smokingboot: (porcupine)
Doubtless we have all wondered what would have happened if the Rocky Horror Time Warp had ever worked and Dr Frankenfurter had made his escape into ancient history. It seems indisputable that he would have mutated himself into a 12 foot long cheesey poove, and kicked Greek arse aided by an enormous collection of persian crabmen and goats from his harem.

If the above seems unlikely to you, there is the vague chance that 300 may disappoint. But in case any reader of my journal should find themselves transported back to this strange world, let me give you one word that will get you out of all difficulties. Simply roar 'SPAHTAH!' and everyone will understand and leave you alone.
Roaring 'SPAHTAH!' gains you a six pack at the cost of your cerebellum, allows you to laugh hysterically at any and all situations, despise the ugly/corrupt until they give you information (which you must then believe entirely of course) and best of all, helpfully kick your enemies down your own city well. Impressive. 'SPAHTAH!' is a short word for testosterone without reason, and the standard reply is a resounding 'HOOON!' meaning 'We too, are very stupid.'

I am enjoying this far too much. 300. It's just not very good.

There was more to enjoying [ profile] larians birthday than this, thankfully. We spent the weekend in London with his brother and brother's girlfriend, enjoying the many mooded ambience of Beach Blanket Babylon, and going on to the infinitely funkier Electric House bar. I was pleased to see my boyfriend finally enjoying the Big Smoke. I've always liked the area around Notting Hill. It was a good weekend.

There was other good news. Some may recall I recently had to do some location shoots with Hard Wired, the producer who once notably called me a complete spastic. I was dreading the entire experience; turns out that the results have delighted our bosses. 'The best so far,' they call it, though considering their delight with the hideous ads, I won't break out the champagne just yet.Hard Wired, on the other hand, may well be unbearable after this.

And on Friday, was the funeral for Rick of course.

I should record this so I don't forget.

Read more... )


Mar. 12th, 2007 10:02 am
smokingboot: (blackswan)
Priest of Pan, Master of the Egyptian Mysteries, magnificent, generous friend has died.

He died on the 3rd March, during the eclipse.

Love him faithfully, mother, father, source of all life, for he was the boy who made the masks and the statues and the staffs, researched and created ceremonies; in him was no malice, only wisdom and laughter.

I weep for myself, selfish silly tears; for my friend is well, very well, I know.

Goodbye Rick. Thank you for everything.
smokingboot: (supernatural)
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'


And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

I will put the entirety of the poem up after this, just to keep Poe's ghost happy. The last thing I need is him tap-tapping at my chamber door tonight.

I now write down a trivial occurence which happened over the weekend and spooked me utterly. There are many possible explanations for it, and I make no claims about it. But it freaked me enough to write it now, in the early morning; poetry, velvet and flannel will make it seem more like a story, but the last thing I need is to write it at night-time, alone in the house. I refuse to give it more atmosphere. My intention is to make it less real.

Once upon a midnight dreary )

So much for the story, made fantastical by words. But the experience, I assure you, is quite real.

And now, lest I forget that most morbid of poets, here we go Poe:

*Love you always, Carlos.


smokingboot: (Default)

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