mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

funny face

Tuesday: I am having such a terrible time with liars, thieves, brutes and despots, I will instead tell you about my night at the theatre. Yes, due to losing my calendar, firewalls and pretty much having to rely on stuff I'd scrawled on scraps of paper, I'd severely overbooked myself this week (and I'm doing it again, though they brought out the Big Guns, in my defence, stuff I just can't say no to), and I wasn't looking forward to another grim piece of theatre, but you know what? I didn't mind it.

I do think the bad boy wunderkid of local theatre has his days numbered though, as the theatre was empty past my row H, which was unfortunate, and, yes, hello, bare, enormous, empty stage again, and the patrons either side of me did complain that it was a bit bleak for a Monday, and so it was, watching a nice, ordinary, nothing special but not a bad person middle aged woman suffer, go slowly mad and try and kill herself. Bleak isn't the word. And yet Kerry Fox was so good, so damn bloody good, she filled that cavernous space and made me weep.

Perhaps because the play was too real, too close to my truth, especially the cruel mother figure who mocked her pain and locked her in the closet until she behaved, until she learnt how to 'play Jenny' as best as she could, be acceptable, and yet be unloved, feel and yet not feel, because she was 'playing Jenny'.

Oh, too close to home. I still want to cry, especially as I cannot 'play Jenny' to anyone's satisfaction, and the situation here, the nastiness, the cruelty, the wicked tricks they play on me, I cannot bear it. So I wept. I identified, too much, especially when she cried over her dead father, oh, it turned me inside out.

So I staggered out of the theatre and there was a cab waiting with his light on, like a fairytale carriage, and he beckoned me over. Could have been, should have been, too good to be true, but no, a lovely, crazy Russian cab driver who was so well read, the way all the Russians I've known are, and we talked, and talked, and he insisted I should read The Master and Margarita. I said I'd try but getting Russian books here was problematic, and I had gaps in my reading due to that little thing called the cold war, where it wss even more difficult to get such books, and the bookshops that sold them were watched by ASIO who filmed everyone who went in them.

True, I saw the footage at the P&J museum exhibition, which was hilarious, by the way, as the camera pans away for a bit to focus on a Jayne Mansfield type prowling down the street in a very tight jumper (cue brassy brass section overdub). Hell, David Stratton, respected film critic, had an ASIO file because he once oversaw a film festival that included Russian films.

I told the taxi driver this and he was delighted at our paranoia. It struck him as so very funny, as it should (and I am reminded again that I find it hard to do justice on paper to that quirky sense of humour Russians have).

Anyway, we chatted away brilliantly and were so jolly I was home in no time at all. Best taxi ride ever. I should have taken down his details, as I'd made a new friend. Alas, I did not. Ah well, at least there are still interesting people out there to talk to, more than the oppressive Stasi like atmosphere that is my daily existence, and knowing this, it heartened me. I also found a cup of tea and a dvd waiting (thank you, Amazon).

Not a bad night. Cathartic, emotional, but I enjoyed it. Unlike today. I just want to run home and crawl under the covers, and it's not even 8:30 yet.

Also...want to go to sleep. Now.

Wednesday: Oh, I was going to post this yesterday but I'll just carry on (posting requires interwebs and the Optus modem sat there staring unblinkingly like HAL all night).

Of sleep there was some, but of a feverish, scavanger hunt like dreams of a frustrating quality. And there was smoke, so much smoke (even today). I can only assume the local firies are having one of their 'controlled' infernos, which are always about as controlled as my mother's attempts at barbeques (always more signal pyre from Lord of The Rings than warmed hotplate on which to cook meats).

Normally I love the smell of bushfire on the breeze, because I'm weird and eucalypts burn pretty, but this had me coughing and hacking about and made my romp through the last chapters of Jane Eyre to those very words, 'Reader, I married him', much more of a chore than I'd hoped, saving the last bit for a quiet night's snuggle as I had.

At least it's a bit quieter today, in so far as I've made it thus far without being screamed at. Sure, I've just put the mockers on myself, but I may yet finish this pot of tea in peace.

In the kitchen there was a gentleman in possession of the most alarmingly awful cup I've ever seen in my life, and I've seen some beauts. So wretched it defies proper description, such a thing can only be beholden. It did feature cutsey bunny rabbits, to give you idea of the general area of horror, but you cannot imagine, it is beyond horror.

But, as enquired as to where he had acquired such a unique and distinctive item fashioned for the conveyance hot beverages, he told me his wife had bought it for him, and he had no choice in the matter, it was forced upon him. This with a heavy shrug of the shoulders.

Now there's a new one on me, control by cup, because clearly, this bunny bearing mug had been chosen to specifically ward off all and any with it's awfulness. No pert secreaty in a tight jumper and pencil skirt was going to touch a man who drank from such a cup, or so the thinking must have gone.

It's a pathology I find fascinating, clearly, but, my god, if you'd seen the cup, you'd just have to be curious about just how insane was the woman behind it. I'm thinking someone as about as stable as anyone on True Blood (as in so not). Someone who already has the bunnies boiling, every time poor hubby adds water. I'm thinking...yikes.

I'm also thinking Elizabeth should have bought Peter a way, way, way uglier cup on White Collar.

Not that this is ever going to happen, but it really should. [Fic, adult themes, kissing]

Neal took the photos from the table, tore them up into tiny pieces and threw them into the fireplace. He struck a match and sent it tumbling in after them, fluttering down onto the pile of paper, watching it catch and flare up, pieces of paper with broken images curling up, bubbling and blackening and then bursting into flames, one after the other.

He leant, one hand on the mantlepiece, watching, fire in his eyes, then he glanced up, and saw the painting. He'd not noticed it before. It wasn't like him, but things had still been tense when he'd walked in. But now he looked up and saw it, the canvas he'd painted for Peter. It was hung, pride of place, above the mantlepiece.

"You hung it up."


"You like it."

"It's okay," Peter teased, seeing how pleased Neal was. "It's like sticking a bit of paper on the fridge. Our boy's art. We want to be encouraging."

Neal's mouth opened and closed, affronted.

"Not your boy," he insisted.

"Yes you are." Peter wrapped his arms around Neal as he stood behind him, both of them staring up at the painting. "My boy lollipop," he teased further, nuzzling the brush of a kiss on the sensitive skin above Neal's collar.

Neal turned in his arms.

"Not. Your. Boy," he insisted.

"No," Peter agreed, and planted a kiss that was far from paternal on Neal's open mouth.

"My man," Peter told him, between powerful kisses.

"I am," Neal agreed, arms reaching up around Peter. "Yours. Always," he murmured, speaking the truth at last, giving himself to Peter in true love's kiss.

Worlds spun in that kiss. Finally, he gave himself up to Peter, totally and completely. The last barriers went down, the walls tumbled. No longer a prisoner, he was free, a free man, reaching out, touching, one spirit to another, and feeling himself welcomed, enfolded, protected.

"Peter, I," he tried.

"Ssh." He was quietened, and kissed again. No words. Not now.

It was only when he had to draw back, to breathe, that he suddenly needed to speak, but no words came. Peter saw his eyes, and followed to what Neal was staring at, turning around, and saw Elizabeth, standing there, halfway down the stairs.

She was holding the stair rail, holding on tight. She'd known, or suspected, had been certain something was going on, but she hadn't quite believed it, not really, because it was Peter, and Peter wasn't like that.

But he was. Neal had known he was. Neal had drawn him out, engaged him and aroused him. She'd seen Peter kissing Neal like he'd never kissed anyone before, not even her.

They were in love. She knew it. Even if they didn't know it themselves yet, she could see it, so clearly.

Peter straightened Neal's shirt tenderly and stepped away slightly, so slightly his hand still rested in the small of Neal's back, for protection, for comfort, because they belonged to each other. No guilt, no denial, he was just being polite.

Meanwhile, I continue to be very amused over the whole naked Harry thing. Look, someone has to be the Hanovarian bollocks head per generation (Princess Margaret, Edward VIII) and there's no need to guess which one is the clown prince this time round. Aristocratic inbreeding - it's all fun and games until somebody loses a head.

Oh, in answer to your question, yes there is a season two of Rake, posters all over town, airing soon.

Thursday: Nope, didn't pull out the PC last night either. I was tired, and, as I arrived home before sunset, I was out on the back patio feeding the parrots, who were being complete gluttons as they always panic feed when there's thick smoke about. Understable, but they'll be on half rations tonight unless I swing past the shops.

It all comes down to how much do I enjoy my geraniums, as they will make their displeasure known by picking up my pot plants and dropping them over the side of the the patio. Ditto the ceramic dragon a friend gave me that I never liked, but still, and the fake Thai statue that was decapitated, oh dear. Wicked animals. At least I had a biscuit for the Captain. He's always unimpressed but less inclined to abuse if I save him a special treat.

And all because one of the cheeky sods came to the door a few years back and said 'Hello?'. I came out with a biscuit, falling back on ingrained behaviours from Arnotts biscuit tins and the silly thing did such a dance of joy. They next day he was back with some mates, and so it goes. At least I'm part of some social group, as they call out and bob when they see me.

Meanwhile, we had such a pork roast the other day we ended up bagging all the off cuts and crackling for the magpies, if they wanted it. Well, they weren't too sure at first but now Himself says the youngest magpie is at the door first thing in the morning and last thing at night. They'll be sad when it runs out.

I know, but it's better than putting it in the bin. You have to see greedy magpie joy to appreciate it.

Then there was a nice hot cup of tea and Doctor Who, which always cheers me up. It was the rather rubbish Daleks vs Cybermen one, but at the end they were in Bad Wolf Bay and Himself remarked that with landscapes like that you could see where Cook's head was at when he named us the geographically specific New South Wales. Old South Wales looks very like, at least, 'Bad wolf Bay' did.

Then we mocked, as in 'Rose, I'm burning up half a galaxy and all my credit, stop wasting time talking shite' (because she does, you know) and, as the Doctor sucks it up and begins, manly tear trickling down his face 'Rose Tyler...' and there was a voice from the back 'Oh god, I forgot to put the bins out', which is only funny if you've been watching Armstrong and Miller, but we had a laff.

It cheered me up as yesterday I was punched to the ground while walking home for the crimes of being fat and ugly. It happens every other day. You'd think I'd be used to it now. Well, used to it enough to be abble to shake it off in under twenty minutes (though I am still bruised). And you wonder why I'm such an embittered misanthrope. Like Frankenstein's monster, I have learnt to hate.

Oh...I've gone to the Benedict place again. I shal reverie there a while.

So not fair too as I do walk every where. The walk from my work to the STC is 3km, well, Google says just under 3kms but their route involves quite a bit of cross country Parkour, and while I may have worn all my boots down to my socks, so not up for that. I did stop off in a coffee shop though, for shame, though I didn't have any dinner, if that helps. I did see Mikey Robbins in the newsagent though, whilst I was perusing, the only celeb to be seen (the normally brilliant house of printed treasures failed me that evening, sigh). So that was something for my evening (being a celebrity twitcher, though it's thin pickings here). He chatted affably to everyone, so that was nice, too (not me, I lurked, but I listened as I flipped from dull mag to duller mag). I do loathe a stuck up celeb, don't you?

Anyway, that's me, a band, a talk, a play and a film. Not a bad effort to engage with the world outside my head.

Late PM update: A small win. Leper-like most of this week, but there was a shit+fan situation and sure enough, it was my job to fix it. And I did. So there. Real fast, real flash, too. Tidy work, if I do say so myself. Of course, give me another ten minutes to fall flat on my face again...

Friday: Oh, a week. Sure enough, took thirty seconds for someone else to leap in and take all the credit yesterday, discovered Himself doesn't care whether I live or die, but I rediscovered just how much I love Suits, which is back on telly at the stunning time of 23:06 on Monday nights/Tuesday morning so I was watching that on the pvr (sulking, in my room, as is my wont). Bless you Patrick J. Adams and Gabriel Macht, you pulled me out of decided tailspin there. And it was a good episode. Writing and acting all above par.

I also can't believe I fell asleep for Grimm, you know that scene, Sasha rending shirt and rolling all over the carpet bit. Yeah, that one. Hello to the pvr rewind button, a little more wear and tear there, methinks. Someday my prince will come, and really not caring about the whole evil bit. Besides, as bad boys go, well, he's not even trying.

And True Blood? Whatever, man. But I did enjoy the first book, a light trashy Mary Sue (my fucking god, is it a king size walloping c**ntmother of a Mary Sue) that I could read in an afternoon of waiting around on Sunday. I'm onto the first Phryne book now, and adoring it. Even if it is a bit of a Google maps tour of Melbourne. I'd be tagging it if I still had my tablet (hefty sigh).

PM update: This week just gets worse and worse. The screaming, the fists raised in my face. I burst into tears twice, the second time shaking so hard. I'm so miserable. And everyone says it's my fault, I deserve this. Why? I try to do everything ever asked of me, and if I can't do it quickly, or whatever, it isn't like I'm not trying my very hardest. Not good enough. Hateful. Despised. Incompetent. Idiot. Fat. Ugly. Stupid. Slow. Waddle. Clumsy. Annoying. Ruins everything. Thick. Nuisance. Can't do it. Too slow. We'll get someone else. Go somewhere else. We don't want you. We don't care. We'll get someone else who can do it better. Pathetic. Cry baby. Childish. Bad mannered. Noise pollution. Makes us sick. Go away. Shut up. Get out of our way. Fuck off.

If I didn't have my philosophy course tomorrow, I swear, I would not want to breathe for another minute. I cannot bear it. I cannot.

Face to Face

Fox shines in spite of script and scale

Interview: Kerry Fox

The best medicine (Face To Face | Sydney Theatre Company | Mitchell Butel Interview)

The Master and Margarita

The ASIO Files

Mammoth mainframe computers far from extinct

Photos 1440 Exhibition

Postcards from Mars show rover's key science targets

The fabulous Miss Phryne Fisher

Melbourne Hotel | The Hotel Windsor | 5 Star Hotels In Melbourne

The Block Arcade

Collins Street Precinct

We all want to believe in James Bond

Why Honor Blackman still packs a punch

Clothes make the woman - smarter

It's a polished affair on Suits

Facebook users salute nude Prince Harry

Top ten Sydney walks

Today’s movie-makers have lost the plot

"Definitive List of Cliched Dialogue"

The Brit List: 10 British Words That Baffle Americans

The offensive word to rule them all?

Wheaton Comic Dare: Wil Wheaton Paper Dolls

'S.H.I.E.L.D.' TV show not a spinoff, says Joss Whedon

Joss Whedon talks 'S.H.I.E.L.D.' TV series -- plus 'The Avengers' back in theaters Labor Day weekend

'Husbands' Creators Take You Inside Season 2

Charlie Brooker and Daniel Maier build the perfect TV detective

Charlie Brooker's 'A Touch of Cloth' kicks off (to good ratings)

Joe Manganiello Wraps Up One Show and Preps For Another

From Grimm to Revenge, Bad Mothers Return to TV

'Grimm' - 'Quill' sneak peak: Can Monroe save Juliette and Nick?

Doctor Who could make BBC money forever, says Steven Moffat

Why Doctor Who isn't just for kids

Five Things We Hope to See in Doctor Who’s Season Seven

Is Shakespeare Britain's greatest contribution to world culture?

Pre-Globe Shakespeare theatre unearthed in London


David Bowie: the mannequin who fell to earth

'Murder' body found at Hadrian's Wall was from overseas

Richard III Foundation supports archaeological project to find missing monarch

Man dressed as Bigfoot killed trying to provoke sightings

Edvard Munch was my grandfather, says Surrey-born nun

Pre-Raphaelites: The young ones

Restoration tragedies (Stop Pretending Art is Hard)

What body language really says

Ultimate Slash Madness Tourney - Round One Voting!

White Collar

Exclusive White Collar Video: Neal Cuts a Deal With Treat Williams Behind [Spoiler]'s Back!

White Collar Hot Shots: Alex Returns for a Heist — Will She Steal Neal's Heart Too?

Exclusive Clip: 'White Collar' Has A 'Hangover'

Check Out An Exclusive Clip From Tonight's Episode Of 'White Collar'

Treat Williams on Playing White Collar's Mysterious Sam: "He Trusts No One"

'White Collar's' Treat Williams: Sam 'wants nothing to do with Peter'

White Collar Hot Shots: Alex Returns for a Heist — Will She Steal Neal's Heart Too?

White Collar’ Recap: How Dreamy Was Matt Bomer?

EW's Photo of the Day,,20625079,00.html

Magic Mike Blu-ray Release Date, Details and Pre-Order (Updated)

Matt Bomer in Magic Mike

Magic Mike starring Channing Tatum, Matt Bomer and Alex Pettyfer coming to Blu-ray in October

Bomer honored with Inspiration Award

Matt Bomer to Be Honored by GLSEN

Matt Bomer and Partner to Be Honored With LGBT Inspiration Award

Matt Bomer, Partner Simon Halls To Be Honored For Their Gay Advocacy

LGBT Pioneer Matt Bomer Arouses AND Inspires



September-October 2012

TV Week

1-7 September 2012

TV Week

1-7 September 2012

The Sydney Magazine

Sydney Morning Herald


September 2012


Tags: fic, grimm, jane eyre, jeremy renner, magazine scans, phryne fisher, rake, richard roxburgh, slash, suits, theatre, timothy olyphant, true blood, white collar

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