That's what you get for Bunburying, snarks the Peanut Gallery with prim glee. True, one lie does beget others, but I'm rather addicted to Bunburying. Nothing like running away for a bit to restore the spirits (except for the dratted pneumonia, but it can't be helped).
I've rather a full week this week, so it's going to be a bit rough on a gal, especially as I can't count, and I do believe I'll be offering my first regrets on Tuesday. Tsk. Why do I let my calendar get like this? I'm just a gal who can't say no...
I did however, clear stuff off the IQ. That's sort of housekeeping, right, doing a bit of a sort of the rather rubbish pvr? Mainly old Mavericks and too many QIs, which had us making ooo-er jokes all weekend as a result. It doesn't take much, considering I was raised on a steady diet of The Two Ronnies and the like. Just scratch the surface, in fact, as the bishop said to the actress...
Moving from Stephen Fry and his never-ending bum jokes (ooo-er) to Matt Bomer, I was bemused that Matt finally outed his little family (aw, so cute!). I thought he would, considering the wee bit of squirm he did the last time he was on the Today show a coupla weeks back now, with the finale, and Tim got to go on (and on) all about his kids. Well, Matty, you either keep the private life private, as is your perfect right to do so, or you can gush like a happy dad live on tv, and I guess he finally chose the latter (cause Tim was having all the fun?). Cute.
I'm liking Matty's slow reveal of the worst kept secret in Hollywood. It's almost like a cruel spectator sport, watching him tread so carefully in this odd little dance, but for every small step he takes, he seems so much more relaxed, open and happy about it, so good on him, and isn't a shame he has to go through this in the first place? Because it wasn't really fair, watching Tim faffle on about his fam, and watching Matt having to keep tightlipped and silent (by choice, it must be said). That must have burned. So, we're all glad he's got that over and done with now, right?
It's cute to compare and contrast with the way the Brit boys do it, like Tom Hardy who pretty much stood up and said (paraphrasing here because I dare not google the exact quote right now) 'I'm an actor, darling, of course I've had sex with guys', and pretty much closed the circuit on that conversation. Doesn't seem to have done the cheeky lad any harm, either. Ah, global media management in a multicultural world, eh?
I know, I shouldn't be interested in actor's private lives, and for the most of it, it's just one big Melrose Place kinda soap, only played out in the gossip mags (and usually involving Sienna Miller), and I can take take it or leave it depending on my daily boredom threshold, but Matty's little dilemma of how to live his life and keep his career, well, it's like watching a social experiment unfold, or something equally cruel and academic, but there it is. It must be hard though, in a country where happy family Hello mag type covers are still considered 'offensive' and brown paper bagged.
Ah well, at least he's not yet retired to the country to produce prize winning cheeses. No, still not over that Hello article, and fie on the National Portrait Gallery for rubbing it in. That Blur picture is no longer portrait of a rock star but portrait of a cheese maker, according to the caption. Wail. I can take almost anything but that. I don't need to be reminded that all my bright young things are a mere decade or so away from a free bus pass. That is just too cruel (waves to Jude and Ewan, et al).
Speaking of my Bunburying (ie the rocketing to Blighty and back), still, I finally cracked open the old annuals I brought home from that fusty bookshop in Hastings. Most I dare not mention as they're kinda embarrassing (the crap I watched and adored as a kid), but the Gunsmoke one I bought as a curiosity (as I've sat through more tha a few episodes or bits of one, waiting for Maverick). Surprisingly, unlike the 70s annuals (OMG, I've been badly drawn!), the Gunsmoke one, dating from the 50s or thereabouts, (cause Matt's looking mighty young, okay, younger, on the cover) and inside it's all cowboy noir and really quite scan worthy, if you were into that type of thing. If I could ever get my old scanner to talk to my new PC, I'd show you. I was quite startled by the quality.
Anyways, long day, Monday, and I ended up at a play. To be honest, I had more fun walking down the cut cliffs to Hickson Road and having to negotiate brolly etiquette with the few folks I met on the narrow staircases (it hasn't rained in four months so we Sydneysiders have no idea what to do with umbrellas, generally) and then sitting at the end of the wharf drinking wine (Cate keeps an excellent cellar) watching the ferries bob past in the absolutely belting torrential rain and writing as fast as I could until the bell sounded. Yes, I'm writing again. I have to finish these stories, and now they're just 'loosely based' on White Collar, which means I can't colour within the lines but their lines are boring so hey ho.
Anyways, it was Bryan Brown and Colin Friels arguing in a New York pub about American fiscal policy. It was overly preachy (just a bit, she winces) but I was just drunk enough to be mesmerised by the set, so I wasn't that annoyed. I was more annoyed by the horrid posh people in the theatre, the way they wouldn't chat (too used to chatty London theatre patrons, me), the way they complained about the heat (the air conditioning was on the blink - try existing in a horrid little pre-fab worker's cottage on the plains in the height of summer with no breeze and no air con, you pricks) and the way they whined about the swearing. It was Bryan Brown, for fuck's sake. On stage. There was going to be swearing. Sheesh. Anyway, at least I can tick seeing Mr Brown on stage off my list, something that's been on the list since I was a wee schoolgirl (I used to know his uncle, he owned the nearby corner shop I was forever running errands to in my pigtail days).
Did not fangirl the lad. A girl should never meet her heroes and I'm still wincing over my encounter with Mr Gatiss, quite frankly. Besides, it was raining, I was unwell and there was a taxi right there and one never passes up a taxi on a rainy Sydney night, not even for Mr Brown.
Also, the play kind of required a prior knowledge of Shane MacGowan and I doubt Mr Blue Blazer had ever condescended to talk to an Irishman in his life before, let alone be aware of The Pogues back catalogue.
Tuesday I wisely spent at home, being unwell. Caught up on Chuck (the Han/Chewie doll sequence was unexpectingly moving, in its own geeky way) and matched Dean shot for shot in Supernatural. Oh, the French Mistake. Hmmm. Funny in parts, cringeworthy in others, self indulgent in the extreme, but mercifully a little less fan-baiting than some of the other fourth wall shredding episodes they've had. Loved Mr Collins, in all his geeky, constantly tweeting glory (smiley face). Also, the DOOL YT clip - love it! They were quite right to mine the hours of hilarity that can be had from googling Mr Ackles.
Also watched Living Daylights, being the Bond film du jour, and it has Timmy! I like Tim, ever since he was foisted on me as an impressionable young girlie as Rochester and Heathcliffe (my english teacher taped both off telly, we had a little pirate video lunch club thing, forever tainting me with both Brontes and Dalton). Anyhoo, it's not a bad Bond flick at all, skewiff politics aside (the Taliban are the good guys, and one resists the urge to make remarks about foreign policy pigeons coming home to roost) and to be honest, the only thing that really threw me were the ashtrays in the plane seat armrests. Oh, hello olden times.
Spent the rest of the afternoon/evening a touch unwell and was just settling down to some Hawaii 5-0 v2.0 (because the postal 'service' had coughed up a couple more tardy and gorilla handled parcels, hooray!), because I wanted brainless bang bang rather than deep meditation of the nature and failing of the American Dream, and I got a phone call to tell me a friend had died.
Bummer. Worse, I was very, very drunk when I answered the phone so I wasn't at all proper. Not sure I can be proper now. I don't feel that much now and I'm not sure if it's because I'm so used to shoving this stuff down that I just don't feel anything until I erupt later over something minor and am once again accused of overreacting to everyday bullying, or am I just so horrid that I really don't care?
I really don't know. I know I'll miss 'em, and I know I'm making this all about me, but I don't even know how I feel, so I can't imagine anyione else and their issues, and anyway, his family always seemed so dismissive and disinterested. I've been that way myself so maybe it's the guilt, but the poor guy just wouldn't get the 'friends only' message, no matter how gentle or harsh I tried to be. Last year I decided I was going to finally rip that bandaid off hard, you know what I mean, and then his mum got sick and died and then he got sick and died, so yeah, that's probably guilt and why I'm not gonna peer under that rock for anything.
Worse, I think I'm expected to behave like the grieving not widow. What is the proper form in these occassions? Pretend for the sake of everyone else even if it makes you feel sick and maggoty inside?
I liked the guy, but not that way. I just couldn't. I tried to fake it, convince myself, but nope, couldn't. Had I been born a decade earlier and not allowed to have my own bank account, etc, I probably would have settled, but then there would have been no gay rights either so I would have married O.
I loved O. I still do. If he asked me to jump in front of a speeding bullet tomorrow, I probably would, you know. I probably would. So I get the big old burning candle thing, I really do, and how cruel and hopeless it can be. It probably made me less mean than I should have been, in a way (though I'm sure some felt I was plenrty mean enough). I loved O., and even though it was never going to happen, we had such chemistry and commonality in a finish each other sentences kinda way and everyone said we were perfect together except for that one thing...his boyfriend.
And yeah, if you ever think I'm way harsh on Bomer, it is that whole pretending to be a single young man about town when he's not. It was bad form in a Jane Austen novel, and it's bad form now, to lie by omission, it really is. But that is neither here nor there, it's just why I give Bomer a verbal slap now and then, because behaving like Mr Frank Churchill, well, in Bomer's case it's mostly harmless (and probably necessary for his career) rather than villainous, but, still.
Nevertheless, thanks to the unobtainable Mr O. I still know what that conection feels like, and I never felt that for this guy, no matter what anyone thought. Sure, I'm gonna die alone, but, seriously, settle for an unenmployed Mr Collins? In this day and age? Why?
So I'm upset and guilty and I will miss my friend but man, what I'm going to have to go through in the next few days, I'm not looking forward to that. No wonder I don't want to think or feel anything right now.
Actually, I am pretty upset, but I'm just shoving it away and working (and being picked on, as always). This is what I do. I'm sorry if it's not 'normal' enough for you, but I'll be joining Dean in the bar later.
Friday: Hola! Thursday was a bit miserable, what with EviLBitch both being incredibly mean and completely destroying a week's work and about 16 pages of difficult code. Gonna take me days to fix it if I can't get an archive copy (have to backtrack through the versions). Happily, after work, well, a couple of stiff drinks and I'm free of that place.
Being miserable and much belittled, I'd stalked, okay, shuffled out at lunch and impulsively bought myself a fabulous $400 little black dress and a new pair of shoes. I've never owned a $400 dress before, and never will again, but dammit, I needed to feel good about myself, just once. And I did. Sorta. The bar I hit on the way over was several kinds of snooty, and for a joint that can't tell the difference between a bread knife and a dinner knife, nor a soup spoon or a dessert spoon, they can just check the attitude, really. So Sydney - one of the reasons I hate this town more often than not. If one of those hateful celebrity divas were a city, it'd be this one, all hair extensions and acryllic nails, all the better to scratch your eyes out with.
Sorry, I'm letting myself get down again, because I had FUN on Thursday night. Toddled over to the State Theatre to see Chris Isaak. I'd bought the tickets ages ago and I figured I wanted to see music and I wanted to see lights, and oh, I wasn't disappointed.
I know, you're thinking, what the? A $400 black dress and a Chris Isaak show? It's how I roll, baby.
And Chris was brilliant, wonderful, funny, sexy, sweet, gorgeous and everything a girl could want. He strode out in his sparkly suit and knocked off all the songs I know backwards and sideways and upsidedown and I was just having so much fun. The lighting was cute, the sound was perfect, and it was big old campy 50s/60s inspired fun.
It was really special to me, too, because you might have guessed I've been rocking the Chris Isaak while scribbling away. How could I not?
The world was on fire
No one could save me but you.
Strange what desire will make foolish people do
I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you
And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you
The Black Sorrows were the support act, and it was lovely to catch up with them again. Funnily enough they also played, to my great surprise, a cover vers of theirs from many, many decades ago that I'd been humming lately: Walk On By.
So it was a wonderful, wonderful show. The crowd were good, too, even waving over the icecream dude for me when I expressed a craving. Well, I was treating myself, and happily I didn't throw it all down the front of my new dress, unlike the wine (new shoes, I swear).
I was very, very happy and it's been ages since I'd worn a dress like that. Absolute ages. It was fun.
Sunday though, oooh, I'd wisely booked another day off. Oh, unwell, and still guilty because it was the most perfect washing day so far this year but so not happening. Even the poor parrots had to sit outside my window and try to carefully pronounce their request for a biscuit because they thought I was ignoring them because they'd not asked properly. When I get annoyed I tell them to ask nicely, you see, and this poor creature was trying to enunciate correctly like Eliza Doolittle, sounding it out, and I'm just not that cruel, so I got up and gave them their buckets (they can't quite manage biscuit, having no teeth, alas). I know I shouldn't give 'em biscuits but The Captain, the ex pet, asked for one once and then all his mates had to have one, too, and so it goes.
The only other thing I did was settle the tadpoles into the pond properly. I was still worried that I'd not cleaned the pond sufficiently for tadpoles and then I saw a native tadpole scoot past so I guess it was good enough. Now I'm not sure if we'll end up with genetic diversity or one breed of frog chasing out the other, but, well, shrug. It's all up to nature now.
The other wildlife incident was trying to coax the large huntsman spider that lives in the letterbox to let me have my mail, and wouldn't you know it but of course someone turns a corner into the street just as I'm yelling at the letterbox to let go and gimme. Oh dear.
So that was my day. Oh, and watching Goldeneye. I did get up and as far as the couch for that. Ah, Goldeneye, happily answering the question of why Sean Bean (oh, that's why) and pushing my weekly Joe Don Baker allowance into the red (I'd already seen him in Living Daylights and High Chaparral this week), and also some minor amusement over the dramatis delivered by Alan Cumming announcing 'Mischa's online!'. Smileyface. Well, okay, but unlike three shows this week, one of them British, I can't tell how people are spelling it when they say it.
Oh, and it was the Mona Lisa con episode of Maverick, one of my absolute faves and referenced again and again and yet again in the fic, I'm afraid (including a lame joke about Neal's real name which no doubt S3 will completely step on, but I was amused when I decided the boy had changed his name and why he had done so1). Oh, and they've cycled back to the Blue Boy eps on High Chap so there was much to squirm over (such a close knit family, oh dear, and cue the Gary Glitter).
And that's pretty much it. And here I am, tired after struggling last night with the 'puter (damn you, Telstra, damn you!), angry possums and actual jackhammers outside my bedroom window, but, shrug, just tell me the EvilBitch (or one of them, anyway) isn't in today, please?
PM update. She's not, and as they did something very bad yesterday, I've got my old job back, for today only (oh, the irony), busily fixing stuff (rolls up sleeves). It would happen just when I've decided to do what I used to do, ie try and revive the old archive, with a new design (I think I have all I need in my room, but finding what I want is another matter, too many art books!). Anyhoo, productive day, fer once.
And Simon Halls is Jude Law's publicist. Of course he is (oh, that Simon Halls). This world is far too small (this is me, so not paying attention to anything, really, stupid is as stupid does, I'll have to change my profile picture to 1940s Watson re my complete lack of little grey cells, oh me, oh my...).
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1 In the fic, and my crazy, unfinished fic only, and solely for the purposes of my own private amusement and as a sly Maverick shout out, the name Neal dare not say out loud is...Sean Cassidy. And yes, Peter manfully manages to keep a straight face when he finds that out. Just. Okay, but I'm amused, and that's all that matters since I'm just scrawling this silliness for my own entertainment.