mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

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somewhere in my youth or childhood

You know, the whole time I was waxing bucolic on Sunday there was a half eaten pigeon hidden amongst the scatter of leaves behind my chair (which I swept up later). The leavings of my hawk, I'm afraid. I should be revolted, but she's such a wonderful looking creature, I reckon she can have a pigeon or two, if she must. Would that I could train her to the lure. I've seen it done. It looks like fun.

Meanwhile, still beastly and grim lunchtime in the park imperiling weather, but not a drop in the garden. Grizzle.

And finally, I'm wondering if somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something, well, I don't know what I did, but...

David Hasselhoff is now following you on Twitter!

Okay. Maybe it's because I shared that quote from Word magazine about KITT being a GPS with ideas above its station. I dunno. Imps have wickedly suggested that if I play my cards right, I'll have Mr Sheen following me, too. Splendid.1

Fyi, the Hoff is still following me. Whatever I'm doing to piss off everyone else in the known universe is catnip to the Hoff, it would seem. Yay??? Nice to know at least somebody cares I 'spose.

Perhaps the Hoff could play Neal's Dad, since Bomer seems so desperate to cast one. Personally, I'd rather never, ever see Neal's family. He should be like Gatsby, a creation, an artifice (Holly Golightly also obscured her origins and created a new persona, and both remain enduring characters).

At least, I thought that's how they were playing him. You know, Gatsby-like (or, rather, Remington Steele, but the point still stands). Perhaps the over-the-top artifice in the acting and shoddily put together back story wasn't intentional. Whoops.

Sorry, it's hard not to be catty. The only time I ever have to write these blogs is when I've been completely sidelined and rudely pushed aside, so I'm always embittered and boiling with revenge as I type (and, besides, I always knew White Collar was being written by twelve year old catholic boys, I just hoped it wasn't).

I was hoping for F. Scott Fitzgerald and instead I get H. Rider Haggard. Sigh. Both of which I'm reading right now, as it happens. Ah well, they could have done the third book I've got on the trot right now: Jeeves and Wooster. Snorkle. I'll leave it to your imagination to sort out which is which.

Why do I keep watching these fascist shows, though? Midsomer is in trouble because of its whites only policy, and here I was thinking they were being completely ironic in their arch construction of a biscuit tin Agatha Christie Little Britain that had no bearing on reality whatsoever. Oh dear. Turns out they were being entirely serious, after all. Good grief.

This is probably why I never mix well with others online. They're all right wing loonies in them thar lists and I'm a leftie to my bones (several centuries worth of unionists and social agitators behind me). It's bothered me before but I never blogged about it, but I can see it so clearly now.

Bonnet dramas? Whites only BNP fantasy with petticoats (cf Downtown Abbey). Actually, let's throw in nostalgia for the rigid and oppressive social structures of old where those in cloth caps knew their place and were glad of it.

And here I was, just watching it for the tight trousers.

Military dramas? Completely fascist, imperialist, and all that bad stuff. Go to cons and meet creepy people with gun collections.

And here I was, just watching it for the tight trousers.

Police procedurals? Fascist, racist, sexist, corrupt, brutal, violent, repressive and anything else Sam Tyler would want to roll his eyeballs about.

And here I was, just watching it for the tight trousers.

Sigh. I should probably just watch those cooking shows, after all (unsustainable farming practices, carbon miles, GM, pesticides, hormones, endangered species, animal cruelty, loss of habitat, slave labour...)


So, leaving telly aside (only watched Primeval last night, where the Peanut Gallery kvetched about Top Gear, Steve Irwin and that metal tube made of pure macguffinanium, and Hawaii Five-0, which bemused with a minor detour into Bones and ITC territory, but never mind the plot, don't the boys look spiffy?), um...(re)reading Gatsby at the moment. Well, not yet, as I'm still chugging through the opening essay, which is fascinating stuff (Penguin edn).

It's slow going (I was halluncinating wildly on the bus yesterday, whoops, still a touch unwell) but I'm up to the bit about Daddy Issues, oh, those Daddy Issues, being part of the American psyche, being name checked in essays from the 1830s, the whole throwing off old Europe, immigrant backgrounds, and, oh, it's all just one big Freudian anxiety, but I tell ya, I was nodding. It explains a lot, because, man, American films/tv/books/comics: DADDY ISSUES!

It's fun, the essay obviously been written by a pom, and he observes the whole oscilation between obessession and revulsion wasn't just a Nick or Gatsby thing, but possibly an Americn thing. Certainly Neal, whom I had always, until now, thought of as a Gatsby figure, blows hot and cold to great and terrible extremes at times.

Then there's a whole bit about glittering dreams versus reality, and the rejection of reality for the dream, and I was honestly equating Kate with Daisy, or even the green light2, so unrealistic are Neal's longings, through two whole seasons of White Collar, to no avail. Too bad, because what the essayist has to say about Nick and Gatsby could be applied just as easily to Neal (constructed persona, outsider, dreamer, fantasist, romantic, criminal). At least, the Neal I thought I was watching (and hereupon the whole discussion on reality and perception turns in on itself and pops away like the Cheshire Cat).

Speaking of Neal, I am happy to report that the postal service finally coughed up an envelope of fun (yay) and I will send my heartfelt thanks the moment I get online on my own PC (and can access my mail). I'm afraid it's been straight to bed most days these week, except last night but the walls and staircase were twisting about in wild hallucinations, so best not to get online, I thought).

I'm not sure, should I watch 'em now or finish Gatsby (and imagine my dealised Neal, which is so meta my head hurts)? I'll probably just put 'em on to cheer me up after a rotten week, though I'm torn on Friday re telly: Chuck vs Being Human. Ouch. Whine. Whimper.

But seriously, did they travel by camel?

The postal service (if that's not an oxymoron) also coughd up all the jumpers and stuff that wouldn't fit in my bag that I'd had to post home (I had to buy more and more jumpers as the weather was at least twelve degrees colder and wetter than previously advertised, hence the pneumonia for this child of tropical climes) and I was beginning to fret because a) I liked some of that stuff and b) if it didn't show up soon it was either lost and/or stolen (ewww) or c) I wasn't looking forward to opening up the parcel (at least not without a hazmat suit on).

Oh, and I'll return serve with the Mavericks as soon as I get 'em off the IQ (cf jetlag/flu combo). We're up to the Doc episodes again. There were the boys, on telly, last night, while I sat on the could and watched the carpet wash back and forth. I love the Doc and Bart episodes. They truly are my favourite tv bromance. Watching always brings such joy (and after the day I had, a little joy was a wonderful thing). They manage just the right blend of menance and intrigue and untrustworthiness and loyalty and comedy and archness and oh, it's just right. My dear black and white boys.

They are so wonderful. Hell, even Doc's TB goes into remission when TPTB, seeing what they had there, made him a recurring character. All in all, I think there are about eight episodes, but fandoms have been founded on less. They're silly, but sophisticated, and, well, they're just right. Well, okay, the scene with a very, very hungover Doc choosing a coffin to lean against was pushing the FORESHADOWING out a bit, but I still love it because even in the grip of a mighty hangover (and impending doom) the Doc still finds it within himself to snark when required. I wuv him so much (if only Neal...oh, never mind).

In other news, shan't bore you with my mourning over the catastrophic failure of my fave bra (though I'm lucky it didn't take an eye out when it violently pinged apart as it did, that'll learn me to reach up for the tea) and instead tell of the happy lunch break I had down in the cafe (it being grim and damp again, but only in the city, but I still needed to escape from Evil Temp for a bit) where Kid Awesome was all happy and bouncy and eager to hear of my adventures in London. It was kinda fun. Also, sandwich and coffee most excellent. I really love that place now. Also, Captain Awesome makes great tea.

And, at this point, having watched Armstrong and Miller all this week, I'll lean into the mike and utter the words: 'Keeel them'.

Yes, Armstrong and Miller, right after Primeval, too, pushing my daily Ben Miller allowance well into the red.

Anyways, St Pat's Day yesterday. Not being Irish (that I know of, I'm turning out to be a right East End mongrel on my mother's side) I was all 'meh' but I did see folks go past with green ballons, and leprechauns dancing a jig outside the pub near the bus stop. No, I hadn't been in it, and yeah, I know, I've been seeing things all week, but everyone else was having a bit of a giggle, too, with school girls squealing 'midgets! midgets!'. (Now, normally I wouldn't use the term midget but as they were wearing big green hats and dancing jigs for beer and money I figure the little lads have pretty much forfeited all rights to dignity in this instance).

And it has been the flu because a co-worker started seeing imaginary chocolate cake yesterday arvo. Either it's my super flu (Sydney, London and Hong Kong combined) or someone's putting something in the water, like that old episode of The Professionals.

In any case, between the Hoff and the leprechauns, it's been a very strange week. Like Ashes to Ashes strange.

Update: I have tadpoles! A bucket of tadpoles! So I guess I'm cleaning out the (ex)fish pond tomorrow. Also, catching a taxi home as I remember what happened to the birthday cake I once foolishly tried to get home on insanely crowded public transport. It wasn't pretty.

Weekend update: That taxi ride cost $117 but it was worth it to get the taddies home in one piece. Ditto Himself whom I picked up on the way. He'd been wrestling with the IT dept and thus in dire need of a Bex and a lie down. The taddies are now swimming about their acclimatising bucket quite happily but one minor problem, mine. It's been bucketing down all weekend so the water I scooped from the pond has been replaced. Much displacement will be required later this evening. I sense that wellies will be required.

Watched: View to a Kill. Not the best, but, well (shrug). You know, the one where Chris Walken wants to create a earthquake and tsunami so no one can have their fancy computer chips? Oh dear. Foiled by Commander Bond and his knot tying ability, natch. Royal Navy 1...

Oh, and loving the new Who clip. i miss my Doctor. It's all very Troughton-y, only slightly more wicked than Jamie and Zoe ever were, and 21st than Zoe, which makes my head hurt...

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White Collar

1I was amusing myself (as I'm being comopletely sidelined again) by doing some random genealogy searches on the web (sure, they firewall stuff like but there are some topping family history blogs out there full of fun facts to know and tell) and lo, on a reasonably specfic search query, the first result that popped up was the Hoff's wiki entry. Oh dear...

2I vaguely remember writing some paper in high school about the green light in Gatsby but buggered if I can remember anything about it now, other than a vague sense it was IMPORTANT and SIGNIFYING.

Tags: doctor who, maverick, primeval, white collar

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