So that was a touch on the meh side, as if watching North By Northwest could ever be meh. Come on, you know I'm a fan, did you see what I got up to on my last trip (still can't get out to Mt Rushmore, though)?
I did enjoy getting lost/wandering through the grounds of the university in the early hours. It's a proper university (not like the ones I went to). All the oddly mishmashed buildings of varying fashions sitting on little roads reminds me very much of an old fashioned film lot.
So it was a good location, and any excuse to watch Cary, but still, but still, I've done far more thorough research sitting down to watch telly, you know?
The other highlight was The Church/Simple Minds bill last Friday. Okay, yes, there was Devo in the middle, but the less said about that the better (though Himself did finally get that much coveted Devo hat). Ah, The Church. Hard to know what Steve were were going to get (moody accoustic versions of little known tracks?) but no, it was dancing, prancing Steve, playing all the classics like a good little Countdown poppet.
If he thought the support slot was demeaning, I certainly didn't, and I was in raptures, absolute raptures, as they ran through Under the Milky Way, Almost with You, Tantalized, Metropolis and Reptile. As a friend said, it must have made up for a hard week and it did. Every moment, every note, every word was a delight. Yes, it was all golden oldies but it was musical comfort food and just the ticket. One of my most beloved bands, and I loved every minute of it.
One of my other most beloved of all bands is, of course, Simple Minds. Again, the love affair of a lifetime, and they're always so good live, even though it's always a mixed congregation at the Minds concert. You have those who jump up at anything from Sons and Fascination or Sister Feelings Call (and even Empires and Dance or Real to Real Cacophony) like me, and the ones who only come to life for Don't You (Forget About Me). Or, as I call 'em, the Triplej crowd and the TripleM crowd, and ne'er the twain, so it's really quite hilariously split down the middle, which is what the boys get for being two bands (early electronica outfit and bombastic stadium beast).
But I love them. I love my boys. When Jim and Charlie step out onto the stage, all the cares of the world drop away, and I can't ask for better than that. Hence the love. And they were in fine form that night. Jim was looking really fit, being sweetly affection with dearest Charles, and cheeky with the audience. Just the way I like him.
They ran through so many faves. We were promised some early eclectronica, but a problem with the keyboards seemed to put the kybosh on that, so the playlist hung around the Waterfront mark, which cheered the TripleM crowd no end. Not that I minded, but I wouldn't have minded a little Sweat in Bullet or I Travel. Sigh.
Never mind, I did get Love Song, The American, Promised You a Miracle, Glittering Prize, Someone, Somewhere In Summertime, as well as Alive and Kicking, Sanctify Yourself, All the Things She Said, etc, etc. And hell, they're fun, in their own way, and I still love my band, whatever form it takes (except for Jim's big blouse, black leggings phase, I do have my limits, you know, even for him).
But still, Jim and Charlie. It was wonderful, it was marvellous, I really had so much fun.
Getting home less so, but despite arguments I think waiting for the very crowded last bus was the best option because it seemed there were no taxis to be had at that end of town again. And it wasn't a bad trip home, once I got on the bus, no worse than the usual commute, which it was, but man, getting to bed a couple of hours before I had to get up, that hurt. It hurt a lot. Gettin' old (which is why I didn't do the Machinations/Strangers/Blondie one on Thurs as well, or Homebake with The Saints and Tim minchin, as much as I wanted to).
So that's what I've been up to. Work is horrid, tv is all over the place: they took Supernatural off, saying they were making no more episodes in the States, when TV Guide and Huff Post are both reviewing new episodes, and White Collar has an all new series screening, starting with series three, episode seven, so tough if you didn't notice episodes one to six playing out quietly in the middle of the night. What are they playing at? Deliberately making it so that piracy is the only viable viewing option? Because, with the episodes not being screened or offered for sale or available on any other platform, what do you think?
Still, it is amusing to see that Bomer is back in play and being heavily promoted on poor old Channel Ten, since their last run of inexplicable programming has sent their ratings and shares down the shitter. Which of course makes their whole 'if you want to see it, you won't see it here' credo mystifying.
Merlin has been cancelled, but I'm always in the kitchen when it's on, anyway (and the whole Merlin in the closet thing is starting to look really dated now that the world has moved on but the show hasn't).
Boardwalk Empire zipped through some gangster wars to end up back where they started, so it was kind of unsatisfying, but I was amused to think, as they shot up all the warehouses and garages, that somewhere two musicians were dragging up and hightailing it to Florida. Well, not quite, but one has to make's one own fun when watching tv these days, I find.
Missed most of Homeland, but it's nice to see they've been reading the same news stories I have (there goes that plotline - rips pages from notebook).
The milk I bought today was so rotten it wouldn't go down the sink. Thanks, for making a grim Monday just that bit more grim. And whatever happened to summer? I'm feezing here, and the BOM still refuses to acknowledge that it was raining heavily this morning. This after they predicted storms and rain all weekend, but nary a drop, so I was out bailing buckets onto shrivelled sticks, but at least I not only got the regular washing done, but had the line whirling with bedding all Sunday, and snuggled down to sunburnt sheets that night.
So that was done, washing, dusting, ironing, scanning, sorting. Typing? You must be joking. Why on earth would I waste valuable time on anything I want to do?
Wednesday: So much for summer. Damp, wet and cold. I was wrapped up in one of my favourite jumpers while writing cards.
That pub has got its trees out again. Last year, exhausted by the usual December run around, I'd fallen asleep on the bus, but woke partially as we rattled to a stop, and through a dark, rain smeared window, all I saw was a dark fuzzy shape loomimg up holding a large silver ball and for a second I though YETI! and gave myself quite a start. A few seconds later of course, now properly awake, I realised it was just a dark fake pine Xmas tree girdled by a few large silver baubles. But still. And funny how, for a second, still dreaming, I could be so terrified by an episode of Doctor Who that no longer exists. Nice one, BBC. I wish it did exist, if only to show my childhood terrors the supremely crap FX in the harsh light of day. But no. I barely remembered the episode, but clearly it was effective if it still causes me to jump at Xmas trees. Still, I would give up having watched Doctor Who as a child for all the world. Not if means turning sad looking xmas trees into scary yetis on a dark rainy morning, just for a moment.
Mind you, if someone snuck up behind me and played the beep-beeple of the yeti balls (yes, I said yeti balls), I'm sure I'd have another turn. Damn shame they wiped that story. It feels like it was a cracker.
Meanwhile, now that it's out that yes, Mr Craig did sneak into the Bacon exhibition, I heard that Mr Craig had made such a study that he was able to point out a representation of George Dyer in one of the paintings that the curator had actually missed. My, my. So, not just a rent money job, then. Clearly Mr Craig has been so affected by the role he not only went to great trouble to arrange a private viewing in his very busy schedule, but he knew the subject matter so well he could spot things the curators had missed. Puts a whole new spin on his performance, doesn't it?
And there's the irony. Mr Craig is one of those actors who deplores publicity and intrusion and prefers that his work speak for itself. But isn't the whole Bacon exhibition, the paintings, and indeed the biopic in which Mr craig appeared, not all based on who was with who? Does not knowing the loves and losses of an artist forever colour the intrepretation of the work (and allow actors to point it out for the benefit of academics?). Nothing can exist in a vacuum.
In other news, I'm sulking. Okay, I know that's not news, but I was forced to suffer my very first filling, and I'm feeling childishly poorly and hard done by, and wondering what on earth I did to cause my sudden fall from grace. And it wasn't fun.
Perhaps I was a little harsh on the memories of the dentist I had, now struck off for malpractice, who ripped out all my baby teeth when I was fourteen, all without anaesthetic. Because I had to endure the filling sans anaesthetic, too. I writhed in the seat. I confessed and named my familiars Grimwalde and Perriwinkle (well, they're always called Grimwalde and Perriwinkle). I saw him bring out the big tool kit and I tried to joke that he had the whole bloody Meccano set there. He told me he'd never had a Meccano set. Clearly I'd hit a sore spot. So he hit mine.
It wasn't like he hadn't tried to use anaesthetic. He stuck needle after needle after needle after needle in but it never took. At least not until the long, long walk home where I staggered along wiping bloody drool on my sleeve as half my face went numb. Fortunately I live in a neighbourhood where this isn't the sort of behaviour likely to attract attention. Indeed, I had a few nods of solidarity from my crusty brethren (there's a reason why I laugh nervously at Justfied).
So I was curled up all night on the couch feeling very sorry for myself indeed, drinking tea out of a straw on one side of my mouth and dribbling it out the other. Not happy. Now, 48 hours later, it's finally worn off and I'm just sore. And sorry. And having to write chrissie cards and go chrissie shopping for puddings. Bah and humbug. Just what I wanted for xmas: drinking turkey through a straw.
Thursday: So I went to see the Bacon exhibition. I thought I should for a great many reasons, it's even been bleeding unconsciously all over the few pages I've scribbled in the last week, but why I chose yesterday, even though I was running late, was after those impossible people, how could my day get worse? One kept banging on the table and shoving her hand right in my face every time I tried to speak, another nastily trashed my efforts and thinks it's okay if she only brings good looks to the party - and you wonder why I hate Neal Caffrey, and feel for Peter. Poor Peter. He's supposed to be Holmes to Neal's Moriarty, the only man who has ever bested the little blot, but no, they keep writing him like Darrin Stevens. Very short shrift indeed.
Neal could do a lot more to make himself likeble. I mean, at least the Maverick boys had a certain loveable charm. They also had codes of conduct, despite the large grey areas in which they operated.
Anyways, Bacon. So yeah, hoofed it to the gallery, not really expecting much but a quick march through the exhibition, treating it like homework, just walking through for my embetterment, as if I could ever be embettered (she sneers). But no, I liked it. What helped was seeing some of the ephemera from his studio, so I could see what he was painting, and it suddenly became far, far less abstract. Figures appeared out of the shapes. Also, the heartbreak/grief/yearning/loss or whatever you want to call over Dyer was really quite affecting. The cube/cage thing became more understandable too, in a whole shell/prison thing (social/metaphysical).
So yes, I stood, I looked, I read the captions, I bought the catalogue. Improved? Impossible (like I said, I really get the cage thing). A little understanding and education? Just a touch.
Slogged back through Martin Place, admiring the seasonal decorations, made it home, did the dinner thing through three episodes of QI (whatever did happen to David Tennant?) and then fell asleep through Grimm, which was super crunchy annoying as these were the episodes I'd missed, and then roadworks kicked in so I spent the rest of the night being kept awake. Harrumph.
Friday: Even more harrumph. After all my running about and being tortured and insulted and randomly kicked, I was so looking forward to sitting down with a nice hot cup of tea and White Collar. But no, it had vanished from the schedule.
I know, you're thinking why do I care? Sure, it's badly written, but Bomer is pretty and even though he gives me the creeps, and plays creeps, I've watched him before and I'll watch him again. Hell, I sat through years of Jude Law being an arrogant pretty boy before he finally settled down into being the good actor I always suspected he might be (which is why I future proofed the Brit(ish) List by always mentioning older actors, so I could still talk about Jude when he was bald and forty, ouch). Don't think Bomer will ever be an actor who moves me to tears or laughter, but he's got a certain crazy charm that works for me. And White Collar remains abou the closest thing to The Saint I have, or had, on tv at the moment.
But no. White Collar is gone, One episode in the new slot and it's gone. Maybe, because it was over 18 months old, everyone who might wanted to see the episode had already contrived to. Maybe it didn't rate.
But I notice that the New Normal, Glee and Modern Family have also just vanished, and there's an awful lot of Hillsong programming now, and they run those evil re-education camps. I wonder if cash-strapped Ten made a deal with the devil? I'm sure it's just coincidence, absolutely nothing to it, taken off for the season, but hmmmm (because Burn Notice is still on). Supernatural is also gone. Too much Wincest?
If it wasn't for (not so) EvilChannelSEven playing old Grimm episodes, it'd be looking very lean this month, indeed. I know, go type something then. I will. But last night I was tired and miserable and I just sulked. Because it had been the carrot I'd been dangling in front of my poor face all week. Sigh.
I durst tell you want I did watch off the pvr (in my sulking mode, requires AV content and whisky). I saw it reviewed once as if you like this we've got a couple of Matlock episodes we can interest you in, which hurts, but I like it. The so-called bad guy has a certain charm, loyalty and code (this is how you do it) and even it it is so very plot-by-numbers the actors make it work. Unlike over on Magic City where Mr Morgan is playing the world's worst dad again and the mermaid offers no Delphic oracle wisdom like on the Chris Isaak Show. In other words, all style, no substance. And no likeable characters (this is how not to do it).
Okay, so sometimes I like my telly as warm, comfy and predictable as a pair of old slippers. So sue me. I was sulking. I wasn't about to watch Red Riding, you know? The aim was not to slash my wrists.
And tonight, more dental work sans anaethetic (because it doesn't work until three hours afterwards) and no tea and no telly. Clearly, it's all bad dog, no biscuit, this week (not that I'll be able to eat a biscuit afterwards, but you get the idea, like Lear, I feel more sinned against than sinning). Harrumph, again.
Monday: Well, it's looks like Ten is going to making my yuletide gay afterall, as the missing programmes are back in the print schedule, but still not in the digital ones I pawed through in my desperate search for the next Bomer fix. Whatever.
I managed to eat a single peach from my tree and it was magnificent. If I do say so myself. I knew they must have been good, what with the peach pits scattered all over the patio, but I managed to save one from chubby possum paws.
I don't know what the possum was doing up in the tree until midday on Saturday, aside from the fact I was out there and crimping his style something chronic (but still, a walk of shame at 8am?) I worried he might be hurt, but didn't seem like it. Second scenario, given the beast's enormous size, feasting so well as he does on my entire crop of 2012, I was thinking perhaps the possum could no longer squeeze back into the roof via his hidey hole, in a Winnie the Pooh type situation. If you saw the size of the animal, you'd know I'm not entirely wrong here. No wonder there are broken branches all over the place, he's a hefty boy. It was like seeing James Corden in a possum suit stuck up the tree, no offence to James, the dear boy. No wonder the roof shakes when he gets up of an evening. But yeah, the possum is now known as Pooh. Because he's overfond of sweet peaches.
Weekend? Not spent doing anything fun. Had planned to go see a movie, but when that idea was scuppered I thought I could type instead. I was allowed no more than 60 minutes for this activity, which is hardly a sentence as I'm that slow these days, and the rest of my time was spent in hard labour. At this rate I'm wondering if I'll ever make parole. Grizzle, grumble.
Oh, and the toothy pegs still hurt, I smashed my favourite glass to pieces of pieces and still managed to cover myself in rat poison despite wearing enough latex to qualify as a fetish. Sigh. The sort of weekend where I was pleased to catch a large spider dangling off my towel, because at least I spotted him in time (and if it's big enough for me to see with the specs off then it's friggin' huge, 'kay?).
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