Heh, here's me trying to be good and zip my mouth, when it's tell it like it is Friday. Adam and Will were just saying very, very wicked things about LOTR, especially with regards to Frodo and Sam, Sam obviously over doing the high carb elf bread (the elvish version of Krispy Kremes, according to the lads), and the obvious hobbit shippiness of the thing. Other bollockings delivered included: Gandalf's intermittent magical abilities, as in, wait a minute, I just remembered I can control the forces of nature, silly me, the inconsistent solidity of ghosts, that orcs aren't much if they can be frightened away by a light like roaches - try busting a paper bag behind them next time. Someone objected that being given a sword by a pointy eared Australian actor is no mandate for government, and why didn't anyone stab Legolas in the back while he was busy firing off three hundred arrows? Someone else expected Diver Dan to squeak that he wasn't dead yet, and had wanted somebody to yell down from the gates of Mordor that Aragorn's father was a hamster and that his mother smelt of elderberries. Tee hee. And it went on, and on, and on...
Okay, today for sure I'm going to try and write my own fic, instead of spraying caustic acid over other people's fic. I don't mean to be mean, I'm just frustrated and fed up. I'm reading fic now to try and find that elusive idea that sparks of another idea and another and another and before I know it I'm off and running again and it's just not happening no matter how hard I shake poor newbie writers, until their bones rattle, screaming GIVE ME THE STUFF! while frothing at the mouth and glaring like a mad woman.
At least, I hope they're newbie writers. I mean, most people usually get good, really good, amazingly good and a joy to read by their tenth or twelth story. If that's like, their twentieth or so, then woof, maybe they should start thinking about taking up, um, flower arranging, perhaps?
Whoops, back to being awful again. I can't help it. I want to write. It's the only thing that makes me happy (well, that and travel). If I can't write (or travel), well, I don't see why anyone else should have a good time. Hmph.
I also remembered yesterday that I had indeed namechecked a pub here once, well, not here per se, but many, many moons ago it used to be on the home straight of some particulary crazy pub crawls, and it's been that sort of pub for over two hundred years, and thus I thought the sort of pub my characters would gravitate towards. My goodness, the stories that pub could tell, and that's why I chose it, the way everyone choses the Saracen's Head in Bath. It's just an old, cool pub with a history that makes you feel as comfortable as pulling on old clothes or boots that have been worn in just right. It's the sort of pub one could see one's characters in, if they're the sort of characters to have a favourite 'local' in every port.
Happiness. The floor, hence forth to be known as the battery farm, smells like chocolate - somebody obviously brought in a hot chocolate and they're taunting me with it. Mmmm, happy smell. I also wrote a bit. Just three paragraphs, but better than nowt. It brought that scene that would never end to a close, at bloody last, and now I can finally getting on with the business of killing colourful locals, and as messily as possible.
Hello to Jon Pertwee era Who, btw (well, it's a Who tradition, killing colourful locals). Oh and it was War Machines, not War Games that I was missing. War Machines is fun though, very much a Pertwee era Who story though, in spite of it being a Hartnell episode, right down to the silly voices, and, I think, one of the first ever Evil Internet stories. Well, that's how evil mainframe Wotan controls everything, through the phone lines. World domination on lines that must be as slow and corrupted as my connection? Good luck.
And to all the Anoraks out there, here's a Hartnell episode where he's actually referred to as Doctor Who, well, Dok-tor Who, to be perfectly accurate, but nevertheless, there it was, a historic moment in Whodom.
Yes, I am such a tragic nerd it's not funny. Either that or up for a sham marriage with Vince :D
Forgot to mention yesterday that I woke up dreaming of Lindsay. Coincidentally enough I ended up watching Angel: Destiny which of course featured the return of dear Lindsay. I really needed an Angel fix and it did the trick, though at first I was just amused to be watching Drusilla rather than her folks on Mission Impossible. I must ask, could that opening scene with Spike and Angelus be any slashier, without actually moving into QAF territory? I mean, really. Even Angelus had to ask out loud whether it was a bit too much of the old hoyay.
Next up we had the most unforgiveable use of deus ex machina ever in the history of Mutant Enemy productions, and there's some stiff competition for the title, but Spike opening a box, and, poof, he's corporeal - that takes the cake, and the tim tams and the icecream and the chocolate sauce and probably the glaces cherries as well. I mean, really. The cheek, the conceit that we'd let them get away with it, but we do because they offer up an Angel/Spike cat fight and don't we just love it. I'm so shallow, and I should be ashamed but this episode had me squealing with delight at several points, and that's all I want out of my telly. It's chocolate for the optic nerves and the brain, a happy opiate, a nummy treat (missed Wes, though - pout).
Oh man, I need chocolate. All I can smell is lovely, lovely chocolate, and me with the hormone needle slamming well past the red, right up against the thick black line that usually means flee for your lives, she's gonna blow. Well, hopefully not today so long as I can get more writing done, more Angel watched and, dammit, gimme more chocolate, stat.
I may even have to make a six block run to Gloria Jeans, so desperate am I. Oh well, by the time I get back I'll have earned it :D