A virus with shoes

I saw Inception over the break for the first time. My initial reaction? ‘Thank god I didn’t see this when it came out’

Not because it’s bad – oh no. Don’t think that. If you are one of the other few people on the planet who, like me, have been living under a rock and haven’t seen the film yet then let me reassure you that Inception is in fact bloody brilliant – well written, well directed, wonderfully acted and beautifully shot. The special effects are really quite spectacular.

It’s also marvellously intelligent and – shockingly for a Hollywood film </patronisation> – it pays its viewers the compliment of assuming they have some basic smarts and can follow a plot line when it takes a more scenic route. I’m going to watch and re-watch it just so I can pick over the little details and murmur ‘oh, you clever thing’ to the film lovingly.

But I’m glad I didn’t see it before because I may have become a little obsessed. Which is surprising because I don’t historically have a tendency in that direction at all… *looks shifty*

One of the things that makes me think the film’s baseline concept – that an idea can be planted in someone’s mind – is all too believable is that the entire internet now seems completely fixated on the idea of slashing Arthur and Eames.

Not that I blame them. There’s a delicious flirty love/hate undercurrent to – well, pretty much all their interactions and they are both very, very attractive. Tom Hardy’s mouth in particular is an embossed, rsvp’d invitation to sin and when it’s combined with his voice…

I’m sorry; I drifted off into my happy place for a moment there. Where were we?

Ah, yes – the world and its internet wife writing Arthur/Eames slash. I’ve read two or three (dozen) now and the quality of what I’ve seen so far is generally very good. And it’s a pairing that appears to inspire some incredibly filthy porn so I’d recommend seeing the film just for that, actually.

And in the face of all these lovely examples of smut, and the pretty-pretty that is the two boys, and the wonderful snarky tension of their relationship my own inevitable plot bunny is – surprise, surprise!!

Not about them.

No, I get a mostly gen plot bunny with a slight femmeslash undertone that’s mainly a character study of someone who gets about two lines in the film. Not sure what happened there.
 

So, my major stressor of the past week is over and my mood has improved due to my carefully considered coping mechanisms of: a) Beer and b) reading huge amounts of slash fiction (Kirk/Spock from st_xi_kink   if you're interested)

Ahhhh, alcohol and porn. Is there nothing you can't solve?

(Well, DT's, liver failure and carpal tunnel syndrome from masturbating too much I suppose. But none of that lot is relevant to my interests. Yet)

* * *

Meanwhile, I have in my hand a piece of paper and - unlike Mr Chamberlain's - this is a good thing (and hopefully won't lead to WW3). This one means I am going to a Comic Day at Dundee on the 28th June!

THAT MEANS I GET TO MEET WARREN ELLIS PEOPLE!!!

I am very tempted to get one of these t-shirts for the occasion but I have a feeling that Mr Ellis may find it slightly disconcerting. (The comment is from a Topless Robot review of Warren's GI Joe cartoons btw)

* * *

I went to a cosmology lecture at the beginning of last week (and before all the stress - reasonably interesting but would have liked some more in depth info) and at one point as an illustration the lecturer showed two diagrams, one with dots scattered in a fairly even spread, one with less eveness and some dots huddled together. He then asked us which diagram was random and which showed evidence of grouping. Only about a quarter - including me - correctly thought the less even diagram was the random one.

The point of this rambling story ('there was a point?' 'yes, there was - shut up and let me get to it') is that I knew the answer not because I am a maths wizz but because I watch someone else play one on TV.

Yes - I got the answer right becuase Charlie did a similar demonstration in series 1 of 'Numb3rs'.

I can't quite decide if this comes under the relm of 'incredibly pathetic' or not (after all, the answer was right) but it is, at least, less disturbing than my being able to acurately tell the directionality of blood drop scatter on the pavement along Sauchiehall Street while walking home on a Friday night because of my 'CSI' obsession.

There are three school boys who go part of the same way as me on my way into work in the morning and I’m finding them more and more amusing. 

They’re proper little Glasgae lads; around 11 years old, wearing as much sports wear as they can get away with under the school rules. And they’re loud and they’re boisterous and they’ve got their hair cropped short ‘intae the wood’ apart from the tallest who has a proto-mohawk-come-flattop thing going on.

And they’re complete, total slashtastic little drama queens.

Example: Boy 1 and boy 2 (who have emerged as the bff’s of the trio over time) are today scuffling and wrestling with each other. Boy 1 gets boy 2 into a headlock and exclaims “Aye! Who’s the daddy, bitch!” Boy 2 tells him (slightly muffled) to ‘get tae fuck’ and boy 1 begins knuckling his head. 

Boy 3? Gives a huge, put upon sigh and asks immensely wearily
“Will youse two just shag already? The tension’s getting unbearable”

Oh, boys!! *draws sparkly heart around all three*
I am very tempted to tell them to look me up in 8 to 10 years if they ever need a fag-hag, the little darlings.

* * * 

And speaking in an entirely non-creepy and not-dubious-at-all way of children, my book groups text tonight was ‘Novel on Yellow Paper’ by Stevie Smith for my book group and while it’s wonderful (of course it is, it’s Stevie) this particular bit is so brilliant that I’m going to have to quote it at you.
“Prunella got the children right on to the right books. You know the stuff they slop out to the little B.B.C. brattery? So wide-eyed and daisy-sweet, and solemn-young and sweet sweet smell of childhood, as Medea said, the moment she jabbed the knife into the couple of them to spite Jason. But of course they were never married. My dear, that makes all the difference. Only an emotional careerist could have run off with a foreigner and – hang the wedding. And we all know what emotional careerists are like when there are knives left lying around.”

*GRIN*

* * *

Conversational segue on the tube I wish I'd been party to:
woman sitting down: "...because my mum was all set to marry my biological dad's second cousin but then he died of cancer..."
*tube starts up, conversation becomes inaudible due to noise, tube reaches next stop 1 minute later*
same woman: "...I'll eat Indian food at a restaurant but I don't like it as a takeaway..."

....?

Sweet jeebus – I’ve had the equivalent of about 10 shots of espresso today and I've been munching on chocolate covered coffee beans and now I’m twitching like a frickin’ tweaker. 
I may, in fact, be vibrating at a high enough frequency to enable me to see into extra dimensions – I cannot decide whether to remedy this situation with copious amounts of tequila gold now, or wait till the little silver beings I’m seeing have finished explaining their method of interstellar travel. Maybe they’d be interested in doing body shots…

* * *

The barista at Café Nero is scary, scary efficient – kind of like a Cylon would be if they were into coffee instead of eliminating all humans. (and who can guess what boxset I’ve bought now, hmm?)

* * * 

Now, my feelings regarding bagpipe players have been made clear before but we’ve had the World Piping Contest on about 500yards away from the office all week and, seriously, all the fuckers deserve kneecapping and long, slow, painful evisceration.
For starters.

* * *

Boy on the tube – all shaven, bullet headed, tattoos and chains, combats and shit-kicking boots, proclaimed by his shirt to be ‘Certificate 18: Probably Offensive’
…offers his seat to the shopping-laden matriarch with such a shy smile.

* * * 

I booked an ‘A. Khan’ onto an event earlier and now I’ve got William Shatner bellowing “Khaaaannn!!” in my head. I hate my head.

And before I watch the next one on BBC3...