The Hive That Contains Not Bees, But Leisure! Imagine!

So, in my attempt to re-read each and every Doctor Who book in my cavernous library, we now come to...oh, wait...I just had it...where is the damn thing...there's my current issue of Iron Fist, there's that dinosaur book I'm reading, oh, there's the little bugger: the Target novelization of The Leisure Hive!

While many Who fans may spit and howl at the following blasphemy, I've never been terribly fond of The Leisure Hive. Sure, there were parts that I liked--Tom Baker, Lalla Ward in a schoolgirl outfit, and the climactic scene where the Doctor is apparently pulled apart like a puppet in the Tachyon Generator--but it was never a storyline that left me hopping up and down in glee at the mere mention of it. But howzabout the trusty novelization? Maybe I'd like that better!

And I do--only because it's a completely different story. Well, not entirely different, but enough to make you wonder what issues writer David Fisher (writing both the Target novel and the episodes) had over the production of his story. Because, you see, the first part of the novel?

Bugfuck. Absolutely bugfuck.

Fisher here opts for a very Douglas Adams approach to his story, with scenes that seem more Pythonesque than solid science fiction. In giving the history of the Argolins and the Foamasi, Fisher is simply unbound by budgetary constraints and, apparently, editorial interference. Be it the overly aggressive Argolins and their psychotic need for violence or the shady criminality of the Foamasi, Fisher writes like a train that has left its tracks way behind. When he finally ties the narrative down to what actually appeared on the screen back in 1980, much of the fun seeps out. It's like Teacher returned to the room after a great game of spitballs, and now it's time to get to the Serious Work.

To his credit, Fisher amps up the gore in scenes involving the Tachyon Generator ( a machine that is supposed to make a quantum copy of yourself, so you can pull it apart if that turns you on--but when it screws up, there tends to be tons of blood and screaming, because if Doctor Who has taught me anything, it's that being pulled apart isn't good for you. (Thanks, Doctor!)

What I did like here was that the Doctor is taken out of the story for awhile (being aged to an old man courtesy of that pesky Generator), leaving Romana to handle the hero bit for awhile. Wasn't Lalla Ward gorgeous back then? I mean, she's still gorgeous, but now in more of a cozying up on the couch with a glass of wine sort of way. Back in the day, she was gorgeous in that dancing crazily to Joy Division whilst wearing a straw hat sort of way. Sigh. Stupid Time, making us older and more prone to coziness...

Oh, right, The Leisure Hive. When I first watched this, I was freaked out by the gems falling out of the Argolins' hair when they're about to die. It seemed so embarrassing and horrifying at the same time, like peeing yourself when you have a heart attack. I thought it was tied into the Argolin biology, but Fisher sets me straight in the novel: it's just jewelery falling out. Nothing more. Which I think isn't as creepy, but maybe you do.

So all in all, I prefer the book to the show, if only for the sheer fun of the opening pages. In fact, the only thing Hive has going for it on the small screen is Romana. Oh, and Tom Baker finally wearing make up, hiding all the effects of the nights down at the Groucho Club. Oh, right, and the loss of that stupid Randomizer in the TARDIS. Like the damned thing ever flew where it was supposed to, anyway...

5 Reasons Why Most People Are A Pain In The Ass

(Part of the much loved philosophical series Why People Suck: A Misanthrope's View, published by Who The Fuck Asked You? Publishing)

1. ATTENTION SPANS

--The average attention span of most people is thirteen seconds. This makes meaningful conversation next to impossible unless you very quickly turn the talk to be about them. Or mention that you saw this large breasted woman/ cute assed man on the way to work. This will give you an additional three seconds.


2. REALITY TELEVISION

--The reason that these shows survive is because most people watch them. Which would be bearable if said viewers could discuss the programmes they watch for longer than thirteen seconds. And if the topics of conversation weren't a variation of 'Didja see Survivor last night? Did you see that woman with the big fucking tits? FUCK!" or "I'd totally do Cody. Such a cute pair of buns. Tee-hee!"


3.BOOKS

--Most people don't read. Most people think they've accomplished a feat akin to climbing Everest if they finish an entire newspaper article--even one in the London Free Press. To discuss a book with most people will shorten their attention spans by precisely 10 seconds. Unless you mention that the book in question was Sin City, which was turned into that black and white fucking movie where Jessica Alba was that stripper. Didja see that one? Fuck, she was gorgeous.


2. MUSIC

--Most people don't buy entire albums, but get all of their music from the radio or single song downloads. To discuss an artist today is to discuss a single. When ADD afflicted listeners are forced to listen to an entire album (stuck in a car and or/tied to their chair) they actually feel exhausted. To quote one person--and this is an actual quote--"Why buy an entire album? It's the same guy doing the same music. Gets kinda boring." ACTUAL QUOTE.


1. DEARTH OF BEAUTIFUL WOMEN

But perhaps the top reason people are a pain in the ass--at least to this particular misanthrope-- is the lack of beautiful women who agree with me on the above four points. Women who would love to spend time listening to me talk about the aural cohesion of Pink Floyd's Animals, the socio-political allegories and awesomeness of Steven Erikson's novels, or the slowly twisting car crash of Beauty and The Geek. Especially beautiful women with really big breasts and 14 second attention spans.

Whatever You Do....

don't blink.

Douchebag

Apparently, Michael Vick says he's sorry for killing dogs, and he hopes to redeem himself. Last time I checked, committing suicide was still illegal in the States, so I'm not sure how the only possible route of redemption will work if he's just going to get arrested again.

Oh, he's also found Jesus. Which I suppose beats finding an electrical appliance in your ass and being electrocuted because you lost a fight. Probably beats it by a mile.

Green Lit

The executive producer at Outfront loved the piece, apparently. So it'll air...soon. Yay!

In celebration of that, here's a picture of Billie Piper. No, she has nothing to do with my CBC piece, but it seemed a good enough excuse to slap up a picture of her. I thought I had a case of the sniffles, but that picture alone cured it. It's amazing, really.

Radio Magic

Spent yesterday afternoon in a CBC work room in Toronto while a producer banged together my piece for Outfront. My producer is an ex-pat Scot, I'm of Black Irish descent, so we had a...lively...relationship. When we weren't arguing about what he was cutting from the piece, he did introduce me to a new band--Porcupine Tree--and encouraged me to read Master and Commander. What we came up with in the end is actually quite good, I think. Now it's off to the executive producer. Yay!

Train ride home was a trial. If it wasn't the boozy grandmother reading very loudly to her grandchild, it was the guffawing middle aged woman who just broke into hysterics at whatever her male companion said. I thought for crying out loud, just bang each other so you can get onto the business of bitching about what an asshole he is to your friends. When I finally collapsed onto my couch, there was not a more relieved man in Ontario.

So home today, working on the novel. Since so much of it deals with music, I'm blasting the house with the same. Here, then, is a small sample of what Canada's next great unread novel is being written to:

There's this.

this.

this

Just to mellow things out.

Ace is Nude, Wyrms and Gilgamesh!

....or Doctor Who: The New Adventures: Number One!



Since the new Doctor Who television series owes truckloads of debt to Virgin's Doctor Who New Adventures novel series, I had the alcohol induced idea that it might be interesting to look at the series--starting with book one. I'm sure I'll tire of this soon. Bear with me.

The New Adventures began with the four part Timewyrm series. Let's take a boo at the very first one--Timewyrm: Genesys., which graced our bookshelves waaay back in 1991.

To begin with, the editors decided to slap some literary weight on the series by kinda giving it a vaguely Biblical title--but with a futuristic twist. So, instead of 'Genesis', we have 'Genesys. See? That's science fiction, baby!

The story take place after the final (of the last series) episode, Survival, aired in 1989. The story introduces us to a cybernetic woman called Qataka, who got her ass kicked off her own planet for being a right bee-yotch, and ends up crashing into ancient Mesopotamia. Here she does what any cybernetic bee-yotch would do, and begins passing herself off as the goddess of sex, Ishtar. She also goes around putting copper into the temple walls, which will allow her to use her cybernetic powers to take over the minds of everyone within shouting distance. Girl's got a plan.

The Doctor gets a warning from from the Fourth Doctor that he should look out for the Timewyrm, an ancient Gallifreyan monster. Unfortunately, the Seventh Doctor has never heard of it.So the Doctor and Ace go to investigate in ancient Mesopotamia. There's some rather clumsy material where it appears the Doctor has gone and wiped part of his memory because--now get ready--he's got to make room to remember more stuff. Apparently, there's a limit to how much a Time Lord can have stuck in his noodle. Unfortunately, the memory wipe also manages to clear out Ace's head (which shouldn't require that much--oooh! Nasty!) So then we get some dead pages where Ace has to remember who she is--or have herself rebooted for the New Adventures. You choose.

Also, there's some nudity. Here we 'see' something we would never would have come across on television: a companion in the buff. The reader gets Ace in the nude for two whole pages, as she stares at herself in a mirror, then fumbles around getting her knickers on, and when we come to her bra, we get his line:

"It took her awhile to sort out the bra, but finally it was fastened and fairly comfy."

Okay, I don't deal with bras on a daily basis, but I never thought they were all that difficult to take on/take off. I've seen my wife whip hers off in three seconds without even removing her shirt. Twist a shoulder here, shrug, and it's off. It's magic. Now, it's not as if Ace is generously endowed, either. Or is that just some more opportunity for geeks to stare, open mouthed, at the page?

So after bras are put on, Ace and the Doctor end up in olde Mesopotamia. Of course, they meet up with Gilgamesh and Utnapishtim, who is actually an alien like Quataka. Of course! In the end, Qataka/Ishtar ends up capturing the Doctor, and lets him know that if she dies, then a cobalt bomb will wipe out the Earth. Thinking that might somehow affect Earth's history, the Doctor escapes and manages to channel Evil Alien Bee-yotch's mind into the TARDIS, so that the bomb won't read her as pushing up the daisies so it won't go kablooie. She then uses the timeship to shoot herself into the Time Vortex, where she goes back in time, insinuatues herself into Gallifreyan history and becomes the evil monster the Fourth--and now the Seventh Doctor fear: the Timewyrm.

So now we have to go through three books while the Doctor and Ace chase the Timewyrm down. And I still think 'wyrm' is a cool way to spell 'worm'. Always will.

All in all, this book seemed a bit of a trial to get through, but it sure beat the hell out of re-reading Target novelizations over and over again. But this is where it all began: back in Ancient Times, with Ace in the nude and buck naked Ishtar prostitutes everywhere. How could it not only get better?

The Mysterious Doctor Who Annual Mystery

This sounds interesting.

So the Doctor Who Annual 2008 has been recalled, with orders for each and every copy to be destroyed. Oooooh! Rumours abound about breasts being cupped inside, and/or giveaways about what will happen next season. I'm going with the former, myself, simply because that's AWESOME.

The Joys of Pulpy Noir

I'm a big fan of Ed Brubaker and Sean Philips' Criminal comics, and whenever Ed recommends a book, I generally go and find it. Such was the case with The Wheelman by Duane Swierczynski.

Usually, I'm the world's slowest reader. I have citations to prove it. But after picking this book up Friday, I stayed up until three last night to finish it. The book tells the story of an Irish mute wheelman--the guy who drives the car after a bank robbery, if you don't know, which you should, so I really should just go back and delete that line but right now that seems more trouble than it's worth--and what happens when a job goes completely clusterfuck wrong. The book has been compared to Elmore Leonard--another of my favourite authors--and the comparison holds for a bit, but doesn't stick. Swierczynski shares Leonard's dark humour, but there is a much higher violence quota here. In fact, the brutality in this book simply doesn't let up--so much so that it teeters a bit towards OTT, but pulls back in time before incredulity crumbles. The ending left me a little shocked, but did guarantee that I will be searching out the next book, The Blonde.

The only problem I have with books like this? I read them too fast, and in a month, have no clear idea of what happened. Which is good in a way, since I can re-read all my Leonards again and again. But I don't think books like The Wheelman are meant to be read slowly. Your fingers should be bleeding from papercuts, just adding to the story's blood quotient.

London Who Tavern

So London Who Tavern was a success. We had a very large turnout, and there was no gunfire. Jackie stunned the room with her 'TARDIS vagina' joke, Ben and myself agreed that 'Blink' was the best episode of Season 3, Hodgy came in beaten and bruised from his hockey game, Lisa showed off her amazing new Doctor Who T-shirt, David Winter impressed all of us with his collection of handmade Who miniatures and sonic screwdriver, Vanessa awed us all with her beauty and wit, David Webb and I talked both Who and video games, and I barely had time to talk to Jason and Eric.

So yeah: it kinda rocked. But now Cher is drunk, and it's time for bed. Night!

I Was Wolfganged!

After I heard that Michael Anthony was allegedly removed from the album cover of Van Halen One and was replaced--allegedly--with pictures of Wolfgang Van Halen, I immediately went to my high school yearbook.

Yep. My picture was gone--replaced by Wolfgang Van Halen.

Has anyone checked on the Mona Lisa?

A SHITTY DAY Directed by Michael Bay

It had to be. This day had the mark of an auteur.

At around two o'clock, I just had to smile. It was all going to hell so fast that the only sane thing to do was shake my head and see what would happen next. Elephants falling through ceilings? Sure. A time vortex opening up behind me, letting loose a lost army of Nazis, screaming that I must die so the Fuhrer could live? Why not? Nothing could surprise me.

So when I stumbled home, covered in brick dust (don't ask), almost getting into a fist fight (that was rather funny, now in retropect) I had to hear some cool music. This did the trick.

That Way Lies Madness

Have you seen it? Have you seen the madness?

I was out at Loblaws' yesterday, moving in my usual grocery store daze, pushing the cart while Cher exhibited her usual ADD grocery buying habits--pinging around the store like an assassin trained pinball--when I saw them:

Simpsons' Donuts.

Wrapped in plastic like Laura Palmer, they sat four to a box: large, round, and pink. An actual real world translation of the same donuts Homer Simpson eats while narrowly averting nuclear destruction at the Burns power plant each day. With speckles and everything.

For one brief, Lovecraftian moment of horror I thought about buying them. Of actually sitting down and eating them, just to see what would happen. We picked them up, and read the ingredients--which ran down the front of the package, around the side, and up the back. There were more chemicals in there than you would find in Pete Doherty on a Sunday morning.

After eating these donuts, transformation of some sort would be inevitable. I'm sure your skin would turn yellow just like Homer's--not out of any humourous cartoon aside, but because your liver just gave up.

I put them back. And that's why I'm still here today, gentle reader.

P.S.--I gave in and bought a package. That's it on my kitchen counter. I'll eat them all tonight, and undoubtedly explode.

Russell Smith Pisses Me Off

I don't know why. Perhaps I hate myself. There's a strong possibility of this, since I always feel compelled to read anything and everything about Britney Spears. Still, I always make a point of reading Russell Smith's column in the Globe every Thursday. And each and every time I do, I sit and stare at the column, speechless. Arrogant, elitist, a whining pain in the ass--these are terms usually applied to me. But I will share them with Smith. They fit him better than me, in my completely unbiased opinion.

He's been on a roll lately. A column of his about how he got fleeced by a moving company actually made me feel sad for him--even if a reference to his girlfriend not being 'cut out' for moving things made me howl-- until he once again adopted the usual snottier than thou approach, whining about how he has to move to less tony environs because he's not making enough money as a writer.

Today he continued in that vein, wiping his eyes about how very little freelance writers make. The kicker for me was his line about how things are so tough for freelance writers that many of them become teachers. As if becoming a teacher--with a start up pay of over $30,000 for the first year, with steady increases each year, at least six weeks off per year, and one of the safest jobs on the planet--is akin to descending into the salt mines.

What pisses me off most is the assumption that if you're a writer, you should be making shitloads of cash. And if you're not, then by God! Why not? That you shouldn't have to do anything else but write, and be rewarded handsomely for your brilliance. That if you don't have The Life, then you should stomp your feet and howl at the injustice of it all.

To supplement my career as a freelance writer, I've worked maintenance and other low status jobs for over twenty years. I don't write to make money--I write because it's what I do. It's who I am. If I make money doing it, then I'm over the moon. But if I wanted to make cash steadily from it, then I would have stayed in school, got my B.A., then sold my soul to J-School. And in the process, undoubtedly burned out the need to write and have had my limited ability pounded and processed so that it pleased editors who passed through the same program ten years previous.

In short, I would have been desouled.

I didn't go that route. Do I regret it? Of course I do.At times, I wish I had become a teacher. When it's six thirty on a blizzardy morning, and I'm freezing my balls off as I start up a snowblower to clear sidewalks, laying in bed listening to CBC while I think about the day's lesson plan seems pretty damn inviting. Security is a nice thing. But from what I've seen, I don't think I would have lasted. Same with journalism. Or if I had lasted, I wouldn't be writing what I am now, including a blog that revels in geek triviality.

My choice. And when I'm old and eating cat food, I'll keep reminding myself of that. Hopefully someone will remember my columns, read my books, and think my work was somewhat worthwhile. But I won't whine and scream that I deserved more, that I shouldn't have to clean things in order to pay the bills.

I'll leave that to Russell Smith.

Vent over. Tomorrow, more pointless discussion on the magic of Billie Piper's
smile.

Ever Have A Really Shitty Day?

That's why God invented Social Distortion. I do love this band. In an entirely manly, post-punk way, of course.

Undershirts In Space

I'll always be thankful for Alien. Up until that point, I had never considered that women in space might be required to fight monsters in their undershirts. Pre-1979, I awlays thought that women in space could only fight with hair buns on their sides of their head while wearing white robes. Oh, how deluded I was.

42 continues this never-too-old space truism, this time with Michelle Collins donning the undergarment, requisite sweat and look of fatalistic determination that comes with the role. The last time I saw Michelle, she was on Eastenders being a murderous wife to that scumbag Ian Beale, so it was a pleasant surprise to see her here.

42 also continues the blue collar approach to space we've seen quite a bit in the new Doctor Who. Davies made a point of focusing on the maintenance workers in The End of The World, and in last season's The Satan Pit we found spacefarers who were out to make a living, and a dirty, lonely one at that. (In fact, we even get to see the same spacesuit the Doctor wore in Pit, only this time painted orange. God bless BBC budgets!)

Another very good episode, with an unexpected twist near the end. Tennant keeps on proving to be my favourite Doctor, even pushing Davison and Troughton to the side. And Martha? Yes,please.

Vulcan Ninja and The Death Cats of Khrombor

It was a near thing.

The Death Cats of Khrombor had materialized out of the Phantom Zone, and had already incapacitated three of our friends, howling the Death Cat howl, bursting glass for a six block radius. With a grin, Vulcan Ninja used her chi energy and a bag of Whiskas treats to calm their insatiable bloodlust. Only after was this photo possible. The rest of us then retreated to bind our wounds.