A few minutes ago, I was falling asleep. Then I hopped out of bed because—holy krakatoa!—it's June 1st, and I have been so swamped with this thing and that thing and all that stuff over there that I failed to pay a single bill. Not that there would be any difference at all between paying them tonight and paying them in the morning, of course. But still, here I am. And while I dutifully logged on for my little banking session, I was suddenly ravenous. In case you didn't know, the only cure for such ravenous-ity is a bowl of LIFE cereal sans milk. Which is what I had. But now I'm not sleepy at all.
So...do you watch The Tudors? I do. And the whole time I watch, I wish it were Rome. But it's not; it's The Tudors. I'm sort of in awe of the way Jonathan Rhys Meyers (as King Henry VIII) deftly walks the line between ridiculous and sublime. He's constantly screaming and making crazy eyes and generally chewing up the scenery. Anyways, for two seasons now I've been eagerly awaiting the downfall and decapitation of the smug Anne Boleyn, but tonight when it happened, I felt a twinge of regret. Maybe it's because she was such a lovely decapitate-ee, what with her pearls and scarlet cape and elegant frock and quivering lower lip.
In the final scene, something is being ceremoniously carried to Henry's table, and I thought it would be Anne's beautiful head, but instead it was a stuffed swan. He tore off a wing—here I thought "Oh! Maybe Anne's head is under there!"—and handed it to one of his 45,000 servants, but it wasn't Anne's head. It was some sort of meat pie, which he then began to shovel into his mouth with his hands while gravy ran down his chin. See? Sublime AND ridiculous.
Okay, I'm sleepy again. Thanks for staying up with me.