Friday. It was cold and dark and takeaway as usual but the good chef was on and I got to see 90% of Jake 2.0. Yep, well, I'd seen Stargate umpteen times so I thought I'd see superherotvshownumberwhatever instead. I mean, I loved Now and Again and Invisible Man, etc, and as this was hardly treading any new ground, I found it good tv popcorn. That is, it amused me while I stuffed my gob with takeaway thai and it entertained but I can't really remember anything much of the plot, such as it was, now. It was about as memorable as the thai, actually, but still good while it lasted.
Much like the show, apparently. Ah well, these things rarely run more than three episodes these days, so we'll just call it a cold winter's night diversion.
Then I taped Hugh on Ovation and completely forgot about Ian Kelsey on the ABC. Gosh and darn, cause I love Ian - I've not watched Casualty since he went face down in the entree, the poor pet. Oh well, I saw the last bit and I'm sure it'll repeat on UKTV, at some inconvenient timeslot.
Spent the rest of the night on the ABC. Chortle, chortle (I still can't look at a pot shard without cackling).
Saturday. It was a perfect crisp autumn day and a perfect day. We caught the bus, almost alarmingly empty, into the city to the AGNSW where I'd booked a table in the super posh resturant for AP's b-day. Finally, posh nosh, at last. And oh my, wasn't it just so posh, and perfect. I had the duck liver parfait for entree and the seared scotch fillet for mains, with twice cooked beetroot. Not just once cooked, you understand, that's how posh this place was. And the dessert was to die for. Yummy. The wine was excellent (I'm still hacking and coughing over the swill they served at the DAT premiere, ewww, chateau cardboard without a doubt, and Californian at that - shudder) and the view, oh my, it deserved painting. Clear over the harbour full of yachts promanading back and forth.
It was such a great table that every posh bastard showed up honked loudly that these dregs had 'their table' but tough, because I'd booked, and I'd used my best phone voice. Rude of them to stand over us and honk so, and that was three parties worth, but like hell were the prols moving. No way. And, we had my booking, so there. And the view was just stunning.
So it was a lovely day with Bro showing me the gallery, picking out paintings of interest, with an endless supply of tidbits and observations (and they had new aquisitions up, yay, though it's a pity I have hours to pore over lesser artists yet have to whiz past great masters in a blur, still I liked the stormy Victorian pic), drawing my attention to the buildings on the way back (classic architecture, yay) and leading me past all the dvd shops (Coupling S2, yay). Damn, why didn't I just twist his arm and make him go with me. I would have been so much happier.
I've been twisting myself up in knots with woulda coulda shouldas, but one thing I did right was wait until I got into the QVB to pick up those hefty catalogues from the Met. Sure enough the Met store had them (yippee!) and it was so much more fun to pick up the Byzantium catalogue there and drop clangers about how one had only seen the exhibition the other week in New York, clang, clang, clang. Whee.
So, I finally have my catalogues/doorstops and I only had to schelp them from the QVB to home. Yay.
So I finally managed to show Bro a piccie of my fave piece, the reliquary collection. It's a fold out cupboard like a Victorian gentleman's collection, with hundreds of little compartments, each filled with a carefully wrapped and labelled Saint body part. It's as cute as it is creepy.
Bro of course immediately thought of using the saints' bits to create a Jurassic Park of saints, with various saints wandering and muttering to themselves behind the electrified fences. Don't go too close, children.
Heh, heh, heh. Classic idea.
Sunday was spent wallowing, as it was bloody freezing, and catching up on my overstuffed inbox, which is slightly more energetic than wallowing, but not by much. House is falling apart around my ears but I remain too tired to care.
So, finally, finally catching up on the flist though in a disjointed fashion, and, shamefully, going for the eye candy lists first. Some amazing piccies. Really lovely.
I still can't get over myself though and not be annoyed that when I post pics, all I get is the sound of tumbleweeds rolling through a deserted ghostown, yet when somebody else reposts, say, a Sharpe scan which I know damn well is mine, done on my Dad's old scanner back when he was still alive, sniff, with all the red and orange and that bloody line up the middle. So it's totally mine. Do I ever get FB on the ol Sharpetorium? No, of course not, don't be silly. But let someone else post it and an army of fangirls will fall overthemselves to congradulate the poster. Ack, it's makes me bitter and very why bother, but I do. Good thing I do this for my own amusement and not kudos or I should be in a very dark mood indeed.
I just think it's really offensive when, on this particular list, they're all very CREDIT PLEASE and NO LINKING, when it's my bloody scan to start with, bitch. Hmph. I mean, I've always been happy to share my pics, they're just copyright violations afterall. But when these other folks get so precious about them, it pushes my insane button. I wish it didn't but it does. It's completely different to when I sub stuff to folks who use stuff on their site and watermark it. That's like OK. I'm fine with that. We have a gentlemen's agreement and they often thank me. It's the little biatches telling me I can't use me own damn scans or make mention of their re-posting here that gets my goat and the rest of the barn. Argh. It hits the big red button, it does.
Sunday night was spent in front of the box: Streets of San Francisco (which meant another Ghiradelli square from one of the packets I brought back), X Files (featuring Callum in a tiny role, no less), then I dozed through L&O until Oz and then I watched the last hour of Desperado. Fun.
Finally, that fuckwit Reagan is dead. Yipee! I just can't shit on that miserable bastard's grave enough, and all his twisted, festering legacy. You know, we always used to joke it would have been better if America had elected the chimp instead. Then they did. Given a choice between Bonzo and Bush...
Ironically enough, Angels in America is on tonight. I won't be watching (Streep and Pacino, bleauch), but, heh, ironic.
|hellblazer06's LJ stalker is cycnus39!|
|cycnus39 is stalking you because they saw your picture and fell in love.. They are also mentally deranged!|