Jack Horkheimer, Star Hustler, is dead at the age of 72. I offered a few words about the public TV astronomy host at TV Worth Blogging.

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And so we say goodbye to David Tennant as Doctor Who…

#58:  ”The End of Time”

This song is ending, but the story will never end.

I watched the second half of “The End of Time” with a mixture of sadness and relief: sadness over the impending death of the 10th Doctor, relief that the story ended so well. Russell T. Davies’ season finales tend toward an everything-plus-a-neon-encrusted-kitchen-sink approach. For all the spectacle and joy, there are usually at least a couple of eye-rolling, Earth-towing moments.

Part one threatened to take a hard turn in that direction. John Simm’s incarnation of the Master was already brimming with lunacy, and “The End of Time” added to that a botched resurrection that left him bursting with energy, jumping fifty feet in the air and gobbling down whole chickens. And that was before he used the Immortality Gate to transform nearly every person on Earth into a maniacally laughing duplicate of himself. So it wasn’t without reason that I feared that the conclusion would journey into the gone-too-far territory of “Last of the Time Lords.”

Speaking of Time Lords, part one ended with the biggest reveal since the Dalek army in the concluding moments of “Bad Wolf”: Timothy Dalton as the (saliva-intensive) Lord President of Gallifrey presiding over a massive assembly of the Doctor’s own people. There had been hints of the Time Lords’ return–notably a publicity photo of Dalton wearing their telltale robes–but I honestly didn’t anticipate that all of them would be coming back, or that they’d be bringing their planet with them.

In hindsight, it had to happen. After five years of references to the Last Great Time War and the Doctor’s status as the last remaining Time Lord (more or less), it was fitting that Tennant’s tenure ended with the possibility of overturning that status quo, then demonstrating why that would be a bad, bad thing for everyone.

I admit that I’ve missed the Time Lords, but I can understand why Davies did away with them. If they were truly as powerful as often had been suggested,* then why wouldn’t they step in and sort out universe-threatening problems before they started?

As it turned out, the Lords of Gallifrey were themselves out to destroy the universe and thus to win the Time War. I suppose that I shouldn’t have been surprised; the Time Lords had always been assholes. They’d birthed more than their share of mad power-mongers, and in their prosecution of the war against the Daleks, they’d shown their willingness to transgress their own legal and moral boundaries in reincarnating the Master** to fight for them.

*Never mind that in most of the Gallifrey-centered episodes of the original series, the Time Lords were seen as doddering bureaucrats incapable of turning back a handful of aliens made of cellophane, much less the amped-up Daleks of the modern era.

**Interestingly, Dalton’s character was apparently Rassilon, the long-deceased founder of Time Lord society. I wonder, did they resurrect Omega, Borusa and other renegade Gallifreyans as well?

The visuals were spectacular, but what really made this story sing were the quiet scenes between the Doctor and the Master, as well as the Doctor and Donna’s grandfather, Wilf. We learned what the Doctor felt about his endless cycle of death and rebirth. And we found that after all of the death the Master had caused, the Doctor still saw in him the friend he lost.

The Master was even allowed a redemptive moment that, surprisingly, didn’t seemed forced. Perhaps that was because it seemed less about saving the Doctor’s life than it did about the Master venting his rage against Rassilon for visiting madness on him in the first place.

With both Master and Time Lords dispatched, the Doctor appeared to have cheated the prophecy of his death. But in the most heartbreaking moment, we heard those four quiet knocks and realized that sweet, old Wilf would be the one to bring his end.

The next fifteen minutes may have been similar to the multiple epilogues of The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, but like that film trilogy, I felt that the last five years of Doctor Who had earned its long goodbye. It was nice to see everyone one last time, my favorite reunion being the Star Wars cantina riff featuring Captain Jack and a multitude of returning aliens.

At last, it was time to say farewell to the 10th Doctor.

That brings us to:

#59:  David Tennant

I don’t want to go.

And I didn’t want you to go.

My first Doctor was Jon Pertwee, and I count Tom Baker, Peter Davison and Sylvester McCoy among my favorites, yet I think that David Tennant was my favoritest of all. His Doctor was enthusiastic, joyful, quirky, manic, angry, compassionate and loving. In other words, all of the previous Doctors in one gangly package.

Plus, he had an awesome coat.

It didn’t hurt knowing that Tennant himself was an uber-fan. On the other hand, that’s why I thought that he might stay longer than his three-years-and-change. The previous four Doctors (C. Baker, McCoy, McGann and Eccleston) had such short lifespans that I’d hoped David would aspire to the Tom Baker end of the scale.

Ah well, it was not to be. British actors are notoriously fickle about tying themselves to a long-running TV role.

So long, Doctor Ten.

And so long to:

#60:  Russell T. Davies

Now, I’ll admit that I’m ready for Davies to move on. I’m hoping that the show will get past his vision of a vengeful, dangerous Doctor. And, as I’ve mentioned, Davies doesn’t always quite know where to draw the line between a good idea and a what-the-fuck one.

But I absolutely must give Davies his due. Without him, Doctor Who might never have come back, and it almost certainly wouldn’t have regained its prominence not just as a mass-market phenomenon, but as a by-the-grace-of-Rassilon international franchise.

He made so many right decisions, from his impeccable, risky casting choices to his decision to respect the past without wallowing in it. Lesser producers can (and have) taken the show in less-fruitful directions.

While his writing is at times prone to excess and deus ex machina, his character scenes are excellent. And he’s been responsible for some of my favorite episodes, including “Tooth and Claw,” “Smith and Jones,” “Gridlock,” “Partners in Crime,” “Midnight” and “Turn Left.”

So, props to Russell T. Davies, David Tennant, and the many, many cast and crew members who made the last five years in time and space one hell of a ride!

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One thing that I missed during my recent spell of gastrointestinal distress was the passing of uberfan Forrest J Ackerman last Thursday. Ackerman could’ve laid claim to a significant place in pop culture history for several reasons. He coined the term “sci-fi.” As a literary agent, he represented Ray Bradbury, H.P. Lovecraft and L. Ron Hubbard. (I’ll forgive him that last one.) Most importantly, for some 25 years he edited the preeminent newsstand magazine devoted to sci-fi, fantasy and horror, Famous Monsters of Filmland.

Forry and me, circa 1986.

The cheaply printed black-and-white mag was chock-full of terrible puns and rare photos from unheard-of or forgotten feature films. In the days before VCR, DVD or IMDB, Forry offered tantalizing, sometimes frustrating glimpses of horror flicks a young fan would’ve likely had to stay up until 3:00 am to watch, if they aired on TV at all. Famous Monsters inspired a generation of fantasy filmmakers, including a couple of guys named Lucas and Spielberg.

Forry was always approachable to his followers. Once, when I was in college, I called his home and left a message. (His phone number was an open secret.) It blew my young mind when he called me back and talked for what may have been a half hour. On his dime.

Perhaps the most remarkable thing about Forry was the fabulous “Ackermansion,” his house in the Hollywood outskirts in which resided a massive collection of novels, photos, movie posters and props. On most every Saturday afternoon for many years, Forry held an open house in which fans from all across the world visited to stumble in slack-jawed awe through the detritus of decades.

Inside the Ackermansion. Items depicted include a satellite from the movie Meteor, the Seven Faces of Dr. Lao, and the tattooed body of The Illustrated Man.

Now, truth to tell, I was a little dismayed at the condition of the some of the items on display when I made my first pilgrimage in 1986. Forry’s wife Wendayne was still alive, and she requested that the collection stay in the basement. As you might image, it was not exactly climate-controlled. Unique items from filmdom’s history, donated by Forry’s many industry friends, were scattered and strewn about the place, fondled by fanboys.

Several miniatures from Ray Harryhausen’s 20 Million Miles to Earth.

Forry would hold court, regaling his people (and I still count myself among them) with stories of Bela Lugosi and Boris Karloff. I’m sure that he loved the attention, but still, one has to appreciate the commitment and willingness to share.

During my year in L.A., I had a couple of significant encounters with Forry. I once had lunch with him, though I’m pretty sure that the reason he invited me had more to do with my roommate at the time, a young woman named Margo who was a big Lugosi fan and had communicated with Forry for years. Forry was hailed as the Hugh Hefner of sci-fi, and I think that wasn’t entirely due to his magazine publishing interests.

Later that year, my friends and I crashed his 70th birthday party. Yes, we were the sort of people who did that sort of thing. Granted, at least one of us (not me) had an actual invitation, and no one questioned the others when we arrived at the hotel bearing his gift: a life-sized, head-and-shoulders bust of Charles Laughton as the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I wound up at a table with Bela Lugosi, Jr.

The stegosaurus up top was an original animation model from the 1933 King Kong.

I talked to him a few more times in the 20 years since I left L.A. I even took Vic on the journey to the Ackermansion once.

The last time I spoke to Forry was perhaps four or five years ago. Medical and legal bills had forced him to sell his house and much of his collection, and he’d moved to a smaller abode. (He still had his regular open house, though.) At the time, I was occasionally filling-in as a host for WILL-AM’s interview shows, and I’d hoped to schedule Forry for an hour of chat. For whatever reason, it never happened. I’m sorry about that. It would’ve been fun to have him share his tales with our Central Illinois audience.

I doff my skull-cap to you, Forry. Whatever I am today I owe in at least some small part to you.

Dave Sci-Fi Hollywood, obituaries, Sci-Fi

Tiny cat explores big, new world. Our first photo of Tigger. Early 1993.

Soon after we got our first cat, Cupid, we began to feel guilty. It was heartbreaking to leave for work in the morning and know that she’d be alone all day, and it did not help that she always came to the apartment window to watch us go. It was time, we felt, that Cupid had a playmate.

When we went to the local humane society, we noticed a cute, tortoise-shell kitty hanging near the back of the cage. She seemed so tiny and timid, and we were afraid that she would be constantly overlooked in comparison to her more gregarious cellmates. And so we decided to bring her home with us.

Face to face.

Despite her looking nothing like her namesake, we dubbed our new family member Tigger. Partially, this was because we considered her “bouncy,” and partially it was because we were woefully uninspired when choosing cat names back then.

To our dismay, Cupid did not like Tigger AT ALL. She’d walk up to the new kitten and bop her on the noggin with a paw. These early encounters set the two on a path of mild antagonism over the years, though it was later Tigger being the bully.

Tig’s first Christmas.

One day, Tiggy began to exhibit some bizarre behavior. She sat at the window, making a chattering sound with her mouth strangely unhinged. Vic was convinced she was having a seizure, but it turned out to be some manner of hunting instinct brought on by the presence of the birds outside.

Tig’s eating habits were equally odd. It seemed that no food was beyond consideration, and she soon developed a fondness for broccoli. She frequently begged for treats, and also enjoyed the ice chips which fell from the freezer compartment, batting them around the tiled kitchen floor.

Kitten in the sink.

Once we moved to our first house, we discovered that Tig was fiercely territorial. If another cat came near the place, she’d throw herself against the window screens in a rage. It was pretty disconcerting in the middle of the night.

Somehow, she managed to curb this when our third cat, Hobbes, entered our lives a couple of years later. The three had a complicated relationship: Hobbes dominated Tigger, Tigger dominated Cupid, yet Cupid took no shit from Hobbes.

Hobbes finds Tiggy to be a comfy pillow.

Tig was not an especially friendly cat. If she did come to sit on your lap, it was a fairly momentous occasion. She did, however, have the loudest purr we’ve ever heard, and all it took was a stroke or two to rev up her motor. Even in the middle of the night, it was easy to identify when Tig walked into a room.

While we’ve always made frequent use of nicknames when referring to our cats, Tigger accumulated the largest collection, including Tig, Tiggy, Wigger, Wig, Wigs, Wiggy, Wigster and The Purrmeister.

Tiggy wears a wiggy.

Sadly, Tigger had more than her share of health problems. She developed some mysterious lumps which ultimately turned out to be allergy based.

More frightening was the evening back in December 2003 when Vic called to tell me that Tig was having serious issues, breathing heavily and in obvious distress. We rushed her to the emergency vet and found that she had cardiomyopathy.

We were sad to be told that she probably only had six months to live. Even though she’d never been the friendliest cat–we’d gotten Hobbes in part because Tig WAS so standoffish–we realized in that moment how much she meant to us.

“I has a box for sitn.”

Yet Tig surprised everyone by beating the odds, ultimately living more than four years beyond that initial, grim estimate. She had to take more daily pills than the two of us combined, but she proved to be a strong kitty. And she was pretty good about the twice-daily pilling sessions, even if she did occasionally try to hide out atop the kitchen cabinets.

“They’ll never see me up here.”

Unlike the situation when Cupid died last year, we had plenty of warning that things were turning for the worse. We tried everything reasonable that we could to keep her with us, but it became clear this weekend that she was fading fast.

We’d hoped to wait until this morning to have our vet make a home visit, but Tig couldn’t wait that long. And unfortunately, she began to die even as the emergency vets were trying to insert the catheter. Our final moments with her were hasty and traumatic. It wasn’t at all what we’d wanted.

And yet, we have to look at it this way: unlike Cupid, she spent her last days at home with us. And while it’ll never be enough time, we did at least have plenty of opportunity to sit with her while she was alert, and to let her know how much we loved her.

The last picture we took. March, 2008.

Tigger was a part of our family for more than 15 years, nearly five years more than we thought we’d have together. She never quite escaped being the shy kitty at the back of the cage, but we never stopped caring for her.

Goodbye, Tiggy.

Dave General kitties, obituaries

I’m writing this from Palm Springs, California, where I’m attending the annual PBS Showcase conference. I logged in this evening to check my e-mail and perhaps do a bit of blogging, only to learn that my friend Topher, a longtime member of our Friday night gaming group, died last night, possibly from a heart attack apparently from an aneurysm.

Shocked doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel at the moment. As a group, we’re all much too young to be losing friends in this manner.

Topher was a good guy and one hell of a gamer. One played “Settlers of Catan” or “Puerto Rico” against him at one’s peril. His life really seemed to have come together in the last few years: a wonderful wife, a nice house, a great job in the video game industry. I liked and respected him, and I will miss him.

Dave General obituaries

Charlton Heston died over the weekend. And while I wasn’t keen on Heston the NRA spokesman, I want to doff my cap to Heston the actor.

Was he a ham? Sure. But some films are much better off with a thick slice of ham. Take Planet of the Apes, the real one, not the “reimagining.” I adore this movie, and there’s a lot to recommend it: the social commentary; the primal, eerie soundtrack; the groundbreaking makeup appliances; and the monkey jokes. But I cannot imagine it without Heston. Sure, his masterful scenery-chewing is what everyone remembers, but the bitter misanthropy of his character holds together the whole enterprise in the quieter moments.

That said, here’s the bit which includes Heston’s most quoted line:

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I’ve been feeling bad that I didn’t react more quickly to the passing of science fiction author Arthur C. Clarke. In my teens, he was one third of my literary holy trinity, what I thought of as “ABC”: Asimov, Bradbury and Clarke. I wrote a lengthy high-school essay on what was then my favorite book, Childhood’s End. While I’ve never been fond of the film 2001: A Space Odyssey, I loved the novel and its immediate sequel, 2010. And if there was ever a short-story collection I reread more times than his The Nine Billion Names of God, I can’t think of it.

I eventually fell out of touch with Clarke (as well as Asimov and Bradbury) thanks in part to a spate of disappointing follow-ups to Rendezvous with Rama and 2001. When I saw the TV news text crawl about his death, I had a “oh yeah, I’d forgotten he was still alive” moment.

That shameful admission out of the way, I want to give the man his due for his part in fueling my youthful interest in the future. And even though we missed traveling to other worlds by 2001 (and, at the rate we’re going, will be lucky to get there by 3001), there’d be a lot fewer people still considering such a voyage without his influence.

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Okay, I know that I’m a day late on this, but yesterday was a bit hectic. And I’m sure that everyone in the gaming community already has made the above joke about the death of E. Gary Gygax, the creator of Dungeons & Dragons, but come on, it’s just too tempting.

I never met the man, and I can’t say that I know anything about him on a personal level. I do know that after control of the game was wrested away from him, he tried but failed to catch a lightning bolt in an oil flask a second time.

Still, there’s no denying that he had a massive impact on pop culture. Time’s TV critic James Poniewozik did an excellent piece regarding his influence. I haven’t seen the episode of Freaks and Geeks that he references, but he makes a good case that the foundations of Gygax’s concept continue to inform the long-term storytelling we see in series such as Lost.

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That didn’t take long. Between the rapidly rising temperatures and his own front-heaviness, Snowzilla…well, he didn’t make it. He passed, quietly, sometime this morning. Snowzilla will be missed.

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