mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

not a people person

You've probably already read the tweet about the crack of doom shaking the building yesterday, making gown men squeal (it was the old building where I used to watch the storms from, too, way back when, as I was out there in the PM for some collaborative stuff on their better network). Getting home in it was less fun.

I did show up for my drawing class but there was no-one at the door to buzz me in, and as the streets are dangerous at nights (byo stab vest), not to mention miserable, I didn't want to hang around on the doorstep much, so I went to catch a bus. Easier said than done as I had to wait nearly two hours in the pouring rain for one (there had been a pile up, Himself informed me, having beaten me home by just fifteen minutes, held up four hours in the other direction). Then I had to stand up all the way and, to add injury to insult, flung off my feet as the bus driver (fucktard) pulled a screeching dead stop and I slipped on the drenched step and landed very heavily (mucho de bruising, and that's how I broke my ankle last time, grrr). Yeah, how dare I want to get off the bus. Seriously, you complete and utter turd.

So I limped home in the dark and rain, ironed through Supernatural and generally felt more sinned against than sinning. You know, the usual.

And as if I still wasn't shamefully sore from the forced march through Surry Hills on Saturday's shoot for the photography class (a few pics are here). We had to take people this time and I hate that and Himself agrees that it should no longer be a major part of courses as it is fraught with privacy issues and downright danger and if you do ask they either say no or pose and I don't want pose, I want candid. I ended up taking a lot of people walking away from me with my smallest spy cam or at a distance, which Himself showed me was an okay methodology in a book of b/w Melbourne photos (I forget the photographer, tsk, but they were from the 50s/60s so everyone looked so dapper, which again, is an unfair adavatage of the past - update, it's Mark Strizic). Submitted my four (two I liked, two other people liked) for grading later this week - update - only one passed muster, wibble.

Ah well, at least it gets me out, walking about (too dangerous to go walkies at home) and seeing some really Manhatteny bits of Sydney that I never knew existed (I never go to these rarified places, having been beaten up for being a Westie enough in my yoof to have learnt better). Kind of fun to play tourist in previously unknown bits of Sydders that are achingly try hard cool (very SoHo, in other words). Alas, the S.H. markets weren't on. Picture me throwing myself onto my pillow, weeping copiusly when I came home. Well, not quite, but I had hoped it was on, I was rather enjoying the post photoshoot flea market browse.

Rest of the weekend? Oh dear. Both of us down with the dreaded lurgy so it was very quiet and unproductive. So glad I got everything done on Friday.

Oh, Friday, oh yes. I really wanted to catch up on my typing so, as I was being sidelined re work again and having no inclination to do anything about it in the least, I took out my notebook and I figured I'd type away until someone came in. It got to 11:30 when I realised no one else was coming in, so I just kept at it, and managed to get 75% of the book typed up by quittin' time. Well, I was on call, but nobody called. Heh.

I was demonstrating to Himself my flying fingers as I clattered away line after line, miming slapping home a carriage return. Which I don't get to do any more. Most unsatisfying, I remarked to Himself. Himself agreed. Manual typewriters were annoying, but at least one had a tactile sense of progress.

Himself was also chuckling over my antihistamine fuelled typing frenzy, a side effect of the perfumed bitch. Thing is, I type faster, but I can't write, not a word, not a thought, and they make me violently ill. More reasons to hate her guts.

Anyways, not getting tea tonight, the kitchen is closed. Probably just as well as I seem to be perpetually in the doghouse these days. Did not help matters one jot by enquiring, when Himself returned from the shops, proudly waving a new black and white horizontally striped jersey top, if he could do 'walking against the wind'. Oh dear, and I know better than to mock the fashion choices of the less fair sex, as they will wear what they will wear, but, alas, could you look at a top like that and not think of this? Giggle, titter.

Yes, I am a bad, bad person and I deserve to be sent to bed without any dinner.

Meanwhile, just when I've resolved to give White Collar the big heave ho, I hear murmurs of the show pitching woo to Ms Dushku. Now why they couldn't have gotten her in from the start I do not know. I could have abided by the pointless and irksome GF if she'd been played by Eliza (and turnabout being fairplay, as Matty played the so totally pointless it was a kind mercy when they finally killed him off BF in Tru Calling).

So, guest spot? Complete waste considering how badly the WC writers manage recurring characters, let alone day players. I mean, why they just don't have every guest villian just tie Neal to the train tracks and be done with it I do not know. Shades of grey? Motivation? Unhappy childhood? Not even. TV to a 70s template, alas. I long for tv written to a 50s template, when characters were more complex and interesting, but, to be fair, Maverick had a whole extra seventeen minutes or so to fill. They used them well.

Anyway, like I said, I could probably lump, if not like, the GF if she'd been played by someone else. Anyone else. Hell, even Lola has more screen presence and charisma, though Neal toting Lola around tucked under his arm would perhaps bring too much of a quirky Tropfest vibe to the piece, but you get my point. What about Dichen Lachman? She have been good. Really good. And it'd have ticked one of their demographic boxes. They domn't have any Australians. I am deeply offended there are no Australians on that show - grin.

Ah well, what was that Maverick's Pappy used to say? Never cry over spilt milk, it could have been whisky.

Other tv? Doctor Who. Ah, yes, well, I should applaud the use of high concept over fart jokes, but still, I have no idea what is going on as they're holding way too much back for the big reveal. Too much, guys. It's annoying and confusing. Also, I sense the impending, recurring doom of my beloved Rory, which I find displeasing. Amusing how it's another oil rig horror story, such a staple of Doctor Who, but also other shows, too. Odd that the US never really does oil rig episodes, even though they have their own well documented catalogue of oopsies.

Maybe it's because everyone from the north knows someone who has worked on a rig. I certainly do. It's probably why I find them particularly disturbing.

Supernatural? Well, I didn't really get to enjoy it, so, shrug. Adorable ad for it on Eleven where they try to explain whether Sam is good or evil this week. Snorkle. He's Good/he's bad/he's good/he's bad, etc. Yes, well, poor old SPN is never that far from completely tipping into farce, intentional or not.

That's pretty much it, I think. No writing going on, not even the blog. I'd go mad if I didn't have flickr to fool with. I really would.

Wed: So I went out last night, and managed that cruel trick where, having gone to the threatre, I still managed to get home only half an hour or so later than I usually do, the traffic being so bad (it's only just clearing when I bomb along in a taxi, a late night and v.expensive luxury). Himself is still driven to tears, recalling the time I went an saw Much Ado and he only beat me home by fifteen minutes because he'd been stuck in traffic for nearly five hours, just trying to get home from work. It is so bad now it is unbearable. The exact same commute used to take only 1 or 1.5 hours when I was a teenager, but there were far more trains and buses then, and a couple of million less people and cars.

Ah well, I still got home in time to see the end of QI and the second run of a Doctor Who repeat and a brand new episode of Primeval. I had no idea we were getting the new episodes so quickly, when we're years behind in so many things. Fortunately the Peanut Gallery pressed the R button, though I'm wondering if he should have bothered. I read a review that said the episode was, well, less than involving or sensible, enlivened only by Ben Miller, who does indeed seem to be in another show entirely, and yes, we did indeed sit there marvelling at just how bad Hannah Spearritt's hair extensions were. Oh dear. Oh well. And since they're going to insist on denying me my Matt/Becker moments, I'm going to heart Lester/Connor. Lester actually appeared concerned re fate of Connor. It's sweet.

Peanut Gallery, alas, described the episode in withering tones and compared it unsatisfactorily with the New Avengers giant rat episode (giant rats, a 70s UK TV trope). Oh dear me indeed.

Still, it was better than the play. I was offered very cheap tickets (well, they'd want to be) to see some 'challenging' theatre. Now, I'm not that much of a newb that I don't know that 'challenging' means 'really quite awful', and let me tell you, this was very 'challenging' indeed. It was Baal at the STC, and it was pretty much exactly the sort of bad 80s theatre that scared me off as a young lass, all scrotums and shouting.

I was hoping it would offer me something to say about selfish, ID driven artistes and they way they burn through and destroy lives, feeding on them almost, or just being wilful, bad mannered children and I thought it might inform the motivations of young Neal, who is also dangerously impulse driven and has (literally) burnt through one girlfrind already, due to his actions, or inactions, whatever.

But no. It was just ugly and obscene while attempting to be confronting but managing to be just awful. Like Baal shouting and swearing and throwing beer cans across the stage, it was just that, a grown child throwing an hour long tantrum and breaking all his toys.

So, no new insights there. Just over an hour of my life I'm not getting back any time soon. Well, I've done 'challenging'. I think I want to stick with fun, from now on. Another Shakespearian bedroom farce would be just the ticket.

Oh, my spell in the bad books was lifted temporarily last night as, having been told I would arrive back to cold dark rooms and no tea, there was, in fact, a Krispy Kreme donut waiting for me. No idea where he found it, as I thought all the KK shops had gone the way of Starbucks and Borders (ie closed down) but no, there's one left in the city, it seems. Perfect with Doctor Who repeats. Naughty, I know, but a late night sugar fix can be fun on a cold wet night, and I was so tired I was out like a light anyway.

Oh, and despite my fever driven nightmare about foolishly being put in charge of some poor, bewildered visiting Americans (no, your phone won't work, no, there is no fast internet, no, we don't get that cable channel here, no, there is no Starbucks nearby, etc), and why I was tossing and turning about this I've no idea, but there you go, but if anyone ever wants to get on a plane, I now know some really cool and quirky places to see, experience, sample and taste, and a place to stand with some brilliant views of the skyline at night. Just sayin'.

Although you might want to rethink that. I've been such a jinx lately I can't walk down a street without people falling off ladders and the like. My own little bubble of fuckery. I dunno, I kinda like being a little sinkhole of malevolence. There's a Neil Gaiman story in there, somewhere.

PM update: Been out and about making the folks of this city very nervous indeed. I was far too grumpy to actually take photos, but I thought I'd try and walk around looking for things that caught my eye. This meant that some folks found a fat, ugly crazy woman staring at them intently, and they didn't like it. Some people are just so sensitive, you know? Anyway, this me, a terror to all, without even having to do a damn thing. Impressive. I am a weapon of mass destruction. Keyword: mass (oy and vey, time to lay off the cafes, gloomy lunchtime weather or no).

Oh, I forgot to mention the morning started off very oddly indeed with a drunk singing, and really well, too, some American MOR song whose name escapes me completely at the moment and I was very amused when, in the next instant, thre young construction workers in safety gear walk past singing a Stevie Wonder song. What the? Either everyone is watching Glee, or Glee ads, at least, I'd woken up in a musical or my datk power to send people walking into open manholes now included compelling them to sing cheesy American MOR tracks. As a quirky super power, I kinda like it: death, injury or singing lame songs to anyone who dares enter my orbit. Yeah, I like it. Can I keep it?

I also forgot to mention that twixt work and crap theatre, I wandered through some of the Vivid installations. Being apres work I pretty much stomped all the way down to the Quay but then drew up short at the first few. The first one I saw I hated. Someone had replaced the normal street lights with dim pink and blue bulbs. Boring, fer starters, and bloody dangerous in one of the more pickpockety areas of town for a single gal to be wandering after dark. Then I laughed at some other installation badly suffering from the constant rain squalls. Um, you there, distraught artiste, I know you don't want to consider practicalities which is why you chose to become an artiste over holding down a real proper job, but what part of 'outdoor installation' did you precious little artistic intellect fail to grasp? Oh dear.

Papier-mâché + rain storm = me, pissing myself with schadenfreude. (We used to Shellac the bastards until our lungs hardened, you silly little Gen Y scrote).

The wavy giant jellyfish I did like, then I walked up and over the hump of the Rocks to Hickson Rd I saw some pretty dangly lights that flashed like electric rain, some draped plastic moons that hung about to a tonal landscape, with those deep Japanese bells that are oddly soothing, some other pissweak attempts and my very fave, the light pen that drew on the wall opposite. First of all, the light pen itself, likng like something out of an Austin Powers film, all silver and chunky with gunnery handles, a pivot and a laser lighted tip, and then there was the writing iself. Some Japanese tourists were having a go, scrawling kanji (I think, it's all so complicated, Japanese characters, at any rate) down the wall, which is just what the laser pen was designed for, I think. Well, that and carving out letters on the moon.

Oh, I forgot to mention my fruit stall guy slipped me two cherries yesterday. No, that's not a euphenism. Made my day. Last week he fetched out a huge banana, also not a euphenism. Did I tell you about that? It was of kingly size, we had it battered in cornflour, cinamon and sugar, lightly fried in olive oil and served with honey yoghurt.

Fri: Yeah, yeah, yeah. Well, somebody was bouncing all over the place last night, and this morning, too, dang antihistamine flibbertigibbet frenzy, but I did manage to grab my very first bits of music. Well, I started out with good intentions, as I so often do, but I'm banned from itunes, being a dirty filthy android user, was locked out of everywhere else by virtue of not enjoying the state of grace that is American citizenship, couldn't get onto the Bigpond site for want of trying (popups killed my browser) and Optus only has stuff I'd rather ram pencils in my ears than listen to. So, the black market it was then, always filling the gap, in this case, as cavernous as the Pacific Trench, twixt supply (nil) and demand (overwhelming).

My first song I picked, figuring it had probably better be out of copyright, was that old favourite, Sumer Is Icumen In, which I first heard in Reading, and again last Feb at The British Library, where they had the manuscript and recording. I was just off a two day plane ride and it was enchanting. Besides, I love a round, which why I adore Astra's Lose It right now. Love, love, love. Yes, I did choir at school, glad you asked. Man, they loved a round there, too (I suspect our hippy teacher OD'd on Mike Oldfield, just a touch).

Oh, and I'd like to tell you I stuck to the classics like Sinatra or the Supremes, but it only took me minutes to be wallowing hip deep in the 80s. Oh, that I had to be a teenager in the 80s, that decade of all decades in the long history of humanity. Ah well, what's done is done and Himself and I are now engaged in duelling playlists, searching out the most obscure 80s classic we can find. It has to be classic, mind, because obscure 80s crap is to talk of fish and barrels. My best effort so far is the Funboy Three version of Our Lips Are Sealed. Bonus points if you can name the backing singers with Funboy Three. Heh.

Oh yeah, don't try and take me down on 80s trivia night, punk. This stuff was all stored away with apparently no future use than the odd chuckle in Chuck. So, not a complete waste then, my suffering my formative years during that most blighted of decades, cause, you know, I get the jokes in Chuck now. Well, most of 'em, anyway (I'm sure all the US specific ones still roar overhead like an airbus rumbling over Balmain, just like the in-jokes did in Buffy, but, well, shrug, that's what Wiki's there for, I guess).

Oh, and thank you to all the friends who have been sending me the lovely postcards. I stick them in my notebook, to gaze at when the inspiration failsor is flighty., Also, some are so pretty and/or quirky they are just fun to look at while I stir my tea.

PM update: Calamity! I went downstairs to take a piccie of the dreadful 70s paint job on the tunnel to find... they've repainted it. Beige! Oh, wail!!! Too late, too late. That really burns, because it was so bad, it always amused me. Sigh. Tried to take some other pics but my mojo has fled and I couldn't even manage a decent pic of all the seagulls making like ducks in the reflecting pool.

It must have been warm because on my way back I saw a shadow had fallen across the pool and all but the hardiest had deserted the waters. It reminded me of the time one of my most semi-tame of magpies was going for a drink at the bird bath, which was in a shamefully unkempt state and it slipped and fell in and flapped about and then suddenly decided the water was actuall just right and settled in. I meam, really settled. It was in there so long I was thinking I ought to fetch it some tea lights or something when finally the water must have cooled down and so it flew back up to the back porch where I was having tea and toast and reading the paper, waiting for the washing cycle to finish, and the wicked animal perched on the opposite seat and shook itself dry like a dog. Why yes, you can have the rest of my toast, you fiend.

Yes, me, sitting at the table with a very pleased with itself magpie. I often end up having tea parties with my familiars. More than once in summer you see me in one chair nursing a cup of tea and The Captain perched on the other, nibbing a biscuit (milk arrowroot, nothing else will do).

Oh, he was a happy chappie when I made it home early last week, just the once, and he got his before bedtime bickie. Happy, happy Cappie (he can be such a bad tempered sod most days, so, you know).

Meanwhile, ha!!! I do this anyway, I'm doing it right now, this is so funny: Undercover Laptop Sleeve.

How silly. Just use an old envelope, man.

Mon: Oh, where to start? I think life has been a bit too exciting of late. I'm feeling very second hand today.

Well, first off I guess is the sad news about Marshal Matt Dillon. I never really got into Gunsmoke that much, but sat through enough of it, back in the days when my commute didn't take five hours (last year), and Marshal Matt, although a touch trigger happy and judgemental, was a constant and reliable father figure on television, and, as the show was on air for so long, it's a little social anthropology history in a bottle, too. Sad news, though. Another pillar of life, gone.

And I never did get around to scanning that lovely old annual I'd picked up in Hastings, with the hilariously bromantic illustrations. Ah well, by the time I do get around to scanning it the dust should have settled on poor old Marshal Matt enough to allow some more gentle mockery. Go see the Maverick episode GunShy in the meantime. Hee. Fond, but cutting, so very, very cutting.

So, the course on Saturday. On the one hand, I'm going to miss getting up and greeting the dawn and seeing the morning unfold in groovy parts of the city. On the other hand, I'm not going to miss the early starts and bunging a load of washing in the machine and stomping off back to bed is going to seem like the height of luxury, for one week, at least.

This time we walked all through Haymarket, Chippendale and Glebe, and it was supposed to be about paradox but the day prooved entirely paradox and irony free. Grump. Finished off at Glebe markets, which was all clothes for size zero trendoids so consider me nonplussed but we did retire to a cafe, and real lumpy chai tea, unlike the powder you get out where I live (I always feel like sending it back with a huffy 'if I'd wanted Quick I would have asked for Quick, but it's all instant powder out in the wastelands, even the tea and the coffee, especially the tea and the coffee).

Sadly, aside from a market habit I now also have a lumpy chai tea habit, neither which can be sated locally. Oh, what a terrible thing, to get a taste of how the other half live.

Sunday was spent throwing loads of washing in the machine like a steam engine fireman shovelling coal into the furnace, as none had been done for a month. Quite the production line as one load was taken off and flung in the drier as another load came out and was hung up (space being a premium as I still haven't restrung the line yet, my slackness knows no bounds).

That's pretty much it and now today, despite giving up on telly and retiring early just so I wouldn't feel this wretched, I feel worse than wretched. Oh well. Nothing less than I deserve, I suppose. Drawing class tonight? I don't think so. I'm leaning more and more, in fact if I tilt any more I'll fall over, towards some sort of hot beverage and the brothers Winchester. It's either a winter's cold, hormones or both. Sniffle, wheeze, whimper.

Oh, and I was going to actually, finally post this right now but the interwebs are slow to stopped, so no go on that, either. It's being a complete Gene Hunt of a Monday, so far.

Tuesday: Well, it was a win for the tea but a lose for the Winchesters. Having had a very, very unsatisfactory day, for there is nothing to make you want to kick cans across the room thaan dragging yourself into work feeling very much in the grip of the dreaded lurgy, only to find the phone/email/internet/networks all down for five hours. When they finally came up we discovered they'd now added flickr and to the list of the banned, which means no lunchtime genealogy for a friend and no course homework for me, ditto social groups or sharing working pics with regional colleagues. What are they playing at? How am I to run a modern website with no social media? Contact friends and colleagues to brainstorm, ask for help, ideas or test stuff? Because that, surely, would be a shameful waste of productivity, compared to, like, half a working day down the tubes due to their awe inspiring incompetence and stunning lack of priorities. Harumph.

There was only one thing to do. Knock off early, pick up some proper lumpy chai tea and some shiny new cups and saucers. I figured one place to try for the composty chai was T2 and sure enough, I was right, but even if I doubted my ability to identify all the seed pods in the mix, and I might, given I can't remember the same of my favourite songs or the persons responsible, they were offering free samples in the shop. It tasted about right so I bought a box, along with two new cups. I know, but I rationalised it thus: since I was going to have to make it in a saucepan sans pouring lip, as my insane old mother had left the old metal tea pot and the good pouring saucepan to rust out in the open in the backyard (don't ask, and I fear I'm going the same way, and fast), and all my other cups had favoured small but high walled features, I need one of those more soup bowl type cups that I normally shun, due to a belief that they let the contents cool too quickly, but I knew, due to the way my hands shake these days, I was going to slop it everywhere and so the wider the cup brim the better, and it had to be new pretty cups because I was miserable, so there.

So, bearing all this in mind, I picked a lovely low slung, gilt edged yellow cup and a matching, sort of, red and yellow trimmed cup to go with.

Alas, the commute took forever, as it does these days, so I was still washing up when Himself came home and it took forever to warm the milk, the crap electric stove only having two settings: cold and burnt. Still, I made it, with all sorts of things floating on the surface, the star anise looking particularly sinister, poured it out with the old strainer, without spilling it too much, and it really, really hit the spot on a cold winter night. And the pretty cups did matter, it's part of the package. I need my shiny things.

Alas, full of warm, soothing chai tea, when it came to the Winchesters, I think I saw the first five minutes, and the last five, and my pvr timer never went off. Ooops. Okay, I'd seen the shape shifting doggie episode before, but still. Next time, no chai tea when I really actually want to watch telly.

Didn't get online last night, due to the whole chronic nodding off thing, and still firewalled here (no gmail or yahoo either, so no stats or web manager), but at least I can tippy type away in notebook, for now.

And I missed my deadline. I haven't even typed for a week. I can't, now everyone is back from hols, and since it takes so long to get home now, and I'm so tired. I know, excuses excuses but I never finished it and I hate it and myself.

PM update: More chai tea, but I'm watching Dr Who right now so at least I'm still awake, sort of. Will tell you the monumental idiocy I was witness to, but later. Right now I'm still boggling.

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Matt Bomer: 'Today Show' Appearance!

'White Collar,' 'Covert Affairs' crossover: 'It's gonna happen,' teases Matt Bomer

Piper Perabo & Matt Bomer are interviewed on TODAY

Interview With White Collar’s Matthew Bomer and Willie Garson

White Collar

FilmInk 8.39

August 2010

TV Week

4-10 June 2011


TV Week

4-10 June 2011


Tags: doctor who, hawaii five-0, josh brolin, magazine scans, photos, primeval, supernatural, theatre, white collar

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