Sunday, October 14, 2012

My brain is loose, running wild somewhere pleasant

Two days at the Home is my maximum tolerance for oldies and I made it three this week.
*Smacks face hard and promises not to do it again*
So my brain has gone away to find its happy place, the one where chocolate has no calories, booze doesn't give hangovers and shortbread and hot cups of tea magically appear beside the bed in the morning.  I think it also has pink clouds with silver linings.
I have to write up the minutes of the Relatives and Residents meeting and call VicRoad on their behalf.  We tried the Local Council whose offices are on the corner of the same street to get them to do something about the speeding cars, a slow down sign would have done but they told us that it was up to VicRoad.  They're up for election in November so you would have thought they might have made an official call for us, no, too busy making election promises.

So, on to the movie meme, part the four of.
4.  Name the best movie title.
Hard, really hard. Oh yeah, Die Hard, because Bruce Willis didn't and everybody else did. My sister refuses to watch these films because they're violent, she prefers cerebral films where the violence is psychological.  The 'Die Hard' franchise is fantasy violence, no-one could take that much and still live. I loved Die Hard 4.0, nobody jumps onto a jet that's crashing and jumps off again but it seems to be the chemistry between the actors in these films that make them enjoyable to me. I just love Justin Long.

5.  Describe the worst performance by a child actor that you've ever seen.
Difficult. The Plastic Mancunian went for the kid who played Anakin Skywalker and I have to agree he was an annoying little twit.  But I'm going for an adult who acts like a child in every film I've seen him in, Adam Sandler.  Can't stand him but he is slightly below Jerry Lewis in my loathe ratings.

6.  Who gets your vote for the most tragic movie monster.
The Creature from the Black Lagoon.  I know I usually refer to my ex as him but only because he looks like it.  Poor Creature, all he wanted was the blonde tart to like him and all she could do was scream.  I can't remember the ending but I think he was spear-gunned but not killed because they made a sequel.  Honestly the films we watched at the Saturday arvo sessions would not get a rating now. 

17 comments:

River said...

Shortbread for breakfast? I prefer brownies.
I can't answer #4 (too many to choose from), or #6, but #5- worst performance by a child actor- for me that would be Drew Barrymore in Firestarter. She just seemed so wooden in a lot of the scenes.

Andrew said...

Adam Sandler? The hunky blonde? Actually, I can't stand him either.

Kath Lockett said...

Shortbread for breakfast - nah, leftover cheesecake or pudding!

Agree re Adam Sandler. HATE the guy and find him about as funny as a dead kitten.

R.H. said...

I roll a smoke first thing in the morning, light it up while I'm having a pee. I reckon you're getting a free feed at that nursing home.

JahTeh said...

River, you can't dunk brownies, they're more afternoonish.
I don't know how old Drew was in Firestarter but she was on the booze by age 12 then rehab so that could have had something to do with her acting.

Andrew, dark hair, starred in Happy Gilmore and other moronic films.

Kath, left over Christmas pudding for Boxing Day breakfast, oh the memories. Mum always used a boiled fruitcake recipe for her puddings and it was divine the day after.
I hope you're in the Jerry Lewis non-fan club.

Robbert, talk about multitasking, I hope you never get things round the wrong way.
If I have lunch there, I have to pay $5.

River said...

I'm with all the others on disliking Adam Sandler. He wasn't too bad in "The Wedding Singer".
I think Drew Barrymore was about 10 when she did Firestarter. I'll have to check. I've heard somewhere that she began drinking at age seven. That's really sad, to lose your childhood to alcohol.

Ann O'Dyne said...

Adam Sandler was lovely in SPANGLISH.
sweet film about Spanish housekeeper being nicer than snotty rich wife. and The Wedding Singer is an absolute chick flick for goodness sake. so sweet.
The Home has too much cake going on - could you make it one day a week? Or else get the neighbouring bed. You work far too hard for them you big softie.

Ann O'Dyne said...

PS: I am sorry you cannot post comments at TTBAOD - I changed the settings to 'open slather' level and don't know what else to do. Try Worn Out or what about the state I'm in?
X X

JahTeh said...

Annie O, the Home doesn't have enough cake going on. The tea bitch that works weekends really is one, didn't even offer mum a sweet biscuit just slapped a cheese one on the plate. I'm a visitor, I don't rate a cuppa from her which is why I ended up in Fairy cake heaven when I got home.
I can only see Adam Sandler in Happy Gilmore, it ruined me forever.

JahTeh said...

Zip on the comments Annie.
I bet if I switched to IE instead of Firefox I'd be able to comment. That's what I did last time.

R.H. said...

Love your wit big woman.

R.H. said...

Hi. Nowadays I'm right in touch with when I was a teenage hobo in this great country of ours. How odd. And on his bench sits the shopkeeper magistrate who copped me a month for vagrancy at Mildura courthouse. Old bastard. Great grandad of sluts and metal pierced PROSTITUTES, shaven-headed halfwits, dog-faced feminists in North Fitzroy!
Good heavens, the law works in mysterious ways.

R.H. said...

Hi. RH here. Mr Deletion. Tell the truth and you're fucked. Blogs, social media, no better than anywhere else. There's freedom of speech, you can say what you like -unless you're a homophobe, mysogynist, racist...And who decides? Homos, lesbians, crawlers. Snivelling atheists. Followers, sycophants, crowding together like flies around a focaccia. Well I'm saved, never controlled. I'm RH, constantly deleted, by Thought Police, scabs, terrified little albinos of bloodless upbringing.
There now, I can't say nicer than that.

What's always been said about the Salvation Army is none of them look the full two bob. It's true, an army without tanks, firearms, but lots of women in silly hats, banging tambourines. The blokes have a funny look, a sort of perpetual astonishment, like still in shock from their first hard on. They’re down on the booze, all of them, yet trawled the pubs for years on the bite. They run orphanages, hostels, flop houses, cheap as they can. The donations they get are enormous, old biddies even leave their houses to them. But it’s not enough, not for them, the fight against sin costs billions. And golly, they rake it in, dear old Salvation Army.
I stayed at their hostel, Lyndon Lodge, for a short while in my teens. It’s at the top of Auburn Road Hawthorn, this building, a two story mansion. There were about thirty boys. The moment a boy turned fourteen he was transferred from the orphanage in Bayswater to the hostel in Hawthorn and shoved out to work in factories. It seems none of these Captains and Colonels ever figured some of them may like to stay in school to become professors. My goodness no, and anyway, they were sinful little buggers, lots of bastards among them, born out of wedlock. Mind you, Lyndon Lodge was a nice change for them all the same, these boys, better than the orphanage, no more getting cuffed into church twice on Sundays and booted up the arse the rest of the week. That was the trouble with the Salvation Army, you either got booted up the arse or left entirely alone. We were entirely alone at the hostel, getting fed and the dishes washed, that’s all. The Captain in charge of the place had two little kids, his wife had big tits. She was good looking, oh golly. He had a few brains, the Captain, but his second in charge, the Leftenant, was a total imbecile. “Shall we pray?” he’d say, after dragging you into his office for a telling off. He was a believer, an optimist; God could put us right. The Captain could have put us right if he’d bothered. If he’d talked to us, shown some interest. But he’d given us up, written us off.


Salvation Army, sacred cow, cup of tea and a biscuit. They take the money, do the minimum. That’s my main complaint.

R.H. said...

The Captain's wife was good looking. When it came to choking the parrot she was the local inspiration. And golly, she must have known, walking among us looking straight ahead. Of the thirty or so boys about three became Corps Cadets: junior Salvation Army members. One of them had a head like a horse. He was an ugly kid, greatly concerned that he'd never find a girlfriend. That was his worry. He consulted the Captain's wife about it. She was positive, reassuring. "There's someone for everyone," she told him, the saphead. It did no good. Not to my thinking, he still lurched about looking mournful and that's no way to impress a female.
One day two of the boys discovered they were brothers. They found out for themselves, just in conversation. Smoking was banned at Lyndon Lodge, even in the grounds, but across the road in Harcourt Street there was a bench on the corner. That's where we went. It was a break from the place, an open forum, and it's where these two found out they were brothers.
Mutual surprise. A wonder. "Seek and ye shall find," said the Lord.
Oh yes? Well not always, sometimes he plants these things.

JahTeh said...

Robbert, eloquent as usual. Vagrancy is off the legal books now isn't it? It used to be a way to hide the poor out of sight of the middle classes.
Have you been annoying bloggers with the truth again? Dear lord I'm can't imagine you on Farcebook although apparently you can say whatever you like there. A good reason to stay away, besides there's no-one in my past I ever want to meet again.

R.H. said...

Farcebook is too late for me. I've said it all. Won't go over it again.
Meanwhile there are millions of little typists tapping away out there - everyone from Phd's to dishwashers - none of them matter.

I don't think anyone gets vagged anymore. The formal charge was being "A Rogue and a Vagabond". That's what it said on the little blue sheet the coppers handed me. I wish I still had it. What it really meant is you were penniless with no job and nowhere to live. The fear was what you might do to feed yourself. Prostitution by the way came under the vagrancy act. Stealing was the main concern. My war with the middle-classes began from that time. I've hated them ever since. In all their variety.
They haven't changed in 300 years. They dress different, that's all. But it's the same old crowd, back again. You never get rid of them.

JahTeh said...

A rogue and a vagabond, in other words, your PhD studies in philosophy and poetry.