George Washington. I kept seeing the previews for this film in the States but finally saw it in England. It was amazing, and I'm bummed that it left American theaters so long ago I can't even bludgeon all my friends into seeing it. This film by David Gordon Green focuses on a group of friends growing up together in North Carolina poverty and asks the question: What makes someone a hero? Achingly beautiful, George Washington held me absolutely captivated despite the united forces of jet lag and beer conspiring against me on my first night in town.

"Surrealism: Desire Unbound" at the Tate Modern. In 1924 a surrealist advertising flyer stated, "If you love love, you'll love surrealism." I'm pretty damn bitter about love right now, and I still found plenty to love in this show. "Desire Unbound" made no attempt to hide how sexually obsessed the surrealists were, even devoting an entire room to the letters and objects generated by the complicated relationships between the artists and their muses. I found Oppenheim's teacup standing on its own as sheer icon, and one of my favorite Magritte paintings was there as well (the lovers kissing with shrouds hiding both of their faces). Miró's sublime squiggles, Duchamp's large glass, Cornell's exquisite boxes, Cahun's gender-bending photographs, and Bourgeois's epic genitalia were all present and accounted for. In addition to the usual suspects the exhibit featured many artists who worked outside the main thrust of surrealism, including a room that seemed very much informed by the women and surrealism exhibit that was at SFMOMA a couple years back.

Katharina Fritsch at the Tate Modern. When I moved to San Francisco in 1997 SFMOMA was showing the first-ever retrospective of Fritsch's work, securing her a place in my heart forever. I'd seen many of the pieces in the Tate exhibition before, but I can never get sick of seeing rings of menacing poodles or a giant rat perched on top of a sleeping man. "Monk", "Doctor", and "Dealer" were new to me though, and they were particularly effective shown as a trio. Three life-size human figures cast in plaster stand facing the viewer. The monk is on the left and is painted flat black. The doctor in the middle is really just a pure white skeleton wearing a pure white uniform. The dealer (as in "art dealer", I would assume) on the right glows bright red and wears a sensitive ponytail while a cloven hoof peeks out from one of his trouser legs. Wonderfully nightmarish kitsch.

"The Homecoming" at the Comedy Theatre. My first Pinter play! Are they all this fucked up? Ian Holm plays Max, widower and father of three sons. The eldest of his sons arrives with his gorgeous wife Ruth on a surprise visit after not having been home for years and after never even having told his father he had gotten married. The moment Max claps eyes on Ruth he screams at his son for bringing a whore into the house while Ruth just stands there and takes it. Max's impressions turned out to be more prescient than I first gave him credit for. Lia Williams as Ruth really rules the play, though Ian Hart is also marvelously slimey as Lenny. I think my mouth was hanging open in shock for the full second half of the play. In a good way.

Brighton. The Royal Pavilion is one of the most gloriously tacky buildings I've ever seen. I highly recommend it as proof that wealth cannot buy taste. Even on an overcast day the sea was beautiful, and I beat back my fear of walking on a rickety wooden structure over a raging ocean to explore the Palace Pier a bit. I almost ponied up to have my palm read, but then I decided the results might just depress me.

"Rembrandt's Women" at the Royal Academy. Rembrandt's voluptuous paintings of gorgeous women. Not a stick figure in the bunch. It was nice to interject some classicism into the modern art I was looking at for the rest of the trip. My favorites were in the last room, warm paintings of a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty who was probably Rembrandt's mistress Hendrickje Stoffels. The exhibition also included an impressive collection of drawings and etchings that gave good insight into the artist's creative process.

Mike Nelson at the Institute of Contemporary Arts. I got lost three times just trying to find the front door to Mike Nelson's installation, and I was told that to fully appreciate what he had done I should be familiar with the ICA gallery. I'd only been there once before for a Dinos and Jake Chapman show about five years ago. Despite my ignorance I did eventually find my way into the maze of rooms Nelson had created and surrendered myself to the creepiness. Here, masks and semi-automatic weapons hang on locker room racks. Here, an abandoned office with newspaper clippings on the wall. Here, an empty room lit by a bare red lightbulb. These places made my skin itch, and I never wanted to stay in one place for too long. The stories are still linking themselves together in my head, helped along by the book Nelson compiled to accompany the exhibition. In it Nelson strings together excerpts from writers such as Philip K. Dick, H.P. Lovecraft, and Albert Camus and lets you come up with the connections.

Feelin' Finale at the Notting Hill Arts Club. Deep disco house and funky club classics in a tiny little basement club in Notting Hill. I walked in and immediately felt in my element, thanks to all of the raving I've been doing on my own. I normally don't go for the house thing very much, but this was really good stuff. They were serving pear cider and absinthe at the bar, and I had time to groove for a little bit before being accosted by e-tarded males. Some things are constants the world over.

Doug Aitken at the Serpentine. The Serpentine gave video artist Aitken carte blanche to do what he liked with their space, and he decided on a water theme and called it "new ocean." First he sends you down to the basement where you see ice cracking and melting before you climb up through a trapdoor to emerge into the galleries proper. Everywhere you go there is water dripping and flowing. Walk through the show too quickly and you get downright dizzy. All of the videos are gorgeous, and I'm really starting to wish I'd bought the limited-edition print Aitken produced especially for the exhibition. How typically American of me to feel like I have to channel the ecstasy the art inspired in me into a consumer experience.

Grand Drive, Witness, and Delta at Scala. British bands who play beautiful Americana. All three were great, but Witness absolutely blew me away. Big emotion and music that will break your heart. I think they're called Witness U.K. on this side of the pond. See them live if you can.

George Washington
Tate Modern
Royal Academy
ICA
Notting Hill Arts Club
Serpentine
Grand Drive
Witness