you can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her read

In a fit of whimsy, I decided to wander down to the ROM this afternoon and see if they had any tickets left for their all-night extravaganza. By the time I got there, I was pretty grumpy; it was hot out, I'd forgotten my sunglasses, I hadn't showered yet, and there was a long line up. Plus, my iPod went on the fritz right before I left my apartment, so I was listening to my old mini-disc player, which pales in comparison to the smooth efficiency of my baby. But hey: something like this only happens so often. So I stood in line, and didn't kill the kids behind me, even though they had a hazy at best understanding of personal space. I can't stand being touched when I'm grouchy or stressed.

I ended up with tickets for three am. I get to roam the ROM in the middle of the night. Should be fabulous. I wandered over at around quarter to ten to check out the opening ceremonies. I'm a fan of both Sean Cullen and Paul Gross, but whoever wrote their banter should be shot. You'd think, with all those millions of dollars, that a few more could be scraped together to find a better writer. It's possible that I missed some underlying nuance, because I didn't hear the beginning, but honestly, what the hell was that? I milled around a little, but got annoyed and took off.