TV? Oz and James and then Jamie and Alexis in Dollhouse. That wee Bamber, he gets around, so he does. Playing, or attempting to play, a nasty piece of work, was wee Jamie. I dunno, he's just too button cute to be truly evil, but that's just me. Was interested in Alexis as crusading Senator, but that looked like it was just slotted in because it will Be Important Later. I mean, it is a Whedon show, after all. I know, axed, axed, axed, but S2 just started here last night so please bear with. We seem to have dragged the show kicking and screaming back to Echo, which was probably a fatal mistake as just about every other character is much more interesting, but that's just me, too (and I miss Reed. I heart Reed). And I recognised the evil bitch queen wot rules the roost the other when flicking through a rack of dvds at the ABC shop. There she was in a Jane Ausen flick, as Jane, no less. My, but these Yank shows are over run with Brits these days (and antipodeans). I find it too funny for words.
I should segue into something about the plague of Rolf Harrises (plural?) sketch on The Goodies but I doubt any of you would have the slightest idea what I was talking about, alas. No one ever does.
Oh, and before I forget, tiny mention of Mr Bomer in the issue of Who Weekly which was just put on the stands of my local newsagent this morning. Right up the back, very small, but better than nowt. Still nothing from Ten about the show. No promos, no nuffin. It went from being schedule darling to shoved back to 10pm Friday with no promotion - I wouldn't even know if I'd not gone actively looking for the where and when. Oh dear.
It's going to be just like Burn Notice or Supernatural, where they only play three episodes per year, isn't it? I can only hope the use it or lose clause kicks in and the cable screenings catch up and overtake, at least of BN and SPN. Or that whomever owns the rights puls their effings fingers out and releases the dvds in a timely fashion (timely being defined as before I expire of old age, you bastards).
Sorry, seem to be a bit bolshie today. It's the hormones (and the waiting for the bollocking that's coming. If I were a soldier in the trenches right now I'd be checking my gear). Anger management? Who needs that? All they have to do is line up all the fuckwits up against the wall, which the Peanut Gallery agrees is a form of anger management, anyway, if a touch on the proactive side. You know, cutting it off at the source, as it were.
What can I say, sometimes the office is like water off the proverbial, like yesterday, other days, like today, it's like lying in a nest of needles.
And I've got itchy feet again. This is not good. I told myself I couldn't even think of going anywhere until Himself mastered the art of hanging a shirt on a hanger, because I like to set myself impossible conditions to overcome, like no going to Scotland until the Stone of Scone is returned, that sort of thing. But once again...can you believe it, he did all the washing, hung it up inside when the entirely not predicted clouds rolled up, called in the plumber for yet more work, put the garden back to rights afterward and still had enough puff left to make dinner (just barely, though). I was so pleased I brought home some doughnuts but somehow on the jumpy bumpy bus ride home and having to move out of the way for all the inner city bastards with their ipods and lap tops to all get off the bus two stops into my three hour journey...WANKERS!....but at least I got a seat then, but somehow in all the kerfuffle the doughnuts contrived to slip under all the groceries and magazines in my shooping bag (McAvoy in Nylon and McGregor in Elle) and arrived at home flattened to 2mm (if that), so guess who was the comedy screwup this time? Good intentions, right? Right? At least he damn nearly wet himself laughing over the flattened offerings, so that was something I suppose, and they were still kinda edible once scrapped off with a spatula, sort of. Oh dear. Not my finest hour but I think I'd used up all my few remaining brain cells in scrawling bad fan fic in the park, cause I was six kinds of stupid last night, hence the not getting online. Well, that and wanting to perve over wee Bamber sans distractions.
And no, I can't go anywhere, not with the rolling plumbing issues vs the bank account. Sigh. Well, at least some mountains are tootling through town, I suppose. That's something, right?
PM update. Badly burnt by distressing and unpleasant fandom experience. Am not going across the park to write today now. Or indeed any day in the foreseeable future. Whimper. Need chocolate. Or, to put it more succinctly: FU, Bitches.
I know, I know better, much, much better but I was just trying to be helpful and this is what happens, what always happens. Why do I bother. Sucks that it's on the one day I'm least prepared to cope, you know, bursting into tears for no reason day. Sigh.
Can I think happy Chuck thoughts instead. Except not rteally because in my heart of hearts I'm a terrible C/S shipper and this season the new Greg Brady hair is so not working for me that the fastest computer in the world could not compute just how much it was not working for me in negative numbers. Even the Tardis (is it still TARDIS or have we given up on that now) would grind to a halt trying to calculate said shuddering revulsion. Oh dear. Can nothing go right?
Maybe I should go make a cuppa. There's nothing that can't be solved with a nice hot cup of tea. Although today I feel some significant firepower at my disposal wouldn't go entirely amiss, either.
Meanwhile, in another discussion entirely (the one that wasn't about Vermeer) the Peanut Gallery reckons that the only supercars worth knowing about are the ones that should have had this playing on the radio while they were being made:
Revealed: the face of Greenland (circa 2000BC)
How we learned to love Photoshop
Museum and Gallery Listings
Portrait of Thomas Cromwell (aka found it!!!)
A Girl Reading a Letter by an Open Window (aka meanwhile, in another art discussion entirely...)
The Skating Minister
The Reverend Robert Walker, Henry Raeburn (1794)
Skeleton made of 'five perfect bodies'