Further to my comments yesterday, I think it would have been easier if I'd just gone to what Joss Whedon said. When he was growing up, he was fine with blood and guts, it was people lying that had him covering his eyes and groaning.
As it is with me. I understand that there must be conflict for drama to occur. Still doesn't mean I won't be watching it from behind my hands, being completely horrified.
That's all I wanted to say. Damn, I really need to gets me one of those new fangled grown up phones that everyone else has so I can type on the bus because I always have better thoughts on the bus. Alas, every time I really start with the nose pressed against the glass of the shop window coveting, something else falls off the house, so it's pen and paper for the froseeable future, still, alas. If I was skinny and blonde I could say I was starting a too cool for school 'slow writing' trend or some such, but no, I'm just sad, old, tubby and poor. Thems the breaks.
Still suffering from the socially obliged pav. Not to mention a touch of socially obliged sunburn. And an overwhelming feeling that I just don't get it (or fit in). My idea of a picnic is me, a piece of fruit, a bottle of (tap filled) water and a patch of grass to sit on. They, on the other hand, trekked in so much gear it was one stop short of a be-ribboned tent with turbaned servants offering tea from silver salvers, I swear. Chairs, tables, table cloths, glasses, sporting equipment, and on and on and enough eskies to build a fort. Good grief. I suppose you can do that with a big car and a big family. Me? I pack in, pack out.
But I prefer my kind of picnic. Less stress, less stuff. Sigh. Somewhere to sit, a book and/or view and I'm set. I don't even need the fruit or water. Guess it comes of being a creepy, solitary child. I'd much rather sit by myself and watch than feel crowded in a nosy picnic area with people I'm only socially obliged to interact with. Shrug.
Anyway, over and done with. Maybe there will be park today? It never did rain yesterday, I totally chickened out, but I swear, had I stepped out and set foot in the park, it would have bucketed. I'm clever like that.
Meanwhile, I was brushing up on a bit of White Collar lore last night, because I'm still scratching away at the fic, even though it's terrible, even though I quibble about opportunities lost on the show (I mean, come on, even Life on Mars referenced The Persuaders, sheesh).
Anyhoo, I've seen several dates of birth for Neal, as you might expect, one, amusingly, listed as 11 October 1977, others from 1980. Oh, dear Neal, shaving years off already, or were these given when he was younger, to get a lighter sentence as a juvenile? I can only assume that someone as precocious as Neal would have started young, around twelve, maybe, but most of his early years would be sealed, lost, destroyed, under assumed names or not entered into the system, especially if charges weren't laid, pressed or any conviction recorded.
Amusingly, Neal's pob is given as New York. Seriously, with those vowels? For really? How unimaginative. Though I suppose it isn't any more orginal to imagine Neal as the polished finished product of an orginally somewhat rougher diamond, but no matter. So I can't imagine Neal being taken in hand and trained up by a Henry Higgins styled elder grifter? Damn. (No x-overs for you, Missy).
There's probably more but I can only get to the USA page on the Optus account, which I share (ie pay for but rarely get to use), but never the Telstra one (weird firewall exclusions), so I never get there at all, hardly (grits teeth), but I took a peek on another account, which also works (but isn't recommended).
I'm sure I'll be taken to task for not fact checking a site I'm essentially blocked from unless I indulge in interwebs jiggery pokery, because I'm always amazed at how folks can ignore the extra-textual relationships yet haul me up on a minor point of fact, like the wrong make of gun and car. And White Collar, being as maddeningly brand aware as any Bond work, well, the very devil is in the details (would that they could have a scene as cute as on Life last night where Crews, playing the extremely dumb copper, was mispronouncing/murdering Lalique and Maugham and all sorts as he sorted through a posh bag of swag, Damian's little eyes twinkling as he went, making a complete meal of it).
Btw, tv shows that block their websites from their loyal and hard done by international viewers: FUCK. YOU.
And yes, BBC, I'm especially looking at you. I haven't been able to get onto the Dr Who site since the Eccleston years. In no way is that fair. I have to rely on the kindness of strangers pirating the odd bit of copyrighted material elsewhere, mere scraps and leavings. So not fair. Everyone else gets the cool stuff. Grizzle. Pout. Whimper.
You know that old saying about 'those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it'? Well, there should be an additional *those who have to follow orders from abovementioned twats are not only doomed to repeat it but must grit their teeth for they are never allowed to uttter the words 'I told you so, dickweed'.
Meanwhile, I did get to the park. It was lovely. Only got one scene down and since I was trying to remember a scene I thought of in May but am only now having a chance to record, it was, as you might imagine, rubbish. There was witty banter but buggered if I can remember any of it now.
Sometimes I really hate that I never get the chance to do the stuff I want to do, even if it's just half an hour to jot down a scene in my head that no one will ever read, or care about.
Wednesday: Man, what a day. It was the very long, very round trip to the shops and struggling back on a two hour commute loaded with goods that did for me. I crashed hard during Top Gear and never saw anything else, which was a pity because there was Deadwood, QI and Bill Bailey to choose from, had I been concious. I was even enjoying Top Gear. Normally the local version bores me silly but this time they damn nearly fed the presenters to lions, and so it was vastly entertaining (those old Romans might have been onto something - grin). So I was actually enjoying it, but tired won out.
I did pick up a fern for my desk (as I miss the greenery) but I have to pot it up properly (it was well and truly night by the time I got home and I don't crowd the creepy crawlies after dark) and storage boxes for the now very teetering and tottering 'to do' pile of magazines to be scanned. One of these days I'll have a weekend to myself to get on that. One of these days.
No time soon. Tonight I'll be up late doing all the stuff I have to do for work but can't due to work firewalls. Drives me mad. Meant to bring my wee pc in but yeah, totally forgot, that, too. Maybe tomorrow.
If there was any fairness in the world I'd be able to spend all day typing up White Collar porn in lieu of my wasted personal time (not to mention bandwidth), but life just doesn't work like that.
Meanwhile, further White Collar rebuttal: yeah, it would be unfair to criticise them for not paying homage to such shows like The Persuaders, I mean, no reason why they should. Except that White Collar isn't the most original show on the block, referencing previous shows such as Tenspeed and Brownshoe and Remington Steele, not to mention indulging in such well worn tropes as the Diplomat's (kidnapped) Daughter and the Wayward (criminal) Professor, not to mention dabbling with my personal faves, such as the evil fashion designer and the crazy 'Nam vet.
And, the worse thing is, they do such a paint by numbers job with these old tropes, too. There's been no real effort to shake it up, update it, twist it or even mash 'em up. And then they don't even give you the money shot? Really?
About as much fizz as a generic brand cola. Come on, White Collar, you've got a third season. Get with it.
And if you can't hire any decent writers, then at least sit down with a shitload of boxsets over the break and watch and learn. There's a reason why such shows are regarded as classics, deeply loved and still referenced today.
Oh, why do I break my heart over these shows?
There's another show, which shall not be named, that never got it right with three seasons, though I never gave up hope until it was far too late. Critical miscasting, chronically poor writing that tried to be too clever (and bombed most terribly) and a wilful refusal to organically make the most of their strengths (some outstanding talent in the supporting cast) and play down its most terrible weaknesses. Never has a show deserved every criticism in the press or its eventual axing more. (To my schadenfreude delight, the people on the show who deserved better now have better, thank you, and those who didn't met the bit parts and career suicide moves they deserved, too).
Harumph. It really shouldn't matter, but as I don't have a life, it does. I mean, it's not like I can break my heart over my job (but I do) because if I'm still here by Xmas, never mind Easter, it'll be a bloomin' miracle.
Meanwhile, it's a pity I missed most of the Bonanza does My Fair Lady episode, because I was hanging out for that one. What a hoot. I am sure this is one of the episodes that spurred rival tv western Maverick to indulge in such a cutting pisstake of the Cartwrights. And, seriously, if it was so obvious that other shows felt they could happily send it up, then I am so not watching it wrong. I mean, seriously, people were nudging and winking during the early 60s? That tickles me just so much.
Folks were so much more sophisticated then. Certainly so many of the tv shows were very grown up and clever. I don't know how or why tv became so stupid, but it did. Thank goodness for cable and boxsets and black and white telly that is sly, witty, clever, topical, political, playful and inventive.
Not to say they don't indulge in a bit of pearl handling, being so newly minted from the age of radio. Pearl handling is a local expression for the 'tv for the blind' that you still get on some shows, and it comes from a line in an old radio western that went something like "I shot him with my pearl handled six shooter."
But I don't mind that, since I rarely get to actually watch shows these days. To be honest, a bit of pearl handling in Burn Notice probably wouldn't go astray - grin (just so I could follow the plot, such as it is, twixt kabooms).
White Collar, meanwhile, does it a lot, usually to cover up for some action scene they couldn't afford to shoot, as characters walk in describing the action that happened off stage. Chuck, bless 'em, does it too with their lack of budget, but at least they dubbed in never seen tanks and bombers, to our great delight. I really don't mind the 'oh my god there's stuff happening outside' ruse, so long as it's done well (or at the very least, tongue in cheek), and I adore the invisible spaceships and monsters the now once again cash strapped Dr Who has to use (an inventive conceit), but just reciting the stage directions? That's lazy.
In other news, everyone spotted I was doing it Edwardian today. Behold the shoes, because I'm going back to comfy shoes tomorrow (the dud ankle is not happy). They are fully Edwardian. Ditto my skirt. The blouse not so much but I couldn't find my full on Edwardian blouse, it must be hiding up the back and, well, just dressing myself this morning was my crowning achievement today.
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