Friday: A friend said I sounded very radically chipper, going off to weigh into the fray.
It's really fun, it really is. A lot of the people there are my age, you know, we've all got a few marches on our cvs as students, and we're the ones up the back that everyone likes to laugh at, on account of our middle aged, middle Australia trappings. Think marching book club and you'll not be too far wrong. There's a whole re-discovering youth's fire thing going on with some of us, I think.
I also think this is why I'm being so fiesty online lately. If I'm ready to really storm the barricades, then I'm ready to reply to some snotty comment online :)
Oh, and my barbed comments previously were very much aimed at people locally who spend a great deal of time banging on about it but won't be marching with me on Sunday. Personally the excuse of a family dinner doesn't wash when I say why not bring the whole family along? Heaven knows, most of the other walkers do. (It's the whole bringing along of picnic blankets that really earns us mockery amongst the radicals and the press, who want rabbles rousing, not a bloody Sunday picnic).
I can't make the vigils (I do need to attend to work and home occassionally), but at least I make the marches when the tv crews are out :) I have a protest t-shirt now, and enough badges to sink a small boat. At lunch I'm going shopping for a tambourine, because I'm getting tired of clapping as we go. :D Yes, war bad, but these walks are a bit of fun. We shut down the city, there are banners waving along a human column for kms. It's all rather affecting.
Saturday: woke up to find the Thunderbirds had been axed in lieu of war coverage. To quote the Mad Jock from Samurai Jack: "You've done it now." I can take almost anything, but give me my Thunderbirds back. George Bush must die.
At least my friend is sort of right, re the universe giving me what I need. I'm not sure why I need the deaths of thousands of Iraquis on my conscience, especially as I don't drive a car, but at least I know why I found that bargain bin of el cheapo dvds. To hell with stockpiling food or water, I'm stockpiling the Thunderbirds.
However, my routine already rudely interrupted, I decided to put on something different and considered Robin of Sherwood for breakfast instead, but while I was pondering which episode to watch a 50s Robin Hood movie started up on tv. Men in tights ahoy! Brilliantly twee and how very appropriate, set during the Crusades as the tale was.
So where are all Ablion's heroes, anyway? Speaking of whom, kudos to Robin Cook for choosing conscience, morality and dignity. I've always admired the man. Now I want his children. Bravo, Sir.
So, off to vote at first light, taping up rally posters as I went, but all this solid socialist activism vanished in a puff of expresso steam as, arriving in Smallmindedville with over an hour to spare, there was nowhere else open to pass the time bar the Evil Expresso Empire. Oh dear. I'd gone to all the trouble of not wearing one of my American t-shirts and I'm still giving Uncle Sam my dollars. Ooops. Well, at least I've resolved to only buy UK shows in my monthly dvd allotment. That won't be a hardship, I have gaping holes in my Avengers collection, significant gaps, fer starters. I swear Emma Peel isn't the reason I grew up thinking boys were for karate chopping, not kissing. It speaks more to the quality, or rather lack thereof, of men about here.
Hmmm, probably shouldn't buy British shows either, or Australian, which only leaves me with Kiwi and Canadian productions. Oh dear. Ah, this activism, it can be such a hard path at times. Like for twenty years I followed my friend and only bought Body Shop. Then I got tired of constantly breaking out in rashes and boils and switched back to Avon. Sometimes you need to know your soap won't leave you looking like a leper.
Okay, so I take myself off to see the Recruit. More money to America, but it had been talked up a lot on my list, with much pants wetting, so I thought I'd give it a whirl. As Best Friend had cried off, again, I decided to see it at my local. It'll be okay, I tell myself, so long as I try to block all thoughts of bad dates past from my mind and they don't stick me in Broomcloset Number 5. Not a chance of it. They're playing movie tunes from the 80s and my ticket says cinema #5. Naturally. I hate #5, the one the size of my bathroom, ie just a few chairs, wee screen and one speaker that saw previous service hanging off a car door in all weathers at the old drive-in. Arrrrgh. Resolve to rent this on dvd at some time in the future.
So I have my own private screening and I realise it's not the cinema so much as the film, because a decent film and a decent actor can overcome the crappy sound, poxy screen quaility and calvinist seating if I lose myself sufficiently in the goings on on the screen and it's all about the brown eyes, dribble. Colin Farrell acts everyone off screen with that Irish intensity of his and he seems to be no longer bothering to sound flawlessly American. In this he sounds like a bog trotter who's been temping in America, which essentially he is, but his characer is meant to be USA all the way. No matter, I love the Irish inflection, and he just makes Al Pacino, allegedly a 'good' American actor, look like a camp old panto queen with no substance whatsoever. Ignoring my loathing for the CIA, it was a cute tale with the whole CIA academy bits lots of machismo and was surprisingly more like I Spy that anything else that has tried this year with the old who's screwing who, who's the double or triple agent plot that I Spy did so well. There's also the femme fatale, who usually in I Spy really was evil and always got her just deserts for trying to break up the boys (as it should be). I really like all the DC scenery, most nostalgic, and that was really I Spy too, the way all the important meetings took place in tourist locations. Lets talk crossing and double crossing in front of various statues and monuments. I mean, really, how I Spy is that? If that wasn't enough, one of the spy boys was running about in white jeans. Now I'm thinking this is I Spy the movie. Imagine Kelly going bad and this is totally it. Nice twist on the whole the bad guy explains it all scene at the end. Not much of a twist admitedly, because they actually do announce it in the opening credits, but points for trying. Those who took up the red herrings might have been fooled along the way. I've seen too much I Spy not to see how it was going to turn out, though I want a fix it fic where Zack really did fake his death and it's Zack and James who get paired up together, not the chicky babe. Hey, gotta stick with tradition :D
But I'm forgetting the best and only reason to see this movie: Colin. Colin, Colin, Colin. See Colin smoulder, see Colin pout, see Colin mug for the camera, see Colin all sweaty in a singlet. Lust, drool, dribble. It also seems they've yet to invent a razor that can tame the Farrel stubble. Not that I mind, he could give me beard rash any damn time. Oooh, yummy. He's pretty, yet he's got that whole 'fuck you' attitude that Celtic countries do (and Australia is included, settled by so many displaced Celts as we were). Gorgeous, simply gorgeous.
Go home and watch Minority Report because I need more Colin, and hey, lookit, it's got Neal in it. Neal in a tank top. yay. More drooling ensues. After that I was in a Neal mode so it was Band of Brothers, which also gave me a fix of the Ginger Ninja (Damian). Yummy (and always heart wrenching to watch, still). Then it was tea, Andromeda (the one where we lose cutesy Trance for a Trance I don't like at all), The Squire of Gothos and bed. Big day tomorrow.
Sunday. War, what is it good for? Absolutely nothing, but, well, maybe losing weight at least. All this marching has shifted a couple of centimetres off my hips, which I report because everybody is always bugging me about my weight.
Too bad nobody is concerned about anything else. They call me selfish and selfabsorbed yet at least I'm out marching, and they're not. Bro keeps running into people he knows. I see no one I know. Shame on them.
My little tambourine works out perfectly, keeping the beat as we shuffle down to the Domain, my hands too sore from clapping, my voice hoarse from shouting anti-war chants. My little $2 tambourine came with two little maracas, but Bro takes just one. Two, he feels, would be a little too Peter Allen for so serious an occassion. He's right of course, though the thought keeps breaking me out in giggles. We troop into the Domain, meet up with folks from the Gallery. Bro heads off with his mates and leaves me alone to sit in the park for a bit surrounded by a hundred thousand people, seems like. They start up "I was only 19" and I get a shiver, especially with the sound of choppers overhead. A bitter cold wind blows up and I decide it's movie time. I know, frivolous, but I'm in the city and there are more films on here than back in the boonies. I had intended to see either Catch Me if You Can or Gangs of New York but Leo loses, being on at unreasonable times, so I'm left with a choice of Colin or Colin. I choose Colin. Yup, another Colin fix, the Recruit redux. Yup, me, festooned like an anti-war Xmas tree, fronts up to buy a ticket for a pro-CIA film. Still, the ticket guy nods his approval at my black t-shirt (it says no war with a white hand, which I liked because it reminded me of the Tomorrow People - which I bought on dvd sticking to my UK rule - or Roswell, but which I later realised also made me look like anti-Bush but pro-Saurumon, ooops) and I promised to scowl at the CIA while ogling Colin. (I'm sorry, my ovaries have never been politically aligned, and sometimes they're alarmingly right wing, the contrary buggers). My other problem is that it's nigh impossible to find a place to sit down and have a drink that isn't a US chain. I end up having to put my jumper on and slinking into the Great Satan's coffee shoppe yet again. Hey, at least I was out marching, unlike anyone else I know, shame on them.
To my horror The Recruit plays to a full house this time, noisy people everywhere. Good thing I'm not here for the plot. After a good solid two hours or so of drooling over the mightly fine specimen of man meat that is Mr Farrell I pop up to leave the moment the credits roll but nobody shifts. Perhaps they're expecting another CF viginette like in Daredevil. I know they're car people because they won't tuck their legs in to let me get past and they have no concept of someone from the boonies trying to survive on an hourly bus service. By the time I get out I catch only tailghts so I'm stuck there in the freezing cold bitter wind with all the derros coming in to settle in for the night. Car people don't care about how cold and frightened I am as I have to wait for an hour in the dark with only derros for company. Car people don't car how many times I've been assaulted trying to get home on my own. Car people just don't care about anyone but themselves, it's been scientifically proven. Car people got no reason to live. I bet car people don't march, either.
Got home at last, with the bus driver getting seriously lost at one point, got to see most of Charmed (qv bad ovaries) and went to bed.
Monday. I'm so tired, too tired, I want to go back to bed, but being too tired is only an excuse that works for everyone but the girl with chronic fatigue syndrome (not to mention dengue fever which I picked up in Cairns, natch). It's perverse that everyone else can use the I'm too tired or unwell excuse, but not me. I'm still ragged from all those 12-13 hour days I was forced to do last week as punishment for daring to have a day off sick. I hate my life.
So the bus goes past in the middle lane, leaving me stranded in the dark, the cold and the rain for another hour. I'm miserable, punished, tortured and humiliated and my day hasn't even started yet. I really hate my life and I gotta wonder why me?
Forgot to tips me lid to Heath Ledger for marching on Thursday with Joel and Natalie. I guess playing Ned does get one all fired up (and if anyone writes Kelkly slash I will hunt them down and kill them - some things are sacred, man). Yay Heath. Good man. Shame on the rest of you.
The Americans never do anything in half measures, and they're always big with the hypocrisy. I can't believe the Dixie Chicks are banned from American airplay for having a conscience but R Kelly, with over 20 charges of child pornography against him, is topping the charts and getting plenty of airplay. Yeah, right, nice one. I also hear the Yanks have killed more of their allies than the enemy, again. So far all our war dead can be attributed to friendly fire (ditto the Brits). Nice one. No wonder the Canadians are glad to be out of this one.
I won't be watching the Oscars tonight. We're supposed to be boycotting them in protest but nothing is more trying than US celebrities trying to be sincere so I wouldn't watch anyway. One would classify being forced to watch the Oscars, especially big message Oscars, under war crimes, if the US recognised any international court, which they don't.
What really hacks me off is the way my country has become a puppet state of the US. I expect the marines to land and hoist up the flag, like they did with Hawaii, at any moment. How very annoying, to hear the Americans bang on about freedom and democracy when they control my government and yet I have no right to vote or voice my opinion. At least marching in peace rallies lets me stand up and be counted, even if it is all for nothing. At least I said no. I finally stood up and said no.
We won in the cricket, again. The poor Indian team is under guard, as the Indian fans are not happy campers (Australians are so mild by comparison, qv no arrests at our peace rallies). I feel sorry for the Indian team, they played well. It's only really fun when we beat the English, though, because they always huff and puff about colonial upstarts and convicts beating them at a gentleman's game. The 19thC lives on when it comes to cricket. So long as they keep gnashing and wailing when we beat 'em, it'll keep being fun.
Eeep, they just played a dreadful thin reedy electronica version of The Smiths "There is a light" on triplej. Death to the infidels! Thou shalt not bollocks up perfectly good Smiths songs. It is written. Fi on them. Some things are just not on, even by my elastic standards.
Hard to be chipper on such a grey day, stuck in such a world. At least the march was good, though a very small turnout (shame, shame, shame). I always find the sight of so many banners fluttering in the wind, and people cheering as various groups trooped in, to be lump in the throat moments. It's good to be in such company. Too bad we couldn't have had nicer weather for our picnic/rally in the park.