A day late, but this is the third and final part in the short story in which I attempted to create something completely new and different, similar only in the title and the use of "time travel" to the classic TV series 'Doctor Who'. As you'll soon see, this is also the point at which I realized I'd spectacularly failed...
Dale looked at him incredulously. “I’ll tell you what caused the end of it—I died! Or, I mean, I will die. As soon as you leave. Which I want you to do, because I just want to get this over with…I want to die. I can’t keep going anymore, and I can’t stop.”
“Why do you wish to die?” Gogos seemed puzzled.
“Because I’ve been doing this show, this albatross, this anchor, this…thing…for twenty years! It’s ruined me for any other acting work; can you imagine the host of ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’ doing Shakespeare, or ‘Death of a Salesman’? I can’t even go out and get drunk over it, because I’m supposed to be a role-model for kids! The show doesn’t pay enough for me to retire, I’ll never do any of the roles I got into acting to do…” The words poured out of him, twenty years of bile finally unleashed in a single flowing rant. “All my life, I wanted to touch people, and instead I wound up doing a local kid’s show for twenty years. It’s worthless.”
Gogos shook his head. “Perhaps you did not hear me,” he said. “You have touched all of us. The empires of my sector of space span a thousand worlds, with a thousand billion inhabitants. Each of us has our own religion, our own culture, our own taboos, our own emotions. There is no common ground, no touchstone for us. Every day, we each encounter perspectives so alien to our own that there seems no possible outcome but violence.
“Your show changed all that. Every week, we saw something that we could all understand and appreciate. Yes, it was silly. Yes, it was intended for children. Yes, the values it espoused were simple, sometimes unworkable in the real and complex world we live in. And yes, the production values were low. But it provided us with a sense of wonder, a simple pleasure and enjoyment that transcended our cultural barriers. Through you, Doctor Who, we gained a common ground that different cultures could all appreciate. Love, luck, and laughter. They are not such bad values to build upon.”
There was a long silence. At the end of it, Dale said, “Thank you,” very quietly.
“You are welcome,” Gogos said. “Now, please, continue with your suicide.”
Dale raised an eyebrow. “Um…it really doesn’t seem…I mean, I think I can go on now, because like you said, um…”
Gogos shook his head. “I am afraid there is nothing I can do here. The series ceased transmission on this date. It is a historical fact, and there is nothing I can do about it. A shame, but that is the laws of causality for you.” He paused, obviously pretending to be lost in thought and not quite managing to conceal a hint of smugness. “Unless…”
Dale said, “Spare me the acting. Unless what?”
Gogos said, “It occurs to me that I could use the time-belt to bring you with me back to my home on Vinoma in the future. From there, we could then bring you on a good-will tour of the planets of the empire, performing before all the different worlds and uniting the fractured races in a new order of peace and harmony. It will be difficult, of course. After seven years of fighting, some no longer wish for peace. You may have to perform to hostile crowds. Your life may even be in danger at times.” Gogos looked meaningfully at the drawer. “Then again, I am not certain how much more dangerous it could be than putting a loaded fire-arm in your mouth and pulling the trigger.”
Dale smiled ruefully. “I see your point. Sure, I’ll go.” He stood up. “I think my work is done here on Earth anyway.”
Gogos stood up as well. “Excellent,” he said. “Please, take my hand now, and we will transmit ourselves to the future.”
Dale clasped his hand with Gogos, and as he felt a strange, distant tingling sensation overwhelm him, he said the only words he could possibly think of as appropriate.
“Doctor Who prescribes love, luck, and laughter for the rest of the day!”
Showing posts with label wacky funtime playhouse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wacky funtime playhouse. Show all posts
Friday, May 25, 2007
Thursday, May 17, 2007
'Doctor Who's Wacky Funtime Playhouse', Part Two
A continuation of last week's story, which was written to the brief "Reinvent Doctor Who, keeping nothing but the name and the concept of time travel..."
Dale went into his dressing room, shut the door gently, and then carefully wedged one of the two spare chairs in the room underneath the doorknob. He could have just locked it, of course, or even just left it closed—people didn’t really walk in on him in his dressing room. But that seemed so un-melodramatic for what was, essentially, a huge cry for attention.
He sat down in his own chair, in front of the mirrored dresser where he did his own make-up, and reached into a drawer. He pulled out a piece of paper on which he’d already composed a note (sealing it carefully in a waterproof envelope), and a .22 caliber revolver. He held the gun nervously, turning it over in his hands with the wary air of someone new to the world of firearms. He was, in fact, new to the world of firearms; this was the first gun he’d ever owned in his life. He’d never felt any great need to possess one before, and had always worried about something going wrong with it—imaginary headlines like ‘CHILDREN’S TV STAR KILLS YOUNG BOY’ kept him from ever seriously contemplating having a gun. But he figured that by this point, he was through worrying about newspaper headlines. In fact, for the past year or so, he’d even taken a morbid pleasure in imagining them. Surely, he thought, everyone would understand. Many probably expected it. After all, if you were recognized anywhere you went as a man who dressed up in a goofy fake doctor’s outfit to entertain small children, wouldn’t you eat a bullet sooner or later?
His mind made up, he reached back into the drawer and pulled out a box of ammunition. He carefully loaded each chamber of the gun, one bullet at a time. He was aware that he’d probably only use one bullet, but decided that it was better to be safe than sorry. Then, snapping the chamber back into position, he put the barrel of the gun into his mouth, grimacing slightly at the taste of oiled metal. He cocked back the hammer. He closed his eyes tightly, and prepared for the release of oblivion.
“Excuse me,” someone said behind him, “but what are you doing?”
His finger tightened reflexively on the trigger in shock, and he suddenly realized three things in very short order. One, he’d forgotten to take the gun’s safety off. Two, the person watching him had just seen him humiliate himself further by trying to shoot himself in the face and failing. Three, there was someone watching him. Four, which came to him as a surprise bonus, that meant that there was someone in the room with him.
He opened his eyes and looked in the mirror. Behind him, a…a…a come-back-to-that-later had seated him…her…itself down in his other spare chair, and was looking at him with an expression of what looked like it might be polite interest. Dale wasn’t sure, because now that he did come back to it, the…person?...didn’t look human.
Oh, it looked human-ish. It had two arms, two legs, and a head. But it had two sets of ears, one right on top of the other, and its nose was just a flattish bump with two tiny slits that fluttered as it breathed. Its skin was a whitish-gray, the color of a four-week old corpse, and it had black, shark-like eyes. It stared at him, its fingers (seven on each hand) steepled together in a pose of patient interest. It opened its mouth and spoke again.
“I am sorry,” it said, “but again I must ask what it is that you are doing.”
Dale was so unnerved, he forgot he had a gun in his mouth. “Oo he huck ar oo?”
The creature blinked. Its eyelids were on the sides of its eyes, he noticed. “I am sorry, Doctor. I do not understand.”
Doctor? He took the gun out of his mouth and said, a bit more calmly, “I asked who you were.”
It smiled. Its teeth were all flat and rounded, like a horse’s teeth. “I am Gogos, High Researcher of the Vinomian Archives. Please, Doctor Who, forgive this intrusion. I do not wish to interrupt such an important moment in history, but we simply had to know for ourselves what happened to you.”
Dale slammed the gun down onto the drawer, suddenly irate at the intruder. “As it happens, I’m trying to kill myself. I was hoping to do so in privacy, and with perhaps a little dignity, but I guess that’s just a little too much to ask! Jeez!” He sighed. He paused as he actually started thinking about what the being had said. “What are you talking about?”
Gogos gestured towards him. “I am from a planet called Vinoma, five thousand light-years away from your world of Earth. We are an advanced species, capable of many technological feats that your planet has not yet developed even in our own time. For our signal-catchers, it is child’s play to capture and replay the transmissions of your Earth ‘television’. We have been watching your broadcasts for twenty years now, and the entertainment that ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’ has provided has helped unite the warring factions of our vast empire.
“Seven years ago by our time-scale, the transmissions ceased. Our records show that no episodes of ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’ were broadcast after this date in relative history. Without your show, tensions have once more built up among our different races. No other program has succeeded in uniting us in mirth and happiness the way yours has—not even the legendary ‘Howdy Doody’ broadcasts that brought about the cease-fire in the Horghal-Iridus War. I decided to use our time-belt to travel back to the date of the final broadcast, over five thousand years ago, and determine for myself what caused the end of ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’.”
Dale went into his dressing room, shut the door gently, and then carefully wedged one of the two spare chairs in the room underneath the doorknob. He could have just locked it, of course, or even just left it closed—people didn’t really walk in on him in his dressing room. But that seemed so un-melodramatic for what was, essentially, a huge cry for attention.
He sat down in his own chair, in front of the mirrored dresser where he did his own make-up, and reached into a drawer. He pulled out a piece of paper on which he’d already composed a note (sealing it carefully in a waterproof envelope), and a .22 caliber revolver. He held the gun nervously, turning it over in his hands with the wary air of someone new to the world of firearms. He was, in fact, new to the world of firearms; this was the first gun he’d ever owned in his life. He’d never felt any great need to possess one before, and had always worried about something going wrong with it—imaginary headlines like ‘CHILDREN’S TV STAR KILLS YOUNG BOY’ kept him from ever seriously contemplating having a gun. But he figured that by this point, he was through worrying about newspaper headlines. In fact, for the past year or so, he’d even taken a morbid pleasure in imagining them. Surely, he thought, everyone would understand. Many probably expected it. After all, if you were recognized anywhere you went as a man who dressed up in a goofy fake doctor’s outfit to entertain small children, wouldn’t you eat a bullet sooner or later?
His mind made up, he reached back into the drawer and pulled out a box of ammunition. He carefully loaded each chamber of the gun, one bullet at a time. He was aware that he’d probably only use one bullet, but decided that it was better to be safe than sorry. Then, snapping the chamber back into position, he put the barrel of the gun into his mouth, grimacing slightly at the taste of oiled metal. He cocked back the hammer. He closed his eyes tightly, and prepared for the release of oblivion.
“Excuse me,” someone said behind him, “but what are you doing?”
His finger tightened reflexively on the trigger in shock, and he suddenly realized three things in very short order. One, he’d forgotten to take the gun’s safety off. Two, the person watching him had just seen him humiliate himself further by trying to shoot himself in the face and failing. Three, there was someone watching him. Four, which came to him as a surprise bonus, that meant that there was someone in the room with him.
He opened his eyes and looked in the mirror. Behind him, a…a…a come-back-to-that-later had seated him…her…itself down in his other spare chair, and was looking at him with an expression of what looked like it might be polite interest. Dale wasn’t sure, because now that he did come back to it, the…person?...didn’t look human.
Oh, it looked human-ish. It had two arms, two legs, and a head. But it had two sets of ears, one right on top of the other, and its nose was just a flattish bump with two tiny slits that fluttered as it breathed. Its skin was a whitish-gray, the color of a four-week old corpse, and it had black, shark-like eyes. It stared at him, its fingers (seven on each hand) steepled together in a pose of patient interest. It opened its mouth and spoke again.
“I am sorry,” it said, “but again I must ask what it is that you are doing.”
Dale was so unnerved, he forgot he had a gun in his mouth. “Oo he huck ar oo?”
The creature blinked. Its eyelids were on the sides of its eyes, he noticed. “I am sorry, Doctor. I do not understand.”
Doctor? He took the gun out of his mouth and said, a bit more calmly, “I asked who you were.”
It smiled. Its teeth were all flat and rounded, like a horse’s teeth. “I am Gogos, High Researcher of the Vinomian Archives. Please, Doctor Who, forgive this intrusion. I do not wish to interrupt such an important moment in history, but we simply had to know for ourselves what happened to you.”
Dale slammed the gun down onto the drawer, suddenly irate at the intruder. “As it happens, I’m trying to kill myself. I was hoping to do so in privacy, and with perhaps a little dignity, but I guess that’s just a little too much to ask! Jeez!” He sighed. He paused as he actually started thinking about what the being had said. “What are you talking about?”
Gogos gestured towards him. “I am from a planet called Vinoma, five thousand light-years away from your world of Earth. We are an advanced species, capable of many technological feats that your planet has not yet developed even in our own time. For our signal-catchers, it is child’s play to capture and replay the transmissions of your Earth ‘television’. We have been watching your broadcasts for twenty years now, and the entertainment that ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’ has provided has helped unite the warring factions of our vast empire.
“Seven years ago by our time-scale, the transmissions ceased. Our records show that no episodes of ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’ were broadcast after this date in relative history. Without your show, tensions have once more built up among our different races. No other program has succeeded in uniting us in mirth and happiness the way yours has—not even the legendary ‘Howdy Doody’ broadcasts that brought about the cease-fire in the Horghal-Iridus War. I decided to use our time-belt to travel back to the date of the final broadcast, over five thousand years ago, and determine for myself what caused the end of ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’.”
Friday, May 11, 2007
'Doctor Who's Wacky Funtime Playhouse', Part One
A little something different, this week...I'm going to recycle old material!
Directly, that is, instead of writing new stuff about my old ideas. This is a short story I wrote for a Doctor Who charity anthology (Doctor Who fans have a history of producing short-story anthologies with the proceeds going to various charities. Obviously, it violates copyright, but the BBC has traditionally looked the other way so long as the money really does go to a worthy cause. Some of them, like the classic 'Perfect Timing', got some fairly well known professional authors to contribute alongside the fan writers.) The anthology in question, 'Atypical History', was supposed to come out in 2003 to celebrate the 40th anniversary of the series. I think it's pretty unlikely that it'll make it in time.
The brief for all writers was as follows: Write an original short story using the name 'Doctor Who' and the concept of time travel that could serve as the springboard for a series of further stories. In short, we were to imagine another way that Doctor Who could have gone back in 1963, using as little of the original as possible. So here was what I did with it...
‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’
by John Seavey
The energy of the crowd felt almost like a physical force as it washed over Dale Townsend, and for a brief moment he forgot everything and just basked in the cheers of adoring children. He couldn’t see them—right now, the spotlight he stood in kept him from seeing any of the audience—but he didn’t need to know what they looked like. All that mattered, for now at least, was their excitement, their applause. They had been infused with the excitement of the mob, each child feeding off the energy of the others and getting more and more enthused, thrilled, and energetic, and now it poured off them in waves as he stood there in his white coat, big shoes, and mint-green surgical outfit waiting for them to finally cool down enough for him to speak. It was a tiny moment. It wasn’t enough. But he’d remember it, he was sure, for the rest of his life.
Finally, the applause died down, and he spoke. “Well, kids,” he said, his voice filled with forced warmth, “the 1000th episode of ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’ is just about done!” He ended the sentence in an acclamative shout, the same way he ended all of his sentences when speaking in character. It was another thing he wouldn’t miss. “And I’m grateful to all of you for helping make it the best episode ever!” Not true, he thought as the crowd roared again—the 500th episode was much better. He’d gotten a few celebrities to do guest appearances, big stars who’d grown up in the area and had watched the show with fond memories. Nobody cared anymore. The show was still on because it was cheap to produce, mostly old cartoons that didn’t cost much and just one emcee to keep the live audience occupied.
He waved at the crowd, and they quieted down once more. “So thank you all once again, and here’s to a thousand more!” Another roaring crowd, but this time, he heard the beginnings of the theme song playing and knew that he didn’t have long. Quickly, using the same voice projection talents he’d once hoped would take him far in Shakespearean theatre, he uttered his trademark closing line: “And remember, kids, Doctor Who prescribes love, luck, and laughter for the rest of the day!”
The spotlight darkened and Dale Townsend, known for the past twenty years in the major Chicago markets as “Doctor Who”, let himself relax. Another episode, another paycheck, and that was just the way life worked. He didn’t see any reason to get emotional about it anymore.
He headed back towards his dressing room, only to have Tom, his producer, run up next to him and put his arm around him in what was probably meant to be a gesture of good-natured camaraderie. Tom probably had a last name, but Dale never bothered to remember the names of his producers anymore. He just noted whether they were the young kind on their way up, doing the show as a way to build credits for their resumé before moving into bigger and better things, or the kind on their way down, broken-down and weary and scraping the last few dollars out of their career by doing a local kiddie show in Chicago.
“That was great!” Tom said, in much the same tone of voice that Dale used on-camera. Tom was one of the young producers. Frankly, Dale preferred the old ones. They might drink, they might shout at the kids, and they might occasionally lapse into weepy tirades about how they used to direct Gwyneth Paltrow, but at least they had the good grace not to be enthusiastic about a show that forced people to dress up in mock surgical gear and entertain small children. “Really, Dale, I think that was truly super. Your best performance yet. You were…” He acted for a moment as though he was lost for words, which Dale privately suspected wasn’t hard. If you removed the words “great” and “super” from Tom’s vocabulary, he’d probably be mute.
Dale smiled wanly and said, “Thanks,” in a weary voice. He made a feeble effort to get out of his producer’s friendly grasp, but Tom wasn’t having any of it.
“So,” Tom said, “about next week’s show—I see us as leading off with some of the older black-and-white stuff, a sort of retrospective if you will—it’ll be a great way to start building our reputation again as the bleeding edge of children’s television.”
Inwardly, Dale sighed. ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’ never had a reputation as any kind of edge, except perhaps blunt and dull. It made ‘Mister Rogers Neighborhood’ seem “bleeding edge”, and Mister Rogers had been dead for six months. Speaking of which… “Say, Tom, could we take this up in twenty minutes or so? I’m feeling a bit drained, just want to rest in my dressing room for a bit. You know how it is.”
Tom let go of him, then gave him a solid, bone-jarring last handshake. “Sure thing. I’m sorry, Dale, I should have thought—you must be overwhelmed. One thousand episodes…it’s amazing, it really is. Super, absolutely great. Tell you what—you take a half-hour, then you and I can go out to the bars and celebrate.”
Dale nodded awkwardly, and headed towards his dressing room. Great, he grumbled mentally. Now when they report the news, they’ll talk about how I “seemed happy”, how I was “already planning the next show”.
They probably won’t even read my note.
Directly, that is, instead of writing new stuff about my old ideas. This is a short story I wrote for a Doctor Who charity anthology (Doctor Who fans have a history of producing short-story anthologies with the proceeds going to various charities. Obviously, it violates copyright, but the BBC has traditionally looked the other way so long as the money really does go to a worthy cause. Some of them, like the classic 'Perfect Timing', got some fairly well known professional authors to contribute alongside the fan writers.) The anthology in question, 'Atypical History', was supposed to come out in 2003 to celebrate the 40th anniversary of the series. I think it's pretty unlikely that it'll make it in time.
The brief for all writers was as follows: Write an original short story using the name 'Doctor Who' and the concept of time travel that could serve as the springboard for a series of further stories. In short, we were to imagine another way that Doctor Who could have gone back in 1963, using as little of the original as possible. So here was what I did with it...
‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’
by John Seavey
The energy of the crowd felt almost like a physical force as it washed over Dale Townsend, and for a brief moment he forgot everything and just basked in the cheers of adoring children. He couldn’t see them—right now, the spotlight he stood in kept him from seeing any of the audience—but he didn’t need to know what they looked like. All that mattered, for now at least, was their excitement, their applause. They had been infused with the excitement of the mob, each child feeding off the energy of the others and getting more and more enthused, thrilled, and energetic, and now it poured off them in waves as he stood there in his white coat, big shoes, and mint-green surgical outfit waiting for them to finally cool down enough for him to speak. It was a tiny moment. It wasn’t enough. But he’d remember it, he was sure, for the rest of his life.
Finally, the applause died down, and he spoke. “Well, kids,” he said, his voice filled with forced warmth, “the 1000th episode of ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’ is just about done!” He ended the sentence in an acclamative shout, the same way he ended all of his sentences when speaking in character. It was another thing he wouldn’t miss. “And I’m grateful to all of you for helping make it the best episode ever!” Not true, he thought as the crowd roared again—the 500th episode was much better. He’d gotten a few celebrities to do guest appearances, big stars who’d grown up in the area and had watched the show with fond memories. Nobody cared anymore. The show was still on because it was cheap to produce, mostly old cartoons that didn’t cost much and just one emcee to keep the live audience occupied.
He waved at the crowd, and they quieted down once more. “So thank you all once again, and here’s to a thousand more!” Another roaring crowd, but this time, he heard the beginnings of the theme song playing and knew that he didn’t have long. Quickly, using the same voice projection talents he’d once hoped would take him far in Shakespearean theatre, he uttered his trademark closing line: “And remember, kids, Doctor Who prescribes love, luck, and laughter for the rest of the day!”
The spotlight darkened and Dale Townsend, known for the past twenty years in the major Chicago markets as “Doctor Who”, let himself relax. Another episode, another paycheck, and that was just the way life worked. He didn’t see any reason to get emotional about it anymore.
He headed back towards his dressing room, only to have Tom, his producer, run up next to him and put his arm around him in what was probably meant to be a gesture of good-natured camaraderie. Tom probably had a last name, but Dale never bothered to remember the names of his producers anymore. He just noted whether they were the young kind on their way up, doing the show as a way to build credits for their resumé before moving into bigger and better things, or the kind on their way down, broken-down and weary and scraping the last few dollars out of their career by doing a local kiddie show in Chicago.
“That was great!” Tom said, in much the same tone of voice that Dale used on-camera. Tom was one of the young producers. Frankly, Dale preferred the old ones. They might drink, they might shout at the kids, and they might occasionally lapse into weepy tirades about how they used to direct Gwyneth Paltrow, but at least they had the good grace not to be enthusiastic about a show that forced people to dress up in mock surgical gear and entertain small children. “Really, Dale, I think that was truly super. Your best performance yet. You were…” He acted for a moment as though he was lost for words, which Dale privately suspected wasn’t hard. If you removed the words “great” and “super” from Tom’s vocabulary, he’d probably be mute.
Dale smiled wanly and said, “Thanks,” in a weary voice. He made a feeble effort to get out of his producer’s friendly grasp, but Tom wasn’t having any of it.
“So,” Tom said, “about next week’s show—I see us as leading off with some of the older black-and-white stuff, a sort of retrospective if you will—it’ll be a great way to start building our reputation again as the bleeding edge of children’s television.”
Inwardly, Dale sighed. ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’ never had a reputation as any kind of edge, except perhaps blunt and dull. It made ‘Mister Rogers Neighborhood’ seem “bleeding edge”, and Mister Rogers had been dead for six months. Speaking of which… “Say, Tom, could we take this up in twenty minutes or so? I’m feeling a bit drained, just want to rest in my dressing room for a bit. You know how it is.”
Tom let go of him, then gave him a solid, bone-jarring last handshake. “Sure thing. I’m sorry, Dale, I should have thought—you must be overwhelmed. One thousand episodes…it’s amazing, it really is. Super, absolutely great. Tell you what—you take a half-hour, then you and I can go out to the bars and celebrate.”
Dale nodded awkwardly, and headed towards his dressing room. Great, he grumbled mentally. Now when they report the news, they’ll talk about how I “seemed happy”, how I was “already planning the next show”.
They probably won’t even read my note.
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