Another Week in the Salt Mines
May. 21st, 2007 10:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowMy job is actually not that tedious - nor is it hazardous to my health. It is occasionally boring, frustrating and repetetive, but also occasionally hilarious, as are my slew of students and my client. However, spending 10 hours working yesterday did not make me terribly interested in coming to work this morning. No real surprise there.
Busy weekend, and weird, but good. Weird and good enough that by the time I got home last night at 10:30 p.m., I was wired and teary and giddy because NPR had just played "Leopardskin Pillbox Hat" out of nowhere, and you never hear that out of nowhere and it just seemed to top off the weekend. I was terribly overstimulated by then, so they dazedness and the decision to watch The Omen can be excused (there's no excuse for the movie, which despite wasting the talents of many pretty and talented people is still pretty creepy, and also very much not good).
Plus, I have shoes with sheep on them. Beautiful blue and grey Converse with many grey sheep and one pink and black sheep (there are actually 56 sheep, and yes, I counted them) and I could not love the sheep shoes more. And we watched The Player at Hollywood Forever, which is the perfect place to see it with the May-clouded night sky and the palm trees lit up against the skyline and the police helicopter circling overhead and the wet grass and cool night and yeah. Good weekend.
This article by Robert Lloyd from The L.A. Times is actually quite a nice tribute to saying goodbye to beloved television characters when the show ends, and it's one of the few that doesn't condemn fan fic or make it seem like anything... sort of fetid and odd, but more of a tribute which is nice. Although, a little surreal that the L.A. Times is so happily talking about fic.
ETA: Since you have to be registered, apparently, to read the article, here's the section on fic:
It's not that we can't live without them, our fictional friends — in the end, it's that they can't live without us. Thus your fan fiction, or fanfic, a kind of open-source, Wiki-like literary form wherein cherished characters of departed shows — and shows still running, for that matter — live on in fan-penned extracurricular adventures. (And not just the obvious candidates, such as Scully and Mulder, or Buffy and Angel. There is "Green Acres" fan fiction, "Seinfeld" fan fiction, even Muppet fanfic.)
More ambitious and strange, the reanimated corpse of "Star Trek" features in several homemade live-action, Web-based series, including the remarkably elaborate "Star Trek New Voyages," which aims to conclude the five-year mission of the original Starship Enterprise. "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" also continues in similar posthumous form. But we know from "Buffy" itself that there is a big difference between the undead and the truly living.
I too have lost shows dear to me. I have shaken my fist at an industry that seems to care only about what sells and not about selling what matters. Yet I want to say to those now bereaved or about to be that it will be all right. There is no shame in a short life lived with dignity and art — my one-season-only "Freaks and Geeks" and "Wonderfalls" DVD sets, each perfectly complete in its way, attest to that. You will find some new show to love, and if you don't, there's a world beyond TV you might like to explore.
Speaking of which, here are the drabble requests commissioned last week out of my glee at beating the man.I offer drabble-sized drabbles (this, compiled with the fact that I've worn a bra three days in a row, actually wore socks with my new shoes, and the last three times I've seen![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
iamsab she's had on socks that matched each other may signal the coming apocalypse. If so, all I can say is "It's not my fault." You can quote me on that.)
kazbaby wanted Crichton doing a strip tease (circumstances I'll leave to you).
He's got mud in places he didn't think mud could get, and now what he's got is dirt that's hardened into cement squeezing at delicate places as it contracts. Zhaan's rubbing at the cement with all of her salve and promises that by the time he gets back to his quarters (and please god, to a working shower because the virus that Moya's been fighting off is playing havoc with the hot and cold running water and this morning was hot and cold running snot and John would sell his left nut, and possibly his right for a shower) the stuff will loosen enough for him to get his clothes off.
20 minutes later and he gives in, coms Aeryn because there's certain things you don't share with your best buddy, and there are other things you just NEVER share with Chiana and Zhaan's currently figuring out how to get mud off Rygel, which John doesn't envy either.
She takes her sweet time, and when she gets there, he realizes his plight is not a mystery because her mouth keeps twitching and finally, she just starts to laugh.
"Laugh it up," he growls, and quickly swallows the fuzzball because Star Wars is a touchy subject with everyone since the great Han Solo/Chewbacca/Princess Leia debate.
"Raise your arms," she orders, and he resents her in her beauty and laughter and mudfreeness.
"I can't," he says, sounding peevish.
"I wonder if the laser saw..." she muses, and he yells now and she giggles, GIGGLES, again.
"Relax," she says, and if he didn't know better, he'd think she swatted him on the ass.
She's got a pair of shears the size of a Buick and she clips through the back of his shirt, clips the shoulders all along the seams. At the same time, he hears a sucking sound and his pants magically start to unadhere from his skin.
As he undoes his pants, Aeryn peels his shirt off like an orange until he's filthy and naked in front of her save for his boxers.
She smiles at him, at the dirt streaking his body, maybe at something else, and it's a different kind of smile.
"Wanna help me get clean?" he says, and his blood beats hard in his throat.
She smiles again, sultry, an infinite variety of smiles this woman has, and goes to close the privacy curtain.
***
haphazardmethod wanted a celebratory Toby Ziegler.
"Toby, are you drunk?"
Josh stands in his doorway while Toby smacks his fist hard onto the desk and does a little wiggle with his hips.
"I am intoxicated with victory," he says to Josh, and doesn't look his way, staring instead at the group of men in white pants hugging each other in an orgiastic dance on the television.
"Seriously?" Josh asks, hands in his pockets because he knows he doesn't get sports but there are very few things that baffle Josh and Toby Ziegler with a grin on his face may be one of those things.
"I have had one beer, or maybe two. Or maybe more."
"Seriously?" Josh says again, because he doesn't know what else to say, and he backs up a step when Toby turns to face him because there's the light of the zeolot in his eyes.
"There are two constants in my life," Toby says, with that firm precision that in other men would be prissy and with Toby is just a step away from I'd hit you for the stupid but I'm a better man than that. "My team frequently wins, and my candidates frequently lose. Current administration not withstanding."
"That's not much of a constant," Josh says, and takes another step back.
"It's enough," Toby says, watches the Yankees continue to squeeze and grope and knock at each other with the force of their victorious bodies.
"Congratulations," Josh says, and Toby waves him away.
Busy weekend, and weird, but good. Weird and good enough that by the time I got home last night at 10:30 p.m., I was wired and teary and giddy because NPR had just played "Leopardskin Pillbox Hat" out of nowhere, and you never hear that out of nowhere and it just seemed to top off the weekend. I was terribly overstimulated by then, so they dazedness and the decision to watch The Omen can be excused (there's no excuse for the movie, which despite wasting the talents of many pretty and talented people is still pretty creepy, and also very much not good).
Plus, I have shoes with sheep on them. Beautiful blue and grey Converse with many grey sheep and one pink and black sheep (there are actually 56 sheep, and yes, I counted them) and I could not love the sheep shoes more. And we watched The Player at Hollywood Forever, which is the perfect place to see it with the May-clouded night sky and the palm trees lit up against the skyline and the police helicopter circling overhead and the wet grass and cool night and yeah. Good weekend.
This article by Robert Lloyd from The L.A. Times is actually quite a nice tribute to saying goodbye to beloved television characters when the show ends, and it's one of the few that doesn't condemn fan fic or make it seem like anything... sort of fetid and odd, but more of a tribute which is nice. Although, a little surreal that the L.A. Times is so happily talking about fic.
ETA: Since you have to be registered, apparently, to read the article, here's the section on fic:
It's not that we can't live without them, our fictional friends — in the end, it's that they can't live without us. Thus your fan fiction, or fanfic, a kind of open-source, Wiki-like literary form wherein cherished characters of departed shows — and shows still running, for that matter — live on in fan-penned extracurricular adventures. (And not just the obvious candidates, such as Scully and Mulder, or Buffy and Angel. There is "Green Acres" fan fiction, "Seinfeld" fan fiction, even Muppet fanfic.)
More ambitious and strange, the reanimated corpse of "Star Trek" features in several homemade live-action, Web-based series, including the remarkably elaborate "Star Trek New Voyages," which aims to conclude the five-year mission of the original Starship Enterprise. "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" also continues in similar posthumous form. But we know from "Buffy" itself that there is a big difference between the undead and the truly living.
I too have lost shows dear to me. I have shaken my fist at an industry that seems to care only about what sells and not about selling what matters. Yet I want to say to those now bereaved or about to be that it will be all right. There is no shame in a short life lived with dignity and art — my one-season-only "Freaks and Geeks" and "Wonderfalls" DVD sets, each perfectly complete in its way, attest to that. You will find some new show to love, and if you don't, there's a world beyond TV you might like to explore.
Speaking of which, here are the drabble requests commissioned last week out of my glee at beating the man.I offer drabble-sized drabbles (this, compiled with the fact that I've worn a bra three days in a row, actually wore socks with my new shoes, and the last three times I've seen
iamsab she's had on socks that matched each other may signal the coming apocalypse. If so, all I can say is "It's not my fault." You can quote me on that.)kazbaby wanted Crichton doing a strip tease (circumstances I'll leave to you).He's got mud in places he didn't think mud could get, and now what he's got is dirt that's hardened into cement squeezing at delicate places as it contracts. Zhaan's rubbing at the cement with all of her salve and promises that by the time he gets back to his quarters (and please god, to a working shower because the virus that Moya's been fighting off is playing havoc with the hot and cold running water and this morning was hot and cold running snot and John would sell his left nut, and possibly his right for a shower) the stuff will loosen enough for him to get his clothes off.
20 minutes later and he gives in, coms Aeryn because there's certain things you don't share with your best buddy, and there are other things you just NEVER share with Chiana and Zhaan's currently figuring out how to get mud off Rygel, which John doesn't envy either.
She takes her sweet time, and when she gets there, he realizes his plight is not a mystery because her mouth keeps twitching and finally, she just starts to laugh.
"Laugh it up," he growls, and quickly swallows the fuzzball because Star Wars is a touchy subject with everyone since the great Han Solo/Chewbacca/Princess Leia debate.
"Raise your arms," she orders, and he resents her in her beauty and laughter and mudfreeness.
"I can't," he says, sounding peevish.
"I wonder if the laser saw..." she muses, and he yells now and she giggles, GIGGLES, again.
"Relax," she says, and if he didn't know better, he'd think she swatted him on the ass.
She's got a pair of shears the size of a Buick and she clips through the back of his shirt, clips the shoulders all along the seams. At the same time, he hears a sucking sound and his pants magically start to unadhere from his skin.
As he undoes his pants, Aeryn peels his shirt off like an orange until he's filthy and naked in front of her save for his boxers.
She smiles at him, at the dirt streaking his body, maybe at something else, and it's a different kind of smile.
"Wanna help me get clean?" he says, and his blood beats hard in his throat.
She smiles again, sultry, an infinite variety of smiles this woman has, and goes to close the privacy curtain.
***
haphazardmethod wanted a celebratory Toby Ziegler."Toby, are you drunk?"
Josh stands in his doorway while Toby smacks his fist hard onto the desk and does a little wiggle with his hips.
"I am intoxicated with victory," he says to Josh, and doesn't look his way, staring instead at the group of men in white pants hugging each other in an orgiastic dance on the television.
"Seriously?" Josh asks, hands in his pockets because he knows he doesn't get sports but there are very few things that baffle Josh and Toby Ziegler with a grin on his face may be one of those things.
"I have had one beer, or maybe two. Or maybe more."
"Seriously?" Josh says again, because he doesn't know what else to say, and he backs up a step when Toby turns to face him because there's the light of the zeolot in his eyes.
"There are two constants in my life," Toby says, with that firm precision that in other men would be prissy and with Toby is just a step away from I'd hit you for the stupid but I'm a better man than that. "My team frequently wins, and my candidates frequently lose. Current administration not withstanding."
"That's not much of a constant," Josh says, and takes another step back.
"It's enough," Toby says, watches the Yankees continue to squeeze and grope and knock at each other with the force of their victorious bodies.
"Congratulations," Josh says, and Toby waves him away.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-05-21 06:49 pm (UTC)Bwhahaha! This was fun! Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2007-05-21 06:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-21 07:19 pm (UTC)Oh that was cute as hell. Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2007-05-21 07:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-21 07:41 pm (UTC)Also, 56 sheep. You counted. ::loves::
no subject
Date: 2007-05-21 07:51 pm (UTC)And I totally counted them! (Except I just realized that I forgot to count the big sheep inside the shoe, so that makes 57!)
no subject
Date: 2007-05-21 07:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-21 08:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-21 08:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-21 08:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-21 09:46 pm (UTC)thank you for posting the snippet. and ack that you had to work yesterday. *hugs*
and bwahaha! poor john. also, i adore this with a passion: ""Laugh it up," he growls, and quickly swallows the fuzzball because Star Wars is a touchy subject with everyone since the great Han Solo/Chewbacca/Princess Leia debate."
no subject
Date: 2007-05-21 09:49 pm (UTC)