Nobody has time for meandering eccentrics these days, it's A Type arseholes, and isn't it grand. Just look at all those bankers and hedge fund managers, all those disgraced and/or arrested so called sporting heroes. Those so called sportsmen make this cynic smile bitterly, as recent press would seem to prove that this type are the same poisonous violent bullies they always were in the schoolyard.
With all these bullies roaming about, it's no wonder it's so difficult for those who don't fit the narrow deinition of acceptable these days. Sigh. Sometimes I think Wllie Loman in Death of a Salesman isn't the isolated incident of a loser who couldn't cut it, but the canary in the coalmine.
There should be more to life than screwing over the other guy. There should be.
Oh, apparently it's not just my imagination. It's in the water: Anti-anxiety drug in water makes fish fearless.
Anyways, went off to Canberra to see the TOULOUSE-LAUTREC: PARIS AND THE MOULIN ROUGE exhibition at the NGA, as part of my running away from home thing.
Entirely the wrong thing to do, of course, as staying home to do the washing, type, and keep my pet parrot happy are the better options. So there was no washing done, no typing, and my parrot cried all night outside my window when I got home. I feel so awful and wretched and wrong doing.
And I didn't even have fun. Well, the exhibition I liked, but I've always been fond of Toulouse, being evoked and referenced in many cartoons and films I saw as a child (it was the 20thC, they did things differently then) so there was a degree of comforting familiar, which was rather cruelly snatched away as the gallery notes were determined to point out the drug and drink addled wretched lives of the subjects. And I just like the bright splashes of colur and his way with a line. Oh well.
The rest of the trip, blah. Four hours by bus down, four hours by very crowded bus back, getting back at 9pm. Not fun. Then there was the hotel, the first room the put me in had no bathroom. This would not do as it was hot water bottle time, so after nagging and grinching I got them to change my room, this one occupied with a smoker so that nicotine was leaking out of the walls. I gave up, and even though I'd bought the wee PC down for quiet hotel typing time, had to go to the flicks instead as I could not bear to be in the room for more than a minute.
To my great amusement, and so Canberra, the cinema attached to the mall was a Dendy, not an Event. Dendy is the chain that caters to middle-aged mid-level public servants who only watch the ABC and SBS. To my horror I realise that I am a middle-aged, mid level public servant. How did that fucking happen? This was just supposed to be a job to put myself through uni until my writing career took off. I never wanted to be a middle-aged mid level public servant who goes to the Dendy (though I saw three films coming up that I might see, just because they're adaptions of favourite books).
Still reeling from that Fucking Awful Realisation of Where Did My Life Go?, I stagged into see the latest adaptation of Anna Karenina. Nothing put crap reviews, but I didn't mind it. Sure, it was silly, shallow and stylised, but I'm a Sydney theatre subscriber (again, how did that happen?), so I'm used to arse abiding artifice and general all round soulless smatypantness. Besides, I can see what they were trying to do. They didn't succeed, but at least they tried to do something a bit different. Usually I'd frown on this cavalier approach to the source material, but as I said, I'm too used to local theatre these days to be shocked and I've seen so many versions of AK it was a relief, almost, to see something a bit different.
And they were pretty faithful, though you really need to know the book to follow any of the first half hour as it skims through in a Baz-like whirl of stage sets (it looked a lot like they'd tried to do Baz, imho, when Baz is best left to Baz, the way Tarantino is best left to Tarantino, and Gatsby looks cool, fluffy but cool, and isn't that the point, another story of surfaces). I didn't mind them skipping past the boring bits, and the less Levin the better (always too much like that vegan badge wearing bad poetry writing uni boyfriend who drives a porsche now). I found Jude a surprisingly sympathetic study of a man who wasn't cruel by choice, in fact the opposite, but just a man who lived within his bounds (and given the fate of the trespassers, I'm not sure why he is usually given such short shrift), but the solemn ceremony of the shrivelled old Friday night franger in the silver box still gives me the giggles. My beloved boy is now playing middle aged fuss pots. Oh Jude, how did we come to this?
Vronsky, AK and Stiva were the self absorbed prats as always, and you've got to love a story where the so-called heroine is punished not for taking a vain and pretty lover, but for taking it seriously. Poor fool. I can take or leave Keira's brittleness, but there's always some sympathy for AK as the silly housewife who got in way over her head with a glittering lothario. It's a theme I'm fond of, if I ever finished the fic. Damn that I didn't get to the AK course, but at least I saw the film. I liked it, and unlike the critics, the almost entirely oestrogen driven audience were into it by the second and third reels, so much so that the eejit whose phone kept going off, and loudly, at the worst possible moments, was almost lynched by their fellow cinema goers.
So that was an afternoon well spent at least. Alas, Canberra dining and I had our usual stern disagreements (so glad I insisted upon that ensuite I'd paid for), which probably accounted for my pallid day out on Sunday.
But I did enjoy Toulouse, and the tea shop they set up (earl grey in an elegant cup), and the rest of the gallery. Lots of modernists and post modernists, but I can leave the surrealists well alone. Me, I'm just happy I can spot a Bunny or McCubbin without having to read the captions. I do love my Australian Impressionists. They were my gateway group, the ones who painted right. I didn't realise, until much later, that the dark and dismal Euro-pics were right, in their own way, as was the blinding light of the local pics. Basically, in terms I could understand then, Oz was 400 ASA and Europe just 100 ASA. Once I got that, I was away.
So, a quick trot through very small rooms covering art from the 19th-20C. Then I sat in the sculpture garden for a bit, had birds scamper at my feet, and heard the Carillon knok over 'Hey Big Spender', to my utter disbelief and bemusement.
Back to Canberra to find no cafe wanted my custom, not that I was hungry but I could have murdered another cup of tea, and then the long, horrid bus ride home. And my poor dress. I wore the stern black Victorian number on Sunday, as I was all in black anyway, and I was delighted to find that it was such an evil governess dress that parents actually started correcting their children every time I hoved into view, and suddenly Oliver was no longer being encouraged to smear his snotty fingers all over priceless Pollocks, but admonished instead (not that you could ever tell, with Pollock - smirk. Ah, they buy this stuff to educated the masses, and the masses go meh). Alas, the dress made it all the way home until I had to lunge across furniture to hit the pvr, the remote having lodged itself fuck knows where at the time and Fassbender was on the Graham Norton Show (worst ever episode, but you've read the press about it). Ripped off two buttons. Sigh.
And now it is Monday, and being exactly the sort of day one finds Mondays to be.
Tuesday: In case you missed it, Matt, Tim and unicorns and, quite frankly, wtf. Clearly, they boys have already got the season five sillies, you know, that's about the time we started getting those daft vids from over on the Supernatural set. Actors, eh? Silly little boys with very low boredom thresholds. But sweet. So sweet. Sickly sweet.
It offends me though, that we never get to see any of this playfulness actually on screen, on the show. Such a waste. Those powers that be need a stern speaking to, to waste and scorn such cuteness. Mind you, at least we've been spared the canonical unicorns, thus far (I wouldn't put it past them).
Now I'm wondering who would be unicorn bait, snerkle. You know, like when the unicorn showed up in Merlin, it wasn't hard to guess who it'd make a beeline for. Ah, boys and their glittery my little ponies.
And their pet golums. And nazi necromancers. Oh, hello, my Supernatural, where have you been all these years? I don't care what anyone else says. I have my show back. Snuggles!
In other news, I knew I'd done it, the moment I actually looked out of that window at work and enjoyed the view. We're moving, so far just across town, not to a different town, so I should quit my whinin', but I'm gonna miss my cafe, my fruit stall, my newsagents - and how that impacts on the on going tediousness that is the Brit(ish) List if I no longer have easy access to magaziness. I guess it's back to the old desperate once a week rummage, I was so spoilt with the daily browse.
And how much crap have I accumalted in five years at the desk where I spend at least fourteen hours of my day, as opposed to the four or less I spend in my room. All gotta go, either in the bin or shoved in a cupboard at home. It's an additional complication I did not need this month, I really did not.
And no more sitting in the park, scribbling fic. Really gonna miss that. Good thing I'm just about done with the whole thing. I'll adapt, but I'd really rather some quiet time with no hassles or upheavals or shitness of any kind. I should have gone the month long wallow under the covers, only I really have booked myself solid through to May. Oh dear.
They eat horses, don't they
In real world news, as opposed to my never ending mid life crisis, so laughing at the Brits and their vapours over the whole horse meat scandal, the dears. I don't think I ever ate "beef" at all when I was growing up (especially giving my mother's penny pinching habit of buying meat rejected as pet food). Then there's the American friend who kept raising an eyebrow over our 'meat' pies not identifying which type of meat it was ('Oh no, more legs than that, guess again' snarked the Peanut Gallery). In any case, it turns out they've not only been fed gypsy horses (straight to the Black and White Beauty place) but Brumbies as well. Oh dear. That's not quite right.
There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses - he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stockhorse snuffs the battle with delight.
- The Man From Snowy River, A.B. 'Banjo' Paterson
In the fictional world, The LA Times cracked me up with the line: 'the most internationally anticipated death since Little Nell's'. Heh. They, too, are still annoyed at the spoilery Brits, though, you know, pot, kettle. I have still not forgiven the New York Times for thie RIP headline re the final episode of Six Feet Under, when we were about three or four seasons behind. That sucked. (And don't even get me started on my desire to see tv shows within a reasonable timeframe of first broadcast date). There have been many, many other spoilers, but that one sticks in the mind for it's sheer fuckeriness.
Back to me again and yesterday I think I really was wearing a dress made out of the offcuts of airline seats. I though it was a pretty little 50s party dress made from a dark blue stamped over with a darker Morris & Co type pattern, but yeah, airline seat, pretty much. I asked Himself it is looked like airline seat material and he suddenly took a great interest in the dishes in the sink, which is Y chomosome for 'yes, indeedy'. Sigh.
At least it wasn't my other dress that I love, the one that looks like a Qantas hostie uniform circa 1970, which I adore for the whole 1970-ness of it, but it attracts negative public comment, when I wear it (here, London and Melboune folks kept their opinions to themselves, mercifully). But hey, it might get the thumbs down but I love it, and at least no one punched me, which is all I can hope for these days.
I only bought to where to parties last December, but was invited to none. I always buy a party frock, only to send it off to a charity, with the tags still attached, to be shredded up for mattress stuffing. Too sad, the life of a miserable misanthrope. At least I got to wear this dress once, and to the Opera House, no less.
I went to see the History Boys on stage, at last. I think I saw the film, once, maybe, but had never, ever seen the play, and now I have. It started off a bit stilted and stagey, but then really started moving and it was darkly funny, tragic, and coming at me with all these quotes and ideas, it really was like being in class again (my current classes, never school, we never read anything like the stuff other people have). I'm still not sure what the point of it was, history is subjective, the rise of spin, generational or class warfare, lost boys, kiddie fiddling is ok, whatever, it was certainly jam packed with things to consider and mull over (fairly sure Stalin, Hitler and kiddie fiddling are not okay, and I suspect the play was just being ridiculously provocative as was the fashion of the time).
The cast were excellent, lots of up and comers to keep an eye on (some I've already noted). The guy playing Makin was exceptional, Paul Goddard was suitably slimy, and John Wood being exactly the sort of Hector I expected. I wanted to see Mr Wood on stage. I figured I owed it to him, after giggling so much of that photo of him from some production in the Sixties. He had a lute, what looked like a minstrel or jester's outfit and tights, tights that left nothing, absolutely nothing, to the imagination, and let me tell you, he had a whole wadding fruitbowl stuck down there. So, to make it up to him, I thought I'd better go see him thesp his thang. Oh, if only the play hadn't kept harping on about balls quite so much - grin.
But yes, I enjoyed it so very much, it got me thinking about so many things, and now I have even more books I need to add to the reading list (just picked up two more from the dear little old Dymocks on the way down to the Quay). Don't know why I'm stuggling so hard to get through this reading list of mine, the poor old noggin is only going to end up as compost in the end, but so long as I'm here, I don't like feeling like Cletus The Slack Jawed Yokel (even though I am).
And as for the History Boys making it into Oxford, well and good, they were all middle class anyway. In my own experience, the rich and privately educated I have to interact with in the office regard me as a trained monkey with ideas above her station. But like I said, I work with classy folk (example, one fellow, realising it was valentine's day, and upon being advised to order something or pick something up in his break, said no, because then his partner would expect something every year, and he couldn't be bothered with that). You'll see now why when these people call me a sad loser, I worry.
But back to last night. Lovely, balmy night, after the play. Lovely walk back round the harbour. Ooh, but I'm tired now. Sure enough I've not given the neighbours opportunity to call the cops on me again, but I'm tired, the yard is full of weeds, the laundry baskets are overflowing and the pvr is full. Something's gotta give.
Ah, brilliant. It's 10:00 and I've just realised I've worn a black bra under my white shirt this morning. This is where no sleep gets you. I swear, I'll be a happier, less screwy uppy, cranky person if I could just get some hours of sleep in my own bed. I am quite sure of it.
Friday: Tee hee. I've just stumbled into an amzing bit of serendipity. I'll tell you about it later, if it pans out, but for now, I'm having that secet inner glow that I get from when someone tries to do me a very bad turn indeed but it actually ends up being exactly what I wanted and needed. I feel like the universe hasn't abandoned me entirely. The really best revenge is saying thank you and meaning it.
Also, I got a couple of hours sleep last night. I do mean just a couple, but so much better than none. I went home yesterday, and didn't do any of the really pressing jobs, because they required daylight, but I tidied a bit, did some scanning, some archiving, watched and deleted some stuff on the pvr. Digital housekeeping, in other words, but just as pressing, and I feel it was a good night's work.
Enjoyed the telly, too. I know Smash is in trouble, but I'm personally loving the extra Jack screentime, especially when bits of Steve seep through (when he's not being Miles, and I won't say Jack the lad has a limited range, because I happen to like his range). Even the Peanut Gallery is onto it now, for the Steve moments (we deply feel the loss of Jeff/Richard at times, and now Leverage has ended, they couldn't get Gina in, could they?). Those who have never seen Coupling will have no idea what I'm talking about, but those who have, will know what I mean.
Also loved Justified, and I don't seem to mind a bit that Raylan has been sidelined for Boyd. Ah, Boyd, just when I think I know the lad, he shows yet another side. Dear Boyd, aspiring to middle-class morality, with one of the most romantic and heartfelt proposals I've seen on telly all year. He's getting married in the morning, etc, etc. Not that I hold out much hope, what with Ada's portentous Lady Macbeth hand wringing and out damned spotiness.
But still, interesting how Boyd oftentimes seems to have more of a moral centre than Raylan. Could the 'bad guy' really be the better man? I love the whole nobody is what they seem thing, but without the archness you get on other shows, it's just plain folks gettin' by, you know?
I love that show. I love that the drug addled hooker shooting the guy dressed up as a bear is just a throwaway, it'd be an entire episode on The Glades or Bones (both of which I have so very tired off, despite DB being one of the best antiheroes (heroic villain?) on 90s tv, but we've all moved on, I guess).
That's what I like about Justfied, aside from the darkly funny lines it has, is that Raylan, the nominal good guy because he has the badge and repeasents law and order, does some very bad and stupid things, and Boyd, who would normally be the mad, bad boy, has done good and clever things, Usually to his own ends, it's true, but still. Interesting. Intriguing.
Not at all like other shows that kept reseting the characters to behave in certain ways because the show's strapline says they must, never mind how stupid and clunky it is. It's like 70s, 80s tv, is what it is. The characters never learn, never grow, never develop. Just look at Boyd's journey, and Raylan's. In other shows, my god, I don't think they have enough depth or conviction to even stand in one spot (I've seen tv ads with better developed backstories and plots, I really have).
Anyways, loved my spot of telly watching (with half an eye on the old progress bar, just how much of my life have I wasted watching progress bars). Also had on Supernatural and Grimm while I worked. Hi ho, hi ho, it's always better with hot slashy boys on the telly (or how many tabboos can telly happily trangress in two hours). Heh.
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Matt Bomer says he wasn't offered Fifty Shades film
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White Collar Review – “Shoot the Moon” – Seriously, boxed wine? We gotta get outta here.
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|Man of the World
11 May 2009