![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Until Thursday I only knew Thanksgiving from American books and films. It seemed to be a lot like Christmas as far as awkward family reunions go, but without the numinous roots. Maybe for many people it is, but when ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
violentbec is hosting it's far more convivial, even if her lovely flat is ten minutes' labyrinth from the edge of forever. She's a darn fine cook, and if she says the Cheatin' Turkey is vegetarian and not just unfaithful, then I believe her. On our voyage back to the North kitty_collar and I decide that all London's bus shelters and buses should be converted into an enormous modular pub, but sadly neither of us has Ken's number on our 'phone.
On Friday I drop by the British Museum, as I often like to do if I'm in the area and it's not a weekend. The gods and heroes always like to see someone who knows them as more than sculpture, and the sheer presence of so much history always feels revitalising. Sadly I'm out of the loop on the day's early David Devant concerts, but Raichu and I make it to the Monarch where they're playing the Art Brut launch; she turns out to know the gracious Mr Argos from many years ago. Devant are wonderful, and even the strange old men who introduce them with a deviant song about polythene are passably entertaining, but the Monarch on a weekend is truly horrendous. I remember vowing never to return after the first Gutter Club - why couldn't I have remembered sooner? I don't think these people are predominantly Art Brut fans, though I recognise a few - they're Queenz of Noize fans. Or rather, fans of whatever happens to be in, the dead-eyed ligerati, and right now that's the QoNz. Hideous.
Saturday issparklepbass' birthday, and a veritable cavalcade of the more rarely-seen denizens of my friendslist. theresnorain has escaped the Midlands for the weekend (we bond Platonically, and that's the traditional meaning rather than the accurate one) and so has intermix (so nice to find a fellow Zionist other than beingjdc). Sadly I am tired, and this is compounded by accidentally drinking the worst wine I've had in at least two years. Oh, and by at least one trial which would reduce any lesser human to a quivering heap of Manics fandom - the Room of Rejection! As such, I wuss out disgracefully early and proceed to sleep for 11 hours. This means that Sunday never really starts, and as such cannot be documented here.
violentbec is hosting it's far more convivial, even if her lovely flat is ten minutes' labyrinth from the edge of forever. She's a darn fine cook, and if she says the Cheatin' Turkey is vegetarian and not just unfaithful, then I believe her. On our voyage back to the North kitty_collar and I decide that all London's bus shelters and buses should be converted into an enormous modular pub, but sadly neither of us has Ken's number on our 'phone. On Friday I drop by the British Museum, as I often like to do if I'm in the area and it's not a weekend. The gods and heroes always like to see someone who knows them as more than sculpture, and the sheer presence of so much history always feels revitalising. Sadly I'm out of the loop on the day's early David Devant concerts, but Raichu and I make it to the Monarch where they're playing the Art Brut launch; she turns out to know the gracious Mr Argos from many years ago. Devant are wonderful, and even the strange old men who introduce them with a deviant song about polythene are passably entertaining, but the Monarch on a weekend is truly horrendous. I remember vowing never to return after the first Gutter Club - why couldn't I have remembered sooner? I don't think these people are predominantly Art Brut fans, though I recognise a few - they're Queenz of Noize fans. Or rather, fans of whatever happens to be in, the dead-eyed ligerati, and right now that's the QoNz. Hideous.
Saturday is
sparklepbass' birthday, and a veritable cavalcade of the more rarely-seen denizens of my friendslist. theresnorain has escaped the Midlands for the weekend (we bond Platonically, and that's the traditional meaning rather than the accurate one) and so has intermix (so nice to find a fellow Zionist other than beingjdc). Sadly I am tired, and this is compounded by accidentally drinking the worst wine I've had in at least two years. Oh, and by at least one trial which would reduce any lesser human to a quivering heap of Manics fandom - the Room of Rejection! As such, I wuss out disgracefully early and proceed to sleep for 11 hours. This means that Sunday never really starts, and as such cannot be documented here.
