Saturday, August 28, 2010

Prospect

Tomorrow I am off to the heimat. As I finish Dorothy Sayers & Jill Paton Walsh's Thrones, Dominations on my walk to the market, I find myself reminded of a person I used to be, and used to like being. You know, I miss Britain. I kind of miss the person I was when I was there. As for the heimat, it will be good to be there. My plans are scattered at best, so I am hoping this does not lead to disaster. I just haven't had headspace to plan.

This is about all I have had room for:


Oh, and Shakespeare in the park, apparently. Hm. Picnic.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Books

In a stack, beside the bed. Asimov, Orson Scott Card - Ender's Game, Arthur C. Clarke, and two Rex Stout books.

I just bought Philip Pullman's The Shadow in the North. Why? Maybe it was just Billie Piper being on the cover.

And yet instead of reading I am watching Perfect Strangers. Eighties comedy, stereotypes, and pink shirts.

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Hamlet, sort of

Hamlet. It’s been a while since I’ve thought about Hamlet, and what with Emilie Autumn and my renewed crush on Ten, hence also somewhat on David Tennant, I find myself contemplating the sweat prince (ah, obscure In the Bleak Midwinter references!) once more. Why Emilie Autumn? Well, because of Opheliac, song and album, which could with more justice be called Hamletiac, though I admit it doesn’t sound nearly as good.

“Doubt thou the stars are fire
Doubt thou the sun doth move
Doubt truth to be a liar
But never doubt I love”

she sings. Confessions of love from a mad prince are about right. I’ll need to rewatch it this weekend (right, TDEC, what you need at this critical and difficult juncture in your life is 500-year-old death and suffering, as re-enacted by Patrick Stewart and David Tennant. Just the thing, actually.) I wish I could watch Cambridge Spies:

Queen: "Never trust a man with a bad moustache. Homosexualists never have moustaches... Have you noticed? I think it's a signal... To other chaps... 'Look! No moustache! Come and get me!' Ponces and spies, Anthony. The people with the most to hide never have moustaches. So which are you, Anthony? Ponce or spy?"

Anthony Blunt: "Oh... A little of both... Aren't we all?"


There, just the thought of it makes me happy. And it would make for a perfect day-long escape into the world of lovely British drama. You know, I kind of resent my fetish for Tennant. Sam West is lovely, and kind of obscure, especially out here, and he loves poetry and cross-stitching and fencing and theatre. He wears hats. He’s lovely. But David Tennant? David Tennant is just some Scottish bloke. I would love to blame it all on my love of the Tenth Doctor, but I love him in a bunch of other things too, he wins me over every time, but I still resent it. I hate it when I get lured into a mainstream filmstar crush, and he’s as mainstream as you get in Britain. And for all my long-standing affection of all things Scottish, I don’t like his Scottish accent, and find it jarring; I find his real self jarring*. It’s the kind of thing I wish I could talk myself out of. Only then, when I’m not looking, I will find myself watching Human Nature again and...

Notice how I used my Misery Cloud as an excuse to go on pointless tangent about David Tennant and Sam West and the general atrophying of my brain?

I am pathetic, yet happy.

*Oh, who am I kidding. He does bedtime stories. He kissed John Barrowman. Surely that wins him some reality points?

Monday, August 09, 2010

Morning

It's been a long time, and between the end of this season of Doctor Who and my abominable life, there hasn't been much to say. This morning I woke up from dreams of said Doctor (escapism? surely not!) and I thought - it must be time to make myself heard, even if it is early in the morning. I wish I had a whole morning to just sit and play Robot Unicorn Attack. Alas. Coffee and work will have to suffice.

(Maybe also that cardboard cutout of the Tenth Doctor)

So my dear and unfortunate reader, may your week bring, at least, a few hours of Robot Unicorn Attack and some silly eighties sitcom. Perfect Strangers? It'll do.