So I was very happy that everyone was off living full and productive lives away from the keyboard. I aways gets grumpy this time of year. So much to do (more than I can cope with) and it's hot and sticky and my northern friends always get snowbound and decide to post 485 pics of Danny Boy rising from the sea like a god, just 'cause they're bored (fair enough), and I pretty much have to chew my own hands off not to risk PC meltdown (literal, in this case) by following my heart's desire and perving at said 485 pics of salty goodness.
So, flist caught up with in just time for the West Wing, and all is right with the world. Well, not on WW, because it's the end of Leo, but you know. There was bonus Jason Isaacs, doing a terrible Belfast accent, so it was worth a second, more careful viewing.
Speaking of melting moments, the melty ice cream van won the sculpture award. It looks cute, but the real kicker it the pathetic garbled Greensleeves that it moans in its death throes. Classic.
Oh yeah, did the sculpture walk again. Wasn't going to, but I had to see the melty van. AP came along. She wasn't supposed to at all, being far too old and frail these days, but she wanted the posh lunch at the end, so I sent her off with maps to meet me at Bronte via bus. So imagine my horror to turn a corner on the path and find the ancient crone waiting for me. She'd got lost, and, too far to turn back, I had to practically carry her up hill and down dale while everyone looked daggers at me and, well, last time I'm ever doing that, I can tell you. Besides, the sculptures were few and far between and mostly crap and I got hideously sunburnt again. And, to top it off, it was indeed a slap-up meal at this posh cafe at the end where we were, I thought, lucky to get a table. But the two days of violent food poisoning afterwards I could have done without. I wash my hands of the Eatern suburbs, which, incidentally, is something the kitchen staff should have done, but no matter.
Saturday morning's expedition was less scenic, but more meaningful. There's an old 50s mall at the top of the hill, one of the oldest, and I've grown up within its walls. In fact, AP made many attempts to lose me there as a wee half blind bub, and the car park still gives me mazey nightmares, though standing it in on Saturday, it was just an old multi-storey carpark. Anyhoo, because of its age, it was always far more market than mall, with stalls upon stalls in the big open square, surrounded by a ring/rectangle of posher (usually frock) shops. Originaly, it was all late 50s design, gorgeous, with scuplture by a reknowned artist that I adored (it was very much like the pop art that used to populate early Trek episodes), but alas it was remodlled in the mid 80s, covered over the square, thus becoming hugely claustrophobic, the sculpture removed and destroyed (it'd be worth six figures now) and all painted a hideous birthday cake cream, pink and blue. Kinda shopped there less, but since it returned to being on my route home, I have been. It's great. Still far more market than mall. So much food, so little time.
But now it's going to be razed to build those big bunker boxes that not even the States like any more, which is why they're building it here. And the community, which was so vibrant (I could weep) will be replaced by nasty gangs of drug dealers. It sucks. So I went, one last time, not just for groceries and exotic deli delicacies but mementos. Picked up a party frock (my first in a decade, and almost like one I had to sadly let go, and considering I'm several sizes bigger, I was impressed with the miracles the dress performs), some strappy shoes to go with (watch me trip and totter in anything not my Docs), a few pots for me plants, a cd for me and a brooch for AP. Too sad, though. Another large chunk of my life, not just memories but actual, everyday routine and function, is being carved out and demolished. Sigh. (btw, behold the Straker-Harlington lines of ye olde civic centre, also, tragically, for the chop)
Also, I fell in love with a puppy in the window. I just wanted one creature that was happy to see me when I got home. Sigh. Want puppy - whimper. However puppy in the window was very, very expensive.
So I must turn to tv comfort food (no more dried figs and posh tea on the veranda for me).
If only Robin would wake up in the middle of the night screaming from tortured nightmares like Adam. If only he would then roll over, desperately grab the help and shag them stupid like Adam. If only Robin Hood was made by Kudos. Sigh.
It was snowing ash last night, out of a pinky grey sky (the controlled burnoff got out of control again). I remember that time I was walking the grounds of Nottingham Castle (not the original, Ollie took care of that, just a late Victorian pile), as I used to often, and it started sprinkling bits of ash, at least, I thought it was ash, being what I'm used to. But no, it was weird melty ash. It was...snow. Real snow globe wee flakies. Magic. Shame I won't be going back there, but it won't be the same since some twat knocked off the head of my fave lion anyhoo. All the other lions looked butch and majestic but this one at the bottom of the stairs kinda had Sam's 'help me' face, and he was my fave. But some bugger decapitated him and he had a new, crap, head, last time I sought him out. Oh well.
And how come the outlaws don't use the alleged tunnel from the Trip into the castle. And where is the Trip? It was trading back then. Sheesh. One thing that that really annoys me, aside from the crap acting and crap scripts, is the plywood not-Notts set that would be ashamed to be in an episode of F Troop, and, having trod the streets of Notts more times than I really needed to, it's just not Notts. Come on, could they not even try? Well, given the accuracy of everything else, it's just not that sort of show. It really is F Troop, isn't it. Sigh.
And do we all have the F Troop theme playing in our heads? You know, there's a disturbing/amusing statistic of how the larger proproprtion of Gen Xers here can manage more verses of the F Troop theme than the national anthem. As it should be.
There was an article last week about the sad loss of theme tunes. It was one of the few great gifts of American culture we actually loved. If ya wanna stem the tide of anti-Americanism, keep the damn theme tunes. It's hard to hate a country that gave us the themes from F Troop, Get Smart, Hawaii 5-0 and Mission Impossible. Nobody is going to be humming the jaunty theme from Lost forty years from now.
Btw, the acting in Robin Hood is really, really crap, but I'm still giving Much the benefit of the doubt. At least in the first three episodes Sam was trying to make him more a Shakespearean fool than just stoopid sdekick guy. But perhaps I'm still giving him the goodwill of his family name. Note well, young Sam, that every episode of Robin Hood detracts one point from my estimation of The War Games (mind you, that's right up there with my ultimate faves, so it's pretty safe).
Oh, and I figured out what went wrong with Guy. Basically, in what took Buffy six years to do, they did in six episodes. It's basically the whole Spike thing. He starts out strutting about in his big black leather coat, cutting out tongues, just because he can, but then it's all sulky pouty please little miss, won't you love little ol' me? Bleuch. I like my bad boys bad, thank you kindly. Leave 'em mean, keep 'em keen, but don't, please don't, make 'em fools for love.
So that's that, then. Next!
Trip to Jerusalem
Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem
We want you too: Bono
U2 do their bit to make poverty history — to the tune of $50m
Costellos rattle, Bono hums after poverty talks
"The Fountain" Press Conference with Darren Aronofsky and Rachel Weisz
Hollywood Cookbook Launch Party
Case of the poisoned spy puts Kremlin in the dock
Russia denies poisoned spy claims
The $65,000 question: do you own an iPod?
Hollywood Reclaims Its Audience
'Veronica Mars' extended to third season
Children of the revolution
Jackson dumped from 'Hobbit'