Sadly, I realise I never took a picture of the outside, so chastened last time by friends over my Warhol-like study of the old Needle (less of the old, I'm not far behind, oh mercy). I remember my first sight of my very beloved Needle again, re-painted, and squeaking. What had they done? I'm down with the retro, but still, what a shock. Good thing The Killing never got renewed, or they'd kill themselves over the continuity - grin.
Besides, what were the Yanks thinking, believing they could take on a sophisticated and complex European series and make it palatable to Mary Louise Plotnik from Podunk, Idaho. As if. Still, curiousity at this chimera kept me watching for the first half at least, and the casting was on enough for me to know instantly who Billy Campbell was playing the moment I saw his name in the credits.
Dear old Billy. He's aging okay. Speaking of which, I just read they were thinking of rebooting The Rocketeer. Not sure why anyone would, but I still kind of love it, my little guilty secret. Timothy Dalton was so OTT camp in it that when he swung back the door to reveal a wardrobe full of women's dresses he just happened to have on hand, I actually flailed in the cinema (and I can't remember whether or not it was actually legal to do so back then, oh yes, just).
Anyhoo, just bemused at seeing Billy on telly last night and reading about The Rocketeer over tea at breakfast this morning. It's like when you hear a word or a song several times in one week, that you never usually hear otherwise, like the universe needs you to pay attention, for reasons that remain esoteric and unsolveable.
So, twenty minutes of telly while I slurped up over cooked, dried out, reheated leftovers as was my tea, very late at night, much later than when I go out to the theatre half the time, and I was only trying to get home from work.
Was kept back late last night (on a stupid go nowhere project that has been keeping me back since I was missing Bomer in Chuck), and instead of trying to squeeze on the bus, usually the third one to go past as they're so crammed full, and it's not like they're every half hour, either, and strap hanging all the way home, I decided to catch the train part way home, get off, do the shopping, and try and get home from there.
No such luck. Well, lucky in that I had a seat, and a thick book, because someone did an Anna Karenina, didn't they, in peak hour, the selfish sods (though it'd have to be, any other time and they'd have plenty of opportunity to reconsider and/or be talked down kindly) and we were stuck there for hours. Two hours and forty minutes to be precise. We we held up twice, once behind all the guts on the track, and once, later, on the branch line, to let all the 'express' inter-city trains go through. Harumph. It was near nine by the time we pulled into my station but I was determined to do the shopping, by god, so I did, though it was exhausted, mad woman shopping, with my reading glasses still on (I did find an actual Zinfandel on the shelves, but it was over $60, yikes) and then, getting home, well, a bus came along that took me halfway home, after that, those last couple of hills it was like Frodo dragging himself up the side of Mount Doom, but I made it. Home before midnight, huzzah. I tell ya, there's a new entry in my black book of public transport fuckery and last night was it.
Completely missed The Glades but I saw a bit on the pvr (thank you) and realised it is a very, very stupid show indeed. I wanted The Killing, but that wasn't happening either. At least, not the proper Danish one (and surely, I was in the mood for dark Danish doings that night). Sigh.
Thursday: It's unseasonably warm today, or rather, oddly, seasonably warm in a season that has been distinctly unseasonably chilly, if you get my drift. I mean, usually, come this time of year, I'm out on the back patio typing with the peach blossoms, but this year it has been far too nippy, and by the time it warms up, I'm far too busy for anything like tea or typing (sigh).
Stil, I have my flappy black cardy with me just in case. Indeed, as it was a touch breezy this morning, I could see my trailing shadow in the streetlight as I raced towards the bus stop under moonlight, flapping black shawl-like cardy and cheap Indian skirt waving this way and that, I could see, for once, why all those lumpen eastern europeans cross themselves when I get on the bus. Heh.
In actual fact I made a great show of getting on the bus today as I saw my silent stop companion appear on the hill the same time as the bus, so I took my time on the bottom step, adjusting skirts, cardigans, baggage, fussing for tickets (not a fake as I'd left my weekly in the pocket of my coat that I wasn't wearing on account of the warm weather and had to start next week's instead, dash and botheration) until he caught up. Just for once he flashed me a cheeky, grateful smile. He'd seen what I did there, and I was gratified.
Usually all attempts to assist are rebuffed, ignored or insulted, so I'll take that as a win. It's why I picked the ensemble to day. I have a meeting with the IT lords where I am required to explain that we require twice what they will give us, and rather than the usual coquettish lacy plunging oh please could you just neckline, black winged Morrigan was more what was required. Of course, it won't work. I am but a humble petitioner and I must defer to their high ranking magnificence. So I will accept what crumbs they deign to scatter from their lofty thrones, and it will all, of course, go horribly wrong and I shall be kicked from here to Kaboodle. As always. Such misery, but if it wasn't me they'd get another bunny to practice on, so I like to think I'm at least saving some poor bunny from the lash.
Such lashes yesterday, but at least it resolved me to do what I never normally do - walk out the very second the clock ticked over. And straight into a Gold Class session of Magic Mike. Yeah, I thought I'd give it another chance, different venue, better seats, way, way better screen and sound (and, oh hello, I have all my parrots perched outside this window, heh, sorry, boys, it don't open) and I'd just had a filthy day, so I'd figured I change up the variables, see how it went. Okay, the far better screen and sound, comfy seat and glass of vino helped immensely, I must say, but it's still a very basic hero's journey, and that actress is still suck the life out of a scene awful, and the characters still mere shallow ciphers, but yeah, I just sank into my seat and let the pretty boys wash over me, and for that, I enjoyed it. And Channing, bless, is actually growing as an actor. He did make me believe.
Anyways, it was just to get a shallow candy Bomer fix since they took the Bomer away and I'll not be able to watch White Collar again (at least, not legally - speaking of which - THANK YOU!). Speaking of White Collar, watching my last episode last week, I noticed that Neal shook his head whenever he's fibbing, and that's a fairly significant tell for a con man, I must say. So I wanted to see if it was a Neal thing or a Matt thing. Sure enough, it's a Matt thing, I've seen him do it now in a few other things. How hilarious.
I hear this week's episode was all Mozzie all the time. God help me, how I loathe him. He is the agent of great and terrible mischief in my fic, or the voice of reason, if you're really not a one eyed Neal/Peter shipper like me, and there are indeed a great many obsctacles (cue song), but romance will out, at least in any decent drama, it should.
And did you notice, in all the online ranting about whether or not Matt should or could play someone straight on screen, not one person, not one, not even TPTB, said that he was currently doing so, every week, on American television. So come, White Collar, just embrace it. Rainbows! (One of my favourite Joss Whedon quotes from Husbands, amongst many).
Also, you incredibly clever rip off bad Sean Bean films White Collar writers, you, how the farquar did Mozzie get up into Neal's pad in the wheelchair in that episode, the last I saw (Burke's Seven). Dumb waiter? Hoisted by a quad of gold painted body slaves ala Lady Gaga? Enquiring minds need to know.
Anyhoo, home in time for tea, for once, and a fine tea it was. There were the pork scotch fillet steaks with taragon butter I'd picked up yesteday, plus piles of steamed veggies, and it wasn't bad for a mad woman's shopping trip while beyond exhausted and still wearing her reading glasses. The sad thing is, those steaks spoiled me, and I shall never see their like again, at least not in any supermarket in my vicinity (though there's not a lot of competition for the porky products, heh).
Finished off with the allegedly Italian vino that I like that still has the weird aftertatse (the Herald supplied the perfect description: like a mouthful of two cent pieces) but it gives me such vivid dreams, whatever they've put in there, and as I so rarely sleep or dream these days, I don't care.
Oh, the rose I ordered with my Magic Mike viewing was also very nice, some West Australian grenache, and it made me fairly buzzy, being rose. It's the one thing, the only thing I've inherited from my mother: the inability to handle rose. Red wine, white wine, beer, ale, scotch, whatever, no problem, but rose, whoo.
Seared into my childhood memory is the time my mother had finished off half a bottle of Mateus, this being the 70s, and had staggered off to her room giggling, then, a short while later, wailed for my help. She was so razzled she'd tried to take off her slacks and stocking before her boots and was in a helpless tangle. Kneeling dutifully to try and render assistance, she was laughing so hard she pissed on me. You can see now why it's such a vivid memory. Ah, my mother, everyone.
So while I was pleasantly buzzed from just one glass (cheapest of the cheap drunks) and a bit wobbly down the stairs and off to the bus stop round the corner, I was sober by the time I'd strap hung for an hour or so across Anzac Bridge (usual traffic crawl) and hey, I figure if I don't wet myself or anyone else on the night it's a win. This is where my bar for acceptable behaviour is set. Just so as you know.
No wonder I am henpecked daily for my rough and peasanty ways. Can't help it. Was raised by wolves.
Speaking of, apres dinner, there was Justfied on telly, the penultimate of series two (and series three soonish, so promises the magnificent promos, I heart the Han Solo one, so it was a very satisfying evening.
See, that's all I want, pretty boys to ogle on telly, good food, good wine, not being yelled at. Is it too much to ask? Hush, they come.
Oh, speaking of telly, how could I not mention catching a glimpse of a very young Mr Cavill poncing about in an episode of Midsomer that was on while tea was being made. I wandered through and caught a glimpse and thought no, yes, no. It was the hair that three me. My gosh, such Nineties hair, that deep into the 2000s, for shame, Henry. Still, that was sorted when somebody blew his head off. Not faster than a speeding bullet, now, eh? Heh.
I know, shaming that Midsomer is my go to default when I'm waiting for something to start (Justfied), especially when I'm already alarmed at my increasing curmudgeoness, but it's a) always on and b) the early eps have cute we boys in them and, tragically c) those cute young things are now crusty old folks in later episodes. Sigh.
And is does look like it's going to rain. There are several phrases that I should never, ever, utter, but have, this week: 'don't touch that', 'what could possibly go wrong?', this will be quicker' and 'it's nice out'.
That last is sure to turn a balmy summer's day where everyone was reclining in the park ala Manet, to everyone fleeing indoors as boiling, cinematic storm clouds hove into view. Every single time. When will I ever learn?
Oh, and I wasn't wanted in the meeting, so the outfit was a bust. Sure to be all my fault in the end. Always is. The buck, in case you ever wanted to know, stops here. And now I'm thinking of Matty with all those dollar bills sticking out of his tiny shiny little pants. Oh, my, is there chocolate in the house?
Space Needle returns to its original color
Henry Cavill Midsomer Murders Clip 1
Le déjeuner sur l'herbe
Elderly woman ruins valuable artwork
Elderly woman destroys 19th-century Spanish fresco by Elias Garcia Martinez in botched restoration
8 stolen art masterpieces that are still missing!
New law to control cyber data
Banking on a quiet one: teller recounts a dog day afternoon
Brolin set for Penn's Storm movie
Interview: Jane Espenson and Brad Bell talk ‘Husbands’ Season 2
White Collar Review: National Treasures
White Collar: Mini-Me and the Case of the Missing Conspiracy
‘White Collar’ Recap: How Dreamy Was Matt Bomer?
27 August 2012
10 August 2012
25-31 August 2012