cannot be comprehended except by permission . . .

So Sue requested a "transcripted missing scene" from Survival. So here it tis.
It's crack.
It's RPS.
It's present and past tense.
It mentions John Quade, who played the nasty Vic Humphries in all his icky glory. RIP.

 

( Turtlenecks are so 1976 . . . )



 . . . and I'm grading papers, which are not that bad, and which show at least a nugget of things I taught them this semester.

. . . and I'm trying to write a new fic - not fan - and all I really wanna do is get Stephen Fry on the set of Supernatural for some mayhem.

. . . and I'm very proud of my Hutch for writing not one, but TWO SPN fics in the last week.

. . . and I'm waiting for her to write some S/H, because just because Dean and Sam are all shiny and new, there is still a loyalty issue.

. . . and our trip to the West got cancelled due to illness, not on our part, and due to scheduling cluster fuck, on my part, and Hutch has yet to bemoan the fact that I stole the ocean from her. So what I really wanna do is pop down to NYC this weekend to see "beverly leslie's" new show, something about "The Pink Carpet" . . .

. . . and we set the date and it looks like we may be honeymooning at ShareCon - is that wrong? Or perhaps totally right, since it twas the boys that brought us together . . .

and a big HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO AUDREY AND MARION!! What a lovely thing - a spring birthday - go outside and celebrate!!!

We've been having just the BEST weekend . . .




( Easter Musings and pics . . . )

okay so I'm not even in the continental US, but I am in the continental continent and I cannot be the only one who is scared like Dean Vs. the Hellhounds of MRS. PALIN.  Seriously, I could have an entire class dedicated to her form of rhetoric and double speak and folksy innacuracies and word-arounds. And I am almost NEVER political, but I also believe that the rational, smart, common sensical American people have this position of "well, they're all cuckoo and certainly not a problem," but it really makes me want to shout loud and long for all the rational smart common sensical Americans to WATCH YOUR BACKS. I just think that she is either a distraction - "pay no attention to what's behind the curtain . . ." - or the face of something I do not want the U.S. to become . . . of course, I am also one who wants Robert Redford to run for president, so  . . . p.s. does the woman not know that the political DNA of "state's rights" is SLAVERY???? Pick up a book, PLEASE, I BEG OF YOU.  Okay, back to fun and fandom and watching Hutch clean the house . . .

they're cutting down trees, they're putting up reindeer, singing songs of joy  and peace . . . oh I wish I had a river, I could skate away on . . . No wonder Hutch loves Joni Mitchell so much. It's right up his alley. Angst galore, as Starsky would say. Here'a  a picture out our window this morning - St. Lawrence river, coffee, housecleaning, music, and MY Hutch folding towels . . . HEAVEN.

Good on you, sistah.
Hope Vegas was a blast.
Will wait impatiently for report.

And now you are award-winning, I expect lots of stories and vids . . .

So here's the week at a glance:

Parents visited. Went swimmingly. Lots of pipe organs and HIGH MASS. Hutch was on her best behavior. You know how good Hutch is with parents . . .

Sprained ankle. Carting the 55 lb suitcase of the mother who packed an entire bag of "canadian apples" in her case. (side note - why are there no Jonathan Apples in Quebec? They are the BEST)

Caught a cold/fever/chill/cough . . . blah. And there are essays and journals languishing on  my dining table, begging to be graded and all I can do is lie on the couch and watch HBO movies.

Thanksgiving head count: 11
Chairs in the condo: 6

Hutch will not allow either stovetop stuffing OR green bean casserole.
(side note - she did buy me a single serving of stovetop - just add water)

Got a the yummiest of yummy surprises this evening - Hutch brought home a bag from LUSH. OH Laura, Laura. Laura - I get it now!
Am in love with the soap and the soap and the rubbing bar that turns into body butter . . . laws.

And now it's time for Supernatural.  So it's all good.

A big ol crackolustreousishisness Birthday wish for  lyricalsoul  . . .
trusted fellow, comrade, co-conspirator . . .

Crack to follow . . . xoxo

The release of season one of THIRTYSOMETHING?????

I was under thirty when I ADORED the show.
Now I'm over thirty for the DVDs . . .

wonder if the angst will seem silly now I am SOOO OLD and MATURE???? I TOTALLY DOUBT IT. Man, did I ever love that Ellyn and Hope and MIchael and Elliot and the boss from hell, Miles . . . sigh. Hope I don't still have fashion from that era - oh who am I kidding? Of course I still have fashion from that era . . . and I use the term FASHION rather loosely . . .

That's all.

Plus I wanna write a little something, but I have no motivation - anyone have an idea, scenario, plan, that they want to donate? Something odd they would never write??

Now I'm off to get freezer bags for the $50 of wild blueberries Hutch and I fetched in NOrthern Ontario last weekend (HI VERLAINE!)

Say what you will about Canada, the country is full of fine fruits . . .

So after a bout of influenza and a visit to the states and days of everything BUT words on a page, including classes in a most irritating language (je suis fatique), I managed to peck out this little Hawkeye/BJ for the lyrically prose gifted Thayln, as per the meme of a thousand springs ago . . .

You know, hawk and bj always seemed to me to be the perfect slash boys. The circumstance of their friendship, Hawk's inherited from Alan Alda's emo tendencies, bj's underlying need to be needed . . . well, I am sure they tumbled together on many occasion. And I love them both for it . . . of course this ditty is but a pale attempt to capture some of that angst and desperation . . . hope it works.

We are Nowhere
Hawkeye/BJ
Slash
For Thayln

He comes to me at night. After endless hours of of sutures and sorrow, in the aftermath of another blood-smeared day.  He waits outside Post-Op, leaning his long limbs just out of the light.  I attempt levity, a quip, but he just drags me around the corner and shoves me against the wall, his hands making quick work of my protest. His lips search and destroy. Punish. I know it’s not me. It’s this place he’s trying to forget, leaving it behind in a trail of faint bruises on my flesh. I welcome him, wrap myself in his grief, exhale my own, and for a moment, we are nowhere. But then a tent door slams and he tears himself away, shoves a hand through his hair, and disappears back into the light.  And I am left with nothing.