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+ It is ~30deg colder than this time yesterday. I just threw on a scarf with my jacket, but I am greatly amused by people bundled up in parkas and gloves and hats on the light rail. It's not even freezing.
+ The Alley Theatre is producing Mrs. Warren's Profession, and we saw it last night. Both MrIris and I are normally fans of Shaw's work, but this is one of the most humorless plays in his catalogue. I appreciate the message (prostitution is a result of gender discrimination and unequal employment and social conditions, not wickedness on the part of women) but two and half hours of the prudish daughter's attitude and the characters talking about prostitution without actually saying the word irked me. And I've never understood the underlying thing between Vivie and Frank. Mrs. Warren says at one point that no one that Vivie has met is her father. She's met Frank's father, so the titillating (to Victorian audiences?) idea that they would be committing incest, as announced by Crofts? Is it just because he's been offended and wants to offend? What? (See, this is why I did science in school. I'm sure there's some deep meaning here that I miss. Nuances fly right over my head.) Mrs. Warren's costumes, though. WANT. Gorgeous.
+ I couldn't find my phone or iPod this AM (perhaps because I left the house before caffeinating, and was incoherent). Now I can't drown out my labmates. DD: (I prefer not to hear the sniffling, snorting noises that make me want to scream, "BLOW YOUR DAMN NOSE!" all the time.)
+ Where is the gen-fic surrounding tour shenanigating with Ian, Singer, Beckett, and Sisky on the Hello, My Name Is... Tour? WHERE? I know I txted a few sentences to Tabby, but c'mon. That can't be IT, can it? I mean, Singer locked himself in the bus, proving that their van karma extends to other bands' buses. Tell me how it happened, people!
+ For some reason, I've had this one line from Jane Eyre in my head for the last hour: [Y]et in some things he is inexorable as death. Don't ask me why. I haven't even reread JE in the last few months.
+ The Alley Theatre is producing Mrs. Warren's Profession, and we saw it last night. Both MrIris and I are normally fans of Shaw's work, but this is one of the most humorless plays in his catalogue. I appreciate the message (prostitution is a result of gender discrimination and unequal employment and social conditions, not wickedness on the part of women) but two and half hours of the prudish daughter's attitude and the characters talking about prostitution without actually saying the word irked me. And I've never understood the underlying thing between Vivie and Frank. Mrs. Warren says at one point that no one that Vivie has met is her father. She's met Frank's father, so the titillating (to Victorian audiences?) idea that they would be committing incest, as announced by Crofts? Is it just because he's been offended and wants to offend? What? (See, this is why I did science in school. I'm sure there's some deep meaning here that I miss. Nuances fly right over my head.) Mrs. Warren's costumes, though. WANT. Gorgeous.
+ I couldn't find my phone or iPod this AM (perhaps because I left the house before caffeinating, and was incoherent). Now I can't drown out my labmates. DD: (I prefer not to hear the sniffling, snorting noises that make me want to scream, "BLOW YOUR DAMN NOSE!" all the time.)
+ Where is the gen-fic surrounding tour shenanigating with Ian, Singer, Beckett, and Sisky on the Hello, My Name Is... Tour? WHERE? I know I txted a few sentences to Tabby, but c'mon. That can't be IT, can it? I mean, Singer locked himself in the bus, proving that their van karma extends to other bands' buses. Tell me how it happened, people!
+ For some reason, I've had this one line from Jane Eyre in my head for the last hour: [Y]et in some things he is inexorable as death. Don't ask me why. I haven't even reread JE in the last few months.
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