My morning began, as it so often does, with a kind gentleman leaning from his car and informing me that I was a fat, ugly cunt as he drove past the bus stop. Why, thank you, Sir, there might have been a moment there where I actually forgot how revilled I am by the rest of the world, but it's highly unlikely.
Especially as I was musing upon the need for champagne for one, for sad friendless bastards who will have no Halloween parties, no Melbourne Cup parties and so on and so forth until the whole dreaded season is over. You know, it'd be a mini bar sized bottle of champers, a wee glass, a party popper and a little silly hat, for sad friendless bastards when they're feeling pathetically plucky.
I suppose not. Sad friendless bastards don't get champagne, ever. Oh well. I suppose I'd better stock up on Tia Maria then, my tipple of choice to get me through the next couple of months. Ah, sweet alcohol, it dulls the pain.
We didn't even have any trick or treaters. As usual they avoided our house like the plague. Can't imagine why, with my mother's fearsome reputation. She's the old witch who never used to give balls accidentally kicked over the fence back, as I discovered when I started school. I was beaten bloody for years until I just got used to it. I'm still being beaten up. Okay, not so much with the pummelling, kicking or malicious injury, but the verbal, emotional and career hobbling abuse hurts just as much. Sigh. Whimper.
I did spend my weekend carving a pumpkin that, due to the unseasonably freezing cold weather, did not decompose within five minutes of completion. We also sat up watching very, very bad bargain bin horror movies, including Nosferatu which was ruined by a really, really bad Melbourne goth band soundtrack. Yikes. The scariest thing though was the care and attention lavished on my copy of Them! which is tragically the best quality dvd transfer in my collection. The sound and picture were brilliant. It's not a bad little flick. It even has Dan'l Boone in it.
Saturday was spent going to the local markets, not a patch on any other markets I travel to, but my favourite trinket stall turned up and I indulged in a Chinese massage. Unfortunately I went with AP rather than friends so AP stood over me with a pursed expression of stern disapproval re my frivolous waste of money, thus negating any possible detoxing effect of the massage. Oh well. Had a mango gelato cone and walked ten miles to the relocated bus stop and went home.
The only really amusing thing, other than the displaced derros wandering about the park, was the inflatable Titanic slide. Apparently 90 or so years is the time lag needed between tragedy and inflatable fun ride. So wrong, yet so bloody funny.
Discovered they're actually filming Constantine. I could have taken out Keanu last night, but I didn't. I'm still strangely fond of the K, even though he can't act for quids and he's about to commit terrible heresey re my sacred texts, ie he's been cast as a blond Scouser so you can see how well that's going to work. Yep, it's like casting Ben Affleck as my beloved Matt Murdock. Arrrrgh. No, better to take out my fatwa on the people who green lit this sorry project. Honestly, could they not cast Sean Bean in the role? He would have been perfect and it's not like he doesn't have a buzz.
Just when I think I'm free of the cerulean haze I have another bite the head off a spoon moment. These are the moments I have when I sometimes squeak home in time to watch a bit of E! while I shovel re-heated gloop into my mouth, and the first time it happened was when I saw a glimpse of this tall, bearded and very striking looking chap in shiny armour. Zing went the strings of my ovaries until I realised it was, in fact, Ioan and all my Ioan baggage rather deflated my high. Next we had some Clive Owen (in dirty, sweaty singlet) and Daniel Craig moments but the next real spoon biting incident was the sudden sight of Marc Blucas as a tattooed skinhead in a grubby singlet (Prey for Rock & Roll). My ovaries snapped to attention and no amount of whining that it was the dreaded Riley could get them to settle.
So there I was, innocently flicking through a SF mag and there was a spoilery pic (Evolution) of Daniel. Holy Hannah. He was in complete mastery of the clone look, with a dirty, sweaty singlet and the jeans...holy package shot, Batman! I meant to scan it and post it here but completely forgot (not having two brain cells to rub together), but, oh my, I think I need a bex and a good lie down. Great googly mooglies.
Okay, sad yes, but I'm not allowed to get my kicks anywhere or any how.
Have appalled contractor with tales of bad management, such as the manager who arranged all the desks like a classroom, with himself up the front as the teacher, or the manager who insisted we ask them for the swipe card to visit the loo, or the Dept where the lowest ranks could only use a pencil, the next rank a ball point pen, the rank after that a felt tipped pen and so on. And people wonder why I'm embittered and cynical and not terribly respectful these days. I mean, the arseholes I've had to tug a forelock to, mercy. Speaking of which...
The little talisman I bought from the trinket man is certainly value for money: Grima Wormtongue is away! Yippee! Hmmmm, now, where to start. I should probably sort out Ezra before I return to the outrageous flirting of Alan and Billy, or Jack and Daniel being silly buggers. I think I shall dedicate this start of a jd fic to Keiko. I'm not sure if she's still talking to me or not, but she may be amused by the sheer Stepheness of it all. Dear me, it really is, too, I realise to my absolute horror. Cue funky 70s theme music. Honest, guvnor, I only bought a couple of the dvds on sale.
Speaking of cheap dvds, at the fair one of the local shops was selling Sean Connery Bond for $10 each (that's loose change found in the gutter to you). Bargain! Speaking of Sean, I'd forgotten Jase was in Smallville. He gave Lex such a filthy look, and I knew that look. Who's Daddy's little boy! Heh, too funny. Who knew the scowl was genetic?