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hugo a go go
Aug. 17th, 2014 01:42 pmSo I did the whole Hugo A Go Go thing on the weekend. We were studying Les Misérables in philosophy class as part of our examination of what is a 'good man' and I heard about the exhibition, so, ticking the 'educational' box, off I went.
I think it's really cool, these cities that tie together exhibitions, in this case, Les Misérables, the musical, was playing down in Melbs, so the library down there is hosting an exhibition on the man, the manuscript and the musical.
Yes, the actual manuscript of Les Misérables (gosh and golly!) with scribbles, and the inky quills used to write it, and photos of the man bent over his desk. Wow (though my favourite photo was of M. Hugo straddling a chair ala Christine Keeler, it bemused).
There were also old maps of Paris, photos taken by the Hugo family, books of like minded contemporaries (Dickens, Dumas, etc.), posters of film and theatre versions (the drawing of the 1920s Japanese actor as Jean Valjean will be haunting my nightmares for days to come), copies of international editions, a really cute mashup of all the various film versions to make a ten minute movie in the theatrette, costumes from the film and stage productions, videos, music, props, more posters. Yep, everything you ever wanted to know about Les Mis and then some.
I thought I'd have to elbow people out of the way to get a glimpse of the cabinets, but no. How sad. People, they have the frickin manuscript there. The Actual Book.
( more: elementary )
I think it's really cool, these cities that tie together exhibitions, in this case, Les Misérables, the musical, was playing down in Melbs, so the library down there is hosting an exhibition on the man, the manuscript and the musical.
Yes, the actual manuscript of Les Misérables (gosh and golly!) with scribbles, and the inky quills used to write it, and photos of the man bent over his desk. Wow (though my favourite photo was of M. Hugo straddling a chair ala Christine Keeler, it bemused).
There were also old maps of Paris, photos taken by the Hugo family, books of like minded contemporaries (Dickens, Dumas, etc.), posters of film and theatre versions (the drawing of the 1920s Japanese actor as Jean Valjean will be haunting my nightmares for days to come), copies of international editions, a really cute mashup of all the various film versions to make a ten minute movie in the theatrette, costumes from the film and stage productions, videos, music, props, more posters. Yep, everything you ever wanted to know about Les Mis and then some.
I thought I'd have to elbow people out of the way to get a glimpse of the cabinets, but no. How sad. People, they have the frickin manuscript there. The Actual Book.
( more: elementary )
of cabbages and kings
Jun. 29th, 2014 11:37 amThe biggest worry, for me, of course, was the extreme likihood of me flipping a feminine hygiene product out of my bag and into the lap of the King Slayer as I fumbled and flustered upon approach (I have form in this area, sad to say). Fortunately events conspired to make this scenario impossible. Ah, well.
So that was Sunday, all effed up, and I was so unwell, too. Should have stayed on the couch wrapped up in fluffy dressing gown, with a nice hot cup of tea and a Smash marathon on the telly. In my heart of hearts I knew it was the one true plan for Sunday. Everything else was stuff up city.
Still, it wasn't all bad. I did buy myself a replica leather flying helmet, just like I've always wanted. And I owned all of, what, ten seconds. Then Himself put it on, and it seems I'd bought Himself a replica leather flying helmet (and goggles), just like he's always wanted. Le sigh.
At least Friday was kinda cool. The usual departure lounge cake at work, then I took my time in lieu and bunked off early to the con (who does cons on a work day?) and queued up for ages, but I did see John Barrowman and Stan Lee, both very amusing.
I think the highlights were Stan Lee correcting everyone's grammar (in between being the coolest grandpa you never had) and John's shitty cat story (made perfect by Scott hovering nearby, thus I could turn to see his reaction to everything John said, much pained face palming, tee hee).
John was bouncing all over the place, and yes, Stan Lee's patter was well rehearesed and polished, but as I heard him answer the same question three times in the weekend, never once telling the person he'd already answered that, I can understand why he has his routine down. And yes, there aren't too many people around left to refute Stan's versions of events, but who cares. He was funny, the way old New York guys of a certain era were (we'll never see his like again) and he's body of work is massively impressive, so three cheers for Stan the man. He was sweet, joyful, excited and seemingly happy to tell the origin stories, and I did so love the bitchy asides at editorial or creative decisions by others he's still not happy about. Heh. (Holds a grudge, old Stan).
The queue for autographs was less fun, three very cold and crampy hours. Hey, I wonder if my unused tokens will ever be collector items? I doubt it, but I'm saving them in any case.
I also finally saw, and met, young Jamie Bamber (he of Hornblower fame) and he was really sweet when I told him I'd once seen him on stage in Liverpool, of all places.
Michael Rosenbaum, late of Smallville, and precious little else, was really fun, doing his own thing, wandering amongst the crowd, winding up the con organisers (I think I enjoyed that almost as much as young Rosenbaum did).
( more: boys will be boys )
So that was Sunday, all effed up, and I was so unwell, too. Should have stayed on the couch wrapped up in fluffy dressing gown, with a nice hot cup of tea and a Smash marathon on the telly. In my heart of hearts I knew it was the one true plan for Sunday. Everything else was stuff up city.
Still, it wasn't all bad. I did buy myself a replica leather flying helmet, just like I've always wanted. And I owned all of, what, ten seconds. Then Himself put it on, and it seems I'd bought Himself a replica leather flying helmet (and goggles), just like he's always wanted. Le sigh.
At least Friday was kinda cool. The usual departure lounge cake at work, then I took my time in lieu and bunked off early to the con (who does cons on a work day?) and queued up for ages, but I did see John Barrowman and Stan Lee, both very amusing.
I think the highlights were Stan Lee correcting everyone's grammar (in between being the coolest grandpa you never had) and John's shitty cat story (made perfect by Scott hovering nearby, thus I could turn to see his reaction to everything John said, much pained face palming, tee hee).
John was bouncing all over the place, and yes, Stan Lee's patter was well rehearesed and polished, but as I heard him answer the same question three times in the weekend, never once telling the person he'd already answered that, I can understand why he has his routine down. And yes, there aren't too many people around left to refute Stan's versions of events, but who cares. He was funny, the way old New York guys of a certain era were (we'll never see his like again) and he's body of work is massively impressive, so three cheers for Stan the man. He was sweet, joyful, excited and seemingly happy to tell the origin stories, and I did so love the bitchy asides at editorial or creative decisions by others he's still not happy about. Heh. (Holds a grudge, old Stan).
The queue for autographs was less fun, three very cold and crampy hours. Hey, I wonder if my unused tokens will ever be collector items? I doubt it, but I'm saving them in any case.
I also finally saw, and met, young Jamie Bamber (he of Hornblower fame) and he was really sweet when I told him I'd once seen him on stage in Liverpool, of all places.
Michael Rosenbaum, late of Smallville, and precious little else, was really fun, doing his own thing, wandering amongst the crowd, winding up the con organisers (I think I enjoyed that almost as much as young Rosenbaum did).
( more: boys will be boys )
the deerstalker will not be signed
May. 11th, 2014 01:49 pmSo I saw Hugh Laurie and his band last night, and it was fun, like jump up in your seat and dance fun. I heard somebody say a touch loudly and unkindly as we left the theatre that as a singer Hugh was a great actor. That, I thought was somewhat unfair. Okay, so he can't belt it out like the girls in the band, but who could, and he seemed so wonderfully happy to bash away at the piano it'd be churlish to deny him his very obvious joy.
Besides, it was Hugh, the Hugh I grew up with (ie, not House), so it was like 30% Bertie and 60% George (snerk). In fact I was midly disappointed he didn't do Minnie the Moocher, such was his rendition in Jeeves and Wooster I still sing it on occasion. So sweet, so funny, so goofy.
As was the show. I had a ball, I really, really did. It was just like that Caberet night last year with Barry Humphries and Meow Meow, both with sometime comedians, sometime actors taking the mic and belting out some very carefully curated and beloved vintage tunes that were quirky, darkly funny, sexy, silly or heartbreaking. It was just like that, so I was thrilled. It was like having two masterclasses with two puckish professors taking you through a very personal history of music. Only that sounds way more dry than it was. It totally rocked, like bring the house down rocked. Say what you like, but the man knows how to put on a show.
So that was fun, and I did like his admiration of the beloved old palace that is the State Theatre (where too much is never enough), and his very obvious dislike of modern boxes, the ones owned by accounting firms, and that look it. You know the sort. Ah, a kindred spirit. Not sure how much longer we can keep the State, but it's not like I don't love it with due reverence and awe every time I go there. Ya gotta see the Butterfly Room. Ya just gotta.
Anyways, that was that. What else? Took some photos of how I spent the hols (below), saw Benedict Cumberbatch up close and far away, and asked Andrew Upton a very silly question at a Q&A for Mojo.
( more: The Cumberbatch and creepy clowns )
Besides, it was Hugh, the Hugh I grew up with (ie, not House), so it was like 30% Bertie and 60% George (snerk). In fact I was midly disappointed he didn't do Minnie the Moocher, such was his rendition in Jeeves and Wooster I still sing it on occasion. So sweet, so funny, so goofy.
As was the show. I had a ball, I really, really did. It was just like that Caberet night last year with Barry Humphries and Meow Meow, both with sometime comedians, sometime actors taking the mic and belting out some very carefully curated and beloved vintage tunes that were quirky, darkly funny, sexy, silly or heartbreaking. It was just like that, so I was thrilled. It was like having two masterclasses with two puckish professors taking you through a very personal history of music. Only that sounds way more dry than it was. It totally rocked, like bring the house down rocked. Say what you like, but the man knows how to put on a show.
So that was fun, and I did like his admiration of the beloved old palace that is the State Theatre (where too much is never enough), and his very obvious dislike of modern boxes, the ones owned by accounting firms, and that look it. You know the sort. Ah, a kindred spirit. Not sure how much longer we can keep the State, but it's not like I don't love it with due reverence and awe every time I go there. Ya gotta see the Butterfly Room. Ya just gotta.
Anyways, that was that. What else? Took some photos of how I spent the hols (below), saw Benedict Cumberbatch up close and far away, and asked Andrew Upton a very silly question at a Q&A for Mojo.
( more: The Cumberbatch and creepy clowns )
hello, sailor
Apr. 19th, 2014 12:48 pmHow to make a thunderstorm: stand up and declare that one is off to a) get online and b) watch Elementary. The first flash and crack sliced down before I'd even finished my declaration, and this with my weather app still showing 'fine'. (If my tablet camera still worked, I'd post you a series of selfies of me standing in teeming rain with that f@#king app still showing happy smiley sunshine icons).
Yeah, sure I had my tablet, but I was off to wrestle with flash/java sites, and as my poor wheezing Dell no longer has sound or battery power it can only be operated plugged in, and, as I clearly can't afford a new PC right now, that wasn't happening.
Call me crazy but there it is, and, as we took a direct hit (Kapow!) about ten minutes later, I stand by my nervous nellyness. So, couldn't watch tv either as alas my year old tablet is too old to download any video players (and museum worthy old tv was turned off, too). Le sigh.
So I finished off my Wilkie Collins book (or tried to, the direct hit threw me out of bed and made for a somewhat restless night, as I'm a slave to the fight or flight response).
That's how the weekend ended. And here I was going to tell you, not about going out, going to class, or dangling from ladders, because I did none of those things. I was still suffering from the week that was, so I decided on a course of cheap wine and a dvd remote. (Hey, it almost scanned).
Ok, no cheap wine, but a disturbing amount of 70s SF telly, and I do mean disturbing. It wasn't just one episode that started out so Charles Carmichael I was giggling, and that's before we got to the tuxedo that turned inside out into a wetsuit (flail!) and the secret lift that went down to the supervillain man cave under a cemetery (yeah, baby, yeah).
Oh, no, that I could cope with, ditto anything the good Doctor wanted to through at me, up to and including the Loch Ness Monster (just when I decided to spend Sunday in pure works of goodness I found a marathon of Tom Baker episodes on SyFy, hello couch, ta ta good intentions).
( more: livin' in the seventies )
Yeah, sure I had my tablet, but I was off to wrestle with flash/java sites, and as my poor wheezing Dell no longer has sound or battery power it can only be operated plugged in, and, as I clearly can't afford a new PC right now, that wasn't happening.
Call me crazy but there it is, and, as we took a direct hit (Kapow!) about ten minutes later, I stand by my nervous nellyness. So, couldn't watch tv either as alas my year old tablet is too old to download any video players (and museum worthy old tv was turned off, too). Le sigh.
So I finished off my Wilkie Collins book (or tried to, the direct hit threw me out of bed and made for a somewhat restless night, as I'm a slave to the fight or flight response).
That's how the weekend ended. And here I was going to tell you, not about going out, going to class, or dangling from ladders, because I did none of those things. I was still suffering from the week that was, so I decided on a course of cheap wine and a dvd remote. (Hey, it almost scanned).
Ok, no cheap wine, but a disturbing amount of 70s SF telly, and I do mean disturbing. It wasn't just one episode that started out so Charles Carmichael I was giggling, and that's before we got to the tuxedo that turned inside out into a wetsuit (flail!) and the secret lift that went down to the supervillain man cave under a cemetery (yeah, baby, yeah).
Oh, no, that I could cope with, ditto anything the good Doctor wanted to through at me, up to and including the Loch Ness Monster (just when I decided to spend Sunday in pure works of goodness I found a marathon of Tom Baker episodes on SyFy, hello couch, ta ta good intentions).
( more: livin' in the seventies )
suddenly last summer
Mar. 30th, 2014 01:57 pmThat guy was smiling at me oddly (no one ever, ever smiles at me) and it caused me to think, with sudden alarm: he didn't see me the other night? He doesn't have photos?
Nah. Never gonna happen. Mercifully, I never run into anyone I know, anywhere, ever. Unlike Himself, where it doesn't matter if it's an exhibition, play, band, film, talk, whatever, he'll always run into someone he knows, and pretend like I'm not there. Le sigh.
Just goes to show, though, how I'm stuck riding life's bus with folks with whom I share absolutely no common interests at all. Which is kinda sad, a bit, and it's not like my interests aren't wide ranging. Which is another word for common. Don't care. It's why I love my philosophy prof, who is always willing to reference the Nietzschean themes in Groundhog Day.
( more: war and piss )
Nah. Never gonna happen. Mercifully, I never run into anyone I know, anywhere, ever. Unlike Himself, where it doesn't matter if it's an exhibition, play, band, film, talk, whatever, he'll always run into someone he knows, and pretend like I'm not there. Le sigh.
Just goes to show, though, how I'm stuck riding life's bus with folks with whom I share absolutely no common interests at all. Which is kinda sad, a bit, and it's not like my interests aren't wide ranging. Which is another word for common. Don't care. It's why I love my philosophy prof, who is always willing to reference the Nietzschean themes in Groundhog Day.
( more: war and piss )
burn the witch
Nov. 15th, 2013 08:28 amEven cranky one eyed parrots get the blues. Or maybe he was all sooky and wanting to snuggle because I had the blues. Big time. It's work. I know I'm not meant to talk about it, but to end up with the stuff I was trained at and liked to do given to others, and back with the deadening filing and errand running I used to do when I was 17, it's just destroying. Utterly destroying.
That said, wasn't Ripper Street a treat last night?
( more: enterprises that were service for all mankind )
That said, wasn't Ripper Street a treat last night?
( more: enterprises that were service for all mankind )
everybody weng chiang tonight
Oct. 7th, 2013 07:59 pmAs I said, if I need a reason to smile today, and I will, I can think of last night's Boardwalk Empire. I'd had a frankly dreadful day and was in the mood for a bit of orchestrated violence, and, well, Boardwalk delivers. There were some darkly comic moments, all concerning that merry band the Capones, but I did giggle and smirk. It was cathartic.
Today I'm in dazzle camouflage, because the mousey blacks and browns weren't working as far as deterring threats go (and there were/are threats), so I figured be loud, be a bigger target. Not sure it'll work, but man, this dress is crazy when you stand in sunlight. Heh.
It was either that or stay in bed, and that was option 1 to a gazillion, but I did get out of bed. Don't know why, I'm sure to cop it again today. I'm rather tired of people being horrid.
So, plays? Yes, sort of. Despite the ruination of my weekend I did slip out to see a screening of The Globe's Twelth Night again, because it's too funny (and having begged them to screen close by, I feel morally obliged). It was partially ruined by two idiots who staggered in late, climbed over just about everyone to get some seats, then talked loudly to each other, you know, all 'who's that' and 'why is he doing that' and everyone else is grinding their teeth and wishing they'd shut the fuck up for five seconds and maybe they'd catch a bit of plot, but no.
We thought maybe they'd just come for Stephen Fry, but no, they talked through all of his bits, too.
( more: who da man? )
Today I'm in dazzle camouflage, because the mousey blacks and browns weren't working as far as deterring threats go (and there were/are threats), so I figured be loud, be a bigger target. Not sure it'll work, but man, this dress is crazy when you stand in sunlight. Heh.
It was either that or stay in bed, and that was option 1 to a gazillion, but I did get out of bed. Don't know why, I'm sure to cop it again today. I'm rather tired of people being horrid.
So, plays? Yes, sort of. Despite the ruination of my weekend I did slip out to see a screening of The Globe's Twelth Night again, because it's too funny (and having begged them to screen close by, I feel morally obliged). It was partially ruined by two idiots who staggered in late, climbed over just about everyone to get some seats, then talked loudly to each other, you know, all 'who's that' and 'why is he doing that' and everyone else is grinding their teeth and wishing they'd shut the fuck up for five seconds and maybe they'd catch a bit of plot, but no.
We thought maybe they'd just come for Stephen Fry, but no, they talked through all of his bits, too.
( more: who da man? )
boots were made for sulking
Sep. 8th, 2013 05:30 pmI'm wearing my boots today, the ones I cursed and cursed myself for impulse buying and having to awkwardly lug all the way back from Canberra. I love them so, and they've hardly been off my feet since. I know what I like. Deep down, I do.
Had to go re-buy a book I'd reluctantly been made to relinquish earlier (why is it always my stuff that has to go in the skip), which I'm re-aquainting myself with (it's From Hell by Mr Alan Moore, if you're curious, a rather topical read for me right now, while I'm carrying Poe on the bus/train). I miss my older (more valuable) copy though.
( more: the speckled spinster )
Had to go re-buy a book I'd reluctantly been made to relinquish earlier (why is it always my stuff that has to go in the skip), which I'm re-aquainting myself with (it's From Hell by Mr Alan Moore, if you're curious, a rather topical read for me right now, while I'm carrying Poe on the bus/train). I miss my older (more valuable) copy though.
( more: the speckled spinster )
'Let's get gay', decided the erstwhile hero of the book I'm reading right now. It's page 162 and I'm thinking, well, you know what I'm thinking.
It isn't just the lashings of Edwardian slang that makes it almost feel like one is ploughing through a novel in some devilish version of Polari or Nadsat (and there's an episode of Doctor Who where the aliens are actually speaking Polari, and the Tardis doesn't translate it. What up with that, then?).
It's just that these jolly old boys own adventures, which I picked up for v.cheap at a remainder bookshop, well, they're jolly fun, but man, do they lend themselves to a certain reading, with the whole chaps only all boys together thing. I'm sure you understand, my dear old bean.
That minor eyebrow raise aside, they're still rollicking fun (so long as one takes all the king and country larks with lashings of salt and ginger beer) and have brightened my mornings on the bus (because sometimes I'm not in the mood to struggle through a homework text before dawn). And they'd never be printed in Russia anyway, if the rabidly tory opinions of the protagonists are anything to go by (not a fan of the ragged trousered radical, by any stretch, for his lack of style as much as his politics, old bean).
( more: tiddlywinks )
It isn't just the lashings of Edwardian slang that makes it almost feel like one is ploughing through a novel in some devilish version of Polari or Nadsat (and there's an episode of Doctor Who where the aliens are actually speaking Polari, and the Tardis doesn't translate it. What up with that, then?).
It's just that these jolly old boys own adventures, which I picked up for v.cheap at a remainder bookshop, well, they're jolly fun, but man, do they lend themselves to a certain reading, with the whole chaps only all boys together thing. I'm sure you understand, my dear old bean.
That minor eyebrow raise aside, they're still rollicking fun (so long as one takes all the king and country larks with lashings of salt and ginger beer) and have brightened my mornings on the bus (because sometimes I'm not in the mood to struggle through a homework text before dawn). And they'd never be printed in Russia anyway, if the rabidly tory opinions of the protagonists are anything to go by (not a fan of the ragged trousered radical, by any stretch, for his lack of style as much as his politics, old bean).
( more: tiddlywinks )
