I was a very good girl and posted another bit of my fic this morning (and a big wave to S. who's feeling poorly today). Today we actually got up to the scene that started the whole damn thing. It was not, as you might have thought, inspired by an over indulgence in the Lost World, et al. That came later. It began as a serious study into the tribe of the week and it was inspired by various Discovery travelogues.
The birdwatching scene, which was orginally entirely different, was inspired by Stephen Maturin and his ability to put scientific curiousity above all other concerns, especially the military/security concerns of his dear friend Jack, and his own personal safety, as Stephen is always falling off boats, getting lost and stranded, etc. He will also sample any local whacky weed going, all in the name of science you understand.
Yes, Stephen was based on our own Joey Banks, but it occured to me that there is the slightest resemblence in behaviours. Do Stephen and Jack remind you of any one, especially in the science versus navy arguments?
Alas, my proper, serious fic stalled, so now we have this muddling farce of skeleton men and dinosaurs. Oh well...
I was also amused that, as a dear reader pointed out, my JP3 fic skewered PR departments rather savagely. It wasn't actually part of the mission brief for the fic, it just sort of fell into the fic along the way. It's the first time vocational merde has bled through into my fic so overtly. I mean, I've had my vocational merde show up in other people's projects (strange but true), but rarely my own.
Rehashing relationship merde though, that's all my own, especially if we've got one long suffering, stalwart but true partner and the other is a passive aggressive, lying, cheating, stealing, manipulative, sociopathic, deeply disturbed slutty little prick. Ahem.
(The above might sound harsh, but if you've ever had to get tested because your partner couldn't keep it zipped, well, you may come to understand that blog venom barely covers it.)
Yes, it's one thing I've learnt and learnt hard: even though people say my stuff is just stuff and who cares and who am I to be so precious about such things, I've learnt that these are the people I should avoid like the plague. I'm sure they lead happier and more productive lives than mine, but I've found that people who don't treat my stuff (books, tapes, cds etc) with due care and respect also tend to treat me as just so much disposable junk, too.
People who wipe their hands on the back of their jeans before flipping through an expensive and rare book/magazine/comic - these are the people I want in my life. These people know respect, care and value.
Or, quite simply: love me, love my MacGyver tapes.
Why are the best songs about Australian Summers written London during Winter?
Yesterday the rain I'd asked for duly arrived, only I should have been more specific about the time and the place. The cold, driving sleety downpour was indeed perfect silver goodies viewing weather, only I wasn't meant to be out in it, enduring another grocery death march (ie a 40 minute walk laden with a great many heavy and insanely awkward groceries uphill in the driving rain). Not fun. I actually caught quite a chill so there was tv viewing for the rest of the day as I miserably shivered and sneezed.
The day started with Farscape, and obviously no breakfast as Farscape turned the gross out factor up to 11 again. Ewwww.
My evening was spent watching Hamish McBeth (Wee Jock's Lament), the pilot of Tru Calling, which is indeed a mess of Crossing Jordan, Without a Trace and Early Edition. The acting was, with one exception, really, really bad. The exception was Callum Keith Rennie who did his usual turn as glaring and violent alleged nut job - the only highlight.
Then it was Buffy, Roswell and Doctor Who. They always promise terrifying monsters but deliver rock climbing instead, and we're talking MST3K rockclimbing here. "Go ahead, take your time," snarks Bro "There are only two channels." Meanwhile the auld bastard fiddles with a needlessly complicated and time consuming way of short circuiting the Dalek city while I sit there screaming to just hack the freaking cable. One good axe blow would do the job, but not fill in fifteen minutes of dead air, obviously.
More Buffy and Angel then Without a Trace. Yep, a couple of months in and EvilChannelNine finally decides to screen the pilot, but cut out all, and I mean all, the Eric Close scenes at the end. Those wails you heard last night was me, railing against the injustice of it all. Fortunately I have this eppie so I've seen the version with Martin in it.
On to Reilly and it's Eric Close who? as Sam smoulders and scowls and ruthlessly duds people left, right and centre. Wicked, wicked Reilly. I see they're still blaming the dinosaur theft in Newcastle not on the thieves or incredibly lax museum security, but on Sam, because it's widely thought Jurassic Park inspired the theft. Yep, all the world's ills can be no doubt traced to Sam (cough). I wonder what other Sam projects could inspire suitably themed wickedness?
Never mind. Sam. Reilly. Phwoar.
Next up it was a buddy episode of Enterprise, with Trip as ever playing third wheel, the poor guy, whether in the present or the flashbacks. There was lots of Vulcan bashing though, so that was amusing.