Thursday

Sunny and a bit cooler -- 71 degrees. Woke up around 4 and couldn't go back to sleep for a long time; when I did I dreamed about being on a train and having some kind of small pet with red fur that was sort of like a chinchilla.

This morning there were SIX blue jays in the back yard, so husband said such a grouping should be called a jamboree. Hee.

So. Need to go to grocery store today. In the meantime, have a couch kitty (it's only 20 seconds, go ahead) and a NY Times article about what it's like for a guy to have menopause. Really good, and so sadly true (especially the part about turning into a teenage girl from the 1970s).

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The Dark, Pressing Round

Only, y'know, not really. :-)

First things first ... the new fic from pwcorgigirl is just amazing, and I'm not just saying that because it's something I asked for. Heh. House, Wilson, and a promise to be kept. It's the kind of thing House is best at, and Wilson should know.

Long Way Down

Also (on a completely different note) I was reading about Francis Bacon tonight. The Irish painter, not the English philosopher/statesman. I was reading about him because I'd followed an Internet trail that began with a friend telling me she was watching Casino Royale, which led to me raising an eyebrow at a snap of a nekkid Daniel Craig (in an unfilled bathtub), from a movie called Love Is the Devil: Study for a Portrait of Francis Bacon, which led to the Wikipedia entry for Francis Bacon (the Irish painter, not the English philosopher/statesman, see above).

Daniel Craig played the part of George Dyer, Bacon's real-life "rough trade" lover. Dyer was a thief from the East End -- the story goes that Bacon had awakened one night to find Dyer in his apartment, in the process of robbing it, and that Bacon had said, "Take off your clothes and get in bed, and I won't call the police." So Dyer did, and that, as they say, was that.

Problem was, Bacon would get tired of his lower-class boyfriends after a while, and Dyer was no exception. The thief knew he was on the way out, and with Bacon's writer/artist/dilettante friends treating him like crap, he had pretty much dedicated his life to being a raging alcoholic. So he accompanied Bacon on one last trip to Paris for a show, and there he committed suicide. The whole story can be found here. And two years later, Bacon painted this:

Triptych, May-June 1973

It's the story of George Dyer's death in three panels.

And that's it. I'm not sure why I really wanted to post about this, but the story just stuck with me. No one here was a saint or a devil -- it was just a sad, dark tale, and all real.