I’m jonesing so hard for the Doctor right now. Oh, sure, I’ve got classic episodes I’ve never seen, and I’m enjoying those quite a lot. They help fill the void. But, and I hope long-time fans of the show forgive me for saying this, it’s like having a margarita when what one actually wants is a straight shot of El Caballo Estrella Tequila Añejo. Or possibly El Jimador Tequila Añejo, but while it’s reputed to be “an extraordinary sipping tequila,” it wasn’t named after a horse and bottled by a family who had a dairy farm in a place called Volcancillo. A geology and horse lover must opt for El Caballo Estrella, unless given two shot glasses, in which case there is no need for sacrifice.
Where the fuck was I? Oh. Right. The Doctor.
See, I’ve been suffering. I’ve denied myself anything but classic Doctor for a while now, because I’m trying to avoid burning out (like that would be possible). And I’m loving me some classic Doctor Who. But the new series quite often echoed the old, deliberately, and when I come across those moments, I start sniveling, “I want my David Tennant and Matt Smith, damn it!” And still I’ve denied myself.
Now it’s reached the point where nearly every phrase I hear reminds me of a moment from the show. Random things happen, and a scene lances through my mind like a lightning strike, with the same electrified jolt, and I’m dying for new adventures, and then I get the news that the fucking BBC won’t be starting Series 7 until the bloody fall.
Did you hear me scream? Surely you did. You must have heard a howl of anguish that made your blood curdle and children and pets dive under the bed.
I meant to live anyway. I love life, and I’ve got lots and lots to live for. I’ve got friends and family and my kitteh and mah rocks and all sorts of other things that keep me eager for more. But it’s imperative now. I must survive. I will cling to life like grim Death, despite that being a horrible metaphor, so that I can see my Doctor again.
I’ll avoid questionable foods, cliff edges, untied shoelaces, texting while walking down stairs, and taking my eyes off the road for a single nanosecond. I will drive like the proverbial grandma. I will be at the clinic to verify that the headache/backache/otherache isn’t a tumor. I will scan the skies for meteorites and attempt to dodge any that look to be landing nearby. I will even, and this is hard, but must be done, deny my cat the pleasure of taking chunks out of my flesh, because there’s a non-zero chance that the wounds could become infected with a flesh-eating bacteria of some sort and land me in the hospital just about the time Series 7 premieres, and I’ll bet you they don’t have the BBC on the hospital tellies in this country.
I am now going to torture myself by watching the Series 7 trailer:
Apologies for that second blood-curdling scream that could be heard round the world. I will do a whip-round to help you pay for a qualified therapist for any children and/or pets traumatized by said scream.
There’s gonna be some damn fine geology in this series. Drool.
Speaking of geology, and so that I can pretend the purpose of this post was to tie in geology rather than rave about Doctor Who, here’s some at the 20 second mark:
So, there’s Rory on Glen Canyon Dam, in Page, AZ. That’s the Page Sandstone in view, and we’re right by the type locality for it. Also, Geologists as Time Lords. There you go. Doctor Who, geology, boom.
And we shall close with “I Am the Doctor” on a violin, which is almost as cool as the Doctor himself.
Now I have to make dinner. Gotta keep up me strength. Survival is paramount.
P.S. No spoilers in the comments, please. Some folks get extremely upset, and it upsets me to take comments down to avoid upsetting others. Argh.