The award for best supporting limb goes to...

A bit old, still works.

Lou Ferrigno, c. 1980:

Angelina Jolie, 2012:

They should re-shoot this one:

Random sightings

In lieu of anything to write about, and in the spirit of Hoarders, I take this opportunity to clear my desktop and share some random photos I've taken recently.
For the images whose raison d'être has been lost in a morphine fog, just consider them a mystery addition to the bottomless pit of inexplicable internet pics.

This is undoubtedly Mythbusters, creating a car with square wheels.
It was such a stupid idea, of course it worked beautifully:

Locker rooms, utility rooms and public restrooms provide endless possibility for gaggery. Here we have the Incredbile Hulk, plus another with questionable provenance:

Also, non sequiturs galore, the age of episode titles, animation gets away with everything, and stars before they were stars!
It doesn't get much better than this.

At least not no more:

Yep, the last one's Jack Nicholson. (The Terror. Dreadful.)

I gather there was a sporting carnival ...

For better or worse, the London Olympics coincided with my screwed up sleeping patterns – all night, every night, I could watch something other than the usual dross.
Although there were some good exceptions:

The second was much better in my opinion, although I was possibly biased by the presence of a young and lovely Joan Collins, whose innate glamour managed to triumph over a series of deeply unflattering hairdos:

They were just so flat.

Anyway, Olympics. I enjoyed the fortnight more than usual, probably because Australia didn't do well at all.
Thus we were spared repeated renditions of our dreary national anthem. Also, there was a marked drop in the usual cringeworthy jingoistic garbage from the commentstors. In fact, everyone involved seems a little sheepish and bewildered at the absence of new "golden girls".
They're now blaming Titter and Facebook for distracting the athletes, which is pretty desperate.

So what else worked for me? Well, while I never really came to grips wih the graffiti-tag logo, I did love the official palette – all that fuchsia! Or was it cerise? Either way, it looked great on screen:

I  did discover the limitations of my latest camera. It purportedly has a 'sporting' shooting mode, with a little running-man icon to prove it. However, competitors in any sort of fast motion (a surprisingly high proportion) came out looking like a Francis Bacon study:

... or a UFO – Unidentified Flipping Olympian:

As with most things in life, this looked even better when synchronised:

I didn't see a great deal of beefcake. I blame erratic and unpredictable programming, although the Greek men's water polo team should be commended:

Also from Greece, Ilias Iliadis, judo champion, was impressive on various levels:

And whoever this is:

Alas, many of he gymnasts, divers et.al. looked like muscly children:

In other words, this was the Olympics that made me feel old.

TV projection

I don't see many people these days. Not unexpected and perfectly reasonable.
Death might bring people together, but disease sends them running.

I'm not on Facebook either (I didn't have imaginary friends as a child; there doesn't seem to be much point in starting now). Consequently, I have had to turn to my trusty companion – the telly – when in need of support.

Over the past couple of months I have had several famous female acquaintances drop by. They're usually brief affairs. Not much talking.

Every now and then, someone will take the aggressively upbeat approach, as though a rictus grin alone will drag me from the doldrums:

I'm sure it's exhausting for both of us.

Generally speaking, however, they know what to do: strike a series of serious poses, from bewilderment to mild concern to existential woe. Whatever it takes to make me feel like they really care. They understand.
They're there for me:

View from a recliner

Just because I rarely leave my chair, it doesn't mean I'm not engaging in cultural discourse with the world around me.

Sort of.

Anyway, a random recap of the past week:

Threat or promise?

On the road to Morpeth: