Wednesday morning...
...3 a.m.
Well, okay, it's Thursday morning. But you can't just go playing with the title of a Simon and Garfunkel song, can you?
So, I'm having one of my insomnias. (Mama, if you're reading, don't plotz, I just worked too late or something.) And I've found that one good cure for an insomnia is blogging. Perhaps this is because what I write is so damn boring that it makes me sleepy (cue the complimentary comments, please)... I flatter myself, however, that it is in fact the result of the great mental effort I put into each and every one of these gems of prose which I produce for you, dear Reader.
Anyway. Yesterday (or two days ago, I guess... Tuesday, whatever) I went to see the new James Bond movie with the delightful O. I was, I confess, predisposed to like Daniel Craig, him being tall, blond and craggy.
[Side note: why, if I like tall, blond and craggy men so much in theory, do I always fall for guys who have more in common with Paul Simon than Art Garfunkel? Eh? (I use Paul and Art only as an example of differing physical types: I stress that I do not have any kind of erotic attachment to either of them, fine musicians though they be).]
Where was I? And craggy. Yes. But I was not prepared for exactly how brilliant he would be. Not only does he look bloody good in swimming trunks, for which delight many thanks to the casting director, but he makes Bond into quite a different creature from previous portrayals. Watching this Bond, one suddenly realises exactly how nasty it would be to be a secret agent. Not only the obvious physical hardships (the chair scene... I won't spoil it for you if you've not seen it, but it brought tears even to my eyes), but the crappy unemotionality that's involved. Of course, in some ways it just makes Bond all the more attractive - at least to idiots like me who like the strong, silent, selfish bastard type - but it has so much more pathos than Roger Moore and his rubber eyebrow.
My new flat, despite its marvellous collapsing ceiling, continues to delight. One of the best things is having visitors. Somehow, people just don't like to come and ring the doorbell if you live with housemates. I guess it's the fear of disturbing someone you don't know, having to explain who you are, only to find out that your intended visitee is not in anyway. But people actually visit here. This, to use vernacular, rocks. In a big way.
Did you know that Jim Henson's son is producing Muppet porn? I am so not impressed. As long as he doesn't think of corrupting Sam Eagle, that's all I can say. Oh, and if anyone knows where I can get a stuffed toy of the gorgeous Mr. Eagle, please do let me know. He's so beautiful!
Well, okay, it's Thursday morning. But you can't just go playing with the title of a Simon and Garfunkel song, can you?
So, I'm having one of my insomnias. (Mama, if you're reading, don't plotz, I just worked too late or something.) And I've found that one good cure for an insomnia is blogging. Perhaps this is because what I write is so damn boring that it makes me sleepy (cue the complimentary comments, please)... I flatter myself, however, that it is in fact the result of the great mental effort I put into each and every one of these gems of prose which I produce for you, dear Reader.
Anyway. Yesterday (or two days ago, I guess... Tuesday, whatever) I went to see the new James Bond movie with the delightful O. I was, I confess, predisposed to like Daniel Craig, him being tall, blond and craggy.
[Side note: why, if I like tall, blond and craggy men so much in theory, do I always fall for guys who have more in common with Paul Simon than Art Garfunkel? Eh? (I use Paul and Art only as an example of differing physical types: I stress that I do not have any kind of erotic attachment to either of them, fine musicians though they be).]
Where was I? And craggy. Yes. But I was not prepared for exactly how brilliant he would be. Not only does he look bloody good in swimming trunks, for which delight many thanks to the casting director, but he makes Bond into quite a different creature from previous portrayals. Watching this Bond, one suddenly realises exactly how nasty it would be to be a secret agent. Not only the obvious physical hardships (the chair scene... I won't spoil it for you if you've not seen it, but it brought tears even to my eyes), but the crappy unemotionality that's involved. Of course, in some ways it just makes Bond all the more attractive - at least to idiots like me who like the strong, silent, selfish bastard type - but it has so much more pathos than Roger Moore and his rubber eyebrow.
My new flat, despite its marvellous collapsing ceiling, continues to delight. One of the best things is having visitors. Somehow, people just don't like to come and ring the doorbell if you live with housemates. I guess it's the fear of disturbing someone you don't know, having to explain who you are, only to find out that your intended visitee is not in anyway. But people actually visit here. This, to use vernacular, rocks. In a big way.
Did you know that Jim Henson's son is producing Muppet porn? I am so not impressed. As long as he doesn't think of corrupting Sam Eagle, that's all I can say. Oh, and if anyone knows where I can get a stuffed toy of the gorgeous Mr. Eagle, please do let me know. He's so beautiful!
posted by EJ at 3:43 am
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home