Wednesday: rant warning

Weird. There was a helicopter hovering low right over our yard for over and hour yesterday, this if after the helicopter with the searchlight kept buzzing us on Sunday night, with the spotlight right in our yard, and flying so low I thought for sure it'd get tangled in our 20-30m gum trees. I guess they're on to me, huh.

Funny how I always get replies when I'm squawking and flabbing but never when I'm burbling away happily. And now I'm thinking like a magpie and it scares me. Still, I do understand a lot of their words and actions now and vice versa, and they answer to their names. The other day one waddled round the corner and I heard a crash and I called out to ask if it was alright and it warbled back an answer. Didn't want to race round and startle it because it did sound more like clumsy birdie than a cat attack (those monsterous moggies that were left over Xmas to graze on my birds, leaving the yard ankle deep in feathers, have retreated a little now that their nominal 'owners' have returned).

I give my birds a fright sometimes when I chase the cats, making myself look big and scary, because sometimes I have to stamp my feet and yell at them, too, when they misbehave and take too many liberties, just to remind them there is a line, albeit close and shallow. I was going to say at least they don't go off and sulk like my human friends, but they probably do.

Lately I've been properly tsked for mentioning the alarming bitchiness in Stargate slash fandom, and I'm not about to cast the first stone by any means, I was just saying it upset me sometimes, is all. There a lots of lovely, fun people in the fandom, too. I've just got to learn not to let one rotten apple spoil the whole barrel.

It's difficult. I find it best to take a bit of a breather, walk away for a bit. I should do that here, but here I am, getting myself in trouble again. Ranting ahead, flee now, while you can.

The other thing I was rightly tsked over was my daily Yank bashing. Ah, well, yes. Guilty as charged, m'lord. But hey, it's not just me. A quick peruse of the con tapes will show all the Farscape actors were getting in their knocks, too, as much as they loved and adored their American friends. It's an Aussie thing. We're not allowed weapons of mass destruction so all we've got left is our sarcasm.

And as I mentioned before, we've a 200+ year history of mocking self importance and authority (qv early issues of The Bulletin, Banjo Patterson, Norman Lindsay, Waltzing Matilda, Ned Kelly et al), and the US is so very (and dangerously) self important and authoritarian these days. And even if the US didn't have a lunatic at the wheel, there's always the whole cultural imperialism thing. Just this morning Adam and Will were lamenting that Aussie slang never made it's way onto American shows (rather than vice versa). Actually, it has, but they meant mainstream shows like Friends, not obscure axed SF shows like Farscape.

Still, it's nice to see all those Aussies stealthily creeping onto mainstream US shows, like Without A Trace (any more Aussies in the cast and crew and it'll qualify as local content - grin).

I love American tv, American actors, American national parks, my American buds and Starbucks. I do. But then there's Bush, Springer, Joan Rivers, the NRA, capital punishment, the CIA and Everybody Loves Raymond. I mean, come on. If the Brits can slag me off at every turn for Neighbours, you can't expect me not to take the occassional dig. Surely not.

Best try and not let several very rotten and diseased apples spoil the whole barrel, I guess, though America is scary these days. Very scary. If it didn't impact on my quality of life so much I shouldn't be so snarky (like my planned trip to Turkey). I'll try to behave for the rest of the week. Yeah, right :D

I only got in trouble (and rightly so) because I wailed that the Canberra fire failed to get sufficient media coverage (not true, as I discovered on closer investigation). It's an Aussie thing again. For as long as I can remember, and parodied in many a comedy show and cartoon, we have an obsession with how many column inches we get overseas, a desperation to be mentioned in despatches, a palpable fear of being overlooked and forgotten (borne of isolation, no doubt), though playing Braer Rabbit right now, ie staying low and saying nothing, would not be a bad move these days, but no, we have a shit for brains for PM popping up and insulting everybody, and no, nobody admits to voting for him, either. I certainly didn't. 400+ years of rabble rousing on both sides of the family just wouldn't allow it. Unthinkable. Inconceivable!

There's a racism element, too, in our jitters. Very unPC but you can't ignore the deeply felt and not unreasonable fears (qv Indonesia and Malaysia) of being a lone British colony stuck out here, with only a couple of display cannons for defence in the harbour. Tie to that a cultural cringe and a constant belittlng by our elders and betters and then, yes, we do get upset if we don't rate more of a mention than, as Yes Minister might say, those funny little coloured people from their funny little countries with the funny names. Heaven forbid that our national disasters should rate less than those of boatloads of poor people from Bangladesh. It's very competitive, this clamouring for attention down here with all the other unimportant countries. It's a hangover from the days of the British Empire, I guess, tugging at Mother's skirts, which fell apart in my lifetime, afterall, so we're not talking centuries ago. Oops, actually we are - grin.

Okay, dug myself a deep enough hole? I'm not meaning to be mean or cranky or bad or unPC. I'm not even trying to be particularly anti-American, it's just that unlike our tv stations, I'm not contractually obliged to take the bad as well as the good, as much as the US wants us to. We'd rather just pick and choose and have the freedom to say I really, really like this, but I don't want any of that today, thankyou, and not be bombed into buggery for our cheek.

Last night's tv, because for the love of Mike if I don't shut up now I won't have any American friends left at all. Farscape and Farscape. Really. watched My Three Crichtons on Fox8, much funnier now that all the cheeky comments were left in, but still not exactly A grade Farscape. Did you notice how Alien Nation John really, really had a Southern accent? It amused me, as well as making me go wibble. I have no shame.

Then onto EC9, because I trust them not. Bad enough they make me play where's Farscape in the Guide every week, but tonight they slung on Farscape a whole hour earlier than advertised, but I was onto them, I was, having tuned in early just in case. It was the one where Chianna gets possed by one of the floaty aliens from the Abyss (grin) and Crichton adopts DRD-Pike, whom I was so upset to see get vapourised, the little dear. I laughed out loud at the Trek joke. Yes, Farscape truly is an SF show for SF fans. It's only funny if you're 'in'.

More than that, Farscape is art, australian art and I don't see why it couldn't qualify for some film or arts grant to finish the series properly. This Australian art garnered prizes and international magazine covers so why doesn't it rate a little cash like the crap movies they make here? I tell you, if a football team had been so triumphant there'd be no question of a little cash bonus to get them over the line. And all that crappy, bleed from my ears wanky art in the Festival of Sydney? Give me Farscape anyday. Damn, it's not fair.

Really, I'm not hormonal, I just need a holiday. Spent my early morning writing some more M7, none of which I can preview because it would entirely give away the ending. I was actually very giggly this morning because I found a pic of Vin and Chris watching the sunset together. Been after a cap of that for ages. It's soooo romantic.

Mind you, the Without A Trace ad they keep playing on EC9 is pretty slashy, too, but I think that's just me.

Farscape swearing guide

Zen's Magnificent Sevn Page

Australian Public Anger Grows Over Fires

In God we trust to live healthier and longer

Historic Australian observatory gutted

Astronomy projects in ruins as observatory obliterated

Last Yankee war widow dies

Man descended from early aardvark

Jude Law

Media Mugs

Black pharaoh trove uncovered

'Oldest star chart' found

Clooney in anti-war protest

Internet Stokes Anti-War Movement

Britain, spiritual home to this creed of hate

Off with the pixies

Don't poach my pals - they're not on the menu

Are you being perved?

Reprinted without permission because the SMH is pay-per-view:

Are you being perved?




Could it be the first sign of Mardi Gras fever hitting Sydney?




Gracing the David Jones Market Street windows are male mannequins with sultry pouts and mullet hairstyles posed in a way Spike thought must have some homo-erotic subtext. For example, two of the male mannequins are standing about a foot apart gazing deeply into each other's eyes. In another window, a mannequin has his hand locked firmly about his mate's arm as they peer intensely out through the glass. Behind each mannequin is art work from the ArtExpress exhibition, created by HSC students.




But, according to the department store, the homo-erotic subtext is all in Spike's dirty little mind.




"If you guys want to read it that way, fine. It was not intended that way. The female mannequins are in similar poses," David Jones's head of corporate affairs, Jill Campbell, told Spike yesterday after conferring with the window dressers.




She insisted, "They're posed in the way they're posed because it's in theme" with the ArtExpress exhibition.




The Department of Education and Training informed Spike that there was no theme for the ArtExpress exhibition - the works are simply the best of the lot.

 

more SNAFU bits: MA

Nothing much going on. Worked hard yesterday but went home early so I could watch Buffy. It was either that or stay and do overtime for free - no thankyou. It was the career day episode, and I know it backwards because I was reciting the lines as I wandered about fetching tea etc before settling. Nearly dozed during it so I threw my buckets on the garden, even though it was cold and misty (yeah, I know, freaky weather) and curled up under the qilt to read. Fell asleep and woke up halfway through Buffy but it was the one with the actual loan shark, the very shark I say the series jumped, especially with the loss of Giles and the whole Buffy/Spike thing which wasn't half as much fun as I'd hoped it would be. Then it was Darla, Darla, Darla so I fell asleep again (sorry Wesley).

As much as you might laugh at me for being a dozey cow, at least I've managed to write lots and lots of Jack/Daniel this morning. I've only stopped because it's time to work, not play. I could have gone on all day if I had the chance. I also managed to back up some pf my pages to cd, cause the cd burner in the office actually works, so that was cool. And there was a cute pic of Ewan and RDA in Hello #748 this morning. How inspiring.

The picture you should see here is presented for my general humiliation and your bemusement. It was sent to me by my dear friend down in Melbourne, taken many, many moons ago in her bedroom. Yep, when I said I had a friend who was an Elvis freak, I wasn't kidding - grin. The two gentlemen in the pic with me are her younger brother and mine. I'm wearing a handmade dress because mother said we were too poor to buy store bought clothes. Personally I think it was all part of her fiendish plot to make me die a spinster - success! We never went on holidays either, instead I had to clean the house from top to bottom and do extra homework. Bitter? Moi? Frelling yes. But back to memories and happier times. Funnily enough I go past the house this pic was taken in every day on the way to work - it's one of the few houses of my friends still standing.

Speaking of mothers and brothers, when mother's away I get moroccan salad for dinner. When brother is away I get rusted mystery cans from the back of the cupboard. Mother, Depression era hillbilly that she is, believes a can ain't bad unless it's swollen. Yikes. She's gonna poison me again, I swear. Now you know why my main forms of diet are either voluntarily going to bed sans supper or a good dose of the runs. Such is my life.

Dear Bro is in the good books this week, in spite of yet another alleged research junket to Melbourne (I haven't had a proper holiday this century, mutter, gripe), because he took the time out to ring me up and see if there was anything I wanted in Minotaur. Frell, yes. If I'd have known he'd have time for shopping I'd have sent him down cashed up.

The magpies and currawongs were in mother's good books, she having discovered they eat mice - I've known that for years, see them hunting, I do, but they quickly regained their black marks by messing about in the garden, digging up new plants in the vegetable patch and digging for the bits of turkey they buried for later over Xmas.

Had to present my passport again. They say we don't live in a fascist society but I'm always having to present papers on account of being in possession of dark hair and eyes. I'm not even swarthy like my friends. I've pale Scottish skin but just being a brunette is enough in these skittish times. If I didn't loathe blonds already with a deadly passion, I certainly do now. Bad enough they get everything handed to them on a gold plated platter but now those Aryan bastards don't have to put up with being searched and questioned just for trying to post a letter or enter one's place of emplyment. Grrr. This sucks, totally.

Hello!

Australian Museum

Allies' caution over Iraq leaves Bush steaming

America won't be loafing when its starch enemy pops up

Web browsers go back to basics

Crossing over the boundary of credibility

Goodnight, Dr Crane

Grease is the word

Queensland bulldozes bush to Third World levels

You are now entering the slash zone. Snippet from SNAFU #2, rated MA for nudity, violence and scenes of a sexual nature.

Jack sat lazily playing with one of the clubs he'd taken from the animal men he'd killed, running his fingers over the long serrated rows of sharp animal teeth embedded deeply into the thick bulbar wood to create a fearsome weapon. It was crudely made, yet beautiful at the same time, and so deadly. This club killed in one or two blows, no question about it, and it was designed for no other purpose than for breaking arms and legs, caving in skulls and tearing open bellies. It was a horrible weapon, yet its simple, single purpose for killing up close, Jack respected it, felt its power. If he ever got back he wanted to take his clubs back with him, hard won in battle, and hoped Hammond would let him hang them up in his quarters, his trophies of war.

He hefted the club again, feeling its weight, its perfect balance, the handle worn smooth from use. It had probably seen as many battles as he had, yet this fight, for all its death, had left Jack feeling more alive than he could remember. This had been a fight for life and death, up close and personal, hand to hand combat where really could see the whites of the eyes of the enemies before he killed them. And Jack had killed, he had killed over and over again, quickly and brutally, all his training flowing through him until he was just a vessel for the motions. He'd felt lifted up, pure, like some crazed holy warrior, his blood white hot in his veins, and while Daniel would tell him it was just an autonomic survival response, Jack had felt, in the heat of the battle, that there was another plane of existence and he had reached it, just for a moment, sweating and screaming and steaming under his enemies blood.

He could well imagine the looks of disgust from Sam and the look of curiosity from Daniel if he'd tried to explain what had happened in the heat of the battle. Teal'c would understand, and he was the only one. Teal'c alone knew what it was like to be moving so fast and furious that you were outside of your body, no loner thought, just action.

Jack remembered his battle and he felt good, he felt proud. Every child left in the village was there because he'd fought hard and well, and everybody knew it. The gifts of food and trinkets constantly pressed into his hands told of the high esteem in which he was held.

A large part of Jack wished he could stay here, where he didn't have to explain himself, where there were no hearings, no civilian press, no moral complexity. Just kill or be killed. It was simple, and Jack liked simple.

"Hey Jack," Daniel came up grinning, then caught sight of the club Jack was playing with, and backed up a millimetre, watching Jack with that curious look Jack had anticipated.

Daniel, frighteningly intuitive when he wanted to be, had sensed the new brightness in Jack, borne of blood. Jack hadn't become more savage since the little war, he'd just, well, shed the skin of USAF Colonel Jack O'Neill and gone completely native, walking tall and bare chested, his skin painted with stripes to indicate his status as a warrior, beads and amulets taken from his kills dangling from his dog tags. He carried only spear and knife with no thought to their last few bullets and their single remaining grenade, saved only for large thundering emergencies. Years of cares and constraints had fallen from Jack and if Daniel hadn't been wildly in love with Jack before, he certainly would be now. There was something primal about Jack, no longer hidden just below the surface, but walking proud and free. Jack was home, and Daniel knew it.

There was a peace, too, with Jack, and for that Daniel gave thanks. Jack was clear of mind and purpose, he was content, and Daniel didn't mind if they had to spend the rest of their lives in their savage paradise, with Jack taking him fiercely and completely every night. Just the thought of Jack burying himself deep inside him brought a light sheen of sweat to Daniel's skin and darkened his eyes.

Jack sensed it, gazed up with wolf hungry eyes and Daniel licked his lips unconsciously. Here there was no right time or wrong time, there was only now. Jack dropped his club, dragged Daniel inside their hut fucked him hard into the ground, feeling Daniel buck beneath him like a wild thing, biting at his skin, hands grabbing at skin and flesh and Jack stabbing into Daniel so deep he felt like he'd touched his heart. They struggled together, Jack reaching the mountain first, pumping Daniel hard to meet him and they fell into a sticky and sweaty tangle of limbs, breathing fast and feeling so perfectly alive that their skin buzzed at the slightest sensation. Daniel wanted it always to be like this, he never wanted it to stop.

So his heart fell into his boots one day while just ducking in the hut to fetch his journal, when he heard the radio, buried beneath the piles of junk he'd saved or accumulated, spit a snatch of static for a moment, and, just when he'd thought he'd imagined it, buzz with another burst of radio noise and the faint sound of something unintelligible, some brief snapped command, barely recognisable by human except for one trained to understand distorted radio signals.

Daniel felt his life falling away from him like water as he hunted through his pack for the elusive radio, shaking it but unable to make it snap and crackle again. It must have dried out but it still wasn't working properly. Nevertheless he left it on, in case somebody was trying to get a signal (he was fairly sure Jaffa didn't bother with SGC frequencies, though it'd be a good ruse if they did) and dashed out to find Jack, knowing the news would break his heart.

Jack took Daniel's discovery quietly and methodically as Daniel knew he would, discarding his life as a warrior and resuming his rank of Colonel like shrugging on a coat as he took the radio from Daniel without a word and prised it apart with his knife, tinkering with it until he could send as well as receive, relaying their position, as near as Jack could estimate it, to the rescue team who were armed for bear and hacking their way through the jungle towards them.

Damn Sam and her dogged persistence, because both Jack and Daniel knew who they had to blame for their salvation. Damn Sam for never giving up on them, for dragging them back to their old lives when they'd lost themselves happily in this new world, forgetting everything that had rigidly bound them, torn them apart. Damn Sam for not just letting them go.

Footnote: clubs like the one Jack has can been seen at The Australian Museum