Welcome to Fantasy Friday! Every week, you are invited to write and post anything having to do with fantasy, science fiction, etc., right here in the comments: like what’s going on in that weird Battlestar Galactica Last Supper picture, why the Jack/Gwen madness on Torchwood is so damn annoying (or so damn hot), your unbridled opinion on whether online fiction markets are statistically insignificant on “Best Of” lists, or anything else.
At 5 p.m. PST today, if we’ve got at least ten participants, we’ll choose the day’s most entertaining writer and PayPal them $10 on the spot. Go start your weekend off with a cold one on us! (Minors, make that a couple of hot chocolates.)
The Jack/Gwen madness is so damned annoying because it didn’t exist in the first season. They totally tacked on the sexual tension in season 2, without laying any groundwork for it. They had firmly established Gwen with Reese(dunno if that’s the right spelling) and so there was never any doubt about who she would end up with.
The stupid wedding pregnancy episode though? That has Russell T. Davies written allll over it.
I must admit, I am afraid to watch it. haven’t even downloaded it. All I can see in my future is a lot of teeth gnashing.
I’ll skip it and watch episode 10, instead.
Wow, just checked out the Battlestar Galactica picture. Yep. Weird. Either the art directors of that shot are being too obvious, ironic, or pretentious.
Or, there is a fourth option. The cast of Battlestar is huge, so they very well couldn’t pick just a few people for their original concept. That’s right, a reenactment of the album cover art for U2′s “The Joshua Tree.”
The other choice was a reproduction of the cover of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, which would have worked great considering all the cylon copies they have running around of main characters.
It was then that Sci-Fi execs were notified that the cylons are actually a special effect and one of the more costly parts of the show. Sgt. Peppers and the Joshua Tree shots were scrapped for this concept. Luckily a custodian was vacuuming under a couch in the offices for “Mangator II: Run Silent Run Deep” and came across an unread copy of “The Davinci Code”.
“THAT’S IT!” exclaimed studio execs. What a cool picture! We can have the hot blonde as Dan Brown!
“Uh, sir,” replied another exec, “I think that’s Leonardo DiCaprio in the middle. That’s why it’s called the “DiCaprio Code.”
“Whatever. It’s cool looking!”
“Jesus,” muttered an intern.
“What’s your problem?”
“It’s Jesus.”
“Okay, what’s your problemo, Jesus?”
“The guy in the painting. In the middle. It’s Jesus. Not Dan Brown. Not Leonardo DiCaprio, or Davinci. It’s Jesus. The painting is ‘The Last Supper’.”
“What, like from the Bible?” said one of the producers. “People might get a little weirded out that Battlestar Galactica is being presented with religious overtones.”
The intern (known from then on as Jesus) uttered a frustrated sigh and buried his face in his hands. “Yeah, it’s way cooler than Bono.”
The rest is photographic history.
Does this qualify? It’s not exactly science fiction, but it’s scary!
You could say that I have a very good relationship with my son. Unlike my teenage daughter who is secretive to a fault, he’s always talked to me frankly about many things. He knows how I react (usually there’s no reaction, I have to play it cool), so he enjoys bouncing things off me. Sometimes he makes stuff up just to cause a reaction. He gets that from his dad’s side of the family. Sometimes the topics are things I’d rather not know about, but I listen anyway.
I received an email from this 20-year-old college son today. It was just two sentences. I wish I could describe it, but my inner decorum won’t allow me, so I will reproduce the entire email here:
“So Mai [his girlfriend] takes a dump 1 time every 4 days. Any suggestions on how we can get things movin in there?”
My first reaction after laughing my ass off (thank you, son, for bringing some levity into my otherwise drab and morbidly morose existence) was “what the f***? Shouldn’t you be practicing?”
My second reaction was “Oh, my God!”
That’s because he takes after his father. If you read some of my other posts, you’d know what I am talking about. My husband can talk poo ad nauseaum. (And believe me, I’m pretty nauseous if I allow him to do so.) Me, if it leaves my body and I flush it down, that’s it. I don’t wave farewell; I don’t deliver eulogies; I don’t review the size, texture or color; I don’t look back. The rest of the family is an entirely different story.
While my son and his girlfriend were here for Christmas, he and his dad tried valiantly to suck me into a poo-laden conversation. I refused to participate, except to say that I’m regular. I regularly do it every day. In fact, I regularly do it every morning right after my one cup of coffee. My regularity is of the atomic clock-setting variety.
My son, as well, is regularly regular. On the other hand, my husband is totally irregular. A week or so may elapse before he goes. This just occurred last week. Since I don’t keep track, I didn’t realize this was the problem until I made a comment on how big his stomach was getting. The reason this was noticeable is because the rest of him is thin. Mr. D’s reply was “well, I haven’t taken a dump in a week!” to which I replied, “EWW! Don’t tell me!”
Back to the email: I don’t know what to tell the young man. His girlfriend is a vegetarian, so she gets plenty of roughage. My husband eats twigs and bark for breakfast, so he gets plenty of fiber too. Both my son and I are carnivores who detest cereal made from twigs and bark, so what does that tell you?
I’m thinking about not answering that email at all. I don’t want to become swallowed whole into the vortex that is poo-talk.
>“THAT’S IT!” exclaimed studio execs. What a cool picture! We can have the hot blonde as Dan Brown!
>“Uh, sir,” replied another exec, “I think that’s Leonardo DiCaprio in the middle. That’s why it’s called the “DiCaprio Code.”
>“Whatever. It’s cool looking!”
>“Jesus,” muttered an intern.
>“What’s your problem?”
>“It’s Jesus.”
Waaaaaaiiit a sec.
If Number Six is Dan Br … er, I mean if Number Six is Jesus Christ (not to be mistaken for Jaysus, because that’s a different person entirely … but that’s another story), then does that mean Gaius Baltar is Mary Magdalene?
A-HA! Another look at the photo reveals that Gaius Baltar is, indeed, occupying the seat that some conspiracy theorists insist is simultaneously occupied by the apostle John AND Mary Magdalene.
And if you were to work off of the theory that Mary Magadalene was the transgendered identity of the Apostle John (or was that the other way around?), then you can only conclude…
GASP!
GAIUS BALTAR IS ACTUALLY A WOMAN!
Or was.
Or will be. Or will be again. (What do we really know about Baltar’s past life before the bombs started falling, eh? I’m going to start borrowing the Season 2.5 DVDs from the library soon — I know, I’m behind — so I can gather more clues. I’m sure my preconceived notions won’t bias my findings.)
Speaking of conspiracy theories like this, I already know that the Cylons are spying on me. And now that I know the Truth(tm), I’m in even more danger now.
So I should probably avoid public restrooms entirely.
Why, you ask?
Just click on the following link and tell me if you think the Sloan Flushometer looks a little suspicious…
http://www.sloanvalve.com/index_2373_ENU_HTML.htm
The Battlestar picture reminds me of an LJ icon my roommate sent me a while ago.
But that’s neither here nor there. I wanted to post about insulation.
Because of the recent wave of nice weather up here, my building’s Powers-That-Be have all but shut off the heat. It’s been really lovely in the afternoons, but when the sun goes down, it’s still freezing out there.
Last week I came in from a late-night rehearsal and the room was, yes, cold. I also noticed a distinct draft coming in at the windows, which I wrestled with for a bit to make sure they were all the way closed. They were. Luckily enough, I work at a company that provides me with free insulation and I had enough to do the job, so I plugged up both my windows good and tight (one, two) . I swear it’s working — I don’t feel that chilly aura in the area around the windows — all I have to do now is keep my roommates from borrowing! Plus it frees up space where I was piling it all to, um, pile more stuff. Like…back-up insulation.
Some days I love my job.
I have no opinion on the new season of Torchwood, since I am cable-challenged and won’t get to see it until it hits DVD.
But my novel, Mad Kestrel (http://www.tor-forge.com/madkestrel), was released Tuesday! And it’s a fantasy – does that count?
Fall Collection
He patted the clothes in their bags. They were spectacular. Memorable. Definitive. He’d lost, but his collection had served its purpose. He knew now, it wasn’t time to tell yet.
The voice from the dark was soft. “So it’s no?”
He turned, smiled sadly. “Not yet, at least. These particular judges say no.”
“We’ll try again.” His muse, his inspiration, floated into the light. At first look, someone would have thought her a model, wearing a look from his collection. But the tufts of hair, the intricate patterning, the “chain mail”—they were her species’ markings.
And they were fabulous.
Congrats Misty!
Rexfelis, assassin lord of the highest level, chose a black Robe of Protection and a black Hood of Sight. He jumped out the window, snagging the ledge as he fell, and scrambled down the wall to the courtyard.
The dwarves and drow bubbled up from the lands beneath the surface and stood blinking in the sunlight.
Kandara, sorceress apprentice, informed her coven she would not be in today.
When the Iron-oak totems had burned completely down to blue-glowing ingots, Keeslar the Barbarian poured ale over them to take the sizzle off and dropped them in his pack. He took the trail toward the edge of the Unnamed Forest.
The High Servant of the Moon God left her own congregation, and trotted down the mountain on the back of her armored cavebear. Her tears flew out behind her.
The paladin let his head fall into his hands and called for his mount.
The sirens wept on the shoreline.
The man shelved his books and swept his dice into the beer stein where they lived year-round now.
They had a funeral to attend.
J. T. looked around and didn’t like what he saw. He was in some sort of ultramodern room with strange, flashy gadgetry—exactly the kind of thing he hated. The place was a mess on top of it, with clothes strewn all over and what looked like a week-old sandwich languishing on a chair. If he was somehow brought back to the world of the living by this idiot with unkempt curly hair and glasses, at least the fellow could have chosen a beautiful field in the English countryside rather than a stinking hellhole filled with diabolical machines. To mitigate the insult a little, there was a poster with his name and likeness on the wall. Another poster featured a Hobbit.
“Welcome, Master,” the young man greeted him in a deeply reverent voice and bowed.
“What the bloody hell is going on?” J.T. demanded. How did you get me back here? I’m supposed to be dead. In Heaven too, mind you, as a good Catholic would.”
The young man threw an apologetic glance at the pentagram he had drawn on the ground.
“I was just messing around, sir, trying to get some inspiration—I didn’t think it would work…”
J.T. snorted. “It doesn’t. You must have done something else too.”
“Well, I really wished you were here…. I need some help.”
“Help with what? What in God’s name is this thing?” J.T. asked as the young man led him to one of the contraptions with a keyboard and a screen.
“It’s a laptop computer, sir. I need you to help me write something.”
“Computer? This tiny thing? And you can write on it? I thought computers were for calculations.”
The young man touched a key on the machine and the screen came on. It had some writing on it.
“Blog? What’s a blog?” J.T. asked, reading the first word. “Some kind of swamp-dwelling goblin that’s stealing young men’s brains these days?”
“No, sir, it’s a website … er … a place where you can write things, sort of like a magazine. This one has a contest, and I need you to help me win it. I’ve been trying for many weeks now….
“‘Blog for a beer’? Is that what you would win? You’ve brought me back to help you win a bloody beer?” J.T. wasn’t amused.
“It’s $10, sir. We could both have a beer. Or two.”
“Hmm,” J.T. considered. “Well, this might be worth my time after all. You know, the song is right—in Heaven there is no beer…” Now let’s see what you have here. Oh, no, no, no! This key can delete things? Well, isn’t that a good idea.”
And the Master started typing furiously.
Last supper references always make me think of Eddie Izzard (at least in the two weeks since I saw one of his routine’s on comedy central).
(Bad paraphrasing to follow)
God: Well, what did you say at this meal?
Jesus: Well, I said drinketh of this wine, for it is my blood.
God: What? You can’t do that. That’s vampirism! You can’t introduce vampirism into the foundation of our new religion! What else did you tell them?
Jesus: Well, I said eateth of this bread it is my f… my favorite. Yes it was very good bread.
Oooh! I have a suggestion for the March 21 blog–holidays! In honor of Good Friday/Easter, Benito Juarez’s Birthday, and Purim and whatever else is coming up, I wonder what crazy holiday fiction we’d see.
It’s all in the drinks on the table, people . . .
Tigh’s ready to whip Lee’s ass over the Holy Grail between them. I mean, come the frak on, Tigh would get to (1) have some alcohol and (2) be totally absolved of said alcohol consumption due to its sacremental nature, the gods be praised! That, and he’s totally rockin’ the whole “Hey, with this eye patch I look more like an allusion to Odin, Nordic war god, than a pirate” motif.
Now, Gaius. Hmmmmm. Way I see it, he’s so frakked up he doesn’t know whether his glass is half-empty, half-full, who’s doing the pouring, or whether there actually is a glass, let alone the water, which may or may not have been harvested waaaaaaaaay back in Season One.
Ah, yes, we have Starbuck and Anders. Hell, they could probably care less about that looks-to-be full glass of water by Anders’s elbow. Starbuck should punch Anders in the face, pour the water over her head and torso, grab him by the hair, and tell him to quit with the gallant, gentle crap.
Oh, and if you print out a copy of the photo and do the whole Mad Magazine fold-in cover trick, the BSG Last Supper turns into a faux Harlequin Romance cover with Laura gently pecking Adama’s rugged cheek, but she’s got that match/incense stick thing still, and it’s about to burn Adama’s hand, but he doesn’t give a rat’s ass because he’s _tough_. And he likes it rough anyway, and that’s what Laura’s really banking on.
Just sayin’.
Homework Time
“Mom, do you know where the transporter is? I have to do my homework.”
“It’s right here. Get that homework done so we can go out for Family Night, Gary.”
“Hey Mom, do you know what will help best for my essay on U.S. History?”
“Well that depends. What part of U.S. History? What’s the essay?”
“The civil rights movement and how it applies to the problems we have today. You know, the prejudice against the Kalikanians that have immigrated to Earth.”
“Try putting in Martin Luther King, Jr. When he pops in, tell him you want to know how he was able to mobilize people to stand up for their rights. What did it take? You might get some insight into what the Kalikanians need to do to succeed. Then you can put in Rosa Parks. When she appears, see if she can give you an idea of how the Kalikanians feel when they have to ride on the bottom level of the skyway capsule. Make sure you offer a refreshment when they pop in. I just made a pitcher of lemonade. If you need more help, let me know and I’ll give you some more names.”
“Cool Mom. Thanks for helping!”
“And Gary, when they give you the info you need, be sure to thank them before releasing them and calling up another person on the transporter. We always have to remember our manners!”
“Yeeesss Mom.”
An editor just told me the story they rejected stole a plotline from Torchwood. This stings doubly, as fingers crossed and hope to die, I’ve only ever seen half of one episode of Torchwood (the one with Spike from Buffy). So now I need to figure out which episode it is…can you people help?
A socially ostracised, young, gender non-specific person with obesity issues signs-up for a social networking site that connects followers of the occult with aspiring dark lords and masters: http://www.Cthul-YOU.com At first thinking the site is fake, said youth becomes a follower of the mysterious Mark. Quitting their job at BurgerBoy the fat kid travels to meet Mark for the first time, only to discover that their new dark lord and master is a spoilt twelve year old kid from the suburbs. The whole things has been a cruel prank, or so the fat kid thinks, until Mark issues his first evil order…
Ring any bells with Torchwood fans out there?
Berry, I think you made Al Jaffee proud.
Woo-hoo! Second place! I just got my prize for second place/honorable mention/whatever from last week. How 35 bucks worth of magazines qualifies as second is beyond me, but I’LL TAKE IT.
Congrats, John O! Good to hear what people get out of this!
John O, that rocks!
Clint, thanks. Those fold-ins were the first thing I’d read and manipulate whenever I got a new issue of Mad. The second thing was the latest installment of Spy v. Spy.
And, Clint, I loved the intern in your post being called Jesus. Isn’t that the way office hijinks goes ofttimes?
Holy smokes, John. That’s one helluva second place.
Thanks, Berry. I used to devour those MAD magazines too (in a metaphorical sense). Beginning with the fold-in and going all the way to the tiny cartoons in the margins.
It’s probably made me the warped and sad little person I am today.
Now THERE’s a story, Clint! Man devours MAD magazine and becomes the characters.
You know you are what you eat, don’t you?
Damien – I must say that does not ring ANY bells at all, and I have seen every episode of Torchwood except the most recent. methinks said editor is on crack.
All right, it seems time to declare a winner. Although we throughly Aniko’s zombie offering, we particularly Clint Harris’ hilarious explanation of how the BSG picture came to be. We also can’t ignore Berry’s Holy Grail exegesis. So we’re awarding the grand prize to Clint and a special second place prize to Berry. Check your email, guys!
w00t!
Thanks for the vote of confidence. All around, the entries were enjoyable. Props to Aniko–I really got a kick out of that one.
So, Clint, my fellow ASFM forumite, who ya gonna poor some out for???
Awesome! Thank you very much! There were some truly excellent posts. I feel fortunate to rub e-lbows with this crew.
Problem is this: my email is possessed and hates me. It reads my mail and screens it like I was an inmate at Levenworth.
Could you please resend the email to wendigomt(AT)yahoo.com?
It’s not as particular in what it will actually let me see. The other one just about cost me my recent sale at Coyote Wild for the same reason, but somehow it thinks it’s more important to send me info on erectile dysfunction and online lotteries.
I’m not blowing anyone off, it’s just my other email sucks and I never got the message.
Thanks again! Congrats Berry! This one goes out to our fallen homies. Rollin’ twenties and bustin’ caps.
*in best Ice Cube voice*
Yay-yayee!
Congrats to the winners and thanks for the mention.
I just checked out the Battlestar Galactica picture to see what Clint was talking about… Wow. I’m surprised there’s been no fuss about it yet, no cries of high blasphemy. Or has there?
Or have there?
(The cries of blasphemy inserted themselves post hoc.)
There was blasphemy? And I missed it?
My work email server finally let the message through. Thanks again!