Also found my camera (apparently the pocket universe that stuff in my bag vanishes to could only contain my plastic raincoats and had to disgourge my missing camera) but it ran out of disk space during Icehouse (and yon bugger at home wasn't taping it). Ooops. Never mind. I wasn't sure about this whole Icehouse thing but Iva played We Can Get Together and Can't Help Myself and oh, joy, happiness and delight. Never has anyone with cramps and burns boogied away so much in a downpour. Okay, he also played Electric Blue, but a girl can't have everything. Hey, at least I got to hear the old tunes, just one more time. And I gotta say, Iva kinda rocked.
Never thought I'd get there. I wasn't in best form and I thought it was another day of washing (I got two loads done) then yon bugger says he's going out anyway and like hell was I staying home to wash his socks. Somehow, despite a complete lack of public transport and the streets being closed off (the streets were awash with seamen, I mean, flooded with white, um, there was a massive naval parade going on while I was trying to get across town, all due respect and all but argh) I managed to get my bum on my seat mere seconds before Coldplay came on. They even got the big yellow balloons out for, well, Yellow. They played a few hits then became John Farnham's backing band. Oh Chris, the things you endure in the name of charity.
Then there was Jet and Wolfmother and Jeff Pyke, who rocked for just a dude and a guitar and American west coast leanings. Then there was some American poppet who mimed so badly she wasn't even on stage for her first song. Hoodoo Gurus came on to the Joe 90 theme (which reminded of those bad 80s days when there was only one tape of Captain Scarlet in all of Sydney and Faulkner always bloody had it) and rocked to the vaguely inappropriate Tojo, but great fun and in great form. Loved Eskimo Joe and Architecture in Helsinki were also really, really great (I do love them, quirky creatures that they are). You Am I were so wasted they channelled those old anarchic 70s concerts at the Opera House I'd only ever seen footage of, so that was fun, in its own way.
We also got footage of Kings of Leon, Hunters and Collectors and Split Enz down in Melbourne (twixt bands), as well as the live cross to Kylie, who can actually sing, the little dear. And, okay, I was sticking around just to see Barry Gibb and Olvia Newton-John ironically, but, my gosh, when they belted out that disco anthem, they totally owned the stadium. Even the security guards were gettin' down and gettin funky. It was blistering, and quite the highlight of the night, imho. All props to the old pros (showin' those kids a thing or ten), and you know, we kinda owned the 70s, I realise, belatedly. Baz finished up with Spicks and Specks (yes kids, he's the dude wot sings that) and that was that. A grand day out.
Miraculously, I got straight on a bus and then straight on a taxi home - that never happens (but I think I've got it down now).
Entertainment aside, I felt it was one of the better run multi-act concerts I've been to. Okay, sure, there were a few glitches, but by and large, streets ahead of some others (yes, All Tomorrows Parties, I am looking at you), because there was a wide variety of acts, a variety of seating/standing/picnic rug options (I was in the no alc seats aka the sensible girls seats), sufficient girl toilets, with paper that was restocked throughout the day (though I was high fived by some young girls for advising them to stock up on paper towels for later, never a bad piece of advice, imho), there was a variety of food outlets and small queues, the gap between bands wasn't overlong and there was always footage from Melbourne to entertain (much like the docos up in Brisbane enertained) and I was very impressed with the screens, and more impressed with the speed in which they got them working again when they shorted out during the worst of the storm - and considering the crew were working for free, well, hats off to you, gentlemen, one and all.
Otherwise, well, my burns are officially bad. The poor peanut gallery has to play nursemaid again. Thanks to those who sent links for the purchasing of hottie covers. Didn't really get to use it as an excuse to do nothing as we've had the plumbers in to fix the guttering (big job, there goes my savings for a new PC, again), well, some of the guttering, anyway. Damn my insane parentals and the cowboys they got in during the 80s (the last time it rained enough to upset the crap guttering). I'm not sure I can keep up with the rolling domestic dramas, but there you are.
I did however get to watch a blond over the weekend. This time the original, as I dug out the UNCLE boxsets I got for my b-day (and have as yet lacked the time to plunder). I just had a sudden yen and the box was right there so I watched a handful of eppies on Sunday evening before Lost in Austen (which I still adore, sap that I am). Illya is such a vicious little bastard, with a disturbibgly warped sense of humour. I can easily imagine him as one of those scary post cold war Russian gangsters. Maybe that's what he did next. You know, owns a few English football teams, maybe a paper or two. And now I've gone to the Armstrong and Miller place, which is just too disturbing for words.
It was just kinda cute, cause I remember a US friend being surprised that I thought Illya was cuter and cuddlier than he actually was. That's because I was watching the chopped up Channel Seven versions, with all the violence (Illya, take a bow), cut out. So this is the first time I've seen UNCLE proper. And yep, he's a deliciously scrappy little chap.
Then there was The Great Escape on last night, and I totally broke my no hot blonds after ten pm rule, but, well, the was The Great Escape, man.
So yeah, I've gone a bit dippy over Illya again (a bit? a bit?). Heh.
Also trying to finish up the Lewis fics, especially as series three seems to share many plot points, but entirely different, thus rendering my poor fics even more extreley au than they already were. I bet Lewis doesn't kiss Hathaway in front of everyone in the tv version of the police dinner. Shame.
Not that I need to be hung up on canon, but I find I am, yet I'm so far along with the fics I couldn't possibly rewrite. Oh well.
Also wallowing in Merlin/Arthur, and oh, it's a lovely, lovely wallow. I have a fic just about worked out in my head, and I'm not sure whether I should strike while the iron is hot, as it were (ooo, er), or finish my now redundant Lewis fics. It's all rather moot since I'm lucky if I have 20 mins to myself for the purposes of writing or typing, sigh.
Oh, thanks to a friend I saw Dis/connected. Okay, the show itself? Rather rubbish, your bog standard teens behaving badly and why should I care fare (and uni was never like that, though when I went it was awash with housewives which were seriously crimping of the style, so perhaps I'm just jealous). But Bradley? Oh my. Oh my indeed. He was a completely shallow horndog in the Jason Stackhouse school of the permanently priapic, but he was so cute with it. So adorable and drop dead gorgeous, even when being the most impossibly and inappropriate sleaze. And from this they had him earmarked for Arthur. Well.
Indeedy. Golly. (And thus follows the usual incomprehensible dribble that occurs when I start drooling most inappropriately over young Bradley, but dammit, if they're going to take this long to give me this show, well, damn propriety and roll on the pretty boys).
Yo, Bradley, how about a little sugar for Grandma...
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