...Oh, what a Monday that I was. I knew it was going to be bad, but that was just...hellish, is what it was. I was joking about having to slip a newspaper down the back of the trousers, but not even the Saturday sections would have done. The bully likes to reassert their authority when I've been off, should I have acquired even a spark of self worth or identity, and, my gosh. Snap, snarl, bark, bite, the highlight was when they ripped a pen through my carefully crafted and correct document like a child, cris cross, scribble, scrunch. There's no point. I could have spun everything I did yesterday out of gold and it still would have been stamped on.
How do I cope with that, every day, asked Kid Awesome, pouring me an extra large, ectra strong cuppa this morning. Not well, is the answer, not well at all. However, I do have a decent ground crew these days, and they are much valued. I rang home (having to stay back), and verrily the pumpkins, bats and ghosts were up in the window (thank you for that Halloween package, still doing sterling duty), though I really should have attacked the real and actual spider webs on the outside of the window so you could actually see 'em. I guess our house looked too creepy, we only had one party, apparently, Himself greeting the party of young boys in his smoking jacket with Graham Norton introducing the Pet Shop Boys on telly behind him. Could it have been any worse, Himself later lamented. Come here, little boys, have some candy. Oh dear. Our house is just too creepy for words right now with the weeds and webs (shame, shame, shame).
Cheery little yellow house next door (it's a cottage, really), the nice nursey neighbours, had a giant pumpkin gracing their new veranda. They got all the trick and treaters. Ah well. More lollies for us, as it should be.
So, there was a big cup of tea, a slice of dark chocolate cake (see what you're missing, kids) and Doctor Who on the telly, which soon put me to rights. Tough call, choosing between Matt Smith and James Corden and the old stones of blood. Ended up six of one, half doz of the other. I leant more on the side of Matt, grumpy Tom was too much grumpy for my daily quota, but I do like the creepy and highly mobile murderous monoliths.
And I love Doctor Who for giving me the opportunity to write sentences like that.
We never did Halloween when I was a kid, or even as a teen or young adult, so I missed out on the fun, I guess, though I did do a bit of Halloween one year in the States, and my friends did me well, I have abiding memories of pumpkin beer, 'haunted' barns, rollerblading nuns screaming down a hill in San Francisco and the hotel clerk dangling a string of ears around his neck.
That's my Halloween. Just the one, but it was a good one.
And so to Supernatural, falling by chance on the night, with James Marsters no less, with Charisma, in a very silly episode, but I kind of liked it, couples therapy ahoy that it was. It's so funny, Sam trying to be all touchy feely Sam from earlier seasons again. Kinda cute. I'm with Dean on the whole take your looks and shove 'em over the hip flask thing, though. Man, if this week carries on as it's started, I'll not only be matching Dean but lapping him in the hip flask stakes, I swear.
Tuesday. Well, I finally managed to get time to see In Time. Despite the critical maulling it's had in the press, I liked it. Yes, it was kind of Gattaca-lite, now with more car chases and less plot, but it was fine. Not a great film, but certainly a good film with much to think over. The critics mainly seem hung up on the rules of the world in whick the flick is set, so they must have missed JT's mumble at the beginning about stuff happened, whatever, moving on. It just doesn't do to pick apart SF dystopias, and trust me, I've been watching a lot of Tom Baker Doctor Who at the moment, so I know of which I speak (in fact several episodes could have been the template for In Time, only with more talking and less car chases, the Sun Makers in particular, but also the Pirate Planet).
Anyway, you know the plot, as timely now as it was then, and even two thousand years ago, the whole rich and pretty elite living off the sweat and blood of the underclasses. It was always thus, it's just this time the underclass are also young and pretty and can only be spotted by their table manners (complete lack thereof) and hasty walking manner, and, oh yes, the digital readout on the arms which everyone waved about (but any excuse to get Matty to roll up his sleeves, yes?)
Ah, yes, Matty. If you saw the Comic Con footage you've pretty much seen all his scenes in the film, he's in it for so short a time but he is indeed the protagonist (as with Bryce in Chuck) who gets the whole ball rolling with his tired of life Henry who wanders into the slums throwing time/cash about in a suicide by scumbag gambit that fails as he wilts and is rescued, damsel in distress that he is, by JT. This is cute. They have a brief chat about deep and meaningfuls, the meaning of life, the current economic system, they spend one night together and Henry leaves his money on the table, ahem, gifts JT with a century and then, seeming to have taken some courage and pride from young JT (so it wasn't an uneven swap), wanders off to throw himself off the bridge. Splatty Matty (and what a good looking corpse he is, or is that wrong?).
Joking aside, Matt just lights up the film in the few scenes he is in, bringing a luminous intensity that I rarely see on White Collar (and so wish I could see more of) and the camera just loves him to bits and it's one of those things you've got or you haven't (JT, alas, hasn't). Pretty, pretty Matty.
I almost bought his world weary Henry, too, except for the fact that if I looked like that, I'm sure I could still find things to amuse myself, but, ah well. One of the few oddly sympathetic characters in the piece, too. Well done, Matt. A small role, but a good role, and my god, he was gorgeous.
And yes, I enjoyed seeing him being serious again for a change. Caffrey is so glib, shallow and uncaring he drives me to distraction most days (and I start to confuse Caffrey's lack of depth and dimensions with Matt's abilities, oh dear). Speaking of which...
JT? Oh dear. Funniest bit was right when he was doing his big 'Noooooooo!' scene after his sexy mother dies in his arms (wrong much?) and someone cracked a tin open up the back. Snort.
It's always the same in these films, the side characters are more interesting, and who was the posh girl who clearly broke Mr Niccol's heart?
I know what he means though. We used to se them walking by, the private schoolgirls, and it wasn't just that they could afford the right clothes or the right soap, their lives were so much softer, nicer, they were like another species entirely as they glided past us, rough looking and hard living, at the bus stop.
It's still like that. I once saw an insurance map and my suburb was painted red, the people in my area, and I know from bitter experience, die at least twenty years earlier than other areas, and of things they can cure in those nice suburbs. They don't spend three hours on the crowded bus every night, they're not kept awake all night with traffic noise, shouts and gunfire. They don't have to decide whether to waste all night taking three shambolic buses to get home or once, just once, blowing two day's wages on a taxi fare just to get home while their tea is still warm.
I think the critics must be living nice lives and not realise how bad it is to be time poor, how horrid it is to work twelve hours, then a three and a half hour commute, just to placate nasty overseers who are never happy and who saunter off at midday to champagne and seafood platters. No, none of that for the critics. So I get Will's life, I do, I really do, and it's what carried me along when JT alone, bless him, he tried, might not have.
One minor quibble though, at the end, when the poor wander into the rich zones like curious tourists, I was thinking it might have more resembled the London riots, but this was a nice movie where the poor stood about politely as they were downtrodden. No riots or bloody revolution for them, just standing about while JT disrupted the prevailing economic system by raiding banks. You'd think at least they'd redeploy some of those security stooges or there'd be a run on the banks but whatever, I seem to have fallen into the trap of picking apart the logic bubbles in the dystopia. It's allegory, it's allegory, I keep telling myself.
Cillian Murphy, though? I was really looking forward to seeing him in this but he seems to have decided to play his cop as single minded or one dimensional, I can't tell. Either way, I hope he enjoyed the car or whatever he got out of the fee, because he's gone down in my estimation. Repeating that you've been on the job for years endlessly does not equal nuances of a burnt out boy from the slum seen it all cop. Was he supposed to be a mirroe to Henry? What we got was just another Terminator, albeit a pretty one.
Oh, that was the other dysopia it reminded me of, it was very Logan's Run, with the Time Keeper/Sandman trope very much the same, only, and what does this say about the societies the pieces were commenting on, in Logan's Run, it was more about ultimate compliance, but here the clock takes care of that. Even more insidious, the time keepers were about strictly maintaining social, economic and geographical borders (actual borders, too, no allegaory here), keeping place more than keeping time, really, policing the distribution of wealth. I know a few gatekeepers like that. Oh boy, do I.
Oh, special mention for Vincent, in keeping with my never a day goes by without seeing one of the Buffy-verse alum, did a very nice and nuanced turn in villain, that particular brand of not even truly reptilian but will burst into tears like a baby if you wave a gun in his face type of cold blooded villain that is usually the sort of job they used to give Brits. I liked it. It gave his character a whole greedy boy who wants to keep all the sweeties for himself kind of vibe, rather than just another wall street wanker. At least, that's how I saw it.
So, yeah, lots to think about, and pretty, pretty, so pretty Matty. I liked.
Btw, speaking of Buffy-verse alum, Tony Head popped off in Merlin on Sunday (and I coulda watched Bones and Castle, if I wanted, but I didn't) and James and Charisma were in Supernatural on Monday, followed by Gina in Suits. See what I mean? Everywhere.
What I did watch on Sunday was a bit of Wild Boys, which is my very guilty pleasure of late. It's very silly, but way better than Robin Hood (which I mention only because it borrows a great many of the tropes) and unlike others, I find the costumes, weapons, setting etc quite authentic from what I've seen in old paintings, photos and museum ephemera. I just love the way they set up scenes so they look just like a McCubbin or Streeton painting (the way Merlin often delights by wallowing in the PRP oeuvre).
I was wondering, since every other person seems to be a bushranger in the show, whether that was an accurate statistical snapshot of society at the time. Well, maybe not of society, but certanly my family tree (in much the same time and place). Other people have family photos. I have mug shots. Better yet, I get a series of mugshots, as shown to me with particular glee, as one cattle duffing/horse thieving family member was photographed on several occassions for official records. Oh dear.
So yes, the countryside overrun by bushrangers who aren't the brightest pins in the box? I dare not comment - grin.
Thursday. Not much to say except it's raining, work is still misery inducing (so extemely contrary were the demands yesterday this can only be my own personal hell) and the so called net connection is still mucking me about. Stalled again for two hours so I was still working away when White Collar came on.
Oh, who cares. Neal and Peter have gone from adorable buddies to lying bastards trying to one up each other from minute to minute, which isn't what I'm looking for at all, and as for the skinny bint, could she be any less suited, with less chemistry. Yes, I was tired and cranky, but this episode really tried my patience. I only stayed for pretty Matty being pretty, even though Caffrey is a vain, shallow, self serving bastard who is proving to be more and more unlikeable at every second, the two faced little so and so. Oh, and the scene where Peter was uncover and Neal was just mincing about, but it was the looks from the other guys that really sold it, it was like Peter had brought his really catty boyfriend along. I'm not sure how I was supposed to be watching it, but it's the second time I've seen it and I just can't see it any other way, and the way Neal just swishes in and boses Peter about, it's to die for.
And yes, I do wish the boys were more friendly, but it'd never really work if Neal was still going dick Peter around the way he does, alas. Pity, because they really would be cute together. They'd drive each other crazy, though.
It's not going well in the fic either, but that's okay, I have Arkady, who is proving to be quite a sensitive wee soul when he's not out raping and pillaging. He is so getting his own fic just as soon as he drops me a few more hints re his background. The hoodlum with the heart of gold, bless.
Such a trope but there it is. He's a pragmatic cove, you see, does what he has to, to get by, but's it's not a lifestyle choice per se, the way it was with Caffrey. Which isn't to say he doesn't enjoy himself. Lust for life, that's my boy.
Anyhoo...Friday. Still with the week from hell, but I've decided to remember, remember by digging out my dvd of Gunpowder, Treason and Plot. Yes, any old excuse to ogle the Fass, but why not? I've had a week, the sort of week where burning people in effigy would actually count as light relief, fun and a good night out. Alas, we don't do that sort of thing any more (but apparently the Kiwis do).
Buttons! I lurched onto the bus, waving my shopping bag high in the air, proclaiming buttons! Poor Peanut Gallery sank in his seat (that'll learn him to get on the same bus as me).
I couldn't help it, I was so excited. Yes, about buttons. Let me try and explain. It's been a week, I think I've sort of covered that as much as I can without being able to go into details, but it's not just the usual office merde, which has been super extra strength special grade merdey this week. The whole week has been one long merde-fest, with actual merde. The sort of week, that, if I were in an episode of Supernatural, I'd be a touch concerned right about now.
Like on Tuesday. There I was in the brand new wonderful skirt I'd bought in Melbourne, and matching top. Caught the top on a branch on the way to the bus stop and tore it to shreds, then tripped up the steps at the cinema and tore the skirt to shreds, too. And it's not like I could waltz back ino the shop for new ones. So it was to Google I turned, wondering if there was such a thing as a habadashery shop any more. To my delight and relief, there was, and still in the city, not too far out of my way.
So, having an absolutely excreable day I bolted the moment the clock ticked over and raced down to said shop. It's funny, because as much as Mrs H and her sewing classes (yes, my school offered sewing, not latin) still give me nightmares, and she only gave me a passing grade to spare us having to put up with each other any longer that we were obligated to, I can still do it, you know, sew my own clothes, cross-stich, blanket-stitch, chain-stitch, hem, tack, darts, all the stuff, and when I walked into that shop, even though I've completely failed as a functional adult this week, I suddenly knew exactly what I needed to fix the skirt and top (as best I can, cf grudging passing grade), and this pleased me. Delighted, actually, because despite my middling skills I've always found sewing soothing. So I picked up a beginers tapestry kit, too, just to do a couple of lines after work because I used to do it after school, also with the long hard days of bullying. Nothing like a couple of lines to settle one in the evening, I find. Is that what the cool kids are calling it these days, mocks the Peanut Gallery. And yes, it is a kiddie kit. I made the mistake of trying to pick up where I left off but couldn't, I have to start from scratch again. Ah, well.
Anyway, yes, the buttons. I have a pile of buttons that need replacing/sewing on (as well as a pile of socks to darn), especially my not fashionable but favourite coat that I had to wear all through the coldest winter in forty five years without being able to button it up because all the buttons had pinged off, especially one that had popped off when walking out of the Opera house one blustery winter's night and the little bastard scampered across the forecourt tiles to leap into the harbour with a plop. Very tidy work, that. It was at that point I knew the whole row of buttons was going to need replacing.
But where to find buttons in this day and age? Well, I found 'em. They're not my first choice, or even my forth, those tubes were all empty, but they'll do. I have buttons. Huzzah!
Well, something's gone right this week. As for the rest, soaked with rain yesterday and on Wednesday I tried to escape to the park and was crawled over by five hundred species of spider as yet unknown to science, and another two hundred that were listed, including one huntsman, with a wasp in hot pursuit. Oh, and ants, and beetles and caterpillars and if that wasn't enough, one of the magpies shat on me. That's what I get to saying no to Mrs Magpie that morning I guess (I was in a hurry and contrary to popular magpie opinion, I do not keep scraps of raw meat in my pockets on spec).
So yes, real and actual shit in my shitty week. Man, I'd be having a bonfire this Saturday if they weren't banned. It'd be cathartic. Burn, baby, burn. Or just smoulder, that works, too.
Melbourne Cup? Don't even ask. I'm having the sort of week where I should beware of pianos and safes dropping out of the sky.
Now the hot water urn/tap/thingy here has gone bung so now I don't even have resource to tea. This week, I swear (and I will swear, lots, enough to make a wharfie blush). That is putting the boot in, that is.
It's what I get for last week, I guess, when, despite being a touch under the weather, everything went ticketyboo, we even scored upgrades on the flights and hotel, without asking. Probably cause I'd had to book at the very pricey flexi-rates levels, because one can never get a firm committment from the Peanut Gallery. Even the new Mebourne wardrobe being bought and packed into the usual six steamer trunks was no indication of actual intent.
Not kidding about the steamer trunks, either (I, myself, travelled with my overnight, overhead locker bag, I have it down, now, I think I do). Much red faced labouring of luggage onto trams and buses. Which is why I travelled light, as I knew I'd be roped into baggage handling. So long as I know, it's fine.
Oh, True Blood last night. What the? A lot of confused and hasty resolving and further effing up of various characters and plots. Me, I'd be happy if the vamp boys ended up together. I loved Pam's rant against Sookie. Oh, it's a stupid, lurid soap, which is why I wallow in its guilty, delicious pleasures. It ain't Chekhov, but in a way, it kind of is. Lots of people arguing and being awful and then at the end somebody dies. Yeah, it kinda is. It's also a very, very silly soap with very silly characters, though, it's so hard these days, on tv, to find a character that isn't ridiculous. Who is more disconnected from reality? A vampire/werewolf/witch/fairy/shifter or a rich neurotic housewife or even a quirky bordering on insanity cop?
PM update. This week. Mutter. Popped across to the park and was so obviously delighted at getting the lift that goes down to the sekrit park tunnel this old besuited CEO was very amused and twinkly. Alas, my joy was shortlived, as, cracking on with a solid bit of scribbling my pen ran out of ink. And, just this once, I wasn't armed with half a dozen spares. Ack.
Important scene, too, the fall of Peter Burke. Well, he's been pushed so hard and so far that it was bound to happen, but when he turns, he turns fast, and now they'll know why he was such a stickler for the rules. Without 'em, oh baby, you better watch out. Pete's mad as hell, and he's not gonna take it any more.
Or, he would be, if my pen hadn't run out. So it goes.
Popped down to JB instead, not to flick through indie, but more of a Fassy mopping up operation, ie the really crap stuff he did while trying to get his foot in the door, but they're all bargain bin fodder so no big deal, and I need me some Fassy. What was distracting me, especially as I was also hoovering up some much needed McAvoy, was the boys themselves on the big screen, you know, the big romantic scene where Charles dives into the water to save Erik from himself (and the sub). Snorks. Or rather, trying very hard not to smirk amongst the busy lunchtime crowd. Oh and again, dear.
Forgot to mention that the whole Fassy fixation is proving a bruising experience. Last night when I was tearing through the collection, because the Fassy collection vol 1 was somehow right up the back, and can it really be so long ago that he was my go to tv guy? Anyhoo, rummage, pillage, and a big bruise from being conked on the noggin by a rogue Poliakoff box set I'd dislodged in my dvd searching frenzy.
I should probably watch that anyway as it was Friends and Crocodiles, which I do reference/ripoff, just a touch, in scenes I have actually managed to finish, because I needed to think of a Gatsby-esque figure and Damian's turn in that would do in a pinch as a template to touch upon. I needed to think of a party, the sort of party Bryan Ferry would have been invited to. That sort of party. Friends and Crocodiles is pretty much it, in that regard, you have to admit.
But yeah, couldn't believe the Fassy collection had slipped to the back of the bookshelf. I guess it's because I do tend to treat my boys a bit like indie bands, and the moment they start poncing about in comic book films is usually where I leave (ie sold out), but I love Fassy and wee Jimmy way too much for that, so I guess I'm just stuck with my not so obscure boys afterall. Nice to see them doing so well, too, it really is.
And seriously, if it hadn't been for Fassy this week. My coffee, my cholcolate, my booze, my cigarettes, that is what he is to me. In lieu of these other vices, he's my boy.
Meanwhile, been watching nothing much but Doctor Who, usually with a choice of at least three doctors on offer. UKTV has finished up Matt's eps and gone back to grumpy old Chris again (can they please stop mentioning chips). Darn, I was enjoying Matt. And Rory, always jealous, always getting killed off Rory. They should make Rory action figues in all his costumes: Roman, security guard, nurse, Venetian - he's a one man Village People tribute band. Meanwhile on SciFi, we just wrapped up the Androids of Tara, ripping through them, and I only get to see one or two a week, and that's on the late, late repeat. Sigh.
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