She Lobes Me

A summary of an imaginary musical

The curtain rises on the Buffy the Vampire Slayer set in Santa Monica one autumn day in the year 2000. The show staff arrive one by one; Tony Head ‘the British guy’ is followed by the hot young actor Nick Brendon on his bicycle, the ‘woman of the world’ Alyson Hannigan and, shortly afterwards, James Marsters, the show’s ‘ladies’ man’. They are joined by Marti Noxon, the supervising producer, and they all muse on the possibilities of a day off (Good Evening, Good Night). These thoughts are shattered with the arrival of Joss who opens the set to its first scene (Sounds While Shooting) which is concluded in a most business-like manner (Thank You Madam). 

Joss tells Nick he has received another letter from his “Dear Fan” – his ongoing secret internet “romance.” They are interrupted by Tony who advises Joss, his dinner guest of the previous evening, to stay away from fans. He recalls his own posting board days (Days Bronzed By). 

Nick says the latest ad-libbed line, a bad pun. As Joss expresses his doubts that anyone will get it, Kiba Rika enters. Joss assumes her to be a bystander but it becomes apparent that she’s looking for an autograph. Despite rejections from Tony and Marti she perseveres and convincingly delivers Nick’s punny line (No More Vampy). After this success Kiba gets her autographs on the spot, and joins the rest of the cast in the (Thank You Madam) refrain. 

Autumn becomes Winter and Joss continues his writing amidst an undercurrent of tensions (Three Emails); Aly and James fall out, Joss and Marti disagree over everything, and Joss and Tony snipe at each other constantly. We learn, however, that Kiba is the recipient of Joss’ emails. 

A February day dawns with Kiba not online yet again. Joss, however, is preoccupied; not only has the weight of Marti’s dissatisfaction fallen solely upon him, but the first meeting with “Dear Fan” has at last been organised. (Tonight At Six

Kiba confides to andyourlittledogtoo about her impending date, and admits that, although they have never met, she feels she knows him well through their correspondence (I Don’t Trust His Face). 

At the moment when Joss is about to fire Marti, Tony averts the immediate crisis by dropping a page of lines. Joss and Tony are left alone, for Tony to expound his life’s philosophy (Respective). 

The cast have been asked to work late to film a shot with extras. When Joss tries to tell Marti that neither he nor Tony can work that evening, Marti provokes another argument and Joss resigns himself to having to sneak out. The members of the cast bid him a sad farewell (Goodbye Joss) and he leaves. Meanwhile, Kiba, dressed in her best clothes and carrying the hat that will identify her to her “Dear Hottie”, also leaves, full of doubts (Will He Like Me). 

Inside the shop James makes it up with Alyson (Aly) and they agree to go out that evening. When Marti suddenly announces that everyone must leave, however, James remembers a prior engagement and lets Alyson down. She determines not to be anyone’s fool any longer (I Resolve). 

As Tony leaves he is met by Joss who has decided he can’t go through with his date with Dear Fan, and asks Tony to take a note with the promise that he will write to her instead. Tony offers his moral support and insists that they both go to the rendezvous. Marti, unaware that Nick is still in his trailer, admits Charisma, a private detective. Tipped off by an anonymous letter, Marti has had Joss’ wife investigated and Charisma tells her the bitter truth – she is indeed keeping correspondence with one of the show’s fans. To Marti’s surprise the guilty party turns out to be Kiba and not Mere, whom she had originally suspected. As Charisma leaves, Marti gets a call from Joss’ wife to say that she’ll be up late again that night. She goes upstairs. As Nick enters he sees Marti, and as he runs into the office we hear a shot… 

We switch our attention to the American Legion Hall, where the PBP committee are welcoming their guests (Bufferific Atmosphere). Joss and Tony arrive and Tony is astonished to learn that “Dear Fan” is actually Kiba. He persuades Joss to go and speak to her. As Four Star Mary plays (Pain), Joss invites himself to join Kiba on the dance floor. A silly conversation ensues with Kiba anxious that Joss’ presence doesn’t frighten off “Dear Hottie”. She eventually loses patience and screams at Joss to leave (Mr. Whedon, Will You Please…). As the cafe closes she realises that her date will not materialise and she sings the plaintive (Dear Hottie). 

Act Two opens in Marti’s hospital room where Nick, having run errands to cover the botched shooting, takes the opportunity for self-advancement (Try Me in a Spinoff). In response to Marti’s note, Joss arrives and listens in open-mouthed amazement to Marti’s apology for not having told him of the fan’s correspondence with his wife. Joss says he knew about it already and the two are friends again. 

Joss calls in to see Kiba who is ‘unwell’ as a result of being too wired from the night before. He is accused of snooping, whereupon she makes a disorganised effort to check her email (Where’s My Power Cord). Joss manages to calm her down and they discuss her failed meeting with “Dear Hottie”, Joss inventing, as he goes along, an old, hairy show producer named James Cameron. After he leaves, Kiba tries to write to “Dear Hottie” but her thoughts return to Joss and his get-well gift (A Smooch on the Cheek). 

Joss returns to the set convinced that the tide has turned in his relationship with Kiba (She Lobes Me). There he finds Aly celebrating her new love (A Trip To the Angel Set) and Tony, who confesses that he sent Marti the anonymous letter to engineer the dismissal of James, which will NEVER takes place, because he couldn’t compete with another British character (Grand Snogging You). 

We follow the frantic last-minute rush of fans to the Torrance set, and the growing friendship of Joss and Kiba (Twelve Days To Sweeps). Marti returns to the store at the close of business on Sweeps Eve, and is presented with a bumper ratings record. As Aly goes off with her new beau Alexis and Tony is about to join his family, Marti whisks Nick – now about to get his own show “Xander the Normal Guy” – off to celebrate. 

Joss is invited to join Kiba and her mother for Sweeps Eve. When she shows him her gift for “Dear Hottie” it is, ironically, the Joss is a Hottie hat. Joss begins to quote one of his emails, and realisation dawns on Kiba that Joss is indeed her “Dear Hottie”. They embrace amid a flurry of snowflakes as the curtain falls. 

By Kiba Rika.
Based on the musical She Loves Me by Jerry Bock and Sheldon Harnick.
To see the original summary of She Loves Me click here.
 

Buffy Forever

Happy Birthday Joss! Or should I sad god? *grin* It took me awhile to think of something appropriate to send in for your big day because there are so many things that make you great. This year, though, what struck me in particular, was your portrayal of death. Specifically the death of Buffy’s mom and the aftermath, the emotions that resulted. So I settled on a wallpaper I made to commemorate “Forever”. There were so many lines of dialogue that just hit me during that episode and “The Body”. “I have to do these things, because when I stop she’s really gone.” is one of them. The other one for me was Tara when Buffy asked if her mother’s death was sudden saying “No.. yes..it’s always sudden.” Because that is so true and I know that from my own experience. And to hear that out loud from one of your amazing creations touched me so much. Of all your moments of greatness..
and there have been many.. those two lines are what stands out the most in my mind I’m going to stop rambling now. SO many people adore you, and rightly so, that I know you must have a hundred notes just like this to wade through. I just wanted to say thank you.. for all your efforts past, present, and future which has so deeply touched me and so many others.  Thank you, and happy birthday. I wish you all the best. You truly deserve it.~dawna AKA Cece~

Happy Birthday to Joss

Happy Birthday to Joss, this wonderful man
Who sent to us Buffy, Angel and clan.
Happy Birthday to Joss, this genius guy,
Who just with one script can make us all cry.
Happy Birthday to Joss, this possible god
Whose sick, witty mind has shocked every poor sod…
Happy Birthday to Joss, who saved my whole life
With concepts of Scooby Gang joys and strife.Joss — I was going to send you a physical present, but I’m too cheap, sorry, didn’t know where to send it(!) I was going to send you some magical dust (since I have enough of it floating around at home!) but I’m not a Wicca and besides, I’m far too cynical. Besides, you’re the only God I believe in! *g* So I’m giving you this, and you will like it, or else!! 

This was written during a night of insomnia which is all that remains of my once-suicidal depression. I just wanted you to know that you and your terrific shows, cast and crew have stopped me from killing
myself many a time when I’ve thought about it — “But if I die, I won’t find out what happens in the season finale!” It sounds silly, I know, but during depression, little things, positive or negative, seem
very big. The brilliant writing and acting on your shows have allowed me to cry over similar situations I have experienced in the past and had locked the pain away instead of dealing. I’ve been looking for a way to say thank you since I became a Bronzer, and this is finally it. So, with all my heart — THANK YOU.

I may not have been able to give you a physical present, but I hope the sense of yay you get when you read this (if you don’t get a sense of yay, what kind of monster are you!?!) is enough. Happy birthday!

Slayerette 2K
xxx

Anyone for Soup?

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I’m not really crazy…I swear. Just because little purple bunnies tell me when to eat dinner and go to school, doesn’t mean I have a problem…I don’t really know what you’re about to read..I just know it was fun to write 😉 

Anyone for Supper?

By: Julia

I’ve always liked chicken. The way it sits in your mouth, not too heavy, but still firm and compact. It’s chewy yet yielding texture is thrilling. Just the thought of it makes my mouth water enough to fill up a small swimming pool. Not a big one, but one of those little ones that babies play in.

I love everything about chicken. It’s so wonderfully versatile. You can order chicken 800 different ways: fried, seasoned, a leg, a wing, in a salad, or even grilled lightly on a skewer, rotisserie style. Nothing is better. I love the smell. The way it envelops you on a cold day, and takes you into its big chickeny wings, while whispering the words “eat me..” softly into your ear. I love the word ‘chicken’. Its simplistic two syllable design is classic, yet the complexity of it’s all too nonchalant tone is both tasty and memorable. It even sounds good in French. “Poulet” is both inspiring and exotic.

When I was in middle school, and the other kids called me a chicken because I was scared to swing on the high bars in the playground, I smiled. When they called me a chicken because I wouldn’t let them copy off my grammar tests for fear of getting caught and thrown in grammar prison, I grinned. When they called me a chicken because I refused to stick my head in the toilet and flush, just to see what happened, I yelled out “Yes!” at the top of my lungs, and then went off to eat a delicious mayonnaisy chicken sandwich at lunch. When I picture it, I can still taste its creamy deliciousness to this day. It was like poetry. 

When someone asks me who the perfect man would be, I usually say a big chicken. Think about it. He comes in millions of different ways, exactly how you order him. He’s firm on the outside, with a softer, more emotional center just beneath the skin. He can walk around with his head cut off, which is a huge crowd pleaser at parties. He’s gorgeous. Picture a big, juicy chicken placed nicely in the center of a classy silver platter. Mashed potatoes accent the outside, bringing out the tanned colour of his skin. Green beans, placed artistically in a flower pattern show his healthy attitude and bright personality. Then, finally, a small pool of gravy, transcends his reflective nature. Now, I ask you, what could be more beautiful? 

If I could marry a big chicken, I think I would. I mean, if you dressed him up in a black vest and hat, and called him Dave, it would be hard to tell he was a chicken, and not a man. My mother would never have to know. Plus, if we ever got hungry, we could always eat our children. I wonder if they’d have feathers……

Sometimes, when I’m in a restaurant, and someone else is eating chicken, and I’m still waiting for mine, I can go a bit haywire. As I watch them bite into chicken’s meaty and succulent center, I like to picture different ways I could decapitate them, or if I’m in a good mood, simply knock them out, leaving their chicken for me to engulf in two big bites. That’s how I ended up in prison. 

It was a sunny after noon as I sat in Fred’s Famous Deli. As soon as they saw me coming they knew what I wanted. I was there for my daily 3:34pm chicken fix. I sat and watched the waiters scurry into the back one by one at my arrival, hastily preparing my meal. So I sat. After a minute of sitting, and planning my trip to the chicken farm that afternoon, to visit a few of my closest friends; Pecker, Webbed Foot, and Three Eyes, I began to get a little antsy. It was 3:36pm and I needed some chicken. My nose began to twitch. I knew that smell, it was some sort of sixth sense. There was chicken in the area. I got up and crawled discreetly along the floor of the deli. Scooting under tables, and narrowly missing people’s feet, I followed the entrancing scent. Then I saw it. A woman at table 36, by the window, eating a chicken, grilled rotisserie style (my favorite kind). I watched from behind a potted plant as she cut the beautiful bird into small mouthfuls, and chewed them thoughtfully, in her bright pink lipstick coloured mouth. The thing that bothers me most in the world is when people take the time to cut their chicken up into small mouthfuls. Since when do you eat chicken with a knife and fork? It is meant to be picked up in your hands, and bitten into at full force, causing juice to drizzle down you chin and form a puddle in your lap. This woman, so gracefully munching, did not deserve her chicken. I shook my head in complete and utter disgust. It wasn’t fair. She wasn’t doing him justice. I watched as the chicken, seated so gracefully on her plate, looked at me from beneath her mashed potatoes and cried softly “Help me!”

I checked to see if the woman had heard. She was so caught up in her own world she hadn’t even noticed. However, her obscene self-centeredness was actually a stroke of luck for me. As I looked at the tragically pleading chicken, I knew I had to take action fast. So, I did what any right-minded chicken lover would do. I screamed “Satan Worshipper!” at the top of my lungs, picked up the potted plant I had been hiding behind, and hit her squarely over the head with it. As she fell to the ground, I relished in my victory by eating her leftover bird in two big bites. With grease dripping from my chops I looked around the restaurant. People were screaming and running around. Some were crowding around the fallen woman. I didn’t have time to wonder what all that was about. I had to make it all the way back to my table (table 4) before my chicken arrived and felt neglected. There’s nothing more saddening then a neglected chicken. As I sprinted across the restaurant I noticed sirens in the background. Suddenly I felt someone pulling me back. Then everything went black.

When I woke up I was here. Locked in this cell. We don’t get chicken here, only bread and some mushy green substance on special occasions. Sometimes we get mystery meat. But it’s never chicken. Despite its meddled and disfigured appearance, I would know if there was a smidge of chicken involved. I’d be able to tell.

I think I’m going to be here for a while. The judge at my trial wasn’t very impressed when in reply to the question of why I knocked the woman out, I said “For the food.” When I went into a lengthy description of the best way to grill a chicken. People seemed uninterested and disturbed, but in the back of the room I could hear a woman typing it up, so I knew someone was listening. And if I can reach just one person, then it’s all worth it.

As I sit here, starring out the metal barred window, I see hope for a greater tomorrow. Where everyone gets together and smiles and celebrates and dances. And we all have a big barbeque.

Happy Birthday Joss

Happy Birthday Joss

A gift of knowledge and time.


In 1970, the University of California at Berkeley, that conservative bastion to the north, produced its first graduate with a B.A. in Magic &
Thaumaturgy, the right honorable Isaac Bonewits.

The following exerts are from his book, Real Magic. This is not to push a party line, I’ve no brief for or against Mr. Bonewits. It’s a possible
springboard for ideas; admittedly, many you’ve already used.

Still, ideas, freely given, are lovely creatures. For example, see 1 Esdra
4:39.

Unless in parentheses, all below are Mr. Bonewits’ work. The good stuff is towards the end.

Bonewits begins here:

Over the centuries a collection of basic magical and mystical axioms has surfaced in culture after culture throughout the world, even in cultures that were totally isolated. These we can, and will, call the Laws of Magic.

The Law of Knowledge is the most basic of all laws. It states that
“understanding brings control,” that the more you learn the stronger you are. Its major sublaw is The Law of Self-Knowledge which says that the most important kind of knowledge is knowledge of the oneself.

The Law of Names states that knowing the complete and total true name of a phenomena or entity gives you complete control over it

The Law of Association. If two things, A and B, have something in common, that thing can be used to control both, and A and B have a mutual influence on each other.

The Law of Similarity basis of sympathetic magic and basically says that effects resemble causes. If you want to make a broom fly, you have to put bird feathers on it, wave it around, chirp over it, and so forth.

The Law of Contagion states that ‘things once in contact continue to
interact after separation. The Law of Identification states that by maximum association between your metapattern and that of another entity, you can actually become that entity and wield its power the instrumental act of role playing the part of the entity gives you still more data, as you begin to get an idea of how the entity feels from the inside out.

The Law of Synthesis, or Union of Opposites, states that the synthesis of two opposing ideas or data will produce a third ideal that will be truer that either of the first two (the ‘sophisticated’ term may be dialectical materialism, but this speaks of Hegel and Marx and will cause your banker to view you with jaundice eye).

The Law of Polarity which says first that anything can be split into two completely opposite characteristics and second, that each of these
polarities contains the essence of the other in its own essence (Okay, it’s “The Replacement”). This law shows up often in mysticism in comments about the ‘blackness of white and the whiteness of black,” etc. In fact, the very essence of black is contained in the essence of white and vice versa. This alone should be enough to take care of those still amateurish enough to believe in pure “Black Magic” or “White Magic,” or similar nonsense.  However, knowing how stubborn religious fanatics are, it’s unlikely that anything will get through to them. They will have burned this book by now, anyway, and be vainly tossing hexes in my direction or trying to light a burning pentacle on my front law.

The Law of Balance states quite simply that if you wish to survive, let alone become powerful, you must keep all aspects of your universe balanced.

The Law of Infinite Data states that we will never run out of things to learn Our key phase with this one is: ‘There’s always something new.”  (OTOH, Harry Truman is reported saying, “The only thing new is the history you haven’t read).

The Law of Finite Senses  All our senses are similarly limited.  We
haven’t seen everything in the universe there is to see  “We can’t see
everything.”

The Law of Infinite Universes says that there are an infinite number of ways to view the universe. Remember your universe depends upon your sensations and how you classify them (perception). The former is a matter of your physical equipment; the latter, of your cognitive organization.  Change either one and you move to a different universe.
However, it is now time for my Two Minute (condensed!) Sermon on Drugs in Magic: As far as beginners are concerned, drugs have a very limited use in magic. Primarily they can be used to convince oneself that there is indeed more than one way to see the universe (e.g. head down in a toilet) A magician cannot afford to be addicted to anything except possibly fresh air, healthy food and good loving.  hallucinogenic(s)  require many years of expert training, a kind of training unavailable in this culture. I seriously and sincerely suggest that you avoid taking any drug assisted short-cuts (No booze with golf, that’s for the 19th hole).

The Law of Pragmatism is very simple: If it works, it’s true (OTOH, the Romans decided that the bad air from swamps caused malaria, ‘bad air ,” and staying away from swamps would reduce the risk. This is true, but for the wrong reason)

The Law of False Truthhoods refers to data which contradict one’s usual metapattern but which nonetheless work. Now your metapattern is considered ‘true’ or ‘real’ since you have survived, and therefore it has worked. So we can then have two contradictory truths In magic, more than anything else, ‘it is the thought that counts.’ So the key phrase there should probably be: If it’s a paradox, it’s probably true.

One unexpected benefit of this last law, as well as a slight explanation for those who violate these laws we’ve been discussing and still manage to get good results , is that someone who sincerely believes he can break or ignore all or some of the laws of magic, probably can! This is because his universe doesn’t contain the possibility that his spells might backfire or refuse to work if he doesn’t follow the laws. Therefore they won’t. I should warn you, though, such depth of belief is nearly impossible to instill artificially. If you were such a person, you aren’t now, because I have just entered a bit of doubt into your universe (OTOH, there’s a neat story or two hiding in these thoughts, fair trade). I apologize, and hope that this volume will make up for your loss by increasing your efficiency.

(Nearing the end)

Law of Personification states that any phenomena may be considered to be alive and to have a personality; in short, to be an entity, and that this is often useful and therefore true.  The Laws of Invocation and Evocation say that you can conjure up from, respectively, the inside and outside of your metapattern, real entities.  These entities are only personifications of patterns, of course, but so is every entity, including your friends. Often, Crowley says, ‘ It is more convenient to assume the objective existence of an Angel who gives us new knowledge that to allege that our invocation has awaken a superpower in ourselves. It is also usually more comfortable to personify, since the
paranormal in ourselves is often terrifying.” (Again, the okay, Mssr. Crowley and Bonewits have nothing on you with respect to this law ).

Here ends Bonewits.
That’s it! I was going to add some findings of Ninian Smart and Susan
Greenwood, but then I’d be short ideas for next year. And they’re better gifts, they’ve shorter lengths.

Oh, 1 Esdra 4:39. I used the Bible for an idea because most writers have access to one and the ordering in each is similar. Would you have me use an Oxford Dictionary? Not have you believe this was the first page I opened to, it was the fourth.

“There is no favoritism with her, no partiality; rather she exacts justice
from everyone who is wicked or unjust. All approve what she does.”

Well, most of the time. Thanks for BtVS.

wolfguard

Mutant Enemy Guy

Mutant Enemy GuyTune – American Pie * with apologies to Don McLean

A short, short time ago….I can still remember how the Scoobies used to make me smile.
And I knew if I had my chance, That I could do the Snoopy dance, 
And maybe I’d be happy for a while.

But that May day made me shiver, and soon I’d even cry a river, 
Bad news none expected … though Glory got rejected.

I can’t remember if I cried, when I heard that Anya’d be a bride
But something touched me deep inside
The day the Slayer died.

So, …Bye, bye Mutant Enemy Guy
Watched some re-runs on my TV, but they just made cry, 
And my Bronzer pals were sending e-mail replies,
Saying “someday soon we’ll figure out why, someday soon we’ll figure out why”.

Did you write any fanfic, love? And do you have faith in Joss above?
If other Bronzers tell you so
Now do you believe the dead can rise? Or have you been reading spoiler lies?
Then can you tell me all the secrets that you know?

Well he knows that she does not love him, but he climbs up Glory’s jungle gym
It was destined that he lose, now I’ve got those post-Slayer blues

She was a frightened teenage little sis, who did not want it to end like this
Then Buffy said goodbye with a kiss
The day the Slayer died

I started singin’…Bye, bye Mutant Enemy Guy
Watched some re-runs on my TV, but they just made cry, 
And my Bronzer pals were sending e-mail replies,
Saying “someday soon we’ll figure out why, someday soon we’ll figure out why”.

I met a witch who had the blues and I asked her for some happy news
But she just smiled and turned away
I went down to the magic store where I’d seen the Slayer days before
But the man there had moved back to the UK.

And in the streets the humans screamed, the vampires roamed and the demons schemed.
Not a word was spoken, the Hellmouth soon would open

But I dream about what we need most, a visit from ol’ Buffy’s ghost 
Before the Hellmouth turns the world to toast
The day the Slayer died

We were singin’…Bye, bye Mutant Enemy Guy
Watched some re-runs on my TV, but they just made cry, 
And my Bronzer pals were sending e-mail replies,
Saying “someday soon we’ll figure out why, someday soon we’ll figure out why”.

OldManFan

To Check

To check, or not to check: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous continuity,
Or to take tapes down off the shelves of storage
And by reviewing, know then? To check: to fix;
Plot flaws; and by a rewrite may we end
The bloopers and the thousand natural goofs
That scripts are heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To check, to fix;
To fix: and thus get stuck: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that fix of plots what snags may come
When we have writ us into this mortal corner,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long series;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of gaffes,
Lady Wolfsbane’s wrong, the proud Thoin’s contumely,
The pangs of despised ploys, the script’s delay,
The insolence of Bronzers and the spurns
That counsel recut of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bald whopper? who would critics bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after Warner’s,
The undiscover’d network from whose bourn
No program returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make rewrites of us all;
And thus the native hue of creativity
Is sicklied o’er with the pale lack of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With disregard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.–Soft you now!
The fair Marti ! Nymph, in thy originals
Be all my sins remember’d.
slayerdaddy