I've fallen off the magazine wagon. I've been so good since February, really good, but deprivation, starvation and abstinence don't make me happy and I needed pictures. Pretty pictures. Alas no SFX to be found, damn school holidays, but I cheered up with Matthew, of Spooks/MI-5 fame brightening the cover of Cult Times. My first thought was 'oh, how lovely' so I bought it. Yummy.
I still desperately crave that June '95 issue of Vanity Fair, though. Damian just looked so, well, there's me, slip sliding away. :)
Mmmm, need to break my Sandro schedule up with some Warriors, Band of Brothers or Forsythe Saga.
Got home in time to watch the Vegas episode of Roswell, which is a hoot and a fave, and The Zeppo on Buffy. Yay Xander. Another fave episode. I also had a new cd to play with, which I did because I couldn't log onto any of my accounts, which was a worry, or find my zip drive software, which was a bugger.
Went over the wall early as a co-worker's perfume was driving me nuts. Realised that my use of the phrase 'over the wall' as opposed to 'escaped' just shows the sort of riff raff I was raised amongst. There are not one but two gaols within walking distance of my abode, though they're low security, or as we call them, no security. One of the reasons I choose not to hang out my washing by night is the regular traffic of escaped convicts through our backyard - it's all very Dickens (though the fact that the back light doesn't work since ex-boyfriend's idiot mate broke it and the fiesty local fauna that live in the jungly corners of the yard are the main reasons).
So, I mused away to my new cd (okay, it was LLL, okay? Now leave me alone), wrote during Relic Hunter and settled down for Farscape. Now I noted the title but forgot to write it down and I suck at titles and, aw, hell, it was the looney toons one. The brilliant looney toons one. Much chortling at the inexplicable but nevertheless vastly entertaining Chuck Jones homage. This was the episode most favoured among those who borrowed the tapes - it's a classic. An absolute classic.
Ended up watching Crossing Jordan rather than writing through it, again, because it's really rocked this season. It's been very British in it's excellent writing, acting, multicultural cast and the sheer unsentimentality this season, thank frell, of the storylines so far. Well, compared to most mainstream US shows. I enjoy a well crafted show and it looks like this show has finally hit its grove. After that there was the obligatory Wes drooling. Only one more episode to go.
be wery wery quiet, we're hunting dinos
Don't try writing during looney tunes Farscape episodes - bad influence. And holy hannah but I have the start of the next one in my head. This is going to be just like M7: ten stories that take me forever to fill in.
It's a pookie in peril story, naturally, with the boys seperated for a good part of it, which means I'm actually going to have to work out a plot rather than just endless shagging. My gosh but those boys go at it like rabbits. Usually I just include shagging by obligation to jazz up a gen fic but tis is pretty much full on dino hunter porn.
Anyway, it probably starts with a lively bon voyage party for Billy, and the next thing we know Billy is stranded somewhere remote, exotic and dangerous with a BBC film crew. Where, and the exact perils I've yet to lock down. It's hard, because I've used so many locations before in other fics, but I like the continuing holiday from hell theme.
Why pick on the Beeb? Because I said Billy was doing a doco series for them, tv dino boy that he now is, and you'd never find a US crew outside a luxury hotel anyway (and having travelled with some Americans and experienced their amenties obsession first hand I feel I've earned the right to mock them, whining about the size of their ensuite when I'm practically using the loo at the local service station, bah!). No, for a far out nature doco it'll have to be either the Beeb or Aunty and I picked Beeb. Billy's mission is survive long enough to be rescued and reunited with a fretting Alan.
Meanwhile the dinos in the highlands (roamin in the gloamin?), having been flushed from the wilds by hapless squaddies, have returned home where they've eaten their crass American pop star owner (take that, foreign ownership!) and are loose on the estate. It was just more fun to hunt dinos in a haunted castle than the open wilds. Though I'll bag one or two in the wilds, to start off with.
I am going to be killed for what I wrote last night, but it was fun, and it was the way the fic played out in my head. A minor Gerry Anderson nod. Trust me, you'll know it when you see it. :P
Was annoyed this morning. There I was, in my very limited quiet time on the bus, thinking of more Billy and Alan plot, okay, they were smooching again, okay? But this guy keeps getting on, keeps sitting right up next to me no matter where I try to hide and plays his tinny radio at full volume on some right wing radio talk back show, shattering my morning peace. Arrrgh.
So, I didn't get far with the Alan and Billy thoughts for this morning. Damn it all, I want to finish at least one fic.
Tee hee. I've got them screaming, crying and begging for mercy over at the Colin photo list. Heh. Is it my fault they only print really, really, really gay-boy pictures of Colin here? Snigger.
Ah, the demographic that dare not speak its name.
Snort. You know you're really showing the effects of eight hours sleep - over three nights - when a fic typo replacing the o for an i in shot turns a tense scene into something amusingly scatalogical. Worse, you start thinking of things like Jurassic Park meets Mansfield Park (I don't fancy Henry's chances, myself) or Alan and Billy in a remake of One of Our Dinosaurs is Missing. Oh, bloody hell, I could, you know. Titter.
Sex sex sex, the number of the beast: still waiting for my copy of Omen III to arrive. You'd think a Kiwi would go out of his way to avoid a flick where there's a good chance the numbers 666 will show up in the script, but that's Our Sam, always up for a challenge. And if you don't know why that's hysterically funny, perhaps this snippet from the Herald (Column Eight, 23 July 2003) will clue you in:
- Found in the Mosman Daily: Seal-A-Fridge mobile service is available sex days a week and offers a 12- month guarantee. "Is this," asks a reader, "an NZ firm or is it offering more than just repairs?"