I should be writing, but I'm stuffing about, wasting precious minutes of my life just wandering around from one inane page to another, and that's just limiting myself to online newspapers.
I like wasting time online right now. It's the opiate for this mass :D I really should write but this damn cough, it's making me too miserable. Not to mention the impracticalities of trying to create delicate prose while hacking up various organs onto the desk. Ack. Twice now today I've damn nearly coughed myself inside out.
I've been everywhere, man: There's a pic of Rusty and Nic at the back of the Herald today, taken in Wollongong, and it tickles me far more than it should, that you can photograph two A List Hollywood celebs in the Gong these days. Just too funny.
Not that there's anything wrong with the Gong (cf Aunty Jack), far from it. It's just that, until recently, and for my entire life, it's been a little industrial working class steel town and therefore about as far away from Hollywood as you could ever get, geographically, socio-economically, emotionally, morally, etc. Until last night, apparently. Gracious, whatever next?
I should talk, though. Rusty hasn't been through my town except via the highway since he started being paid as an actor. No, I tell a lie, I do believe TOFOG played recently at the nearest civilised pub to my locale (ie one where they weren't likely to get their throats cut). I remember I'd even half fancied going, until sense or a subsequent appointment with the hot water bottle got the better of me (cf Frenzal Rhomb).
D'oh! Typical. I was just about to apply fingertips to keypads when the phone goes off, then someone drops by, then several emails lob in. Ain't it the way. I lost my chance. I could have written earlier, it was just the men moving stuff in the corner who were making me tense. It's a childish thing, but men banging and thumping about make me uneasy. Used to mean Father was on a tear and a good deal of ducking and covering was called for. I don't know why but the sound of chaps throwing things about still winds me up like a cheap watch (this is why Billy still starts at the sudden unfurling of an umbrella or a shadow overhead).
Weirdly, studying usually isn't at all stressful like that and entirely conducive to writing. I keep getting one of my coldfusion text books out, because usually by about page three my mind will have skipped away and found much more pleasant fields to play in, only right now I barely get a sentence in before the phone rings, everytime. Gah, what use is it having one's boss perptually absent on holidays if one can't get a bit of writing in, I ask you?
A friend is pushing Joe Sorren because she thinks I'd like him. Actually, I think I might have a comic done by that guy, because it looks hugely familiar, his work. Probably a Gaiman story, most likely :D
Did I ever tell you the time I found some Dave McKean art printed on a tea towel? Amused me no end (it was a poster he'd whipped up for a museum exhibit in the UK). I brought one home for a comic nutted friend, who seemed nonplussed, holding it out by one corner like I'd just presented him with a pre-sneezed handkerchief. Oh well. :\
Men. That sort of superior look, you know the one, where they look at me like I'm a puppy who's just crapped on the good carpet. I get it a lot. In fact this morning I was just musing upon that very look, the one I get when gentlemen of my acquaintance realise my interest in Sharpe doesn't stem from my deep investment in the history of the Napoleonic wars. They usually roll their eyes and mutter something about me being terribly common, beyond the pale, and words to that effect.
I gotta stop mixing with snobs. I did, after all, get an essay I wrote on Sharpe's uniforms published (back when I was fresh out of uni and still capable of writing essays with big words in them and footnotes and everything). You know, I don't think the revised/polished version has ever made it onto my page. Oh well, blessed little chance of finding the file now.
Still, it's hard to imagine some folks calling themselves Sean Bean fans without ever having seen Richard Sharpe. Really, now, that's just an unacceptable oversight, and you really must. I highly recommend it. Cheap and cheerful the production values may be, but trust me, you won't care and you won't be watching or bothering about that as Sharpe slays the same three Frogs, over and over again. Oh my, no.
And finally, Sandro's father-in-law cops a serve (SMH, Column 8):
We like to turn occasionally to letters in The Times for the well-turned rebuke. From a reader in East Sussex: Sir, I am a little surprised that John Mortimer should so waspishly criticise The Lord of the Rings for being " . . . falsely poetic, tediously overwritten and served up in purple prose with high-sounding words which mean nothing very much". Are these not, after all, the very skills on which he built his career as a defence lawyer?