I Ain't Afraid of No Daleks

Here we see actor David Tennant's (Doctor Who) rather strong reaction, upon being told that his present Series Four companions, Freema Agyeman and Catherine Tate, were being replaced by Posh and Beck.

Okay, bad joke. That's a real herse, but not a real horse, by the way.

What this is, I'd gotten one year, back in the mid-1980's, a really great tax refund. So, I treated mum and myself to a weekend in the the Adirondacks (I wasn't living up here, back then). On that particular Saturday, I'd got back from a morning trail ride at Bailey's Horses, and mum said the people that ran the rental cabins had given her some coupons--one for some money off admission to a local Amusement park--Gaslight Village.

Anyway, not bothering to change out of my riding gear, off we went. And we enjoyed a relaxing afternoon.

But, that's why I'm sitting on a hearse, drawn by a fine dapple gray (fiberglass) horse, wearing a cowboy hat. By the way, while you can't actually see it in the photo (you can barely see me), that's a Doctor Who Fan Club of America tee shirt I've got on, as well. Long live the Doctor!

The Movie Of Your Life Is A Black Comedy

In your life, things are so twisted that you just have to laugh.
You may end up insane, but you'll have fun on the way to the asylum.

Your best movie matches: Being John Malkovich, The Royal Tenenbaums, American Psycho

LINK TO QUIZ:

http://www.blogthings.com/ifyourlifewasamoviewhatgenrewoulditbequiz/

"I'm rehearsing for the next scene--not to give the plot away, but in this scene the Doctor saves the earth using nothing but a ball of string and some ear wax. Russell wrote this script after watching an episode of McGyver."

"Yes, yes, that was my fart--and a good one too, don't you think?"

"No, David, somehow I don't think the Doctor tap dancing after defeating the monster, is going to work."

I guess one of my favourite places, growing up--even into my teen years, was the field next to our home.

I have memories of that place that go back to when I was about seven or eight years old. I think one of my earliest memories, was of the time before the owners decided to keep the grass cut. The field used to be filled with tall grass, like a hay field gone mad. I have the clear recollection of playing hide-and-seek with my sister and some of the other kids from our street, in there. I had this little trick I'd even developed. I'd lay there, flat on my back in the grass--but I'd leave clusters of standing grass between my legs, and pull up hand fulls of tall stems, holding them upright in my fists, upon my chest...sometimes it actually worked, too.

The field had enough of a slope, that, after the owners got a tractor and a brush hog, and began mowing the grass, instead of hide-and-seek, we'd roll ourselves down the wee gentle slope, instead.

There were a few ancient apple trees, bordering the field. These were our special delight. Besides those delicious wild apples we'd pick in the fall, those old apple trees, with their silver bark, streaked black with fungus, were a joy to climb--even me, who was a total klutz, could climb them. We could sit out on the branches, swinging our legs back and forth, telling tales, shooting the breeze, challenging each other to see who'd climb the highest.

In winter, the field became our number one place for sledding. We had others, but the field next door had the longest slope--tho' hardly the steepest, so that was the main place of choice, for us to take our sleds and fly like the wind--hopefully stopping before we hit the tree line, ha-ha. There were several bumps and dips--and it was especially a delight, to hit a dip while going really fast--because for just a split second, one would become airborne.

There was a dip at the end of the field, near the trees. Sometimes, of a winter, we'd have a quick thaw with rain, and an enormous puddle would form--then freeze, about 10 to 15 feet long, and about 6 or 8 feet wide. That was then our impromptu ice skating rink. The snow-filled field was also a handy source, in winter, for building snowmen and snow forts. We had a goodly share of snowball fights there.

When I was a teen, the field next door took on an entirely different significance to me.

It became a magical place, at times. In early summer, I'd wake before dawn, and go out bare foot, through the dew-soaked grass, and watch the sun come up. Stand there with the bottoms of my jeans soaking wet, my feet wriggling in the sparkling green grass. I'd watch the miracle of the ever-changing rainbow skies of dawn, listen to the crickets, the first sleepy chirp of a robin--followed by the soft cooing of a mourning dove. Then, the sky over the distant hills would be set ablaze, and all the birds would sing the Hallelujah Chorus.

On a sharply frigid winter's night, I'd stand in the snow, in the centre of the field, and gaze at stars that seemed so close, yet so distant. Stand in the cold blue moonlight, gazing at the shadows of the pines and maple trees, their long black fingers a contrast to the blue-tinted snowfield, glowing under a full moon. Seeing in the blue-white moonlight, the barren hills across the river, feeling the utter stillness of the winter night.

On the northern border of the field, one could still see the old farm fence--a relic of a by-gone era, dating back to the turn of the century. This part of the field was filled with trees--maple, oak, ash, etc...and in autumn--it became nature's tapestry, a artists palate, a riot of colour from the artist known as Mother Nature.

Now, in my middle age, sometimes it feels like this was another world, as if I'd only dreamed it. Something that was there everyday, but so long ago, as to now seem unreal. So much joy I'd taken for granted--and now vanished forever, except in memory.

THE FIELD "NEXT DOOR," OCTOBER 1977 (Northern border)

One of my favourite lesson horses of all time was "Buddy"--short for Budwiser, a draft-quarter horse cross.

Buddy was a do-anything horse: he was patient and kind, and never turned a hair at any situation--he was rock-solid dependable...and his gaits weren't half-bad, either. He could be used for hunt-seat, and wasn't a half-bad jumper, and, he was a great western pleasure (stock-seat) horse. Buddy could even load into the back of a pick-up truck, and ride home without a fuss. Quite a guy, Buddy was.

I used to ride buddy a lot, as he was the barn's only western mount--the stable was strictly hunt seat/jumpers. In order to ride buddy, I had to talk my parents into buying me a cheap western saddle for Christmas one year. I think they paid 75 dollars--which even then was fairly reasonable, even for a used saddle. I loved that saddle--for me, it was the next best thing to having my own horse, owning my own saddle. I was very fond of it--polished that sucker until I could practically see my face in the smooth, brown leather seat. It wasn't fancy--just an old mail-order ranch saddle, such as might come from Montgomery Wards or Sears-Roebuck (yes, these department stores use to sell tack and farm equipment).

Like my saddle, Buddy wasn't pretty. He was cute, in his sometimes bemused or exasperated expressions--which can be a bit disconcerting when you are the one riding the horse at the time. Like my saddle, Buddy was a utilitarian horse. A good all-round mover, not posh, just...good.

In order to ride buddy more often, I worked weeknights and Saturdays, mucking stalls at the stable--which was conveniently 1 mile up the road from our street. I worked for 15 dollars a week, and two half-hour lessons. I also polished tack, hayed and watered--and gladly. I learned a lot from that time with Buddy: Patience, kindness, and the value of persistence.

Buddy's long gone, of course, but I will always remember him fondly.

Here's a picture of me riding him, back int the winter of 1976, when I was 15 years old.

Well, only one person responded to my reader poll, where I asked anyone reading the story, to decide whether the ending will remain happy, or be sad. I had all of one response--but one reader is better than none, and I thank this person for the imput. This chapter is where the story drastically deviates--partly anyhow--from the original chapter ( http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=7193&chapter=19 ). But...not giving away the ending, sorry. N. (playwrite27)

Doctor Who: Time Lord's Don't Cry

CHAPTER 19: Time Lord's Do Cry

Marie came up behind the Doctor and looked at the view screen. She gasped, “That’s Mr. Phillps, who owns the hardware store! And there’s old Mr. and Mrs. Gordon, and Mr.Orsini the grocer...why, half the town must be out there!” After a long pause, she looked at the Doctor’s face somberly. “Does that mean they’re all dead, Doctor?” The Doctor’s hands balled into fists. He sighed heavily, bowed his head and said, “Yes. I’m afraid so.” He looked at her, his face a mirror of almost unworldly grimness. “But there’ll be many, many more deaths--the entire planet, if I don’t stop this, right here, right now." He declared firmly.

In the cold, still, wintry dawn, the Doctor stood in the forest glade. In front of him were two fresh graves. Using his sonic screwdriver, he'd written on two small slabs of granite: 'Chauncey--Marie's friend.' And on the Other: 'Marie--friend of the Doctor, A Daughter of Rassillon."

As always, Doctor Who is copyright of the BBC, and absolutely no infringement is intended.

Here's a late-autumn photo I snapped, on a nice dead-end country road in Fort Ann, NY. I snapped a number of pics along this roadway, as it's very scenic and picturesque, with sweeping views of mountain and valley, farm and field, at nearly every bend of the road. It's getting more developed, but the end of the roadway does border a wilderness area. (YES. New York state has wilderness-loads of it.)

The mountains in the background tower over the southern shores of Lake George.

Sorry about how some of these pics turned out--that's just the way my co-worker scanned them, and I haven't a clue how to make images larger or crop or stuff--I did take a class in photoshop in college, and was the bane of my professor's existance--I'm rubbish at photoshop!

Apparently there's a new play by this title. I've finally found a soul-mate. Someone else in this barren dessert of life that doesn't drool and wet herself at the very mention of the Sacred Name. Yipeee!!!!

And before you flippin' fangirls get all over my case, I don't not like Mr Tennant--he's fine...just another guy, to me. It's not that I think he's ugly or a geek, he's...he's..just too...young, for me dearies.

Not Stalking David Tennant
Etcetera Theatre | 020 7482 4857 | 265 Camden High Street, London, NW1 7BU

We don't have much in the way of theater here--and what we have is way over my head, financially, to even consider going to. You folks in the UK are soooo---lucky! There's a pro-theater literally just five blocks away, downtown--currently the venue is the Adirondack Theater Festival--but..not on my income level. Not unless I give up eating for 2 days, anyway. Our theater is pretty much strictly for the yuppies and posh retirees--unless you go to a high school programme, which may or may not be rubbish, luck of the draw, and is nearly always some tired old musical, that everyone else has done, a million times over, already.

I haven't been to REAL theater since 2004. Miss it sorely. Oh well, that's life, ey?