I think this may be the longest I've gone without a web update. So for the three of you who follow this semi-regularly, I apologize.
If it makes you feel any better, the last time I wrote in my personal, handwritten journal was January 28. You, dear reader, are my number one priority...after boyfriend, schoolwork, job searches, feeding myself, bathing, friends, the Onion, bunnies, U2, Virgin radio, the Winged Nike of Samothrace, baked beans, and dictionary.com. But you're right up there.
But I feel I have a valid excuse for my negligence. Jeffrey and I have been exploring London. We've done neat-o things such as Westminster Abbey, the Wallace Collection, the National Gallery, the Tower of London, and the British Museum. As an added bonus, John Ciocci was in town as well, and we spent Wednesday night taking strange pictures with Roman stautes at the aforementioned British Museum. Is it wrong that my favorite part of the British Museum is the corpses? I'm utterly fascinated with them -- how old they are, how well preserved, how they were found, and what was found with them in their tombs (if they had tombs, unlike the poor neolithic schmuck who was bashed in the head). I even bought a book about what preserved remains tell us about history. Understand please that I abhor violence and destruction, but once it's established, I love watching forensic science shows about how they solve the mystery. I think it's neat.
Maybe I shouldn't be telling you this.
I also truly loved the National Gallery. Art museums are such geeky fun. Going to a major art museum for the first time is great, especially if you just go without a guide and set off to conquer as many rooms as you can until you get too tired to continue and need to sit down and eat Indian food. Every corner is a new surprise. Ooh! The Supper at Emmaus! Ah! Jan Van Eyck's Arnolfini Wedding! Golly! The Wilton Diptych! Neat! Some painting I don't know with some dude's severed head!
There I go again. All apologies.
Speaking of gruesome, the public service announcements here are way brutal to the point of being traumatizing. I remember when I was four years old and having to run out of the room when some of the drinking and driving PSAs in the eighties came on, and having watched British TV for a week in the hotel, I'm having severe flashbacks. One features a family of cartoon zebras who are about to have a baby, and the baby dies because YOU didn't give enough to the Baby Fund, or whatever it is. I was too horrified to catch the name of the charity. My favorite features a live action dad inflicting all manner of abuse on his cartoon son, who bounces off walls with little damage to his person -- until real dad throws cartoon son downstairs, who turns into a real kid lying unconscious at the bottom. Message: "Real kids don't bounce back." Robyn's reaction: "Good God, Jeffrey change the channel." There's a billboard of this ad campaign outside my dorm now. I'm thrilled.
Also, the ravens at the Tower of London are super neat.
And to think I thought I wouldn't have enough to write about.
Robyn
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