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blakes7-d Digest Volume 99 : Issue 124
Today's Topics:
[B7L] Ideas vs. story (wasKubrick and B7) (fwd)
[B7L] Worst Openings
[B7L] The Syndeton Experiment/Radio Times
[B7l]Radio Times
[B7L] Flat Robin 40
[B7L] Did that get through?
[B7L] Re: Worst Openings
[B7L] Yes, it did get through.
Re: [B7L] Re: Worst Openings
[B7L] Worst Openings
[B7L] Guess who?
Re: [B7L] Worst Openings
Re: [B7L] Worst Openings
Re: [B7L] Illustration for Flat Robin 35
Re: [B7L] Art and the Desperate Editor
Re: [B7L] Help Wanted
Re: [B7L] The Syndeton Experiment/Radio Times
Re: [B7L] Did that get through?
Re: [B7L] Worst Openings
[B7L] Re: b7spin: Re: lysator down?
[B7L] Worst Openings
Re: [B7L] Art and the Desperate Editor
[B7L] test - please ignore
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 6 Apr 1999 10:48:37 +0000 (GMT)
From: Una McCormack <umm10@hermes.cam.ac.uk>
To: Lysator <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: [B7L] Ideas vs. story (wasKubrick and B7) (fwd)
Message-ID: <Pine.PCW.3.96.990406104805.6783A-100000@umm-pc.jims.cam.ac.uk>
Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII
Forwarded from Ann.
Una
---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Ann Basart <abasart@dnai.com>
To: Una McCormack <umm10@hermes.cam.ac.uk>
Subject: Ideas vs. story (wasKubrick and B7)
> Jacqueline and I have been talking about whether or not it's the story or
> the idea that counts in a text (be it fanfic, novels, films, whatever).
Oh surely not just one of these! In genre fiction (such as sci-fi,
thrillers, mysteries) it's usually the plot, especially the excitement of
the plot. Which, IMO, makes B7 better than a lot of "sci-fi" because the
interpersonal relationships and character development are more important
than the plot.
In great novels, I think it is usually a mix. What is it that "counts" in
_War and Peace_, _Moby Dick_, _A Passage to India_, _Hamlet._, [add your
favorites]? Usually there has to be a story to keep the reader interested,
but setting, writing style, character development, ideas, are all
interwoven, sometimes one coming to the foreground, sometimes another.
In other words, (1) I don't think you can generalize; and (2) much depends
on the medium (film, fanfic, opera, popular novel, drama, literature, etc.)
It's an interesting question; I'd love to hear what others think.
Ann (not a writer, just a reader) Basart
abasart@dnai.com
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 06 Apr 1999 04:31:25 PDT
From: "Stephen Date" <stephendate@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: [B7L] Worst Openings
Message-ID: <19990406113131.21837.qmail@hotmail.com>
Content-type: text/plain
Tears of joy ran down Avon's cheeks as he listened to the choir singing
"Shine, Jesus, Shine". He looked across at Mary Sue who smiled at him
and took her hand in his.
"Isn't Jesus wonderful ?" she said.
They exchanged a look of perfect love and understanding.
"I'm so glad I've become a Born Again Christian" said Avon. "Will you
marry me ?"
"Of course I will".
Suddenly they were aware that Soolin was standing behind them "When did
you get religion ?" she hissed.
Stephen
(Departing the stage to jeers, catcalls and actual machine gun fire).
Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 6 Apr 1999 15:04:57 +0000 (GMT)
From: Una McCormack <umm10@hermes.cam.ac.uk>
To: Lysator <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
cc: Space City <space-city@world.std.com>
Subject: [B7L] The Syndeton Experiment/Radio Times
Message-ID: <Pine.PCW.3.96.990406150121.3071A-100000@umm-pc.jims.cam.ac.uk>
Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII
Not as much coverage this time in the Radio Times - just a little bit in
the side panel with a little graphic of Servalan and Avon:
'Some of the original TV cast of 'Blake's Seven' return for a new
adventure. Advon and the crew of the 'Scorpio' are tired of being on the
run and it seems that an experiment in brain waves could put them ahead of
the Federation.'
Una
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 6 Apr 1999 17:33:55 +0100
From: "Julie Horner" <julie.horner@lincolnsoftware.com>
To: <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: [B7l]Radio Times
Message-ID: <01be804b$43ac9940$170201c0@pc23.Fishnet>
Content-Type: text/plain;
charset="iso-8859-1"
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Una said :
>Not as much coverage this time in the Radio Times - just a little bit
in
>the side panel with a little graphic of Servalan and Avon:
>'Some of the original TV cast of 'Blake's Seven' return for a new
>adventure. Avon and the crew of the 'Scorpio' are tired of being on the
>run and it seems that an experiment in brain waves could put them ahead
of
>the Federation.'
However, it is included in "Pick of the Week" on page 3 so that's
something.
Julie Horner
Software Engineer
Lincoln Software
Tel: +44 (0) 1625 616722
Fax: +44(0) 1625 616780
E-mail: julie.horner@lincolnsoftware.com
Web: http://www.lincolnsoftware.com
*** Winners of the "e-commerce" category-
UK Software Technology Awards - 1999 ***
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 06 Apr 1999 10:37:25 -0600
From: Penny Dreadful <egomoo@mail.geocities.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: [B7L] Flat Robin 40
Message-Id: <3.0.6.32.19990406103725.007abc90@mail.geocities.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"
>The Liberator and the Ultimate Weapon drifted along where (with poetic
>license being brought heavily into play) Ankh, the sacred river, ran,
>through caverns theoretically measurable by man but no-one had ever been
>moved to go spelunking with that long a tape-measure, up from a sunless
>sea to the splend'rous spires of Ankh-Morpork.
Until such time as, the Liberator being after all a quite awesomely large
object, it came to rest at the point where the cavern of the kingdom of the
mole people began to draw in around the banks of its tributary. While the
Ultimate Weapon, being approximately the size of a restaurant pepper
grinder, drifted on unimpeded, far beneath the walls of Ankh-Morpork.
***
"I want not to disbelieve!" howled Fistulous Withers, his fingernails
clawing deep into the styrofoam console of Krantor's craft as Jenna
joyously jerked the joystick. Eddwode, god of Special Effects, felt the
invigorating warm tingle of disbelief being suspended as the great
rivet-ringed chrome saucer wobbled low over the heads of himself and the
rest of the mob. "I guess it's true what they say," he observed, though his
eyes never strayed from Mulberry's angora bodice, "about there being no
atheists in foxholes."
"Yes, *canis vulpes* are a pious lot," said Stibbons absently, beating the
black valise rhythmically against his thigh as he walked alone in the
middle of the mob. Its membership had peaked when the 'Pullet and Whippet'
contingent had joined forces with Servalan's posse, but was now dwindling
rapidly, as at each crossroads a dispute inevitably arose regarding in
which direction the river Ankh lay, which invariably culminated in minor
bloodshed and the division of the mob into no less than four factions.
"Ouch!" the Senior Wrangler contributed to the general hubbub after Granny
Weatherwax's hobnailed boot clipped his ear as she lowered her broom and
bore down on Krantor and Toise. "Faster, you fool!" cried Krantor from his
perch atop Toise's shoulders, and laid into him with the riding crop he'd
found for sale in the Pullet and Whippet's outhouse.
Lord Radish-Culpepper opted at every juncture to remain with the largest
segment of the mob, until such time as it became obvious to his skilled
mathematician's eye that (a) said largest segment was pigheadedly
determined to make its way into the very heart of the Shades, and (b) the
rate of disintegration dictated that, by the time it reached said heart of
said notorious district, said segment would consist of exactly three people.
Briefly.
Therefore when that time inevitably came when Bastard "The Bastard"
FitzRogers said go *this* way and the wizards said go *that*, Lord
Radish-Culpepper opted to follow Eddwode.
Eddwode, of course, was happy to go wherever Mulberry's bodice did, and
Mulberry's bodice was currently going wherever the Bastard wasn't, and in
this case that happened to be down a narrow alley and in through an
unmarked door which had been conveniently propped ajar with an empty
wine-bottle. Radish-Culpepper and Henderson, dragging a broken-hearted and
banana-traumatized Nigel between them, followed Eddwode and Mulberry
through this door and up a short dark flight of stairs. Servalan and Merisu
brought up the rear.
"Ooh, a theatre!" Merisu exclaimed as they emerged into the dim-lit
cavernous interior. It looked like the show had just started. "I gotta get
me some Gobstoppers! Howz'bout you, sweetcheeks?"
"Nothing for me, dear, I'm trying to watch my figure," whispered Servalan
demurely, lowering herself into the nearest vacant aisle seat.
"That's *my* job, dumplin'," grinned Merisu, and Servalan giggled
girlishly. At this gruesome display of affection Nigel sobbed damply into
Lord Radish-Culpepper's vermine collar. "Mulberry used to talk that way to
me," he wailed as the curtain rose. Theatre patrons on every side stared
daggers at him. Metaphorical daggers so far, but Radish-Culpepper was
(bizarrely enough) disinclined to push his luck.
"Perhaps," Lord Radish-Culpepper hazarded in a hushed voice, "it would be
best if we retired to the smoking gallery to talk this thing out man to..."
His cheek twitched involuntarily, "...man."
"The smoking gallery, sir?" asked Henderson curiously.
"Of course, Henderson," Radish-Culpepper snapped (softly), going through a
side-door which bore the symbol, probably completely incomprehensible if
decontextualized, of a spherical humanoid with a pointy head and smoke
emanating from one end. The door opened onto a narrow stairwell. They began
to climb. "Can you seriously imagine forcing a wizard to sit through three
hours of Drama without recourse to nicotine?"
The three of them continued their ascent in silence.
"Well, technically, sir, in that situation no-one's *forcing* anyone to do
*anything*,"[1] said Henderson at length.
Radish-Culpepper shrugged, having at this point no breath to spare on
speech, and pushed open the door to the smoking gallery.
"Urg," said Henderson.
"I can't see the stage," sniffled Nigel.
"Look down," suggested Radish-Culpepper. Nigel did, at which point the
day's high emotion and uncustomary alcohol intake at long last got the
better of him.
"Don't worry about it," Radish-Culpepper said. "They only use that part for
soliliquys. If you want to see the stage *proper* you have to lean over
just a *little* -- Henderson, unhand my ankles this instant! Why didn't you
tell me you were both such acrophobics?"
"Our dorm room's always been on ground level, sir," Henderson moaned. "We
never had a chance to find out until now."
"All right, well, let's forget the play -- look, boys, the stars are out.
Roll over on your backs -- passing marks to the first one of you who can
correctly identify a constellation."
There were some moments of contemplative silence broken only by the wailing
wind and the faintest sounds of acting from below.
***
"You can open your eyes, Mister Withers, I think I've got the hang of it
now," Jenna said. "It's surprisingly...intuitive."
Fistulous Withers' right trenchcoat pocket laughed raucously as he slowly
disengaged his toes and fingers from the red shag carpet underneath the
console. "Intuitive?" he squawked. "Could you be a little more specific,
there, Rockets? And I'm talking *even more* specific than you were when you
said 'I think I could fly it,' although I suppose I did err in assuming an
implicit '...and live to tell the tale'."
"What I mean -- could you please pull that lever? Yes, that one, thank you.
What I *mean* when I say it's *intuitive* is that I could never in a
million years hope to learn how to pilot this thing by sitting down and
studying the controls--" Jenna jabbed randomly at a number of buttons with
no apparent effect on the now smooth-flying saucer. "--but as long as I
don't think about what I'm doing, and concentrate on what I *want* to do,
then whatever I do--" She leaned forward and flipped a small yellow switch,
which caused a panel to light up. "--works." She smiled.
Withers came and stared over her shoulder at the panel, which displayed an
aerial view of Ankh-Morpork with a green dot moving slowly across it. Green
text beside the dot read "You Are Here". As they watched, a flashing red
dot edged onto the screen. The red text beside it said "Current Location Of
Doomsday Device".
"I feel woozy," said Solipsos. Syggar tittered.
***
"That one looks like a horse..."
"Very good, Nigel, yes, astrologers for centuries have remarked upon how
amazingly that particular concatenation of stellar phenomena does in fact
resemble a horse. But the official *name*, please, just for the record?"
"Ah...The Horse?"
"No, I'm sorry, Nigel, the official name of that constellation is 'The
Well-Endowed Maiden With The Leaky Bucket And The Long Whip'. Close as
you've ever come, though. Henderson, care to give it a shot?"
"Well, sir, I must say that one looks remarkably like an extremely large
chromium-plated wagon-wheel cover. I'll go out on a limb and say its
official name is 'The Hunter With The Little Tiny Loincloth And The Great
Big--'"
"I don't know of any constellation that looks like that," Radish-Culpepper
snapped, absently flicking ashes down onto the Drama slowly unfolding far
below.
"Yeah, an *extremely* large wagon-wheel cover," agreed Nigel.
Radish-Culpepper looked up slowly. "Oh," he said. "Oh, bu--"
FOUR IN A ROW. I MEAN REALLY. Death tapped Radish-Culpepper's
oddly-constructed lifetimer in vexation.
"Sho bashically," said Vila, "The traditional hourglash shape ish about the
worsht deshign poshibble."
IF BY WORST YOU MEAN NEATEST AND MOST LIKELY TO FUNCTION CORRECTLY, THEN YES.
Vila smiled ingratiatingly, if not altogether symmetrically. "Shpose I
could see mine?"
***
The first thing Cally and Avon saw when they entered the Mended Drum was a
young wizard hanging by his heels from the chandelier with a banana in his
ear and the well-worn "M-WORDE" sign hung from his neck.
"My goodness, what happened to you?" Cally asked Johnstone as she
endeavoured to cut him down.
"I don't think he can hear you, Cally -- he has a banana in his ear."
***
The door from the smoking gallery opened, and two figures stepped out into
the darkened auditorium. "Well, this obviously isn't a bridge," Fistulous
Withers hazarded.
"Ssshhhh!" the audience said.
"But the tributary must run right under here," Jenna said. "Maybe there's a
manhole or something." The audience glared at her.
There was a great hue and cry from a certain contingent of the audience as
the character of "Colonel Persnickety" entered stage left, and a wide
variety of foodstuffs came flying through the air toward him, a gesture
somewhere between adulation and assault. Jenna, struck from behind by a
piece of the sacrificial fruit, craned to try and find the source of the
ruckus. It turned out to be a motley group of about two dozen
colourfully-clad citizens, all carrying bulging satchels.
"Right, well, let's start looking for that cellar door," said Jenna. An
under-ripe muskmelon grazed her ear just as she ducked through a doorway
that appeared to lead under the stage, dragging the ambivalently reluctant
Fistulous Withers after her.
Servalan elbowed Merisu, and pointed her chin to the excitable group ahead
of them. "Who *are* those people?" she hissed. "Some sort of cult?" The
outlandishly attired peasants were now chanting in time with Persnickety's
every line, and lobbing a synchronised volley of produce onstage at
apparently random intervals.
Merisu giggled hysterically. "Some sort of cult? Oh, my sweet naive young
Servalan, how fortunate for your virginal self that I am here to enlighten
you as to the workings of the world."
"Yes?" Servalan raised her eyebrows expectantly. Merisu felt uncustomarily
uneasy. Its hold on her seemed to be slipping.
"*That*, my dear Supreme Commander, is but one branch of the powerful Cult
of Colonel Persnickety (that's the fellow presently standing on the apron
singing 'Don't Cry For Me Ankh-Morpork'), one of the greatest sex symbols
of our era. He appeared in a series of budget-minded tragicomedies[2] back
in the decade of the inquisitive wombat, and these maniacs -- no offence
intended..."
"None taken," murmured a nearby cultist, preparing to launch a lime.
"...have been faithfully attending his productions ever since."
"Really. He doesn't look like much of a sex symbol to me."
At the sound of her words both Persnickety and his followers stopped what
they were doing and turned to stare slack-jawed at Servalan. Slowly the
cultists reached into their satchels and felt for suitable fruit.
The Supreme Commander stood up, brusquely dumping Merisu from her lap onto
the theatre floor, where it stuck fast with a squeal of spurned rage.
Eddwode grinned. Mulberry clasped her dainty hands, eyes round with
innocent anticipatory horror.
"Well he *doesn't*," Servalan shouted defiantly, a spotlight now focused
upon her. "Look at him." She gestured theatrically stageward. "What is he,
seventy years old? Really, his prime mastodon-slaying years are behind him.
Grossly obese and bald as a billiard ball as well, I might add."
Persnickety glowered furiously at her, even while his followers peered
curiously at him as though through a swiftly dissipating fog. Then he leapt
at his elfin heckler with an adequately dramatic howl of fury, at the very
moment a dagger sailed through the spot where his jugular should have been,
had the play been progressing as it ought to, accompanied by a cry of, "Sic
semper -- hey! Get back here!"
Persnickety squawked and dove down amongst the legs of his followers as his
would-be assassins sprung adroitly onto the stage, scanning the crowd for
their quarry. He continued to scrabble in the direction of Servalan, but no
longer with murder in his heart.
***
"I wonder what this lever does," said Fistulous. The floorboards above them
shook momentarily and then were eerily silent. Jenna desperately tried to
fight back a sneeze.
"There's only one way to find out," she responded.
***
"Lynnette!" screamed Servalan, staring in amazement at the two black-clad
figures now alone upon the stage. "Suzanne! Come here this instant! What do
you think you're doing? What sort of mutoids *are* you?" At the sound of
their former Supreme Commander's voice the pair twitched like marionettes
in the hands of a speed-freak puppeteer, as their hard-wired imperative to
unquestioningly obey an officer of the Federation arm-wrestled their
nascent octarine-enhanced autonomy. Fortunately their dilemma was resolved
for them when the trapdoor beneath their bootheels opened and they tumbled
down into the darkness.
"It's rather awkward losing control like that at the slightest Federation
-- I mean provocation..." Lynnette muttered, brushing herself off as she
arose from a pile of sandbags and old costumes.
"I suppose it's a stage we all have to go through," said Suzanne.
***
"Servy, baby, sweetie, help me up, would you, hon?" whined the god of
Extraneous Characters. Servalan responded with a half-hearted kick. Clearly
a superior deity had wrested control of the narrative away from Merisu once
more. It shrugged and slunk off in search of greener pastures.
"You saved my life," Persnickety whispered breathlessly at her feet, while
she continued to glare at the empty stage. "How can I ever repay you?"
Persnickety's followers had gathered round, evidently willing to be
ensorcelled once more (which caused Eddwode to experience a delicious rush
just as he was steeling himself to ask Mulberry if she'd ever consider
swapping tops with a god like him).
"Mmm," said Servalan absently, deigning only now to gaze down. Mmm. Followers.
She had failed miserably in her previous attempt to control an Ankh-Morpork
mob. But she always strove to learn from her mistakes -- unless the mistake
was Travis -- and she was nothing if not versatile. Gold had proven
insufficient to hold their interest in the face of an Apocalyptic Weapon. A
variation on paper, laser, rock: gold, guns...
"Gosh, Colonel Persnickety, that was your best performance yet," ventured
one of the cultists.
...glamour. Servalan smiled and extended her hand to help the Colonel to
his feet. "Repay me. Yes, well I'm sure we'll think of something.
Meanwhile, why don't you tell me why you think those...let's say
people...were trying to kill you?" The cultists nodded, wide-eyed, all ears.
"They were obviously professionals," Persnickety orated as Servalan steered
him in the direction of the backstage door, his cult following close behind.
"I should hope so," Servalan snarled. "That degree of biomechanical
modification doesn't grow on trees, you know."
Persnickety eyed her quizzically.
"I mean," Servalan smiled hugely, leaning forward to adjust a strap on one
of her shoes, "were they? Were they really? Professionals, you say. That's
interesting -- what makes you say that?" She pushed open the door that led
out onto the alleyway and allowed the aging actor and his curiously-kitted
cult to file out ahead of her.
"Oh, there's plenty of people who'd pay to see *me* dead," said
Persnickety. "You see, I know too much."
------
[1] Young Henderson was almost certainly unaware that this utterance echoed
*exactly* the last -- intelligible -- words of the late proprietor of
Ankh-Morpork's first and last smoke-free tavern. The judge -- a pouch-a-day
man himself -- ruled his drowning an obvious suicide: yes, he said,
coercion *had* been used to hold the fellow upside-down in the keg for half
an hour...but technically, no-one had *forced* him to inhale.
[2] Being a Bleake and Bloody fable, in fifty-odd inftallments, of the
Inevitable Triumph of Evil over Good. In other words, a children's show.
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 06 Apr 1999 11:24:55 -0600
From: Penny Dreadful <egomoo@mail.geocities.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: [B7L] Did that get through?
Message-Id: <3.0.6.32.19990406112455.007b9c40@mail.geocities.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"
Huh? Did it? Huh?
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 6 Apr 1999 14:21:01 -0400
From: Harriet Monkhouse <101637.2064@compuserve.com>
To: "INTERNET:blakes7@lysator.liu.se" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: [B7L] Re: Worst Openings
Message-ID: <199904061421_MC2-70BF-846F@compuserve.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1
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Stephen gets all my votes, surely no one can come up with anything worse
than that... except that Soolin was still in character, surely a mistake?
Harriet
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 06 Apr 1999 13:35:11 -0600
From: Penny Dreadful <egomoo@mail.geocities.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: [B7L] Yes, it did get through.
Message-Id: <3.0.6.32.19990406133511.007d0900@mail.geocities.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"
Thanks for all confirmations recieved. And next time I'll specify what I
mean by "it".
------------------------------
Date: 06 Apr 1999 21:50:12 +0200
From: Calle Dybedahl <calle@lysator.liu.se>
To: "INTERNET:blakes7@lysator.liu.se" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Re: Worst Openings
Message-ID: <usvhf9a5qj.fsf@sara.lysator.liu.se>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII
Harriet Monkhouse <101637.2064@compuserve.com> writes:
> Stephen gets all my votes, surely no one can come up with anything
> worse than that...
If someone does, I don't want to see it. Or even hear rumours of it.
--
Calle Dybedahl, Vasav. 82, S-177 52 Jaerfaella,SWEDEN | calle@lysator.liu.se
"I'd rather hang on to madness than normality" -- KaTe Bush
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 6 Apr 1999 15:56:49 EDT
From: Tigerm1019@aol.com
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: [B7L] Worst Openings
Message-ID: <e900d42f.243bc101@aol.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"
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In a message dated 99-04-06 15:51:35 EDT, calle@lysator.liu.se writes:
<< If someone does, I don't want to see it. Or even hear rumours of it.
>>
Calle, you should know better than to challenge me like this by now. It's
like a mouse running across the stove when the cat's in the room. How about
this:
Too late, Blake realized he had mistaken his Liberator handgun for his
curling iron.
Tiger M
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 06 Apr 1999 21:14:16 +0100
From: Steve Rogerson <steve.rogerson@MCR1.poptel.org.uk>
To: Lysator <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: [B7L] Guess who?
Message-ID: <370A6B14.6A2287AC@mcr1.poptel.org.uk>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii; x-mac-type="54455854"; x-mac-creator="4D4F5353"
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I read Peter Beagle's short story "Choushi-wai's Story" today and in it
there is a character simply known as the Thief (not what he is but who
he is). One passage describing him goes as follows:
"Now you are to understand that the Thief was not a brave man. 'When one
does what I do,' he often told his odd ragbag of friends, 'courage is
your worst enemy. Wit's what's needed if you're going to steal - wit and
more wit, and a decent pair of hands. As for daring' - and here he'd
shrug crookedly - 'daring is well enough, in its place. Which is
afterward, when you're telling the story.' Among those like old Sham who
took an interest in such things, his thefts were legendary, but it was
his cowardice that he paraded like a golden prize. Choushi-wai tells you
this so that you will see how seriously annoyed he was to find himself
scrambling over the palace wall."
Sound like anyobody we know/
--
cheers
Steve Rogerson
"Get in there you big furry oaf, I don't care what you smell"
Star Wars
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 6 Apr 1999 21:04:08 +1000
From: Kathryn Andersen <kat@welkin.apana.org.au>
To: "Blake's 7 list" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Worst Openings
Message-ID: <19990406210408.A345@welkin.apana.org.au>
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On Tue, Apr 06, 1999 at 02:08:50AM -0700, Stephen Date wrote:
> Tears of joy ran down Avon's cheeks as he listened to the choir singing
> "Shine, Jesus, Shine". He looked across at Mary Sue who smiled at him
> and took her hand in his.
> "Isn't Jesus wonderful ?" she said.
> They exchanged a look of perfect love and understanding.
> "I'm so glad I've become a Born Again Christian" said Avon. "Will you
> marry me ?"
> "Of course I will".
> Suddenly they were aware that Soolin was standing behind them "When did
> you get religion ?" she hissed.
Avon raised his eyebrow and answered, "50 pages ago - while you were
lost in that swamp."
> Stephen
> (Departing the stage to jeers, catcalls and actual machine gun fire).
And rotten tomatoes, tissue paper, and copies of The Book of Mormon.
Yep, that was dire. And I'm not sure which was worst - the
denigrating of Born Again Christians, or the denigrating of the manner
in which Avon became one. Mind you, "Shine, Jesus, Shine" is one of
my *least* favourite choruses, so you were spot on in picking
something irritatingly nauseous.
I've only come across one piece of fanfiction which actually managed
to convert Avon, believably. If only I could remember what it was
called, or where I saw it. All I can remember was this word-picture
of a world-weary Avon who had forsworn violence, having come across an
old hermit who had taught him his creed. Or something like that.
Kathryn A.
--
_--_|\ | Kathryn Andersen <kat@welkin.apana.org.au>
/ \ | http://home.connexus.net.au/~kat
\_.--.*/ | #include "standard/disclaimer.h"
v |
------------| Melbourne -> Victoria -> Australia -> Southern Hemisphere
Maranatha! | -> Earth -> Sol -> Milky Way Galaxy -> Universe
------------------------------
Date: 06 Apr 1999 22:21:08 +0200
From: Calle Dybedahl <calle@lysator.liu.se>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: [B7L] Worst Openings
Message-ID: <usu2uta4az.fsf@sara.lysator.liu.se>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII
Tigerm1019@aol.com writes:
> Too late, Blake realized he had mistaken his Liberator handgun for his
> curling iron.
That's not even bad. let me spice it up a bit for you:
Avon looked at the headless corpse and multitude of bloodstains on the
wall beyond it. He sighed.
"I told Blake not to buy a curling iron that was so like a handgun," he said.
Vila buried his face in Avon's shirt, crying violently.
"I... I... I just wanted to help!" he said, inbetween sobs.
Avon patted his friend on the head. "Come now, dear, it was a
perfectly natural mistake for you to make."
--
Calle Dybedahl, Vasav. 82, S-177 52 Jaerfaella,SWEDEN | calle@lysator.liu.se
"I'd rather hang on to madness than normality" -- KaTe Bush
------------------------------
Date: Mon, 05 Apr 1999 21:24:26 -0700
From: Pat Patera <pussnboots@geocities.com>
To: B7 Lysator <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Illustration for Flat Robin 35
Message-ID: <37098C7A.9F026F9F@geocities.com>
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Penny Dreadful wrote:
> >How did you do the red background on the "serious" Travis portrait?
> Burgundy calligraphy ink on bristol board.
oh! of course. ink wash. It looks stunningly like blood; partly
coagulated, partly dried to black (oh yummy!) and makes me think it's a
metaphor for all the oceans of blood Travis has wallowed thru during his
"military" career.
Travis fans will like the zine, "Roads Not Taken," which has a number of
Travis stories in it.
Poetic Pat P
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------------------------------
Date: Mon, 05 Apr 1999 21:19:42 -0700
From: Pat Patera <pussnboots@geocities.com>
To: B7 Lysator <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Art and the Desperate Editor
Message-ID: <37098B5E.F73F7FE5@geocities.com>
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Penny Dreadful wrote:
re: fanzine illos
> lastly my niche is rather limited. Though many a tree gave its all to the
> cause, I never could draw Avon.
Yes, but almost all the other artists "specialize" in Avon, while to my
knowledge, nobody specializes in Travis. And Travis does have his
admirers!
A long thread raged before on whether online B7 content was killing
fanzines. I doubt it. Firstly, not all fans are even online. Secondly,
few people can bear to read entire 2 - 10,000 word stories online. (When
I try, I don't enjoy it and I don't retain it). Thirdly, it's so much
work to download and print out a story, then collate it (plus the cost
of laser toner) that it's cheaper just to buy the zine! Plus, you then
get *free* comb-binding :-)
re: sniffing the baking bread. Certainly, the web can be used to publish
a few tempting paragraphs of a zine to entice fans to want to read the
whole thing.
And frankly, with the exception of those exquisite Susie Lovett pencils,
(back when she was drawing in this fandom, before The Professionals
Bodie & Doyle, and then the WiseGuys seduced her away - ah, artists are
such fickle creatures) I've never bought a zine for the illos, but
rather for the stories.
> --Penny "Free Filth" Dreadful
Is that a fornicating pigs joke???
P(r)iggish Pat P
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------------------------------
Date: Mon, 05 Apr 1999 21:21:37 -0700
From: Pat Patera <pussnboots@geocities.com>
To: B7 Lysator <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Help Wanted
Message-ID: <37098BD1.F693AD6D@geocities.com>
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Peter Borg wrote:
> > Some time ago, I registered the domain name
> blakes7.org to put up a site which is basically review
> & editorial set in content.
> Contributors will have full control over their own
> work, and will be credited on the site along with
> their work. There'll also be a rouges gallery.
Hey Travis, are you listening?
> Alternatively, if you wish, you can remain completely
> anonymous.
Or use a Dreadful alias.
Pat P
________________________________________________________
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------------------------------
Date: Tue, 06 Apr 1999 20:24:14 -0700
From: Pat Patera <pussnboots@geocities.com>
To: B7 Lysator <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] The Syndeton Experiment/Radio Times
Message-ID: <370ACFDE.33D15796@geocities.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii
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Una McCormack wrote:
re: mag review:
> 'Some of the original TV cast of 'Blake's Seven' return for a new
> adventure. Advon and the crew of the 'Scorpio' are tired of being on the
> run and it seems that an experiment in brain waves could put them ahead of
> the Federation.'
>
ohmawgauwd, imagine that! the entire Scorpio crew gone totally
telepathic. they'll *all* be dead in a week!
Pat P
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 06 Apr 1999 20:33:45 -0700
From: Pat Patera <pussnboots@geocities.com>
To: B7 Lysator <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Did that get through?
Message-ID: <370AD219.F2553ACA@geocities.com>
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> Huh? Did it? Huh?
AAAWWWKKK!
GET IT OFF ME!!! GET IT OFF ME!!! GET IT OOoOOoooooooo....
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 06 Apr 1999 20:31:54 -0700
From: Pat Patera <pussnboots@geocities.com>
To: B7 Lysator <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Worst Openings
Message-ID: <370AD1AA.8D0780DA@geocities.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii
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I needed a good laugh tonight and so far I'm at over half a dozen on
this list.
Calle Dybedahl wrote:
re: Tiger's
> > Too late, Blake realized he had mistaken his Liberator handgun for his
> > curling iron.
...
> Avon looked at the headless corpse and multitude of bloodstains on the
> wall beyond it. He sighed.
> "I told Blake not to buy a curling iron that was so like a handgun," he said
...
Calle, you, too, are one sick puppy and belong in the basement with that
poodle.
Pat P
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 06 Apr 1999 20:40:31 -0700
From: Pat Patera <pussnboots@geocities.com>
To: B7 Lysator <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: [B7L] Re: b7spin: Re: lysator down?
Message-ID: <370AD3AF.D2BAB2B0@geocities.com>
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Calle Dybedahl wrote:
> As far as I can tell, that's just because you haven't written any!
I must apologize for my original dumb query. duh! of course I should
have tried posting a test.
It's just that this list has been so busy for months, and then that
sudden oasis of calm.
However, the responses were most enteraining.
(Perhaps I'll do it again some time.)
(un)Repentant Pat P
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 06 Apr 1999 20:53:21 -0700
From: Pat Patera <pussnboots@geocities.com>
To: B7 Lysator <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: [B7L] Worst Openings
Message-ID: <370AD6B1.10441124@geocities.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii
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Stephen Date wrote:
>
> Tears of joy ran down Avon's cheeks as he listened to the choir singing
> "Shine, Jesus, Shine". He looked across at Mary Sue who smiled at him
> and took her hand in his.
> "Isn't Jesus wonderful ?" she said.
> They exchanged a look of perfect love and understanding.
> "I'm so glad I've become a Born Again Christian" said Avon. "Will you
> marry me ?"
> "Of course I will".
> Suddenly they were aware that Soolin was standing behind them "When did
> you get religion ?" she hissed.
>
oh my! I am *speechless* with admiration for your entry!!!
Pat P
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 06 Apr 1999 21:57:27 PDT
From: "Joanne MacQueen" <j_macqueen@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: [B7L] Art and the Desperate Editor
Message-ID: <19990407045728.15805.qmail@hotmail.com>
Content-type: text/plain
Now that I'm back at work (what a difference an extra day off work makes!):
>I put Acrobat versions of Refractions #1 and Refractions #2 up on >the web (that's the Real Thing, the masters get printed from this).
>Three people responded. (Thank you Joanne especially.)
<smile> No problem. I should thank people for their efforts more often than I do. So this shall be a kind of global thankyou to the many:-
Judith, Kathryn, Leah and Annie, Sue Clerc, Calle for the list, Reba and Pita (has anyone been kind enough to send you more stories for the Aquitar Files yet?), Penny Dreadful, and to anyone else on the list who has a B7-related Website that I have, undoubtedly, visited at some stage but may not have previously commented on how pleased I am to see it there. Thankyou all.
Regards
Joanne
(<plaintive wail> sometimes Hotmail hates me, and I have to send things like this again)
A favourite quote from the archives:
I had to watch The Web again recently and you know, it's starting to grow on me. But I expect the flutonic power cells will clear it up.
--Sue Clerc, December 1992
______________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 07 Apr 1999 03:06:25 -0700
From: mistral@ptinet.net
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: [B7L] test - please ignore
Message-ID: <370B2E21.297948A9@ptinet.net>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii
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just checking...
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End of blakes7-d Digest V99 Issue #124
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