Nuh uh...I hadn't. But, good, cause I won't have to brave the shame of Lifetime to look at him! Yay. Because I get tired of looking in the mirror and mumbling "You are a very shallow woman." like when I watched that gal from China Beach cheat on him, and it was v.v bad, but there was a sex scene so it was sort of worth it, but made my muses cry.(see? Topicness!) Seems to me the people at the Waterfront were saying that, in between kvetching that the skin on Rescue Me kills puppies...what time is Veronica on? (Prudish Homicide fans...I still don't believe that shit..."It doesn't surprise me when people lie...it surprises me when they tell the truth.") Were they, like, not watching the same show as I?

The pilot is repeating tomorrow at 8 Central on UPN -- and on Sunday. (Times were posted in Natter.)

Kyle is not in the pilot very much - - but trust me -- chances are he's going to be important. (Unspoiled speculation.)

Normally, Veronica is on Tuesdays at 8 pm Central/9 Mountain.

Damn, it would have been perfect to have followed Buffy. . .

Well, I'll give it a shot.(Somewhere in LA, Secor abandons Zen calm to say " Well, crap...I wanted a season at least...that's not going to happen, now." Not with the kiss of death watching.") But it's a detective show.

Where They Keep the Band

Wires, cables, roadcases, roadies, the occasional reporter from Rolling Stone. Over there, a few tanks of nitrous oxide. Chattering in a corner, a gaggle of highly-painted girls with skinny legs.

"Hey." My sister's voice catches my attention. I turn away from my frank inspection of this part of Fillmore East, and prepare to shine. "This is my baby sister. Deb, this is Jerry Garcia."

He touches my arm lightly. I pretend I don't notice the missing half-finger. "Hi. First time back here?"

I'm fourteen, and nothing fazes me. "Yep. Cool place."

"Far out." He grins at me. "Welcome to backstage."

BTW, Teppy, I've got a suggestion for a future category: fateful encounters.

Have marked; danke.

Kewl.

And Susan, insent a while back, with feedback.

First time drabble both literally and topically.

The control panel is dented and scratched like a raccoon dug it out of a trash can. Greasy-sticky crust coats the steering wheel, not unlike the blush/hairspray cement on the earpiece of my telephone.

Foam innards leak from the chair in places where the duct tape has rolled back in unapologetic snarls. It echoes in here, and smells like sawdust and fireworks. John's eyes twinkle gray-blue accomodation.

"Punch it."

Hesitation. Grin. I reach out and punch the buttons on the console, grab the wheel, and steer her up over the plywood farm, into the rafters, over the babbling man eating endless cans of beans.

It never really moved, not in any kind of physical, measurable, logical way. The engine is just a fan stuffed in muffler, attached to a scaffold. The cows in the cargo hold were just electric photographs attached to reels of plastic clipped together and spun like cotton candy until all those individual bits of sliced techicolor formed a whispy sweet web, melty to the touch.

But if I spin around with my arms out and flop back into the chair, it'd feel like flying. I think I'm the first girl to occupy the pilot's seat. I want to believe I'm the Sally Ride of Serenity.

DAMN, that's vivid.

This:

It echoes in here, and smells like sawdust and fireworks.

is brief, and sharp, and smacks it home, and is viscerally perfect. Sounds and smells and there the whole thing just is.