to do this more often:
If I am ambitious in the morning, on my way to work, I’ll walk a couple of big blocks before getting on the subway. Helps me get in my steps when I’m wearing my Fitbit (which is rare these days).
And this colourful alleyway just east of Dundas West always cheers me up.
And this painted garage is new this year, and I think the cosmos directed it to me personally:
Ballet buddy Barb and I went to see the National Ballet of Canada’s premiere of Streetcar Named Desire, with book club mate Helen.
Now, Barb and I are both English Lit grads (and Barb has her MA and wrote her thesis about Tennessee Williams), so we feel we are pretty well-positioned to judge a Tennessee Williams’ adaptation.
And I get that Neumeier’s ballet isn’t a strict adaptation of the play. That would be impossible. It’s his take on the themes and characters, translated to dance.
I just didn’t think it worked. The ballet is pretty much a glimpse into Blanche Dubois’ tortured mind. It’s flashbacks and feelings, very haunting and ethereal (esp. Act I). But that results in a narrative and plot that are both weak. And with the canned music (why no live orchestra? I now realize the live orchestra is about 49% of what I love about ballet), it was flimsy, fluttering and slow to progress. I felt many of the dance pieces dragged. (Although the raunchy sex scene between Stanley and Stella at the beginning of Act II was very hot. Mature content, indeed, the posters at the entrance door warned.)
Barb’s take is that the play is just too complex to translate into ballet. Maybe that’s it. Or, this particular ballet translated a brilliant play into a mediocre and diluted dance.
I don’t think popular opinion agrees with me, but I gotta call them as I see them.
Nevertheless, bravo to NBC for tackling it. And I was delighted to see that the Four Seasons was pretty much sold out for this performance.
Check it out. Makes mine look like it was scrapbooked by a second grader.
Possibly my favourite post so far (I even tweeted about it):
Please read if you need a laugh.
And his views on politics are always a good read:
I need to find some positive things to post about.
Such as my rhododendron – which hasn’t bloomed in about 10 years – is blooming now. Must be the gallons of rain Toronto has had this spring. So all is forgiven, Mother Nature.
Another happy thing – these crocheted sea urchin sculptures. Makes me want to visit Singapore (and I’ve never said those words before):
And finally, you won’t be able to make him out from this lousy picture, but it’s Neil Diamond! Me and my besties went to see him this week at the ACC, and he was FABULOUS. We had seen him 15 years ago, and you would never know he’s aged a day. Looked as good, sounded as good, moved as good. (Similarly, me and my besties haven’t aged a day in 15 years. That’s my position, and I’m sticking to it.)
Question: Does Neil Diamond now hate Sweet Caroline? Like, if I have to sing that song one more time for the pandering crowds, I’m going to kill myself? Or does he still love it, all the way to the bank?
Damn, this looks good. Baked scallops, baked potatoes and broccoli.
You have to get your own food blog, girl!
Clear jeans are just wrong.
I’m not really sure which are worse – the entirely clear jeans, or the clear knee jeans. Obviously the clear jeans are absurd (or dumb, as GFY says), and anyone who wears them is beyond salvation.
But … there may be some people who think the clear knee jeans are bordering on wear-able. And they aren’t. That may be even worse.
This is why I like how girls write and what girls write. They write intelligently, they write strategically, they write honestly.
And sometimes they write vindictive, they write mean. And it’s fun.
They do NOT transcribe.
And out of their tiny minds.
No, really. And this:
I’m just embarrassed for any woman of any age who buys clear knee jeans. Dear God.
The bus shelter in front of my office building has carried this Holt Renfrew ad for the past several weeks. I cringe in embarrassment every time I walk by it:
Any woman who thinks that this ridiculous outfit – what is apparently a swim suit, under a trench coat, with 6″ pink platform heels – is appropriate for any conceivable kind of event, be it party, beach, backyard, workplace, or even Halloween, is out of her mind.
Is this an indictment on the advertising world, that they think women are so gullible as to wear preposterous costumes like this? Or is it an indictment on women because, let’s face it, some gal somewhere must be forking out real $$ for this shit.
So ends my little rant.
11 years ago this evening, Paula and I were off to our Paris adventure. My favourite place, the Rodin museum.
My sister-in-law is in Rome eating pizza and visiting the Vatican.
I’m revising data-sharing contracts, working like a dog, and can’t figure out anything to do for my 25th wedding anniversary.
I need to reprioritize my life. Paula, we need to plan another trip. Stat.