Ahem, sorry. I was going to be fusty and grumpy today but apparently I still have some hormones left to jump up and down like fleas on a dog. And don't it just remind you of that great Jared set, you know the ones I mean (and sorry, this is the best I could do linkwise, Jared is like so firewalled at work, for some strange reason. Ahem).
Yes, yes, yes, everyone is away on hols, leaving the monkey in charge? Not on your Nelly. The evil temp is in charge. Fine, Whatever. Hence the passive aggressive browsing of whatever isn't firewalled. Childish, I know, but, harumph. I mean, I even came in on my day off to fix stuff, and this is the thanks I get. So, yesterday, I was Miss Dedicated Professional. Today I am a churlish, disgruntled slacker. Much like the creature in Frankenstein, I am become what they've made me.
But yesterday. Day off. It was lovely and sunny so I got another load of washing out. The parrots think it unseemly to hold a grudge for more than a week but as my washing line is still in ruins I reserve the right to be close fisted with the rations. I did mean to fix the line but as I was attempting three unconnected buses and a good long walk on the wettest day in ten years, well, I got as far as the front door and decided my martyrdom isn't quite what it used to be. We ended up watching Downtown Abbey instead, with Himself getting so into it I was tasked with making sure he didn't give his lecture in top hat or fez.
Oh, the comments (and thanks to Amazon for finally delivering the b-day pressie six months late, a personal best) from the Peanut Gallery flew thick and fast, harumphing from the very start that any servant who didn't know why the newspapers were being ironed shouldn't have been referred to such a grand house by the agency, since they clearly had no idea of their duties. And so it went.
I know what you're thinking but we're only descended from staff (and light fingered staff at that), it's just that Himself mixes in rarified circles and picks it up. I swear he was Hudson in a previous life, so particular is he.
Anyways, yesterday. Lovely day, into the city (eventually) by bus and then morning tea in the botannical gardens. Well, not without effort. I realise I am turning into my mother as I type this, but really, it's the park cafe, one should be able to order a pot of tea without too much trouble, but no. By the time I'd managed to attract the dozy cow's attention and politely asked for a cup of tea and a date scone she slopped the tea pot down on the tray and just wandered off to have a chat with her mates in the kitchen. So then I had to try and attract the attention of the skinny barista who seemed more involved in chatting to his boyfriend. Sheesh. I know the younger generation have a (well deserved) reputation for inattention but if you're hired to work in a tea shop, can you at least manage to serve some old biddy her tea? Harumph.
Then I had to manage the tray myself out of a door that swung inwards but I finally found a nice seat, to be harrassed by a noisy miner who wouldn't take 'not yet' for an answer (there was a big sign up saying not to feed the birds but I was going to accidentally leave the crumbs but that wasn't soon enough, apparently). Relaxing, quiet contemplation of the morning in a delightful and restful setting? Not so much.
So, slogged up the hill in the morning heat (summer again?) to run smack into the tail end of the ladies who lunch crowd, which meant the Archies were as packed full of lower north shore and eastern suburbs matrons as DJs on sale day (shudder) so I whipped around it too quickly, though I was delighted to find the gelato in my favourite was so textured you could practically lick it (hmmm, lickable art works?).
Then, to fill in the time, I wandered around the Asian galleries and I've not had a long, solo linger through there for ages, and it was fun. My new favourite is the green lotus looking dish that looks like it has a turtle swimming in the bottom. Could be a firing mishap, but it looks like a turtle. Besides, they love a creature. There are also plates with bats and bits and bobs with frogs and a netsuke in the shape of two clam shells that I adored (netsuke is one of my squee things, and my favourite is still the startled octocpus one in the VA, I think).
Then it was time to eagerly sit in the second row for the talk on the Achibald prize, given by Himself, no less. And damn, he was good. Excellent slides, informative and funny. Could have been more people in for the talk (I should have done my duty better and phoned around, but phone who?) but it went fine.
We had a slap up meal in the gallery cafe afterwards. Well, he did. I ordered the spicy beef salad which, when it finally arrived, turned out to be a conceptual metaphor for beef salad. That is, you could have ordered it as the vegetarian option as the only beef in the whole salad was a sliver the thickness and width of a ten cent piece laid across the top as the decor garnish. Harumph. Usually I wouldn't grumble but when a hormonal lass orders the beef salad because she wants some red meat, dammit, to forget to put any beef in the beef salad is, well, let's just say that it's risk taking behaviour. I didn't say a word to the wait-staff, but I reserve the right to grumble about it afterwards.
It's not just me, though: Time to witness a food protection program.
Clearly, I have the tastes of an uncouth suburban to actually expect my beef salad to come with, well, you know, beef.
After that I had to dash back to the office to attend an emergency that wasn't an emergency (the usual hurry up and do nothing that prevails in your modern public administration) and then home again (eventually) to re-heated tea (and an amazing job on scrubbing the pyrex clean, if I do say so myself, because I thought we'd really done it this time) and trying to stay awake though the first episode of series six (yay!) of Supernatural. Not that it was boring, oh no, anytime the Js are on screen could never be called boring, I was just tired. Big day out for a little girl. That sort of thing.
The return of Sam was well handled, if somewhat perfunctory, and what I originally considered to be brushed over is all to be mulled over later, so well done on stopping to brood, too much, at least in the first episode. The reunion was pitched just right, I thought, for the show and the characters. And it's really sad, too, to see Dean pulled out of the life he'd made for himself, though given the opening nightmare and his OCD with checking everything at night, one could wonder just how settled he was, and if he ever could forget his old life and Sam, etc, like it was the dream and reality is the nightmare (a theme Supernatural has bounced up and down on so many times it should be in the liner notes).
So yeah, on the surface, a bit of a fluffy episode where Dean is recalled to service, but seeding a lot of darker themes, especially the ongoing one of fucked up families, but that's not just a Supernatural thing. The liner notes for the edition of Gatsby I was reading said that most American writing is awash in Daddy issues and the whole absent and indifferent parent/disobedient son thang that stems from the Boston tea party, of all things.
If only George III hadn't been so incapcitated with illness, we might have been spared six seasons of hand wringing daddy issues in Supernatural. But then it wouldn't be Supernatural. It'd be Rent A Ghost (or something equally horrible).
Btw, the latest BBC History mag I managed to pick up (I think it's from Feb, still coming by clipper round the horn, apparently) said that the Austen novels were not representative of the turmoil, anxiety and uncertainty of the Regency era (Peterloo, etc) where Frankenstein was, and yes, indeed, Frankenstein captures all the emerging worries of modern man, but to say the Austen novels don't reflect their time, when they do, the way neatly tied up comedies of errors are always prevalent during times of social emotional uncertainty (the oncoming war in the 30s and Cary Grant, the cold war in the 50s and 60s and Doris Day). The need for certainty amdist uncertainty is an observed phenomena, which is why some commentators have discussed the resurgence of Miss Austen now. Austen is the flipside of Shelley. One is the smiling face of daytime and normality, the other the dark fears of the violence that lurks behind society.
Of course, it was a man who just didn't get it. They just don't do duality, the dear creatures. It's either black or white, day or night, not both, not at the same time.
I mean, we know what Victor kept in the attic (and Rochester, if need be), but we've no idea about Darcy. And it wasn't like Jane wasn't aware of gothic, as I'm pretty sure Northanger Abbey is part apologetica, and part two fingers up at those who frown on the gothic interpretation of the everyday. After Northanger, Jane seems to deliberately err on the side of keeping everything sunny. But I wonder, don't you, what Darcy kept in his attic (although points for keeping Darcy largely and vaguely undefined and unanchored, to which the ribbons of a thousand dreams and fantasies may be pinned).
But I have digressed something chronic. Sunday was cold and I managed to foolishly give myself another dose of the flu by being very silly and Mr Hiddleston brushed past me yet again. Oh well, third time's the charm. No, wait, that was the third time. Oh well, I like him too much to be dismissive (though I should be, turnabout being fair play) and I will save my ire for the actors who trail wacky trolls in their wake. Love them (not).
But at least I managed to get the Brit List off this week, which is something, I suppose.
I'd have rather had even one small attempt at typing up the notebook I've just filled, still with the never ending White Collar fic. I keep adding to it, changing it, and I'll miss another deadline for sure and then have to go back and make even more changes. But I still find it fun, so much fun I hardly watch the show now, lest I get distracted as my boys keep evolving away from the text as she is writ, you know, like elaborations and extrapolations that Neal is always reading all sorts of things because he sleeps very little because more than four years in max (well, there was his sentence plus the extra time he's done for added naughtiness) on top of a criminal career has completely fucked his sleeping patterns. In the fic, he only really crashes if Peter is nearby and he feels safe (awww). It's my attempt to explain both Neal's Mary Sue-ness (the walking Wiki) and his co-dependence on Peter.
Also, amusingly, Neal could possibly be described as defacto under new law here, so entwined is his life with Peter's in the fic, and Elizabeth, at least, is resigned to the fact that Neal isn't the mistress, he's the second (younger and prettier and more exciting, oh joy) wife, as in polygamy rather than adultery. It's a weird thing they have going there, but it almost works, for a bit (human nature being what it is).
Anyway, the article is here, and bonus points for Ken James from Skippy being one of the interviewees.
Meanwhile, our lords and masters, it seems, would like to keep everything nice and neat and sunny and smiling and how very Brave New World as right wing zealots meet souless beaucrats in a match made in hell. In other words, book burning is back on the public agenda again. Yay?
I can only return to the words of my hero (even if we do differ in matters or artistic taste), Edmund Capon, the director of the Art Gallery of NSW:
'Violence, sex and death are as much a part of our life now as light and harmony'
Which is exactly what I was trying to say before. Okay, some guys do get it.
But sheesh, do we have to have the right wing taliban attacking art? Again?
Senate inquiry cruellest cut of all, say artists
Warning: this art debate may contain adult themes [art censorship, right wing loons, book burning, the usual]
Gay Teen Suicides (And Straight) More Common In Politically Conservative Areas
FBI poker crackdown could hit biggest Australian players [fraudster turned FBI mole, sounding oddly familiar, somehow]
Scientists teleport Schrodinger's cat
Coffee studies should warm your heart
Really, why would men ever want to watch "Game Of Thrones"?
'Game of Thrones' star 'surprised by incest' [headline of the day]
Sunday Geek-Off: 'Game of Thrones' vs. Bruce Campbell
Bruce Campbell rises to occasion for 'Sam Axe'
Interview: "Burn Notice" Creator Matt Nix
'Supernatural' bosses consider musical episode
Supernatural, Monday April 18
Chuck TV - TV Guide: Fan Favorites Awards 2011 - Chuck Lands the Cover
Tim DeKay & Tiffani Thiessen “White Collar” On Location in Manhattan
White Collar > Season Three > On Set > April 15th, 2011
White Collar-Comic Con 2010
Jill Zarin To Guest Star On ‘White Collar’
On Location For "White Collar" - April 15, 2011
|GQ Style #2
|W 2011 US||TV Week