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The Passage #2
Jul. 14th, 2012 04:39 pmOohhh, exciting! The sequel to The Passage comes out this October!
Dead Geeky
Aug. 22nd, 2011 03:30 pmI just bought this game, which I may soon grow to regret (thanks to its hundreds of hours of game play):
Reasons to buy it:
-![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wink_martindale will fly to Canada soon for two weeks and I'll be home alone
- I do like videogames and haven't played anything immersive in years (this game has received good reviews)
- It looks fun
- I like sci-fi/fantasy
Reasons I shouldn't have bought it:
- I could use my spare time for yoga or the gym / writing a novel / going out / watching films
- I could have used the money for a nice meal out plus drinks
- All that time could be used revitalising LJ with tons of posts
- My reputation will be potentially damaged
Also, has anyone played Dead Island? Is it any good? *stern look atnaturalbornkaosand sarahofthedead*
Reasons to buy it:
-
wink_martindale will fly to Canada soon for two weeks and I'll be home alone- I do like videogames and haven't played anything immersive in years (this game has received good reviews)
- It looks fun
- I like sci-fi/fantasy
Reasons I shouldn't have bought it:
- I could use my spare time for yoga or the gym / writing a novel / going out / watching films
- I could have used the money for a nice meal out plus drinks
- All that time could be used revitalising LJ with tons of posts
- My reputation will be potentially damaged
Also, has anyone played Dead Island? Is it any good? *stern look at
naturalbornkaosand sarahofthedead*
I want to get back into yoga. When I first met wink_martindale, nearly 13 years ago (!!), we used to do this brilliant yoga class at Montreal's downtown YMCA (no sniggering in the back!) that was affordable, complete and uncrowded. We'd probably have carried on here in London if there were any affordable courses. Why is yoga so expensive? Yoga should be like a bottle of water or a cup of rice - it should be cheap and available on every street corner.
I'm a little bit bored of running around Victoria Park and lifting weights at the gym. I'm not pushing myself and I'm not seeing any improvement (i.e. the beer belly is still there.) With yoga, there's that sense of achievement as you master one posture after another. Plus the mindfulness, the peace, the growing strength. It would be a nice counterbalance to a session in the gym once in a while.
wink_martindale, nearly 13 years ago (!!), we used to do this brilliant yoga class at Montreal's downtown YMCA (no sniggering in the back!) that was affordable, complete and uncrowded. We'd probably have carried on here in London if there were any affordable courses. Why is yoga so expensive? Yoga should be like a bottle of water or a cup of rice - it should be cheap and available on every street corner.I'm a little bit bored of running around Victoria Park and lifting weights at the gym. I'm not pushing myself and I'm not seeing any improvement (i.e. the beer belly is still there.) With yoga, there's that sense of achievement as you master one posture after another. Plus the mindfulness, the peace, the growing strength. It would be a nice counterbalance to a session in the gym once in a while.
Gold August
Aug. 31st, 2008 10:33 am
sushidog is a perfect shopping buddy. She was good company last week when I needed to go downtown and buy underwear, and yesterday she offered anecdotes and companionship as we explored the food and second-hand deals of Hackney's markets and shops. The day couldn't have been more gorgeous; August's first proper summer day. We met up in Victoria Park and meandered up Regent's Canal to Broadway Road Market. After checking out the stands, which sold anything from crockery and vinyl records to crepes and fresh juices, we ordered Samosa Chatts, bought some bottled water and found a patch of soft grass in London Fields to rest, not too far from a One Man Band playing some kind of bicycle drums.
As we ate our lunch and chatted about this'n'that, I saw a beautiful toddler with large blue eyes approach us like the shark in Jaws (hum to yourself the film's theme song). He held Kevin's shoulder and leaned his head against him. I wish my eyes had cameras inside them so I could keep that image forever - the cutest thing I've ever seen. The father whisked the toddler away, apologising, which he needent have done since it was such a lovely and funny thing for the little boy to do. I turned to Kevin afterwards and asked if we could have one of those. There's my tip for what to get me next Christmas.
After lunch, we took a bus to Holloway Road and visited The Fantasy Centre, one of London's best second-hand bookshops that specialises in horror, fantasy and sci-fi. Unusually, there were about ten different Guy N. Smith titles in the horror section. I called
naturalbornkaos, Smith's biggest fan, to see if any of the copies were rarities he might want, but his phone was turned off. There's your tip Rattler for where to go shopping next time you are in town! I also spotted a copy of Wurm by Matthew J. Costello, a horror novel that I really enjoyed in high school. At the time, I was trying to convince a dutch friend to read horror, so we agreed that she would read Wurm if I tried out Anne of Green Gables. I loved Anne but was kinda pissed off that my friend wussed out and broke our agreement. I debated yesterday whether I should buy Wurm and re-read it, but then I was reminded of the Neverending Story cautionary tale, which teaches one never to read a book or watch a film you loved as a kid so you won't run the risk of tarninshing your memories.There's a large vintage store nearby that is good value-for-money (most items range between 5 and 10 quid). Kevin and I found short-sleeved shirts that fit alright, and
sushidog nearly took a cocktail dress from the 70s and a pair of purple boots. On the way back to Victoria Park, for some restorating cake and coffee, we found ourselves swamped by football supporters moving up Holloway Road like an invading army. There was ice cream, more sun, coffee, lemon tarts and conversations on crime statistics, creative writing and the X Factor once we reached the cute coffee shop in Victoria Park's village.sushidog is my neighbour and it only makes sense that we should hang out loads. Now I only wish my other London friends would move nearby...Victoria Park has these large asphalt lanes flanked by tall trees. One of them separates Regent's canal running North-South and the lake that dominates the southern side of the park. As I'm walking home, down this lane, a skein of Canadian geese fly over my head, followed by two pigeons late for the party. It's that glimpse into another world that you sometimes get when you are mellow for home, too much oxygem has hit your brain and the sun plays tricks on the clouds.
I found a bench facing the lake and pulled out my journal. Checked out the boys that came and went - some jogging, some strutting - until I heard a rambling drunk approach and ducked into my journal, hoping he wouldn't sit beside me. Two benches away, he found a young guy also drinking beer, plugged into his iPod. The young guy didn't seem to care when the drunk sat close to him and went into a monologue about their different choices of drink. A cute Jack Russell terrier, white-coated with black spots, belonging to the drunk who'd just sat down, played between their feet with a plastic 500ml Coca-Cola bottle.
The Jack Russell played a solitary game of throw-and-catch until the bottle landed in the lake. He ran to the edge and stared in desbelief as the bottle slowly drifted away. A whine grew in his throat as he edged back and forth, until it spilled out as a low bark. It grew louder, louder, and louder, until he was in doggy hysterics.
His drunk owner couldn't care less, but the people on the other benches stopped what they were doing to watch the drama unfold. The bottle, at first static once it was a few feet away, slowly began to drift back to the edge. The closer it got, the louder his barks grew. His little paws splodged no further than the scum-coated border, his black eyes never left what was so desiredly close. Not even a dog unflatteringly sniffing his butt, or a family pushing a pram who stopped for a minute to giggle at his despair, took his mind off the disaster.
All hail the Great Saint Bernard in the Sky! The bottle was finally at reach, so close to his snout - if only he were to edge a little bit in, get his paws wet, open his jaws and... off the bottle went again, disturbed by his frenetic movements in the shallows, drifting away from his reach.
'Go on boy! Go get it, boy!' Shouted his drunk owner from the bench, suddenly hooked like everyone else. But the little thing didn't; he barked and barked until I felt it was a giant pessimist lesson, in the molds of Beckett, on what happened to anyone in this life who chased a dream.
BUT THEN HE JUMPED! In less than 30 seconds he had the bottle in his possession and, dripping wet, was running up and down as if he'd won the canine lottery's jackpot. I nearly clapped.
I found a bench facing the lake and pulled out my journal. Checked out the boys that came and went - some jogging, some strutting - until I heard a rambling drunk approach and ducked into my journal, hoping he wouldn't sit beside me. Two benches away, he found a young guy also drinking beer, plugged into his iPod. The young guy didn't seem to care when the drunk sat close to him and went into a monologue about their different choices of drink. A cute Jack Russell terrier, white-coated with black spots, belonging to the drunk who'd just sat down, played between their feet with a plastic 500ml Coca-Cola bottle.
The Jack Russell played a solitary game of throw-and-catch until the bottle landed in the lake. He ran to the edge and stared in desbelief as the bottle slowly drifted away. A whine grew in his throat as he edged back and forth, until it spilled out as a low bark. It grew louder, louder, and louder, until he was in doggy hysterics.
His drunk owner couldn't care less, but the people on the other benches stopped what they were doing to watch the drama unfold. The bottle, at first static once it was a few feet away, slowly began to drift back to the edge. The closer it got, the louder his barks grew. His little paws splodged no further than the scum-coated border, his black eyes never left what was so desiredly close. Not even a dog unflatteringly sniffing his butt, or a family pushing a pram who stopped for a minute to giggle at his despair, took his mind off the disaster.
All hail the Great Saint Bernard in the Sky! The bottle was finally at reach, so close to his snout - if only he were to edge a little bit in, get his paws wet, open his jaws and... off the bottle went again, disturbed by his frenetic movements in the shallows, drifting away from his reach.
'Go on boy! Go get it, boy!' Shouted his drunk owner from the bench, suddenly hooked like everyone else. But the little thing didn't; he barked and barked until I felt it was a giant pessimist lesson, in the molds of Beckett, on what happened to anyone in this life who chased a dream.
BUT THEN HE JUMPED! In less than 30 seconds he had the bottle in his possession and, dripping wet, was running up and down as if he'd won the canine lottery's jackpot. I nearly clapped.
David O'Hara
I realized today that I have a thing for Scottish guys. Last weekend, while watching Prime Suspect 5, I kept wondering who was the moody guy playing DS Jerry Rankine, with the bad Oasis haircut and wardrobe collection consisting entirely of blue jeans. A quick search in IMDB revealed that his name is David O'Hara; from there, it was a quick jump to Google Image. Biggest surprise was to discover he played a minor part in The Departed (seen here with Leonardo Di Caprio.) I know many of you will be looking at that photo and thinking "Whah?" but, seriously, taste in men is not up for discussion (unless it involves certain men.) Plus, you have to see him moving and talking to understand the charm.
It got me thinking that dark-haired Scots might be my type. I never thought I had a type of man -- and the clearest proof of this, I thought, was that Kevin doesn't look like a Scot. But there's something about guys like David O'Hara (and the ones listed below) that I find very appealing.
Moral of the story: I must not move to Scotland! It would be my ruin.
Other Scots that I'd happily allow into my gangbang:
Ewan McGregor
Gerard Butler
Dougray Scott
James McAvoy
Do you know any Scots worthy enough to join this list? (feel free to add a picture and name in the comments section of this post.)
Walk the London Line
Feb. 25th, 2006 09:32 pm
I was looking for some soul in my Saturday and I found it in Walk the Line. I sat between Kevin and Silke, close to the screen because Kevin didn't have his glasses and couldn't sit further away, bearing the absurdly high volume (for the benefit of the iPod-deaf public), but it was worth it. I had those moments when the tears were coming down, just because the music was beautiful, because this was based on someone's real life (and what an amazing life it was), and because I'm sometimes overwhelmed by films like that... I have no shame in being a big baby dressed in black.
There were two things in the movie that didn't work for me: the somewhat sentimental subplot about his relationship with his father and the way nobody seemed to age despite over twenty years going by. But everything else made up for it in such a great way, making it the perfect movie for a cold day. Some of the scenes, like the concert in Folsom prison, or his final wedding proposal to June, were beautifully shot and executed. And both Joaquin Phoenix and Reese
If Morrissey discovered God, he could grow into an English version of Johnny Cash. Blasphemy? Not really. Think about it. It's there, it makes sense. And Morrissey would love to play a concert for prisoners. I know he would. Maybe there's still hope for him.
Quick Update
Dec. 13th, 2005 02:58 pmI've started swimming again, after a three week break. I went to the pool on Sunday and I plan on going tomorrow morning again. I had my hair cut this afternoon at the Barber near Waterloo Station (only £10!). I need to buy new trousers because I don't fit in half of my clothes anymore. I won't be going to any New Year's Eve parties because Kevin has been asked to work that night at our local pub; we've decided to spend the night at the pub so we can at least hang out with him on his breaks (but if any NYE parties wish to join us, they are more than welcome!) Am looking forward to Billy Budd the Opera tomorrow night.
Irony is:
Your father giving you a laptop a few days before you quit Livejournal for a month.
Your father giving you a laptop a few days before you quit Livejournal for a month.
Long Time Dead
Nov. 3rd, 2002 07:42 amwoke up too early... had a dream with an old friend who doesn't speak to me anymore. I think about him sometimes, and I wonder what I did to deserve his silence...
