From: blakes7-d-request@lysator.liu.se Subject: blakes7-d Digest V99 #124 X-Loop: blakes7-d@lysator.liu.se X-Mailing-List: archive/volume99/124 Precedence: list MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: multipart/digest; boundary="----------------------------" To: blakes7-d@lysator.liu.se Reply-To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se ------------------------------ Content-Type: text/plain 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 To: Lysator Subject: [B7L] Ideas vs. story (wasKubrick and B7) (fwd) Message-ID: Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII Forwarded from Ann. Una ---------- Forwarded message ---------- From: Ann Basart To: Una McCormack 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" 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 To: Lysator cc: Space City Subject: [B7L] The Syndeton Experiment/Radio Times Message-ID: 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" To: Subject: [B7l]Radio Times Message-ID: <01be804b$43ac9940$170201c0@pc23.Fishnet> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit 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 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 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" Subject: [B7L] Re: Worst Openings Message-ID: <199904061421_MC2-70BF-846F@compuserve.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Disposition: inline Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit 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 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 To: "INTERNET:blakes7@lysator.liu.se" Subject: Re: [B7L] Re: Worst Openings Message-ID: 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: Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit 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 To: Lysator 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" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit 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 To: "Blake's 7 list" Subject: Re: [B7L] Worst Openings Message-ID: <19990406210408.A345@welkin.apana.org.au> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii 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 / \ | 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 To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se Subject: Re: [B7L] Worst Openings Message-ID: 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 To: B7 Lysator Subject: Re: [B7L] Illustration for Flat Robin 35 Message-ID: <37098C7A.9F026F9F@geocities.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit 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 ________________________________________________________ NetZero - We believe in a FREE Internet. Shouldn't you? Get your FREE Internet Access and Email at http://www.netzero.net/download.html ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 05 Apr 1999 21:19:42 -0700 From: Pat Patera To: B7 Lysator Subject: Re: [B7L] Art and the Desperate Editor Message-ID: <37098B5E.F73F7FE5@geocities.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit 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 ________________________________________________________ NetZero - We believe in a FREE Internet. Shouldn't you? Get your FREE Internet Access and Email at http://www.netzero.net/download.html ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 05 Apr 1999 21:21:37 -0700 From: Pat Patera To: B7 Lysator Subject: Re: [B7L] Help Wanted Message-ID: <37098BD1.F693AD6D@geocities.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit 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 ________________________________________________________ NetZero - We believe in a FREE Internet. Shouldn't you? Get your FREE Internet Access and Email at http://www.netzero.net/download.html ------------------------------ Date: Tue, 06 Apr 1999 20:24:14 -0700 From: Pat Patera To: B7 Lysator Subject: Re: [B7L] The Syndeton Experiment/Radio Times Message-ID: <370ACFDE.33D15796@geocities.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit 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 To: B7 Lysator Subject: Re: [B7L] Did that get through? Message-ID: <370AD219.F2553ACA@geocities.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit > 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 To: B7 Lysator Subject: Re: [B7L] Worst Openings Message-ID: <370AD1AA.8D0780DA@geocities.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit 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 To: B7 Lysator Subject: [B7L] Re: b7spin: Re: lysator down? Message-ID: <370AD3AF.D2BAB2B0@geocities.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit 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 To: B7 Lysator Subject: [B7L] Worst Openings Message-ID: <370AD6B1.10441124@geocities.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit 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" 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.) 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 ( 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 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit just checking... -------------------------------- End of blakes7-d Digest V99 Issue #124 **************************************