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Anybody who knows me well knows I was a huge fan of Battlestar Galactica. Please note the past-tense form of “to be,” there. I was a huge fan. Not any more. Ronald D. Moore (RDM), in his interviews and blog posts have made me realize he’s more interested in giving himself fun and interesting writing challenges than actually writing good sci-fi. Let me clarify.

*** S P O I L E R A L E R T ***

The death of Starbuck never sat well with me. Despite all her many flaws, she was strong and self-determined and utterly incapable of putting up with bullshit. How are we expected to believe that, all of a sudden, she goes from shit-kicking spitfire to fearful little girl? I would completely understand if she threw herself into the path of an incoming cylon nuke, or acted as the diversion so her wingman can flank the raider. That’s Kara Fucking Thrace. She’s a warrior through and through. But, for her to suddenly announce that she’s “no longer afraid,” and nosedives into a crushing gas-giant’s maelstrom? How is that even anywhere near the realm of believability?

It’s not believable, so that leaves me with one of two possibilities. One – we don’t understand the full reasoning behind Starbuck’s death. Two – the writers don’t understand it either, but hope to figure it out sometime soon. When Starbuck “died,” I was willing to give RDM the benefit of the doubt. “Show me what you got, Ron,” I thought to myself. “Knock me for a loop, man. Please, dear gods, please because I’m losing faith here.”

After a long series of ho-hum episodes that didn’t move the story along, my anger with the show grew. Who gives a rat’s ass if Chief Tyrell feels for the tyllium miners? The build-up to Baltar’s court-case? Honestly, I couldn’t stand the sunglass-wearing-gravel-throated-soothsayer of a lawyer. Stereotypical bullshit writing. You’re godsdamn right I was pissed.

Then came the final insult. The assault on my reason that stretched the believability of the entire show past its limit. Four ostensibly human beings wandering around the ship hearing a Bob Dylan song.

A. Bob. Dylan. Song.

All I could think was, “there must be some kinda way outta here, indeed!” Four characters, one of them older than the cylon race itself, suddenly decide that they must be cylons!? And, to add insult to injury, they’ve got a song stuck in their heads from Earth?

Science Fiction fans like sci-fi because it’s thought provoking and believable, despite being fantastic. That’s why you’ll find a large number of athiests and agnostics who enjoy sci-fi. They’re skeptical of the mystical and godly. Unexplained phenomena often have a realistic and rational explanation, but what RDM and company have done is muddy, awkward and frankly insulting. We forgive many things to enjoy our sci-fi: no sound in space, but without it, explosions are boring. Alien races aren’t likely to speak English, but really you have to look past that too. So, when a Bob Dylan song crosses the vastness of space, and embeds itself into the “final four’s” minds, it just happens to be that english lyrics are heard and understood. Right.

What sort of hole have you written yourself into, RDM? Are there enough talented writers in the world to get your sorry ass out? What have you done with my show? You took a believable space-opera and turned it inside out. It’s barely recognizable from the first season – hell, even the second season.

Everything I’ve read from Ronald D. Moore states that they will often come up with crazy and insane ideas in writers meetings and mop up the continuity later. This is what I believe is happening now. He’s gone and pushed the writers and the storyline well outside their comfort zone hoping they’re able to rein it back in into something coherent and wonderful. Well, Ron, I honestly do not believe you can do it.

—

All this said, I came up with an idea to save Battlestar. A way to, at least, save the “final five cylon” dillemna. How can Saul Tighe be a cylon when he, himself, is older than the cylon race. Well, imagine this scenario:

It is fifty years before the rag-tag-fugitive-fleet takes to space. The first cylon toaster hasn’t been built yet. Caprican scientists have developed, in total secrecy, cloning and gene sequencing techniques into a new race of nearly 100% human beings. These artificial humans are all connected, somehow, with a collective unconciousness – they share thoughts and emotions, but aren’t cognitively aware of it.

However, political and moral pressure dictates the program is scrapped, and the data sealed. Humanity, instead, develops a race of machines with no moral compulsion to do otherwise. The remnants of that program survive in Tighe, Tyrrel, Sam and Tory.

When the cylon uprising begins, they are able to retrieve the old Caprican research, and develop their own new race. True children of man – the humanoid cylons. And, because they’re relatives of the original artificial humans, share a certain bond with them, and aren’t even aware of it.

The “final five” are beginning to feel their connection to each other due to their frequent proximity to the huge numbers of cylon humanoids, hence the shared visions and dreams.

So, you see, while Tighe’s not a cylon, per-se, he’s as related as he’s going to get. An artificial humanoid, brother to Six and Sharon, but not a cylon. And, on top of it, continuity is appeased, and I’m happy.

Of course, he won’t do this, and I’ll be even more pissed off next year, when the show returns.

—

As for the Dylan song, I’m at a loss.

There’s a cardinal that hangs out near my house in Leesburg. The cardinal is the state bird of Virginia, and are territorial. This one is so territorial, he attacks reflections of himself that he sees in the side-view mirrors of passing cars. If you find yourself stopped at the one-lane bridge near my house, he might just stop by and get angry at the cardinal he sees. I captured him on film this morning.

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Today was an anniversary of sorts. One year ago today, I woke up in my bed at Rich and Mel’s apartment in Austin, loaded the last of my junk into my car, and drove to Robert Meuller Airport. There, I waited, listening to the piped in rockabilly, and staring at the red-white-and-blue tshirts bearing Texas flags and armadillos and various burnt orange horn-motif baseball caps for sale at the terminal gift shop.

My heart raced as I tried to find a way to stand casually. I wanted to look like I was the coolest person there, as if the arrival of the girl of my dreams was no big deal. Instead, my hands were sweating and my weight shifted back and forth. I was nervous and excited because Heather was coming down to Texas to take me home to Virginia.

When she came around the corner, she was wearing the biggest grin I had ever seen. I’m sure I looked like an idiot, with an equally big yet stupid grin on my face. When she finally made it past the security checkpoint, I grabbed her and hugged her for all I was worth. She was warm and smelled good, and held me close. Finally being with her was like a rebirth – the end of one life and the beginning of another.

It was important to me that she come down for the drive up. For one thing, it got me to see her two days earlier. For another, bringing her down to Texas, even for half of a day, tempered my leaving the place I called home for 9 years. Like a diver slowly changing depths, I repressurized to Virginia from Texas by making the transition slowly. We went to lunch at my favorite brew-pub with my best friends. They gave me a nice quiet send-off with hugs and smiles. It was bittersweet to be sure, but I was long ready to go.

It took us two days to get back to Virginia – stopping in Texarcana and Nashville for a night each. The road trip was long, but we had each other to talk to, and that was just fine.

One year later, I’m sitting in my easy chair again. I’ve gained a little weight, my hair has gotten longer, but I’m happier than I’ve been my entire adult life. I’ve found a place to be where I can live like I’ve always wanted. Every waking morning is beautiful, even when the sun’s behind the clouds. Sure, I miss my friends – Rich, Mel, Morty, Frank, Charlie, Marcella, Brandon, Lisa, Marc, Jen… I think about them a lot, but I had to go where my heart led me, and I’m a better man for it.

Our lager, which art in barrels
Hallowed be thy drink
Thy will be drunk, (I will be drunk)
At home as it is in tavern

Give us this day our foamy head,
And forgive us our spillages,
As we forgive those who spill against us.

And lead us not to incarceration,
But deliver us from hangovers
For thine is the beer, the bitter and the lager
For ever and ever.
Barmen

*sigh* 102 days until the Maryland Renaissance Festival.

Not waiting for the Apple Store to call me back, I decided to call them. They told me that they had the laptop for two days on their diagnosis bench, and were unable to duplicate the issue. If they were to keep trying to diagnose the issue, they’d have to charge me for every hour of labor.

I asked to speak to the manager, who couldn’t be nicer. He, himself, was performing the diagnosis, and tracked with every issue I had with my poor MacLappy. He told me that he was pretty sure that the problem was with the airport card. The panic.log file was filled with airport card issues.

So, I told him I could replace the airport card himself if he can just get me a new one. He countered and said that he would replace the airport card for me with no labor charge. Sweet!

Thanks, Apple, for having good and smart guys working for you.

I’m standing here at the Apple Store, waiting for my turn at the “Genius Bar.” My poor Powerbook G4 has stuttered and died again this morning. I’m about to do some big-time video projects at ThinkGeek, and only my little MacLappy has enough juice to do the editing. My old Quicksilver desktop I bought from Charlie doesn’t have the video capability to run Motion.

Hopefully, they won’t have my big silver slab of computer for too long. I like having it around.