So, Friday, busy, busy, busy. Work, work, work, takeaway and tv. Nothing like burying press releases before a public holiday. Oh well.
I did get to see Hunt for the Hidden Relic (well, if it wasn't hidden it wouldn't be much of a hunt, then would it?) which involved more of Steffen running and running and then they caught poor stupid abut very, very pretty Steffen and tortured him. And that was it. Not a lot of plot but a lot of Steffen running.
What I find amusing is how English everyone looks, or rather how German everyone in the South-East of England looks. I mean, yes of course, but maps of ancient kingdoms in a history book aren't the same as seeing the very same faces in this and tv made in and around London.
Then it was over to Posh Nosh (my second bite of REG as we'd had a bit of Withnail in the Shakespeare special I'd caught on Ovation). Hilarious, especially the wind dried water. Simon was a tad stroppy, and still an exactly on the money the very image of snobby guys I've met. Yikes.
It was a gorgeous Saturday morning and I'd intended to spend it at my fave cafe, then maybe some dvds in the evening, after an afternoon on the garden seat with a book.
Guess again. My friend had emailed and it was actually Starsky and Hutch movie time. I didn't mind too much, though I did splurge insanely on magazines and dvds as well as the groceries, or, as an example, when I found Chasing Amy on special in Borders: "Put the Ben down and step away from the racks slowly, keeping your hands in the air. Don't even try reaching for your purse, Missy."
I'm glad I made time to go with my slash buddy. S&H was fekking hilarious, but only if you've grown up with bad 70s tv and bad, bad slash and terrible songvids, because the opening titles had us wheezing and every guitar twang, every badly dressed villain, every familiar location and every flattened carboard box had us in absolute hysterics, more than normal folks, I suspect. Aside from a loving tribute to the show in all its minutae, the film was an out and out bad S&H slash fest (is there such an animal as good S&H slash?), to the point that we thought Stiller must have surfed where even we fear to tread. They even had bad fan art in there. The glorious soundtrack evoked countless bad songvids, so much so that we were rolling about and when we got up to the dragon scene I thought my friend would have to go and change her depends. At one point she wheezed that her film gay-o-meter had broken. Heh, it was totally S&H bad fic, the movie. Laughed? We cried. And I just loved the car. Oh yeah, baby. It was alarmingly faithful to the show, which really was that campy, if not more so. If you loved the Bullshitters, this is pretty much in the same vein, actually exactly the same sort of deal.
Came home and crashed on the couch and watched Angel. The ballet one. Then I went out again.
This was a mistake, from start to finish. I'd been invited, sort of, (turned out I was a plus one when I thought it was just dinner and I hate that sort of ambush date) to this do held by a very posh and well connected family and I thought, hell, why not: posh do, posh nosh, old friends, new people, what could go wrong? Everything, as it turned out.
The posh do was actually at an RSL and the posh nosh involved chops and deep fried broccoli (wtf?) I had nothing to say to the old gang, who had nothing to say to me and the new people thought I was scum. Worse than scum: when trying to guess who at the table was really a guy they settled on me. Wail. Sure, I look like Kevin Smith on a good day, but still. So I sat alone in a dark corner talking to nobody and spilling wine on myself and wondering why I couldn't invoke PartyMe, you know, the one that is still going at 4am at particularly good cons. Worse, it was all couply which just brings the vicious old spinster out in me. I see your happiness and I spit on it. Hmph. No wonder I never see the old gang anymore. They make me want to emigrate, escape, go somewhere where I can be me, not the loser they see me as. Not the complete loser I can't but be in their presence (it's like a spell of dorkiness).
Well, at least it was an object lesson in not accepting invitations just for the heck of it. Only go if I want to, not because I think I should.
Sunday was wasted and hungover. BallyK had me sniffling away in ways it never has before, but it was an unhappy anniversary afterall, so I indulged in Wild Wild West and Coco Pops. Yeah, I know, I'm the last person who should be indulging in a chocolate milkshake only crunchy, but sometimes you need food for the soul, never mind the hips. It was just that sort of weekend. I needed chocolate in all its forms.
Slept some, read some, watched SVU, Grosse Pointe, Streets of San Francisco and the X Files. Did not get online, did not work, did not collect $200. Just holed up in my room with the tv and ex-Easter chocolate, my only friends.
Sunday evening offered up the traditional war film in the form of Enemy at The Gates. Jude! But EvilChannelNine was butchering it so badly I was just so annoyed and irritated that I thought fek it and switched over to Foyle's War. Normally I find this tea and biscuits telly dull in the extreme but the reviews were right, this episode was a cracker, if a tad obvious. I really enjoyed it.
Then it was over to Oz (btw, SBS is playing Oz from episode one, season one, next week in QAF's timeslot, so I'll be able to catch up, though obviously I'm a tad spoiled on some plot points). After Oz I flicked back for the last ten minutes or so of Jude, still being cut to ribbons by the hack with the scissors (and they wonder why nobody watches films on free-to-air tv any more) and then - squee! The neighbours must have thought I'd found religion when I let out a whoop but it was just Vig oozing sex as he strutted across the screen in Indian Runner. Crap film, crapper than I remember, but Vig, oh, great googlymooglies, the man is sex on a stick. Better than chocolate. Yummy scrummy.
Vig doesn't make everything all right, but he makes the medicine go down a little easier.
Monday was unhappy as I intruded on the usual routine of the house. First I was banished to the back yard, then banished to my room, then I was made to remove all my cups, crockery, cutlery, tea, coffee and coffee grinder from the kitchen. So that's all packed up in my room. Yes, I get the hint. Jobless and homeless. Guess I'll have to sell my comic collection after all.
Too bad, because my muse was back, but I never got a chance to touch pencil to paper.
Alva Keel was a man in crisis. The dreams that had haunted him at night now pursued him in daylight. What he tried to push away and ignore would no longer be pushed away and ignored. What had started as the smallest spark had ignited to a terrible flame that consumed him. He trembled and sweated and it was no longer enough to hold the fires at bay. He felt the temptation rising up within him and soon it would overwhelm him and engulf him. He knew he was weakening. He knew he was losing the fight.
Alva Keel was a man in torment. It wasn't enough to place the object of his desire only the smallest touch away from him. It wasn't enough to keep his desire close by him day and night, as though needling and picking at the wound. It wasn't enough to covet what he could never, and should never have.
Alva Keel was a man boiling in jealousy, watching the two of them, leaning so close, talking and laughing softly together. God forgive him but he hated her. He hated watching her flirt and whisper, able to touch and be touched. He hated her because everything that she had, he wanted. Everything was freely given and returned to her. He hated her intrusion upon his private suffering. He hated her intrusion between them.
Alva Keel was a man in anguish. Because he hated what he loved, he depised what he desired. He wanted to drive away what he wanted most to keep close, he wished destruction on the beauty that had driven him to madness. He was furious with himself, he despised his own weaknesses, and he threw his anger at the man whose friendship he valued above all else. Above everything else. And therein lay his problem.
(It would have been something like that, if given the chance, though I suspect a great deal more obessive sweaty palmed hand wringing to come, heh heh heh).
Update #1: AP just wandered into my work (startlement!) clutching a large chai latte for me. I guess this means she's done the sums and I may keep one (1) cup in the kitchen. For now. Yay me.
Update#2: Would the arsewipe who just stole 75% of my milk desist, or they'll risk a good thumping. Contractors, hmph. This is the government, you dickweed. It's strictly byo - anything else would be a waste of taxpayer's money, horrors. Mutter. Grumble. Gripe. Hell hath no fury like an overtired and cranky woman denied a much needed cuppa.
Update #3: Damn, Craig Stevens dropped out. I wanted him to go and win the bling and show everyone. Guess not. Bugger.