July 7th, 2012

mr flibble

rain, rain

It was bitter cold last night. I remember being out and about last winter, and it wasn't as cold as this. At least it's not raining, I thought to myself.

One day there'll be an app that delivers a short, sharp shock everytime I dare think something like that, because sure enough, it started to rain, and heavily, a mere second later.

So I found a convenience store open that was selling brollies for $10, brollies that weren't a jot on my beloved big red New York umbrella that was so fine and only cost me $5 USD (so less than $5 at the time). This piece of junk was coming apart at the seams just one block later. I miss my New York umbrella. Lots.

Anyways, off to see the Belvoir version of Death of a Salesman. The stage was bare bar a Falcon, as advertised, sitting squat in the centre. It was a lot more shouty, boofy, blokey and angry than the American version, but that's local actors for you. Colin Friels was a far angrier, much more deluded, less sad Loman than Mr Philip Seymour Hoffman, and Biff was more a blustering football playing thug in the mould of a young Russell Crowe, that the fragile and weaselly Biff young Mr Garfield gave us. But there was Hamish there, so I was happy, and the stunningly named Blazey Best playing the hooker had a cackle that could wake the dead, which worked on the bare stage (like I said, bare stages encourage actors to take it big, imho).
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