Beer & Russians
But no word on the butt.
I was going to a gallery show opening for some work of a Cuban friend that was being held in Russian art gallery due to space available from a cancelled show.
I got to the area early and first off saw a camera shop where I inquired about batteries that replace mercury batteries; the clerk seemed nonplused, but helped me look at the battery rack. After going through the entire rack, we found the exact zinc-air replacement for the mercury battery; however, I still can't tell if the light meter works OK. I can guess at apertures and exposures; or better yet, get a damned digital.
I walked down St. Elmo Avenue twice and didn't see the gallery, so I put my glasses on and looked for the address. Why I had walked by it was because it was upstairs from a Japanese Nail Salon and Massage Joint. So, after seeing the small sign for the "Backroom Gallery," I noted that I still had an hour and backtracked to a brew pub. Being a fan of good beer, I found where the taps were (at the end of the bar) and sat there so as to be assured of speedy service and the shortest possible time from tap to tummy.
Of course, I let the pints breathe a bit also to explore the aspects. I started with the darkest and worked to the lightest; next time I'll do it light to dark.
The dark was good, the brown OK, the red remarkable, the ale excellent, and the regular beer OK. Light to dark, I might have different opinions. This brew pub is in a county where there is no smoking in any restaurant, but the same outfit has a closer brew pub that not only allows smoking but has a selection of fine cigars and single malt Scotch. One neat thing is that they have beer to-go (takeaway) in big jugs with tops like a Grolsh bottle having wire and a ceramic stopper with a rubber washer that lets the beer breathe but maintains some pressure. So, after six pints (two pints of the Stout and one of each of the other four) I was thus steeled for a gallery opening.
I got there and walked up the stairs to a gallery of two small rooms; my friend's stuff was on exhibit in the front room of the backroom gallery. In the backroom of the backroom gallery was the usual spread of wine and cheese. Also, there was the owner and two guys who looked like Russian teamsters; they were both a little shorter than me but 50% wider. I had noticed them outside on the street earlier and commented, "Hey! Those look like Russian guys!" One of them was a painter and the other a jeweler.
The painter, Vladimir Burkin, draws cartoons, caricatures, and paints like van Aeken el Bosco (H. Bosch,) and Mir. There was a steady stream of people, several bought artwork, and a good time was had by all. There were a few Russian women who were breathtakingly beautiful. The gallery owner was born in Siberia in the middle of winter and she has a degree in physics. One young Russian guy I was telling about seeing the Russian Fort in California that was a fur-trading outpost, it has old cannons with Cyrillic writing cast into them. He said yeah! he had been there and told me that there was a big trade in seal fur in those days. I lamented that while they probably had lots of meat in those primitive times, there was probably little to drink. I had vaguely hoped for the Russian gallery to have at least five bottles of assorted rare vodka and maybe a kilo of triple-0 beluga. But no, it was the regular wine&cheese and strawberries, grapes, melon, etc... nothing to complain about, but you never know when manna will fall.
A couple of the people whom I talked with were Russians but fooled me by having perfect English. One Russian woman ticked me off a bit by finding a flaw in one of my friend's paintings: there was an exterior of a house with an open door that gave the impression of comings and goings. The top of one exterior wall angle appeared to be a right-angle but closer to the door a lighter shading made it seem less than a 90 angle. The young woman early on told me that she was Russian but I don't think that was grounds for calling an angle shift a fatal flaw; to me it seemed more of a perceptual trick that shifted the center of attention to the door in the painting.
I finally got to meet my friend's husband who is a professional writer. He is a science fiction writer, but he must be writing under a nomme de plume because I have not found anything under his name. He seems not to care much for Spider Robinson, but seems at least aware of most of the sci-fi guys and perhaps his fiction reading has ranged farther than mine. He smiled when I mentioned HPL --and when I said that I thought HPL was having quite a resurgence in popularity opined that HPL had never gone away.
What I learned about Russians and Russian Art Galleries: Not all Russians dress like Cossacks. Their pop-music is strange but nice! Not all Russians are communists. Not all Russians are going to drop a nookiler war on my head. Not all Russians walk around with their pockets full of vodka and caviar. And some Russians are very good painters.
This concludes the regularly scheduled broadcast.
I got to the area early and first off saw a camera shop where I inquired about batteries that replace mercury batteries; the clerk seemed nonplused, but helped me look at the battery rack. After going through the entire rack, we found the exact zinc-air replacement for the mercury battery; however, I still can't tell if the light meter works OK. I can guess at apertures and exposures; or better yet, get a damned digital.
I walked down St. Elmo Avenue twice and didn't see the gallery, so I put my glasses on and looked for the address. Why I had walked by it was because it was upstairs from a Japanese Nail Salon and Massage Joint. So, after seeing the small sign for the "Backroom Gallery," I noted that I still had an hour and backtracked to a brew pub. Being a fan of good beer, I found where the taps were (at the end of the bar) and sat there so as to be assured of speedy service and the shortest possible time from tap to tummy.
Of course, I let the pints breathe a bit also to explore the aspects. I started with the darkest and worked to the lightest; next time I'll do it light to dark.
The dark was good, the brown OK, the red remarkable, the ale excellent, and the regular beer OK. Light to dark, I might have different opinions. This brew pub is in a county where there is no smoking in any restaurant, but the same outfit has a closer brew pub that not only allows smoking but has a selection of fine cigars and single malt Scotch. One neat thing is that they have beer to-go (takeaway) in big jugs with tops like a Grolsh bottle having wire and a ceramic stopper with a rubber washer that lets the beer breathe but maintains some pressure. So, after six pints (two pints of the Stout and one of each of the other four) I was thus steeled for a gallery opening.
I got there and walked up the stairs to a gallery of two small rooms; my friend's stuff was on exhibit in the front room of the backroom gallery. In the backroom of the backroom gallery was the usual spread of wine and cheese. Also, there was the owner and two guys who looked like Russian teamsters; they were both a little shorter than me but 50% wider. I had noticed them outside on the street earlier and commented, "Hey! Those look like Russian guys!" One of them was a painter and the other a jeweler.
The painter, Vladimir Burkin, draws cartoons, caricatures, and paints like van Aeken el Bosco (H. Bosch,) and Mir. There was a steady stream of people, several bought artwork, and a good time was had by all. There were a few Russian women who were breathtakingly beautiful. The gallery owner was born in Siberia in the middle of winter and she has a degree in physics. One young Russian guy I was telling about seeing the Russian Fort in California that was a fur-trading outpost, it has old cannons with Cyrillic writing cast into them. He said yeah! he had been there and told me that there was a big trade in seal fur in those days. I lamented that while they probably had lots of meat in those primitive times, there was probably little to drink. I had vaguely hoped for the Russian gallery to have at least five bottles of assorted rare vodka and maybe a kilo of triple-0 beluga. But no, it was the regular wine&cheese and strawberries, grapes, melon, etc... nothing to complain about, but you never know when manna will fall.
A couple of the people whom I talked with were Russians but fooled me by having perfect English. One Russian woman ticked me off a bit by finding a flaw in one of my friend's paintings: there was an exterior of a house with an open door that gave the impression of comings and goings. The top of one exterior wall angle appeared to be a right-angle but closer to the door a lighter shading made it seem less than a 90 angle. The young woman early on told me that she was Russian but I don't think that was grounds for calling an angle shift a fatal flaw; to me it seemed more of a perceptual trick that shifted the center of attention to the door in the painting.
I finally got to meet my friend's husband who is a professional writer. He is a science fiction writer, but he must be writing under a nomme de plume because I have not found anything under his name. He seems not to care much for Spider Robinson, but seems at least aware of most of the sci-fi guys and perhaps his fiction reading has ranged farther than mine. He smiled when I mentioned HPL --and when I said that I thought HPL was having quite a resurgence in popularity opined that HPL had never gone away.
What I learned about Russians and Russian Art Galleries: Not all Russians dress like Cossacks. Their pop-music is strange but nice! Not all Russians are communists. Not all Russians are going to drop a nookiler war on my head. Not all Russians walk around with their pockets full of vodka and caviar. And some Russians are very good painters.
This concludes the regularly scheduled broadcast.