Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Of course what I really should have covered in the last post is my tendency to seek out the best looking man of an appropriate age in any repeating situation and assign significance to him which is invariably misplaced and often damaging. Or in other words my gaydar runs on hope.

Yes, I've already done this with the choir, but he does have good eyes.

Anyway, as someone's just tweeted it, record in the comments the time at which the first smile erupted onto your face. It's like eating a doughnut without licking (ok, so I have done this, but it's not pleasant).

And now for something completely different (I'm not quite sure I've understood the plot).

And where were your eyes?


Spoiler: Dora is man, but that feels cruel to say, kin to those charming bureaucrats who insist an apparent female is a biological male.
About the forty second mark. Might have been earlier if I was familiar with the original version.

My eyes were in my head, same as always.
26 secs. Sound of a ukele does that :) I had this Irrepresibles video a while back and I was irritated all over again that the offal tennis woman keeps missing. She's crap at the sport. I aim to be the Guardian's offal tennis correspondent. Who knew I had in me such a detailed appreciation of a sport's finer points. I just love this who-cares-that-it's-incomprehensible-but-it's-clearly-art video. Love, Alec xx
p.s. And why can't I follow your blog like any other blog? Am I condemned to be forever missing things? *petulant*
Well, clearly the unlit cigarette of the mincing Miss Havisham represents dangerous pleasures left unfulfilled, a construct echoed in the black poison of human sexuality creeping through much of the rest of the cast. She is become depravity, destroyer of wonder. The battle for morality is fought in front of the viewer, the pulses of the gut—a heavy-handed glimpse of visceral heart—thrashed, beaten back and forth by the provocatively superficially unattractive.

The malign influence is even such that the help, sullied by the defiling thoughts of their employer—sin Islamically on the tempting, not the tempted—seek to cleanse their whole bodies, writhing with the exquisite agony of the fallen.

At the end we see the collapse of the pretence of the corrupted crone, the male couple lost to their own blinding entrancement, the triumph of tennis whites, and the spent blackened body of the flesh-head self-defeated, a stalled mockery of humanity irrecoverably doomed, regardless of own folly, by the coming heat death.

It's either tremendously racist or terribly Catholic; the struggle for virtue and the enduring power of the taint.

Suddenly I feel like that Illuminati Gaga guy.

And was it your blog I gained it from, Alec? I'd saved the link unattributed as a draft and couldn't remember the source.

Follow? I don't follow. In Blogger's bar at the top it gives the option if you're logged in. Presumably this is how Ben managed it. If you mean via RSS or something else, be specific.

Ben, clearly you haven't been to enough Scout discos. I am disappointed in you.
I worked it out. The 'following' thing. It's different from other blogs, but then we all think that. You might have got it from me, but I know I got it from The Seafront Diaries. The appearance of the track on a BT ad caused me to double take. For a second I didn't see arcing light messages falling gently and beautifully to their destinations, but horizontally flying viscera and blood :o(
Now I really am lost. *Tiptoes out*
How do you know the way out if you're lost?
Yes, it turned out to be a cupboard!
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