If I don't miss my guess by a college mile and if my calendar with the twee archaic maps is right, it's the fourth of December, which means there are only 17 days left of the days dwindling and dwindling until any scrap of sunlight feels like a secret swig of bourbon downed behind a dumpster. And then they get longer. Joy. There's a reason we celebrate Christmas then, even though Jesus was probably a Leo or something. Capricorn Jesus? Suuuuuuuure, Catholic Church. And every sperm is sacred, too.
This weekend didn't see me at the top of my game. Thursday's flu shot made me ill in a really bizarre way that included my pointing fingers feeling broken and a bi-polar tummy, which was trying as other physical type aches and pains were on the cards too and I drank far too much on Friday night.
I dealt by smoking lots of reefer and sleeping when I got sleepy, which means not-fit-for-print fun and frolic aside I've got nothing to tell you about besides Robert Hughes' memoirs being bitter and unpleasant, a bit of a nasty slog, but since I was sent a free review copy I have to review it soon or I'll stop getting free reveiw copies of things, and since it doesn't look like it's going to be a glowing review I have to read it carefully too.
Also, the Ansel Adams exhibit at the AGO is really, really worth seeing. It's up until January 4th so there's lots of time to do it. Go. I like the AGO. The special exhibition prices are, I think, prohibitive at $15 (I can't shake the feeling that the whole fucking point of a museum should be that they're free - my inner Palace of the People-type pinko speaking, I suppose) to the degree that one is tempted to go watch the new Bond movie instead. But the Ansel Adams exhibit is just breathtaking, especially to anybody who wants to know stuff about photographing stuff.
Motherfuck, time to start the work week.