E! News was on during dinner preparation and they announced that Dennis Quaid had gotten engaged, and not, as those photos yesterday might have suggested, to Jake Gyllenhaal.
"Damn, missed my chance," rues I.
"You didn't smack Tim Robbins1 either," reminds Bro. "Of course then you'd have been in a scrag fight with Susan Saradon and that really would have gotten you on E! news."
"I could take her," I declare, more concerned with the match up than any missed opportunities for ill gotten celebrity.
"Yeah, but you would have ended up on E! News," insists Bro, still faintly scandalised by the very idea.
"Yeah, but I could totally take her. She's so tiny," says I, still focusing on the important issues.
"And she's getting old, so she'll be brittle," agrees Bro, somewhat cruelly.
Snarf, snarf, snarf. I warn Bro that his wickedness is entirely blog worthy.
"Oh great, now Susan Sarandon will be gunning for me," he grumps.
And this is why it's a good thing I never got to talk to any celebrities that night. Still, thanks again, Showtime Australia, for a supercalifragilisticexpialidocious weekend. Whoo. Loved it.
Aside from anything else, at least I got some sunshine sitting on the top of those tour buses. Because lately I leave by moonlight and return by moonlight, though it was a picturesque hazy full moon night as I walked home. And the noisy effing bats are outside my window, again. Keep it down, will ya, sheesh.
I wish I'd taken Bro with me to NY. Pithy observations, dvd shopping to my heart's content, non stop galleries. Sigh. Pout. This is what I get for trying to get into an old friend's good books: not a card, not a phone call, not an email of thanks. Hmph. Wish I'd gone with Bro, though we would have totally gotten into a scrag fight with Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon.
We're planning a dvd weekend, as I'm still flu and jetlag ridden and he wants to watch the Friends finale I'd brought home. I'd intended to order it online for him (because EvilChannelNine are going to hold onto it until September or October and there's only so long you can wander about with your fingers shoved in your ears and humming lest you be spoiled) but when I won the trip I decided that I'd have the fun of buying an R1 dvd in person, at a counter, with cash, and I'd be buying it in NY, where it's set, so that's kinda cool, like The Sweeney I bought in London. I said he could use the multi machine while I was at work, but Bro is being polite, so we'll be watching that.
I wondered what else we could watch, as we like to programme in themes. We've done years, genres (70s cops, silver space suits, Brit spies), obscure character actors (it's that guy) and xeroxed plots, and even evil monkeys, but I was stumped.
"How about only shows that have yellow titles?" suggests Bro.
I fall about laughing. I mean, even Tarantino would make a lemon face at that sort of cataloguing of a dvd collection. Though it's cute: yellow titles (mostly 70s), white titles, blue titles (80s), green titles (90s). Heh. Are we insane? Hell yeah. And loving it.
In other news, a journalist friend (no, not that one, another one) said that my NY piccies were v.good and I was in the wrong job (bleedin' obvious, that, but never mind). I was stoked as no one had commented on said posted piccies and as an expert opinion, well, consider me chuffed. Now can I spoil myself with a super dooper 10x zoom 6+megapixels girl toy?
I don't know why I bother. I run a quick comb through my hair then step out for a much needed pms hot chocolate (only a small, an Aussie small at that, and only ever one day a month). So I can see by my shadow that every hair not bound by elastic is waving wildly in the wind as though signalling ships at sea. I give up. I really give up and grump over the fact that I've lived a life of dead straight hair, but the one season it's in fashion, guess what: Sproing! Curls! Waves! Ringlets! Wahey!!!!
Argh, I hate my hair. Still, its misbehaviour is a genetic fault as much as environment and nuture (or lack thereof), so what's a girl to do?
Speaking of possible solutions to a lifetime of bad hair days (it ain't fer nothing that Medusa graces my site), Bro reports that Kojak, which I missed, was extremely good value, including that beloved old chesnut: a pile of carboard boxes being flattened during a car chase. That's the thing about 70s cop shows, aside from beloved old chesnuts: even if the acting and/or plots are naff, there's always the fashions and the decor to amuse, not to mention 70s attitudes and slang. Fabulous stuff. The 70's, god bless 'em, as they toast in Detectives on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown. Classic.
1 Tim Robbins dissed the Australian film industry on stage at the SAG awards, of which it is my patriotic duty to object to. Sure, our industry sucks, but it's not for want of heart or talent, vis the number of Aussies up for gongs every year. It's a financing issue: films have to be either worthy or commercial, cf avocado farms. Nevertheless, bad Tim, no biscuit.