I Ain't Afraid of No Daleks

When you tell your wife that you prefer a six pack to her cooking

When you really do hear a pint calling to you

When you actually start believing the beer ads are true

When your boss gets you to crawl to him on your hands and knees by dangling a bottle of beer in front of you

When you ask the fortune teller at the carnival if there’s any beer in your future

So, for months now, one of the big issues burning up the Doctor Who fan forums, is the Face of Boe’s very enigmatic statement to the Doctor: “You are not alone.”

Which, we found in Gridlock, had our good ol’ Doc taken aback a bit, and, I think, reinforced his denial, as well.

Right now, I’d say, at least 90% of the fans--especially the younger viewers--are totally convinced that Boe was referring to mysterious Mr. Saxon (played by a gent named Sims), whom, these fans say with utmost certainty, is really The Master.

About 5% of the fans think that Boe is referring to the Doctor’s son--and fewer still think Saxon is really the Doctor’s son.

I dunno’ tho’. Is it going to really be as straightforward as all that. How disappointing that would be. Oh, bringing back the Master would be great, certainly.

Speculation went on for months, what old Classic series monster/villan was being brought back--and amid suggestions (some people were, again, adamant about their choices) that is was the Sontarans, the Ice Warriors, the Zygons, the Drasig, what-have-you…and it turned out to be the Macra from the long lost episode, The Macra Terror…and not one person that I know of, even guessed that one.

So, Who knows--and I think, at this point, DT is one of the few Whovians who really do know. I rather like the idea of Rassilon, myself. I mean, he was sort of this supernatural being, wasn’t he? Dead but still alive, sort of…ah well. For all I know, it probably is the Master--or then again, it might be that the Doctor was a bit like Casanova, got randy with one of his companions and winds up having to drag his illegitimate brat all over the galaxy with him.

"Ohhhh--knew I shouldn't have had the curried eel kebabs last night!"

I had dreams last night. I dreamed I was helping out at the library--not mum’s some other library that my imagination dreamt up in my subconscious. I dreamed there was a book sale and I was getting all sorts of neat books--mainly horse books. I have this dream, once in a while--a secret wish transferred into a bedtime dream--all the books I want, and cheap, as well, ha-ha.

I also dreamed I was a kid again, playing with my cowboys and knights on horseback toys (probably because I’d stopped to look at the Schliech toy knights in Target’s toy department, Friday night), then, I dreamed I was playing with my toy cars. Then…I woke up. Strange to dream of one’s childhood--something I don’t think I’ve done before--at least, not that I remember.

We kids used to play with our toy cars and trucks quite a lot--being a country-like setting where we lived, there was loads of dirt around. I remember, we used to get together, some of us kids, and make whole towns out of dirt and sticks and pebbles. Most of the girls made up whole families for their homes--usually little bits of twig serving as the people--varying in size according to whether they were the mum and dad or the kids…but, I don’t recall ever inventing a family. I usually was more interested in building the house, and driving my truck (I had a little metal Tootsie toy pick up truck, I was rather fond of) around on roads that I’d make, planting fake “trees” (twigs with bits of leaves attached, and loading the back of my pick up with stuff--mostly, I think pebbles and grass. But I wonder--even then, at 9 or 10 years of age, did I have an inkling of my future--that I’d be the old maid I am today? Is that why, perhaps, I so seldom invented a “family” to inhabit the mound of dirt I called a “home?” Guess I’ll never know.

MINE WAS BLUE

Haviing had an experience simlar to the one in this commerical (don’t ask--please, don’t.) I wanted to share this with my blog friends:

What a day! I am so utterly knackered by now! Today’s the first day since my accident several weeks ago, that I walked on my own two feet to work--took more than double the usual amount of time, but I did it. Took a cab home, but I was happy to be able to walk--tho’ yes, it did hurt quite a bit, by the time I got to the office. But I think now, I can handle walking one-way, this week, which will save me 15 dollars in cab fare, this week alone.

Met my cubicle mate coming in. He’s a bit…odd. A highly educated liberal gent--we have the same mind on some things--but he’s been known to contradict the very things he preaches to me about--will say he’s for this or against that, and then, later, turn around and say or do something that’s the opposite of his alleged point of view. And, he’s a bit of a bitter old snob. I mean, he’s a bit like me, in the respect that we both are a little bitter over our lot in life--spending hours getting an “advanced” education, and having naught whatsoever to show for our efforts. But he has made it clear that he has a higher education than I, and I think he feels I’m too chav for him--or at least, that’s the way he treats me, sometimes.

We’re both slightly disabled, both having a hard time paying bills and keeping food on the table--he’s got the additional burden of a young wife and son--so you’d think he and I would get along great. But the man doesn’t like me. As a matter of fact, he often treats me like I’ve just drooled over my keyboard. I waved at him as he was waiting to cross the street, and he just ignored me. Walked behind me and said “hi” and kept on going, ignoring me again. Oh, he’s usually civil enough--barely. But I don’t talk to him much any longer. Well, one other thing is that he doesn’t have much in the way of a sense of humor, mores the pity.

A sense of humor is what’s kept me going, month after month--not hope. Oh, I used to be big on hope. I loved hope. It was one thing that kept me focused, through both good times and bad. But last year, it died inside me. I would love to get it back, but…it’s gone now. I don’t know if I can ever dare to hope again--all hoping has got me since mum died, was more pain and problems and rejection. It’s why I don’t pray much, any more. I prayed and prayed when mum was dying--and not only did nothing come of it, things just starting getting more and more hopeless, worse and worse and worse. Life in 2005/2006, just crushed the hell of any hope that was left in me.

But I kept my sense of humor--although, it’s not nearly as strong as it used to be--which I feel is reflected in my writing--my writing, plays and essays and whatnot, isn’t nearly so mild and lighthearted as is was three or four or five years ago. My last 10-minute play, “The Boardwalk,” had very little in the way of humor--I mean, if there was anything humorous in there, then, quite frankly, I really just got lucky. Oh, I may not think much of hope any longer--but the day I lose my sense of humor--well, someone might as well put a gun to my head and shoot me.

AND I BET YOU THOUGHT THIS WAS PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE!

Speaking of humor--today was not one of those days, at work. More than half of my calls in a five hour period were screamers. No, really. My blinking ear hurts. One guy, after I said who I was and why I was calling, screamed “F__k off!” and slammed the phone in my ear--went downhill from there. I did manage to collect from 9 people, but had a record number of “refused to pay” calls. Never had so many as I’ve had today, in the entire 6 months I’ve worked for this company. Ah well. I try not to take it personally.

I got this one guy who began this long rant against me, the company I worked for, the company that he owed the debt to…heaven knows what else--I punched the “mute” button and just sat there, sticking out my tongue at the phone and blowing raspberries and giving him the American equivalent to the old two-finger salute, while he ranted--and when he stopped, I merely took him off hold, said, “Thank you sir, I’m make a note of your comments in my records,” rang off, and toggled the “refused to pay” button. Meh, what’do I care? I get paid whether I listen to these people (and actually, if they’re civil, usually I try to) or not.

However, my last call was the strangest I’ve had in a while. Called a man in the ultra-trendy area of Sante Fe, New Mexico. I was calling to collect a debt for a hunting club, and the man launched into this long tirade against hunting, “I wear Birkenstocks, I’m a vegetarian, I hate people who shoot cute fuzzy little animals….” Okay, that was verbatim--seriously, that’s EXACTLY what the guy said to me. And, the cruel irony of this is, that it was a WRONG number! Gah! Yuppies! Yech!!!