Toga boys. Spent my breakfast this morning looking for pretty pictures of toga boys (Lancelot, Alexander, Paris, et al) for a friend who'd obviously been living in a cave for the last year because she had no idea there were a multitude of men in skirts films poised for a deluge.
I fear my hopes for the Greeks will be too high, but the Romanised Brits over at Arthur, King of the Britons, look pretty damn good. Especially Lancelot. When I first saw a 5 second blip on E! I thought oh my, who's that hunk of - oh my god, it's Ioan (well, I am banned from every and all Ioan lists, so like I knew or remembered it was in the offing). I try so hard, so very hard, to hate Ioan, but, oh my, looking mighty fine. Mighty fine (see brit-actors for a pic).
So, Friday. Had to skip off to the shops early because a friend had alerted me to the fact that it was her birthday. See, you too can have the annivesary of your blessed birth honoured by me if you send an email reminder. Otherwise, forget it. I can't even remember my own birthday these days without reading my own ID cards (age, infirmity, lack of sleep, all of the above).
So, off to the shops I shot. I was, quite frankly, dreading the experience, because shopping in the Hellmouth is never happiness or joy or ever anything but one endless grind of torture and humiliation. However, the gods were kind because I found groovy paper, an okay present (I think she already had it but never mind, meant I was on the right track) and a card that may or may not have led to severe injury upon receipt (dear brother later checked that I had, indeed, bought a present to go with card and paper, so vague have I been this week, and that the present wasn't hefty enough to cause too bad an injury when I was inevitably whapped with it, because the card was pretty evil, but since she gave me Aspen Extreme on dvd for my b-day, I figure all's fair in love and war). I stepped out of the shops and straight onto a bus and I was feeling pretty pleased with myself, not the least because I'd only done an nine hour day.
So the other shoe dropped. It always does, you know. All my life, the one thing I've learned is never to be happy, because if I smile for just one minute, I'm due a massive kick in the pants, and if my peers can't arrange the kick, the universe will. Or, failing that, I'll do it myself.
Yup. Suddenly I was doubled over with the cramps from Hades again, super bad, and nowhere to go, nothing to do but sit there and suffer. Now could they have struck while I was shopping, so I could have slumped into a Starbucks and snaffled up half a packet of painkillers like Smarties? Oh no, that would have been too easy. So I sit on the bus and then I crawl home with my shopping and make it as far as the couch and here I linger, through Stargate, through Casualty, through Peak Practice (not my personal choices but I'm kinda stuck there) in between bouts of being a very sick girlie indeed and how come my being down on all fours only ever involves puking or scrubbing, never anything a bit less, you know, drudge like (though, to be honest, drudge like kinda describes the gentlemen I've known). Not a good night. I was so sick Bro stayed up all night to keep an eye on me. That, as my friend agreed, says a lot.
In Stargate I wondered out loud why Jack was wearing a silly hat. "Maybe because he is black," says Bro, in his best Ali G voice. Much tittering follows. I also thank Peter Deluise for the sweaty Daniel shots, and again pause to wonder. Sure, it's a Sam/Jack episode, but Daniel still dreams about Jack.
Remember when I said I thought crazed homicidal stalker lesbian psycho bitches were a thing of the past on tv? Scratch that, because Peak Practice was all about the resident homicidal psycho lesbian. Still, at least Jamie got a few lines, and John Rhys Davies whined about his nipples, which led to unhappy Gimli thoughts and Bro chimed in with something about Elrond's old drag act and I threw a cushion at him, just to make him stop.
After that there was Minder and I was half horrified to realise that twenty years later, watching the same episode, I was still being mightily ill for the same reason. Sigh. Still, it's first season Minder so it's quite good, not the complete farce it devolved into.
Saturday and I can't believe I'm getting out of bed. Shaky, very shaky, to quote someone with a Sheffield accent. Showered, dressed, read an SFX interview with Mr Rosenbaum and then staggered up to the bus stop.
There I am, wondering how I'm going to make it into the city without disgracing myself, and it's even more of a trial. It's a 40C+ day and the daft bus driver has the heater on, hasn't he. So I'm up the back, stuffy and sweaty for about an hour and just when I can't take any more and I'm about to break a window, he suddenly discovers the air conditioner. Ho-fucking-ray. So at least the next hour is a little better am I am no longer pining for one of those ancient buses with the rattly windows you can actually open.
So I skip up through Borders, collecting mags and a chai latte - essential in these situations, I've found, and up to the art gallery and put my brave face on. Remember when I wanted to take my mates to see Caravaggio? Well, they all nominated this weekend so I made a party of it but it would be this weekend, wouldn't it.
So off we go, and it's great, really great. The best thing about going with friends is that they open your eyes to things you'd missed, like the naughty squashes in the still life. Don't know how I could have missed those - nobody else did. Saw my favourites again - so much better up close than a tiny postage stamp size pic in a book. I have enormous fun.
Unfortunately we don't get lunch at the gallery (but there wasn't any Ian McKellan or Bryan Ferry to throw my tray over that day, so it didn't matter). I did sneak some tea and a berry tart though. Needed something to keep me upright. We did the Asian galleries and the Pre-Raphs. I like the old halls of 19thC paintings. They rotate them now from stuff in the basement so there's always something new. A few of my favourites were off having a rest, but the gang liked the cows, the frosty morning one, and the dead cockatoo, painted like some hunting picture with the parrot instead of a pheasant. Being on the beck and call of five of the feathered bail up merchants these days, I figure a dead cocky is a good cocky, personally.
Then we went off to have laksa for lunch. Woe is me, I'm so green that I have to turn down laksa for the second day in a row. Bugger.
We sit and chat and then I have to dash for my epic journey home, riding into the sunset, quite literally. Made it across the threshold just in time for Smallville. It was very Lana lite, so I was well pleased, the one where Martha and Lionel get bailed up in the Luthor building with a shit load of kryptonite and Colin Cunningham for company. There were so very nice Lex moments, poor Lex being betrayed and fobbed off at every level - no wonder he ends up all bitter and twisted and super villany. I so sympathise with Lex, the poor, dear, sexy, boy. So that was fun, and both boys take another step towards their destinities: Clark to sanctimonious prickdom, and Lex to a bitter, betrayed rage that can never can never be quenched (talk about bad breakups and psycho stalker exs). Still, I feel Lex's pain, it's a living thing - mainly because MR is the only one who can in any way act on that show, but never mind. Lex episodes are the best, and a special treat worth waiting for.
After that I was sick all through SVU, natch.
Sunday, and I remember just in time that I'm supposed to be watching Wild Wild West. Because it's back, at long last it's back on cable (yipee!) and I'm in heaven (it was on yesterday but I was going to tape it anyway, as there are no WWW dvds to be had, except the movie, and never speak to me of that). Today we meet Migeulito Loveless (The Night the Wizard Shook the Earth) and Jim ends up dangling in a cage and homoeroticism abounds. Luverly stuff (apparently yesterday's episode answered the question of where I had seen Friday's Stargate plot before).
After that the mercury pushed up over 38C, and that was in the coolest room in the house, so there was nothing to do but read the Sunday papers and overheat the poor lounge tv with Hawaii Five-0, Grosse Pointe, Blackadder, The Office and, happiness, The Streets of San Francisco. I don't know why I love it so, but I do. I looked out my poor melty Ghiardelli chocs and the moment they namechecked the square, I popped one (it's our new drinking game). Mmmmm...chocolate. I was blissed out. I am a creature of simple pleasures and my favourite cop show and a chocolate will usually do it.
After that I watched a bit of X Files and a bit of Martin Shaw, though I was distracted, finally catching that damned enormous roach that's been making such a racket in my room these last three nights. I set him free outside, because it seemed too mean and petty to just squish the creature who'd been so wiley a foe.
Ended up watching Stargate: Crystal Skull, because it was too damn hot to sleep (as it cooled down all the hot air rushed to my room so that by 2am I was gasping). Poor Daniel, unable to understand why Jack won't stay up all night to worry over the problem of the missing Daniel (like Daniel obviously did during the Antartic episode). Either Jack plays his cards very close to his chest, or he's a complete bastard, or both. Either way, Daniel is obviously the more invested of the two, methinks. At least, Daniel often frets more, and in public.
Then I had some very, very lurid heat delerium dreams, that obviously mean I shouldn't mix SFX with painkillers and a hot stuffy room before bedtime. Cool, though, but seriously demented, in a Sandman sorta way.
And now the server isn't talking to me again. Bugger. Time for another cup of tea.
And, no, in case you were wondering, I didn't get to write one word, despite my muse whispering in my ear all Saturday - I was too busy to pay attention, and the rest of the time I was too sick or too stressed with the heat and my room was over 100F which is impractical for writing - the pen slips, I get stuck to the paper with sweat, and I just can't scritch away at gay porn in the middle of the lounge room. Post it on the net, yes, but scribble away while folks are around, no. Writing has always been a solitary occupation and unless I'm in my fortress of spinstertude or the only one in at work super early in the mornings, I just can't get it done. Performance issues, I'm sure you understand. Just can't write with people looking. Never could, never will.
Too bad, because I had whole scenes from my fourth Alan/Billy fic whirring away in my own private theatre.
And here comes the other shoe. Just when I decided that the animosity on behalf of the production server meant a well deserved early mark for moi, with a possible chance to catch some of those JP3 scenes before they evaporate entirely from my addled brain, and I get lumbered with a shitload of work. I won't be leaving here til it's dark. Arrrrgh....