Sorry, I was in sore need to a giggle. Key word being sore. The competing perfumes yesterday sent me tailspinning into such a headache I spent all night and all morning being most unwell. If only they could be persuaded to wear Charlie like that girl on the bus. I have a tolerance for that, at least. Oh yes. I was given a bottle as a gift once, cheap Avon toilet water that it is, a last ditch gift before everyone decided I was most likely to end up driving trucks for a living, probably, and I never really liked it but I must have been trying it on or playing with the bottle or something, I can't remember how, but old fumble fingers, as always, and let me tell you, my old dresser and room reeked of Charlie for two to three years solid. Solid being the opertative word. I remember the Charlie miasma being so thick you could carve it every time you opened the door.
So, like I said, a tolerance. And, also, weirdly Proustian, as one whiff and I'm back in my stinking hot lock box secretly listening to the radio late at night on the tiny cherry red transitor that I hid underneath my pillows.
Anyways, yesterday was not fun. Can't go into it, but it was cruel. Would that I'd wasted the last three years of my life on far more useful things like finishing fics. So add a bucket of bitterness to the mix. I mean, I know I have to pay the bills and disappointments are a part of life, but sometimes, somedays, the scales seem overtipped into craptitude.
Not that I'm depressed, just situational misery. If I was properly depressed I wouldn't cheer up the further I walked from the office, block by block, better and better. There should be some sort of equation where misery (m) and work (w) are subtracted by distance (d). But not time (t) because I'm dreadful for remembering all my old hurts. But distance, oh yes, which is why I was so happy that day watching the bumble bees bob along the weedy flowers on the bank of the Thames beside Hampton Court, even though I'd only sat down to re-plaster my blisters. Far, far away.
Best I could manage yesterday was a meander through several shops in search of a new coat (my old coat has been in constant use for twelve months now and is showing real wear and tear) without luck, to emerge into Pitt street and the sound of some blistering jazz being busked with all the glittering jewel shops behind me. Suddenly I'm thinking of sharp suited jewel thieves suavely sauntering into some jazz den, oh so cool, and his name is most probably Simon and...isn't that the episode of The Saint with Benedict's mum in it? No matter, I was just having fun, since I don't have my own life, I imagine others, and I am happy.
Besides, I found a nifty wee top in the next shop along, which I have on layby, mainly because I was off out and couldn't be laden with shopping. So, down to the old Mercantile, which is fast becoming a happy place. Staff were cheerful today, I managed my favourite seat by the window, and they're still playing the ancient music of my youth, which tickled. The pub grub is best described as cheap and cheerful, but I wasn't in the mood for, nor could afford, anything fancy. Comfort food, as I'd not eaten all day. That was good.
The cider was good, too. Only one, as I have to walk down the side of a cliff, pretty much, from Rocks to the wharves, and they used to be old sandstone steps which I adored but since they've grubbed out the old terraces, with nary a peep from the old union movement, it's all steel and handrails, but still, several flights, pretty steep, but I like my quick way down.
Alas, I was kicking back in my favourite chair at the Mercantile so much I had to white rabbit it down the cliffside, cider or no cider.
Which meant I had no time to peruse the Gleebooks stand, a particular treat for me, especially as they have all the musical dvds I just can't get anywhere else and a fine selection of gay themed films and television. Which for me just means my favourite British actors getting their kit off. All discretely purchased in a brown paper bag and it never has to show up on my Amazon preferences so it's win/win for me, because it took forever for Amazon to stop recommending Sigmund and the Seamonsters. Don't ask.
I was off to see Pygmalion, which I'd wanted to see staged since I was a young gel, yet another school text I had to study without ever seeing or hearing it performed. Tis my great project to see all the plays I had to study without access to performance, just one or two more and I'm done (my old curriculum must have rolled around again as they're all on this year).
Well, if you read the reviews below I'm sure you'll find the words stark and bare as once again it was performed in an empty space with a few chairs for props (our local set designers are either lazy or need a better union), which did, indeed, focus on the text and performance, in an attempt to try and make it angry and real and not My Fair Lady. It's hard though, everytime they got up to a song I knew it (and somehow it always seems a bit disappointing when they don't). Hard, too, as I know the play backwards, having studied it recently as well as at school, and I could even spot that they were using an older, pared back version rather than a later version with all the embellishments.
It was difficult, though as I, and another, laughed pre-emptively at one point (tsk), knowing we were about to launch into a good bit. Though it's all good bits, which is why it has remained a lifelong favourite, especially this no frills version of the script, with the whole class system, expectations, the falsity of such social constructs, for if they were not mere fashion, how could the Doolittles transgress, as does Higgins in his way, being an ill-mannered mummy's boy. In fact, both Higgins and Freddy are extreme mummy's boys, so I don't hold out much luck for Eliza with any of the blokes on stage. A good girl she is and a good girl she'll stay with that lot - grin.
One could make a point about Higgins and Pickering scaling along the Asperger's curve, but does that really excuse their Frankenstein like experiment, especially when they do the same, and cast out the experiment, almost in horror of their own creation. All the points about the undeserving poor (I love the line about the 'deserving' widow collecting from six charities for the same dead husband), the inverted morals, Eliza going from independent good girl to something bought and sold and offered on market (see also Downton), from selling flowers to selling herself, the honesty of the criminal classes, because at least they don't lie to themselves or others, unlike the Eynsford-Hills, who try to appear richer than they are. Facade, truth, beauty, commerce, construct, idenity with self and group, it's all there, but this isn't my old paper so I'll spare you.
Basically it was bare and bleak but the play itself still crackled and could not be silenced or dampened by earnestness or arty contrivance and I might not have liked it half as much is it hadn't been actors night when some of the cast and Mr Upton stayed behind to explain their choices, thoughts, etc and that really was enlightening and interesting and I wish I'd been there for the panel when actually studying the book, but there you go. It was funny when one old biddy up the front piped up with how refreshing it was to see a play not full of swearing for once and the actress who played Mrs Eynsford-Hill leant forward and pointed out that it was actually full of swearing and swearing so shocking and prolific that it made the front page of The Times when it debuted. Chortle. (In other words, language that would cause an Edwardian to faint is invisible to local Eynsford-Hill-esque matrons, we're such a sweary bunch).
It really was a fascinating discussion, even the bit about how accent and perception is all fashion, and how in the UK the Geordie accent is seen as desirable in reality show television because of Ant and Dec. It's all fashion and appearance and perception and fakery and how does that relate to identity, as one sheds one old skin.
So you can see why I was studying it for the fic, with Neal as Eliza , but Peter not the only Higgins in the picture, but he's still trying to recreate Neal, pass him off as a law abiding citizen. Well, there's that, and then there's just introducing a playmate for Neal and calling him Freddie just so Peter can have the infamous meltdown. Hee.
Meanwhile, there was a tiny sentence in MX that Matt had just come out. Curious, I thought, as MX had never mentioned Matt before, always cutting him out of photos, why just the other week only his elbow appeared in a photo of Joe, as they'd cut the handsome boy from the pic. Surely just his low profile here, I tell myself.
Very low profile, as there's been not a peep from the White Collar feeds about his humanitarian award (well done, Matt). Jon from Leverage did congratulate the boy, but nothing from the White Collar channels. I always said Matt was on the wrong show (I'd really love to see Caffrey versus the Leverage crew).
Funny, when the interwebs is fairly burning with the (old)news of his outiness. Honestly, I saw the speech and I never even noticed, cause he's always mentioning his family these days (I did however notice Matt drop significantly from White Collar promos after the Today Show wave to his kids, how sweet, but I'm sure TPTB were just giving Matt a bit of a break from promo duties, yes, that's it).
Not that it matters to me, or is any of my damn business. He's purty, and demonstrably kind and socially aware, so what's not to like? I'm sure the silence that has fallen in some quarters is just because they love and respect the lad so much it just goes without saying, right? Right?
Ah well, at least he's getting some love and respect in the press. Shouldn't be a big deal though. Fortunately less so in Britain.
Speaking of Brit boys, of every stripe, none of them can resist the urge to drop trou at every available opportunity, and then some, bless. Of course, it's all done in the best possible taste!
I picked the wrong day to give up (insert addiction of choice). It was one of those days. And then some more. And more. And enough already.
All I wanted to do was go home, have my tea and watch Sherlock on the telly. That's all I wanted from life and the universe. Too much to ask? Apparently so.
First there was the sudden and woeful public transport troubling late meeting called (in the end it took me four buses and nearly three hours to get home), but wait, there's more, as I wandered out of said meeting dazed with my various and multiple scoldings to find all email accounts and phones full of urgent urgent and angry messages. Turns out a large branch had detached itself (they don't call 'em widdermakers for nothing, see also Seven Little Australians) and ripped down the powerline connecting the house to the mains, sparking everywhere and leaving Himself trapped inside the house. To say Himself doesn't do calamity at all is an understatement. The fire brigade was called and blocked off the street, called the sparkies and had it all done and fixed and tidied and working in just over two hours, leaving only a parcel of very impressed and over-excited local kids by the time I finally got home.
Himsef pretty much slung the burnt remains of dinner at me and stalked off to his room, though it was me doing the door slamming because the bloody front door chose that night to play up again. Yes, I'd pretty much only just got through the door, and I'm sorry I couldn't get home any sooner but I was over 40km away and shit happens.
Oh, that door. We were watching Fellowship of the Ring the other day, or had it on during one of those short storms, and Gandalf was trying to open the Doors of Durin, and he's pretty much slumped in a huff of give up and we just made the sound of the door suddenly swinging open, because the old door is warped and sticks and you can pound and push all you like and it won't open and you slump in the patio chair thinking you'll be sleeping out with the spiders and it will just suddenly and maliciously swing open as if to say 'What? Can't you open a friggin' door?' to which the answer is no, I have never in my life been able to get the wretched thing open or closed without tears. I have not the touch. (One would normally get it fixed but as I'm the only one who has a problem, it's never considered a priority).
So, yes, I did get to see Sherlock, but I was all cross and I didn't enjoy it. Well, not as much as I might have. And yes, I have it on dvd (you simply must listen to the commentaries, they are such a hoot, here are writers who know their shit, not just about all things Sherlock but are also literate in television and film and know a great many fun facts and silly tales) but that's not the point. It was on telly. I wanted to just relax down into the couch and watch it, instead of sitting up hot and feverish from over jangled nerves.
I won't even say how my VIP lanyards were thrown back in my face, or how I can't go shopping for a VIP dress tonight 'cause I have to be home to tradies. My party has turned into pumpkins before it's even begun. And I was so foolishly excited, at least for an hour. That'll learn me. Nothing good can ever be allowed to happen.
Well, the utility company was as good as their word and came out and checked the line and re-tensioned it for the fat possums who'll be leaping on and off it every night (they use it to travel across the yard).
And this will have to be quic as today is far busier than I ever expected, what with everyone away 'n' all.
So, Murdoch Mysteries were riffing off Scandal in Bohemia last night, which bemused. I seem to be up to my armpits in Irene Adlers this week. And I did enjoy Sherlock, so many cracking lines, but I did not enjoy it as much as I might have, and that I do regret.
After a very unsatisfactory wrestle with the interwebs for hours while I waited for the tree guy not to show up, and no thanks to Matty glitter bombing my Google feed, I did, finally, settle down to episode two of Sense and Sensibility on UKTV. Cup of tea, Dan Stevens, Dominic Cooper, David Morrissey. Bliss.
It's funny how guys never get Austen. They never realise these parlours and dance floors are battlefields, and that women are taking as many hits and falling from the field as in any war film. If only they could realise they weren't watching tea in the parlour but a full on bar fight, and every cutting word and whisper was an upper cut or a left hook. Sock! Kapow! Poor Elinor is reeling.
Such a timeless and acutely observed study of mean girls, and I tell ya, only in fiction do the nice girls triumph and win the dashing beau. In real life, as we all know, the tottering harpie wins the boy, and may they both wallow in their bleached blonde shallowness. Whoops, are my bitter petticoats showing again? Fuck you, Mr W.
Sorry, seem to be oddly hungry for the first time in ages, and in a very testy mood. Really, already?
Probably why I was thinking how much I'd like to take a fork to that bitch on the bus who makes my life such a misery. I can't remember why I settled on a fork, but it wasn't just any fork but the durable German fork brought home by my mother's favourite cousin who was a POW and carried that fork, his sole possession, on those forced marches of hundred of miles in the middle of winter in the last stages of the war as the front retreated. It's an impressive fork, with impossibly long tines that are just perfect for fishing olives and pickles out of jars, though I don't know what the Reich were thinking, issuing the POWs with such sturdy and hardwearing and sharply long tined forks, 'cause I would have found a few uses that had nothing to do with spearing the last olive out of a jar.
Of course, I look at the fork and I'm always sad, despite its extreme practicality, because it has a such sad history. The body of the man came back, but never the soul, so I never knew him, like all those other ancestral branches that died out before I ever came along.
So I look at Nazi dinnerware and think of starving forced marches through the snow. White Collar, of course, things all things Nazi, including dinnerware, are fun and cool and just peachy keen macguffins. I do despair at times.
The Michael Pitt scans, below, are included because, having finished watching Boardwalk Empire on Sunday, I realise I'm going to miss him. Typical of televsion shows, they made him interesting just before they killed him. They always do that, it's so frustrating.
I do hate tv writers, or some of them, anyway. Some can do no wrong (or very little) in my eyes, and rarely do (Jane, Joss, Steven, Mark...), others are the worst sort of hacks. At least a couple of the reviews take to task series three of White Collar in pitting the boys against each other. All we want is a flash and fun odd couple buddy show and yet the writers want to make it all about deceit and distrust and being chained to jobs and somehow they think that's what we want to watching in the evenings. In a word, no.
Another article mercifully takes that spindly Barbie to task. Seriously, I have to turn to the old daytime movies they crank out on Universal to find a worse actress that that stilted maniquin. I could have coped with the need to beard up Caffrey if they'd hired someone with actual acting chops, I mean, just about any of the girls from Spooks would have been sparking, but no. So it doesn't sell, because it has such a poor salesman, and they should at least understand that, but it seems they don't. Mercifully, it doesn't look like S3 is going to screen out here anytime soon, nor the S2 repeats on W.
Speaking of beards, tee hee: The Beards - You should consider having sex with a bearded man (live on Triple J Radio) (NSFW). Just crying out to be a songvid for any of my beardy olden days boys.
Fair lady for the cameras
Bouquets for stripped-back take on Cinderella story with devil in the detail
Straight by Hanne Blank, reviewed
Missing the lost grand slam
Childhood abuse may stunt growth of part of brain involved in emotions
One Town's War on Gay Teens
Rich art collectors 'know the price of everything – and the value of nothing'
What's in a LOL? YouTube ranks funniest videos
Prince of wails: how a royal abroad missed his mistress
Interview: Viggo Mortensen, actor
Nikolaj Coster-Waldau Heads For Oblivion
Alexander Skarsgard and Peter Berg On 'Battleship': 'We're Sort of an Art House Movie'
'True Blood's Alexander Skarsgård: 'Christopher Meloni is so hot'
Channing Tatum: Stripper extraordinaire
Anne Rice: Interview with the vampire (writer)
Nathan Lane, Octavia Spencer, & Matt Bomer among the Characters Uniting to Fight Prejudice
Matt Bomer's (Blaine's Brother) Gets a Glee Name: Do You Agree With The Choice?
Matt Bomer Takes on Elvis Presley in 'GQ' Italia Shoot and Says He Wants to Play Montgomery Clift
White Collar Season 3 Episode 14 Review: Save The Blues For The Symphony
Weekend Roundup: Celebrities At The Super Bowl
Matt Bomer accepts the New Generation Arts & Activism Award
Matt Bomer comes out while receiving humanitarian award
Proud and out in Beverly Hills
'White Collar's' Matt Bomer is a terrific actor gay or straight - and that's all that matters
White Collar star Matt Bomer is gay
Matt Bomer comes out
Houston actor Matt Bomer confirms he's gay
Matt Bomer thanks partner while accepting award, confirms speculation about private life
White Collar Pinstripe Promo: A Yankee Stadium Robbery
'The rumours are true... I'm gay': Hollywood star Matt Bomer comes out at awards ceremony
Check out Matt Bomer's High School Yearbook Photo
Matt Bomer Comes Out As Gay: 'White Collar' Actor Thanks Partner Simon Halls, Kids At Awards Ceremony (VIDEO)
'White Collar' preview: Matt Bomer pulls a con at Yankee Stadium
Clever writing sets 'White Collar' apart [I beg to differ, for one thing it is entirely unoriginal]
White Collar and In Time actor Matt Bomer comes out as gay at speech at Steve Chase Humanitarian Awards
Desert Aids Project Awards
'White Collar's' Matt Bomer Officially Comes Out as Gay at Awards Show (Video)
'White Collar' Recap: 'Pulling Strings' (3.14)
Matt Bomer reveals he's gay: 'White Collar' actor calls partner Simon Halls, kids his 'proudest accomplishment'
White Collar Review: Old Flames & The In-laws
Matt Bomer, of 'White Collar,' thanks partner in awards speech
WHITE COLLAR 3.14 'Pulling Strings'
Matt Bomer on 'White Collar' and 'Magic Mike'
Matthew Bomer Finally Goes Public About His Sexual Orientation
Matt Bomer's High School Photos: 'White Collar' Star's Sophomore Year
Matt Bomer thanks partner while accepting award, confirms speculation about private life
Take a First Look at Darren Criss and Matt Bomer's Brotherly Love on Glee
Anne Rice wants Matt Bomer to play her new werewolf. We're okay with that.
Matt Bomer Comes Out as Gay Man
Matt Bomer Officially Comes Out As Gay
HOT GALLERY: Take a Look Back at White Collar's Matt Bomer Through the Years