"I'd make love to him," Levi jokes in an NBC interview, "and I don't say that about many men--any men really--but today's the day." - Show Patrol
This bemused me. And thank goodness for Chuck, because, much like this time last year, there's little else to make me smile.
I'll spare you the details but I will say I'm feeling somewhat worn down by running myself ragged to trying in vain to please people who give every indication of wishing I were dead instead, and not in a comedy zombie way, either.
And in the name of all that is holy, never, ever try to be funny. You might think certain religions and their more orthdox followers entirely lack a sense of humour re their sacred cows but that's just peanuts compared to fandom. Yikes, been battered from all corners this week, in all forums/media and on a wide variety of subjects that I either posted or ignored (yes, not even silence escapes the wrath of fans).
Still, it's been a while since I've been attacked by the flying monkeys of some actor, so I was probably due a pop. Just didn't really need it, is all. Kinda felt like Mr Fry and taking my bat and ball and stalking off home, if you know what I mean.
One might also churlishly note that when I foolishly suggested that if they found my posts deeply unsatisfying, which they clearly did, they could always demonstrate the correct way by the example of their exquisite and outstanding posts of perfection. Is that the deafening roar of silence I hear? Thought so.
I am not your butt monkey. Oh, who am I kidding. I so am.
Take Monday night. I thought of a scene (while stuck on the 4.5 hour bumper to bumper overcrowded stuffy bus ride in the pouring rain) so gut wrenching it made me damn nearly cry, but by the time I'd fulfilled my obligations to the great ungrateful it was after 11.55 pm and of course by then it's just eye wateringly bad, isn't it. And it makes me sad.
I need to get a thicker skin, of course. Don't know where I could get one of those, do you? For both work and non work where projects I'd felt rather pleased with (and there we have the rub of the nub of it) were not merely knocked back but torn up, stomped on, incinerated and the ashes stomped on again and scuffed all over the place. Ouch.
Parrots certainly weren't pleased with me. They never are when it rains (their seed turns to soup in its tray, and that's all my fault, too). Half of them are ex pets and they wanted back in yesterday when it really came down. The whole 'Heathcliff, its me, Cathy come home' schtick, rasping at the windows. I tried to tell 'em such was life but they weren't having it. Such miserable wails - I should have recorded it. Poor things. To give you an idea of how droughty it's been before now, they'd never seen either of us wield an umbrella before. There was much consternation and alarm.
Not that I used my umbrella yesterday. Being utterly miserable, I decided to walk home in the pouring rain and got myself suitably soaked in a most melodramatic fashion. Still, dry clothes and a cup of tea and a biscuit and I was feeling a bit better, if only temporarily (flying monkeys: there is no escape).
I was going to take the piss out of the young clueless temp we've got here right now but I'll probably offended everyone with my grumpy old person grumpiness, so I'll to refrain, but can I just say that she keeps using words like 'random' in sentences, without irony, and has never seen anyone use a teapot before, aside from Lady Gaga, who wore one as a hat once, maybe. For the love of...but I will button it.
Besides, I discover, she's really quite nice, she just speaks a whole 'nother language (I swear I made more sense in Rome after a pathetic two week Italian course, ie not at all) but I tried and she chattered away happily enough. It's just that being of an age, I tend to talk in pop culture references (cf the writing style of Buffy, Chuck) that neither my elders nor young whippersnappers understand. Clearly we can all see where the weak link in the chain is (oh, for mates who know exactly what you mean when you say 'evil tiki', etc).
Man, I'm feeling old. And for that reason, I think I'm going to have to change my avatar from Sam, who has served me well as a man out of time, stuck in the 70s (as this office still is, alarmingly so), to Catweazle, also a man out of time but more where I'm at these days, as in nothing works and you and your darn electrickery and ipods and interwebs and the like.
But back to Chuck. The one thing I have to look forward to (well, that Gaiman episode of Dr Who but that's too far to think of right now). I was watching the interviews with young Zack and Mr Dalton last night and wasn't that a cosy little love fest, but I do adore both boys so very dearly and I can't wait to see the episodes.
But, Timmy? Charlies Angels? Okay, somebody find me that episode, stat.
Also watched that Primtime Crimefighters panel thing and I know I'll be accused of being overly grumpy if I say wtf, but, by the looks on some of the actors there, I wasn't the only one going to the wtf place. And is it just me or is it really bad form to ask questions about American customs and American politics when two of the panel weren't actually American. It's struck me as the sort of clumsy putting a guest on the spot stuff one isn't supposed to do at dinner parties, but then again, most of the questions seemed framed to embarrass or offend and had nothing whatsoever to do with playing a tv crimefighter, which, foolishly, I thought was the purpose of the panel (and I think the actors did, too).
It was like watching an undergraduate pub night quiz gone horribly wrong. Cringeworthy. If only they'd had Paul McDermott as host, that would have saved it. Well, for me, anyway. Not that it matters (and now that I think of it, most US guests end up just looking shellshocked on GNW, too, with the barrage of crazy questions).
But at least wee Bomer was out of his comfort zone (cf the squirming, or maybe that was because Ms Harmon couldn't keep her hands off him, and who can blame her) and gave us some answers that weren't from his rolling stock list of pat answers to everything. Seriously, he comes off too often like the worst kind of spin doctored politician on the red carpet/interviews, trotting out the same party line again and again and yet again no matter what he's been asked. It's probably just nerves, but, still. At least here we had some off the cuff answers (but, dear Matty, you sound like you were one seriously weird kid, even by my standards).
Ah well. At least I have Zack, being silly and declaring his man love for Timothy Dalton to the world. I love him so much, the silly, silly boy. I love Chuck so much. And you know what, I actually think the better man won. Yes, that was actually a repudiation of Bryce. Brittle and pretty versus warm and funny. You know, I think I'm in the mood for warm and funny.
Oh dear, that sounds like a rebuke, but it wasn't (I just haven't had my critical faculties liposuctioned out yet). I was just watching the thing at midnight (the only time there's bandwidth enough to get a decent stream, it only crapped out on me three times) so I was probably a little less go with the flow girl than I might have been. Or not. I seem to be more snap like a twig than bend like a reed girl of late. Anyway, weird that the only stuff I've watched this week was online.
And I forgot to mention the highlight, when they trotted Mannix out. Mannix! Heh. Okay, I've come lately to Mannix, as, yes, it's one of the few tv shows actually made before my time, and I only really just started getting into it before Fox Classics so cruelly yanked it from the schedule, and replaced it with the Waltons, oh, injury to insult. But yeah, I was aware of the show but had never seen it until very recently. It certainly hit all the tropes (and I'm not surprised certain powers responsible for other trope heavy shows admitted to indulging in a box set, not surprised at all). At least I get that Homer Simpson reference now: "An old army buddy is visiting Mannix?!"
Heh. Cause I've never seen that trope in Burn Notice or Chuck, or, hell, even True Blood - grin.
That's all the tv for me this week. Even typed all through Supernatural without glancing up, whimper. Okay, yes, it was the actual shark jumping episode (though, personally, I always feel they leapt that fish the episode before, where Dean discovers Wincest, and does that make it canon? because, like, eew). Still, I love the Winchester boys and even bad Supernatural episodes can offer something on a repeat. Okay, maybe not the ones they rightly identify as not all that, but still. I mean, the bi-polat bear. I can forgive the show a lot cause they gave me that big, crazy teddy bear. Not to mention the pretty. And Cas.
So yes, big, big sacrifice to miss it, but I had to finish the notebook, although I've filled up another one in the meantime. So crazy, part five was meant to be a brief epilogue, now it's this huge game changing epic that makes the other bits seem mere prologues. Good grief. It's all gone seriously AU.
I was fully intending to get it all typed up asap and put it together over Xmas, to try and get it up before White Collar resumes and blows significant fic plot points to shreds, but, alas, Xmas is cancelled. For real this time, as I am requested and required to work all through Xmas, including Xmas day, so that's that, then. Bugger.
Yes, I know I've got nothing on at work right now on account of the whole sidelined issue (if they could only sideline me to a shed/basment/cupboard somewhere like I was once before, then I could really get the fic done, and every other half finished fic, too, no doubt, but no, surrounded by tossers doing what used to be my job it is then) but nothing says 'has no expectations of seasonal engagements' than this bespectacled and badly dressed loser, so rostered on for Xmas duty it is then.
You know, I'm reading High Fidelity and I realise I aspire to levels of Barry-ness, and that is truly, truly sad.
I dunno. I'm so used to working over Xmas it's kind of a relief, cause last year I just sulked and sulked and sulked some more, paralysed by an impossible list of household chores and a fic that wasn't working and not even bothering to watch any dvds or read any books I got, and boy, wasn't that a landmine later when I forgot I had them, listlessly shoved up the back of the bookcase untouched as they were. I didn't mean to be so ungrateful, I was just drowning in meh.
I dunno why I wasted my precious days off, but I just felt so tired and ...disinterested. Tried to get the year back on track, but no joy. And I did try. I bought tickets to things and everything (and didn't that work out so well for me in certain still painful incidents). I never really liked that season of Buffy, but you know, I really get it now. I'm just going through the motions. Just waiting for the plumbing to back up again, or the next appliance to cark it.
The Lady of Shalott
Wednesday: Still being childish and chicken. Still finding it hard to take when told to my face that they absolutely hate my work and find it ugly (then being told on the bus they absolutely hate me and find me ugly).
Worse, there was no Human Target on telly and I was really looking forward to it. Too meh to select a dvd from the quivering pile, the only thing on offer was The Tudors. The Peanut Gallery refers to Anne Boleyn as AnnBo, which is momentarily hilarious.
Meanwhile, I have to formally retract everything I said about Matt Bomer, above. I just saw another red carpet interview he did on the night and this one was much, much better. Clearly it depends on the interviewer, and it looks like Matty did have a minder with him, making sure he stayed on message.
Which makes me wonder where Zachary Levi's minders are. Locked in a steamer trunk somewhere? Giggle.
Still, I think my point still stands, that Matt is a player, and Zack just plays. Which makes them just perfect for their roles. But I digress.
I was going to say, instead of manfully pressing ahead with the typing that's going nowhere - hell, I remember typing all through the Tudors the first time around, I gave up and sulked off to bed. Not that that did me any good, if you can count tossing and turning and being pursued by a crazed Herrick type character everywhere, on trains, in theatres, etc and no one would believe me or help or hide me (a little too close to the bone that, and I'm not surprised that has peeped out from under its rock) as a good night's sleep, and I don't.
So that was a complete waste of time. I might as well have stayed up typing till midnight, again. At least I wouldn't still be shaking. Tried to get a day off tomorrow, but no. Sigh. I really needed a day off.
This morning on the bus, the guy behind was playing muzak loudly out of his earphones, the sort of plinky muzak they play on the bus from Tullamarine or the train from Heathrow, the sort of stuff they play while running through all the exciting things you could do and telling you that anything could happen. You know, that moment when the holiday is really about to kick off and no matter how jetlagged you are, you feel just a twinge of anticipation.
Well, I tried to imagine I was on one of those buses, not a poxy commuter bus (though my commute is twice as long as the flight to Melbourne) and that anything could happen.
If only, eh? Still, that I could pretend, just for a little, means this misery is just situational. It's those turkeys, those turkeys right over there, that are brining me down. Without them, I'm fine. Not brilliant, but not throw myself under a bus miserable, either.
Hmmm, there I was, doing my usual coughing up of liver, lung, spleen and larynx, but when I went off to look at some piccies of Matty Bomer, cause I was miserable and I find his weird almost too pretty prettiness pleasing, no matter what I might think of him otherwise, and I realised I'd stopped coughing. Weird, huh. That was this morning. Another miserable coughing fit, another perve, same effect. It's probably just because I'm focusing on something I like rather than something upsetting, but still, bemusing. St. Matty of the Colgate Ring of Confidence. Or something like that.
Honestly, I'll take anything, because I'm gonna break something flailing around with this cough (that I've had for years now). Weirdly, too, I don't cough on holidays, so I swear it's just allergies.
Oh, and I did get tomorrow off, but I'm only gonna use the wee pc for typing. If anyone wants to insult/rebuke/chatise/belittle me tomorrow, they're gonna have to come to the door. Am I'm off to buy a supersoaker, so be warned - grin. I aim to dampen.
Not that everything isn't damp as it is. Rain, rain and more rain. Except on Tuesday, when I swear there was a frost (I never got a chance to check closely as a neighbour tried to run me down). I know what you're thinking, a frost in November, what's the big deal? And to that I say, but it's November. It's not supposed to be all cold and wet and windy. Not really. Not as a rule. This is like the longest winter of my life. No wonder I'm a bit on the grizzle grizzle side.
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