Monday 22 June 2009

Incredible adventures



The Incredible Adventures of iPhone Dax (or How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love Her Resourcefulness)

Granted, I might have been several more than three sheets to the wind (see: Encyclopaedia Of Life, entry on Being Totally Fucking Hammered, page 42). And iPhone Dax is usually glued to either hand or my pocket during my waking hours, pisht or not. But when I woke up with a hangover registering 8.6 on the Just Let Me Curl Up And Fucking Die scale, I admit it took me nearly half an hour to realise my partner in crime was nowhere to be seen.

As the Hitchhiker’s Guide teaches us, it’s always important that you DON’T PANIC.

So I didn’t. Considering I was fucking mardy as all hell that something was not measuring up to my personal definition of playing fair (see: Encyclopaedia Of Life, entry on Not Needing To Be Kicked When Vulnerable, page 23), I think I displayed the self-restraint of an aged Vulcan by not going off on one during the increasingly frantic search of my weeny flat.

Sitting down in the world’s most comfortable chair with a laaaaarge cuppa tea, things looked more manageable. I was remembering fragments of the night/morning before I woke up. iPhone Dax in my hand. iPhone Dax in my pocket. Me checking she was still there as I left the taxi. Me stopping to Tweet someone at the door to my flat, cos there’s no net reception in the foyer or lift. Dax in my front pocket as I stumble into my bedroom.

Sigh of relief as I realise she’s got to be in the flat somewhere.

And then I hear it: that DING! of a text message. I heard it! She was definitely there somewhere… Jumping ont net, I mailed and Tweeted folks to ring me, and not stop ringing me till I answered. Plan? Plan.

She started ringing and I became convinced she was behind my bookcase. Except I’d already pulled that out and checked. She was ringing again, so I gave up second-guessing both myself and her and just pulled the bloody thing out again. It was then that I realised she was close but sure as vodka don’t freeze in my top compartment, the way I was going there was not going to be a cigar in it for me.

She must be behind the partition wall, I realised. So close, yet so far - as most things in life. I scrabbled round the other side, puzzled as fuck cos my bed is against that wall - and it’s a built-in bed. There was no physical way she could have been between the bed and wall, but it was the only option left. If there’s one thing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has taught me, it’s that once you’ve eliminated all the possibilities, whatever you’re left with, no matter how improbable, must be the solution.

So I wrenched and yanked and shifted and swore and groped. And, as I heard her ringing (Billy Squier’s Everybody Wants You - how’s that for irony?), I found out two things about the flat I’ve lived in for nearly a year.

One: there is, for some unknown reason, the weeniest gap between the bed frame and the wall, one that my wrist had trouble squeezing into AFTER I’d pulled it wider. Below this, as secret as Earth’s satelite Cruithne, is a depression that could pass for a sunken platform, approximately ten inches wide.

Two: under the flukiest of circumstances, should a small, flat item fall from, say, a pillow and arrange itself just so, it would be possible for it to insert itself in this sliver of space. Trapped inside the same miraculous bubble of crazily random happenstance, it could turn around and slide itself round to push itself into the hidden pocket of darkness.

And right there, ladies and gentlemen of all ages, is where I found iPhone Dax, lying there as if she hadn’t chosen to take herself off for some quiet reflection without some impatient human constantly playing with one or two of her apps at once.

We’ve had a chat, and I’ve conceded that I do need to give her more time to herself, to go exploring every now and again without me, and of course, time to dream. So I’ve agreed to turn her off for a few hours every day. In return, she’s agreed to tell me in advance when she plans to run off, Indiana Jones style, to have an awfully big adventure without me. Oh, and to let me know when she’s fucked off and just wants some time alone, so that I’m not a biscuit away from totally fucking losing it when I find her gone.

And so it goes…

Soopytwist, everyone.


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Tuesday 16 June 2009

Masks and general shite


Been a strange few days at work. Kids all arriving in face masks, having their temperatures tested and their hands sanitised. (Let’s skip over the inherent weakness in expecting kids’ hands to stay sanitised for longer than ten seconds.) Kids all moaning and fiddling with face masks the entire lesson, pretty much mauling them with the hands they’ve just used to rub their eyes (itchy from having hand sanitiser ground into them seconds after they slapped it on their grubby digits). They have to pull them down to speak, cos otherwise I can’t tell what the fuck they’re saying. They have to pull them down every time they need to drink from their little water bottles - cos it is rather hot out, and they’re only wee. So they wipe their mouths with their hands - the previously sanitised ones - and pull up the face mask again, and carry on.

Remind me why they’re supposed to be wearing masks again?

Honestly. I really don’t see the point. But hey, they have to wear them and I have to wear them. It gives them one more excuse to pretend they don’t know what I’m saying, which gives me a good excuse reason to make them do some fucking work, giving em short shrift. It’s killing me - no pun intended. It’s one thing to do it for one day, it’s another to do it for as long as the WHO thinks it’s necessary. I think we should just close down for two weeks and be done with it. But again, it’s not my place to say. So I’ll carry on going to work with 65% of the students just not turning up (in some cases, doing lessons with one kid in each lesson, which begs the question ‘Why can’t they just all come together for one lesson and then I could use the free periods to do some reports?’) and shout through the mask, and get shitty with kids deliberately trying to avoid understanding me. Great.

On a brighter note, ‘Burn Notice’ has been great these past two episodes of season three. I notice we’re getting more Sam Axe in the form of Bruce Campbell - do the writers realise that they broaden the appeal of the show if they give us more Bruce? Looks like it. And we still have Fee, so I’m happy. And Michael’s still Michael, so it’s all good…

Suffering without any new ‘Supernatural’. Keeping myself busy on old ‘Enterprise’ episodes and with the many fic challenges over at SPNVille.net. It’s all go, but doesn’t feel like it. Should get back in the gym, as all that went out the window just before my holiday in March/April. It’s now June and I still haven’t been back yet. Can you say ‘lazy fucker’?

Been spending a lot of time on Twitter recently - when you have Twitterfon on your iPhone it makes it kind of addictive. This week I have mostly been laughing my arse off at @GeneHunt and @BrentSpiner - and the whole story of @mishacollins and his Minions just gets funnier and funnier. And there are all the girls on the @hell_bus that mirror my own smutty thoughts before I can type them. Gotta get that MacSpeak thing I was thinking of buying... Oh wait, might get an iPhone 3G S first...

That shallot. Onion. Stuff to do. Soopytwist.

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Thursday 11 June 2009

Shopkeeper. Parte The Firste.


The First Visit.

I walk into the tiny shop, casting an appreciative eye over the masses of technical equipment: flash drives piled high in their plastic packaging as if they're much-used and unloved dinner plates, hard drives and external zip drives plonked down in tiny reproductions of either IFC 1 or 2 (it's hard to be sure). Keyboards hang from white wire racks, even the odd Apple Mighty Mouse peeks out from behind stacks of replacement laptop batteries - and then I see a curious configuration of monitors that's either Escher’s most drunken approximation of a straight line or Schrödinger’s particular brand of quantum physics holding up the local Space-Time Continuum.

It is a quaint, reassuringly worked-in kind of computer parts shop, and I'm glad I bothered to stop by. When I were a nipper, the room that had housed Dad’s workbench smelt of used solder and PCBs for large television sets. This place, in a Doctor Ten kind of way, smells of used PC tower casings and that metallic residue of said housings having been opened with a power-assisted screwdriver.

It's Dad’s old workbench, 2.0.

I'm still looking at the piles of flash drives, hypnotised by the thought of instant data transfer running through my head, when a tiny, elderly lady pops up from behind the clutter. Like a magic eye picture, what was once a hoard of spare computer parts turns into a slight woman who's looking at me like I've lost my R2 unit.

“DVDs?” she asks, and I have about half a second to realise: ‘That’s exactly what I wanted.’ I nod at her politely and she heaves a cardboard box of what seems to carry modems aside, to reveal an eclectic assortment of the aforementioned hardware.

I look around the shop, trying to think back: how did she know what I wanted? Was I gazing at what I thought were CDs when she saw me and divined what I was looking for? No - says the other me - I was taking in the organised chaos, I hadn’t even tripped over one item I had looked at for more than it took to realise what it had been. So then I have another half second to think to myself: is she lucky, psychic, or Derron Brown?

I buy the recordable DVDs. I leave the tiny shop. But I won’t forget the old woman.

And it won’t be the last time my money and her bank balance cross paths.


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Saturday 6 June 2009

Yi cannae change thi laws o’ canon!


Or can you? Or… can you?

All you people not in Hong Kong have already seen ‘Star Trek’, right? Well it only opened Thursday over here, so bear with me. Cos we saw it last night and we fucking loved it.

I was worried, going into the cinema. I’d heard good things, but I wasn’t prepared to get excited and let myself believe they wouldn’t somehow fuck it all up somewhere between script and screen. The cast looked promising, the trailer looked trustworthy. But how many times have you been tricked into the cinema by an impressive cast, only to find the script should have been pulped, salted and burnt rather than be let anywhere near a screen? How many times have they cut together a trailer so fab that you get sucked into buying tickets, and then when you see it you realise they put all the very best bits into said trailer, and the rest is complete and utter shite?

Too many times, for me. So, as I said, I was apprehensive. I like Star Trek, I’ve been a fan of a few series throughout my GCSE and A Level years, and yes, even afterwards, too. And I was worried.

Then we get in there and it starts and I realise the basic premise is the same, the plot is the same, the sub-plots are the same, the characters are the same, the whole bloody thing is exactly what it should be, and I’m relieved.

Then I move from relieved to impressed. Being impressed gives way to sheer enjoyment. This, in turn, gives way to a kind of geeky joy I haven’t experienced since I watched the re-runs of the original Star Wars trilogy (parts four, five and six - the only truly decent Star Wars films, in my house). They picked and no doubt trained actors so bloody well - Chris Pine, you ARE the new Kirk: you kick ass, take names - and ladies’ phone numbers - and you do it in style. No doubt this is exactly what the audience was thinking in the 60’s when William Shatner went ‘Hey ladies!’ and an entire fanbase was born. Pine is Kirk like Daniel Craig is James Bond - not in competition with any original, but able to bring something new to the character without actually changing him too much. (‘Cupcake’. Excellent.) Karl Urban, you ARE the new Bones, and I will love you forever for having the same kind of pessimistic, realistic, cutting, objective view as he always had on things. As soon as he climbed on that shuttle and plonked himself down, giving his speech about how many ways there are to die in space, I knew we were in for some fucking funny moments - and he didn’t disappoint. His crusty rendition of ‘Jim!’ made me giggle every goddamn time, cos he did it so well. And his calling Spock a ‘green-blooded hobgoblin’ under his breath - genius. See? Things never change! And Zachary Quinto - aceness. I haven’t seen much of ‘Heroes’, but I knew of him before he turned up in requisite pointy ears. He did a fucking fab job - not easy, but he did it. At one point I actually mistook him for a young Leonard Nimoy as he did that knowing semi-smirk, and I loved it.

How To Endear Yourself To An Entirely New Legion Of Viewers: See: Anton Yelchin. Oh Mr Yelchin, you are a star, for instead of going with an authentic Russian accent, you went with the spirit of it all and went for your best ‘this is how we talk to the tourists cos it’s what’s expected’ voice. You were absolutely bloody marvellous, mate. You were everything I remember of that lovely cheeky chappie Pavel Andreievich Chekov as played by Walter Koenig, and I am so very happy you were on the bridge. Uhura - definitely still sassy, definitely still the top of her field. I don’t remember her having a fling with Spock all those years ago, but hey, so what. Thought she was fab.

And Sulu getting his sword out! How ace was that? Although John Cho didn’t have too much to do, apart from chop up evil baddies through his mad fencing skillz ("Guns for show, KNIVES for a pro!") - oh, and have a nice moment with the warp engines - he was yet another working piece of eye candy, and he did a grand job of Sulu.

And then we come to my favourite - Simon Pegg. Not always the most spot-on of accents, and at times it did slip, but who cares? It’s not like original Scotty was even Scottish either, so ditto on the whole ‘going with the spirit of things’ and being balls-out fake-Scottish-and-everyone-knows-it. Fucking ace-o-rama. Loved the ‘the engines are banjaxed!’ - but my favourite had to the moment his little mate Keenser protests that he needs food too, and Scotty turns to him and goes ‘Oh, get tae--!’ Knowing he can’t finish that sentence cos, lest we forget, they never used such naughty words in the original. Canon, see? It’s all following canon... Not many people in our Hong Kong audience caught the ‘I tested it on Admiral Archer’s beagle’ moment, but I did and I near-wet myself laughing. Nice! Was that a ‘see, ‘Enterprise’ is canon, so just shut up and deal with it?’ moment? Whether it was or not, I giggled for a long time over that reference to purr wee Porthos. But Scotty’s shining moment: Kirk asks for more power, and Scotty’s legendary response? ‘I'm giving her all she's got, Cap’n!’ That line got a smatter of applause from our row. Fucking excellent stuff.

And the rest of it all just went so like Star Trek but not quite like old Trek: There’s time travel, there’s nasty Romulans, there’s Cardassian kanar (not ‘canar’) at the bar, there’s Orion girls who aren’t slaves cos they serve in Starfleet, there’s fisticuffs and valour, best friends and learning to trust people, officers in red EV suits getting killed off on away missions (yeah, that’s right - kill off the English chief engineer!), there’s cool ships and retro communicators, proper old colour shirts and turbolifts that need a handle, big blocky buttons and updated chucker boots. It was so lovely to see.

One question - if you’ve ejected the warp core, doesn’t that mean you’re left with only impulse engines? And you’re around Saturn. That’s about, what, 130-odd million kilometres from Earth and a refit (unless they were using the shipyards at Jupiter Station - was hoping we’d get to see the famed Utopia Planitia shipyards around Mars, even though this ‘Enterprise’ appears to have been built in Iowa). So how long would it take to get back there on full impulse? Er… Never mind. I’m sure some other ship (the Columbia NX-02? The Defiant? Arf arf!) took them out a spare and the impossibly talented Scotty had it in and running within a week. Trip home shortened to allowable tolerances for a film; job done…

And so to canon. This was supposed to be a re-boot, am I right? Well it did just that. I see what you did there, Messrs Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman (mostly of Xena, Jack Of All Trades, and Eagle Eye writing fame):

Challenge:
Write a script whereby you use all the original characters and show how they got together, using the canonical framework in place that is already well-known by a few million people around the globe. You must manoeuvre the ending to a point where you have the technical, canonical and fan-supported opportunity to re-write what happens next, in direct violation of said canon.


I think… they achieved it. And with Majel Barrett Roddenberry (still miss you!) as the ship’s computer, too. And I thought it was great. Even the music was bang-on!

I loved the in-jokes so much, but I loved the action and actual presence of a story more. It managed to do two things very well: bring in the old bunch, and cater to newbies who’ve never seen a Star Trek episode - in any of its incarnations - in their lives. It was witty, sly, brave and fresh. It was everything that is fine and shiny and good about Star Trek - without any morals of stories or Greater Good or preaching of the Prime Directive going on. It was everything I had hoped it would be, and I left the cinema a few inches off the ground.

What more could you ask of a film? Well, a sequel, obviously…


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Tuesday 2 June 2009

Tell the fat lady she’s on in 5…



Did you see the season finale of ‘Supernatural’ a few weeks back? Yes? Well obviously, I did too. And then I’ve been getting on with my usual fan-fic and stuff. And then I read a piece by another extremely talented writer and went, oh, but… what if…?

And a new short short SPN fan-fic was born.


Title: “Obesa Cantavit”


Rating: Rated K+
Summary:
My idea of what happens in the dying seconds of the very end of 4x22 (season finale, so episode title withheld to prevent spoilers), and what I think should come next.
Ergo: ULTIMATE SPOILERS for end of season 4!
Oh my dog, is that angst? You think I’m doing angst now? Oh ye of little faith… SPN fans cannot live by angst alone…
Posted first (as always) at SPNVille.net.

Disclaimer:
I do not own the TV show ‘Supernatural’ either in whole or in part, but I wish I could write episodes full time. Or get a life. Or both.

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Tee-hee...

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