Alrighty then, I feel very shaky and quite terrified and my hand trembles when I lift my coffee cup. As yet I have not managed food, but when I do I shall nibble it in silence,stopping now and then to glance fearfully over my shoulder.
There will be two posts today, one, this one, will be trying to make sense of what I witnessed last night, and the second one is pure, pure, purest, well, you'll have to see for yourself. I'll put it up in a while.
By rights I should not be sitting here at all. I should be in a hospital somewhere, with bandages over my very eyes, raving. Why, I can't hear you ask because this is a computer and not really my office although this is MY office if you see what I mean, why would I be in such terrible pain. I have one answer.
Michael Douglas.
I must thank the very stars that sheltered me and my country bumpkin upbringing because somehow over my youth-a time when I smoked, rode moterbikes, fell from horses and dated men who wore cowboy boots- I managed
somehow to not watch Basic Instinct, not even once. I should have stayed on this path and not succumbed to curiosity. My mind is now unclean, I'll
never get it back to the shape it was in before Basic Instinct. NEVER.
Oh I remember all the talk at the time, 'didja see that scene?' people asked in hushed awestruck tones. That scene is so famous, it's iconic, the one where a very beautiful- if hamtacular- Sharon Stone flashes her lady patch and a megastar was born.
'Did she do it?' others asked. 'What about Roxy' 'What about the shrink?'
'What are you all talking about?'
'If you haven't seen it Fatcat, we can't explain', my snotty peers would say.
'But I can't afford to go to the cinema.' I bleated.
But nowt was to be done. The film remained unwatched by me and I became a social leper, at least for a couple of weeks. I swore that one day- one day I would see Basic Instinct. It also wouldn't be the only time I did the leper thing.
Never mind all that.
It's too late now, I can't go back in time.
Last night, I watched Basic Instinct.
What the hell is it about Michael Douglas? The faces, the way he can moves his head like an owl. The nightclub scene? The dancing in a blue v-neck sweater? EEEEEKKKKKK! What about that? Well? WELL?? What about his sex face? What about that? The way his chin juts out, the way he sort of wetly lick-kisses BLEEEEEEEEEEE------EEEEEEEEE. Why did no one warn me of his smarminess? Why couldn't I have left well enough alone? Why? I'll never get any of these images out of my mind again. Never! I"ll be lucky if I can ever kiss again without picturing a curly tongue licking my faceeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeebleaugh. Why didn't anyone warn me? Why didn't I warn myself, I knew it, I knew when he showed up at the night cub wearing that sweater and the too short, high waisted, ironed drainpipes that the director was fucking with me, that even Latoure's excellent 'Blue' was going to be viciously abused. Why did I not go to bed? Why? Why?
My mind this morning is a puddle, a mucky puddle with a film of petrol over the top and filed with frog spawn, maybe some dog wee. Argh, it's fetid. Nothing could have prepared me for that man's sex face-and I've seen Celine Dion sing.
I'm traumatised.
Michael Douglas' sex face. I am SO against it!
Labels: blee, music, sex
