One more zine-y post and then I'll actually move on to something else. Below, please find the very first words of the story I contributed to Grok #1, "One Con Glory." Download the full zine to read the rest. It features a female geek/comics fan, a sought-after action figure, a few characters who will hopefully be familiar to those who have walked the con beat, and a sort-of exploration of that eternal question: is it possible for a geek to change her mind?
***
By the time I was 16, I had already gone through three Glory
Gilmores. She was six inches of garishly-painted plastic with 31 points of
articulation, the queen of my action figure kingdom. And yet, she kept getting
lost.
Original Glory was a victim of the neighbors’ dog, her
plastic head gouged with teeth-marks and drowned in slobber. I hated that
fucking dog.
Glory II was snatched from my lunchbox by Melissa Perkins
during fourth grade recess. Melissa – who usually spent all her time making
ugly “friendship bracelets” out of embroidery floss – decided it would be a
good day to practice her latent kleptomania, and made a successful grab for
Glory just as I was about to bite into my Hostess cupcake.
Glory the Third…oh, this is a sad one. Andy Oppenheimer, who
was second chair to my first chair clarinet, gave me Glory the Third for my
fifteenth birthday after hearing about the untimely demises of Glorys I and II
(we had a lot of time on our hands because the band director was always trying
to get the goddamn trombone section in tune). Now that I look back on it, I
think maybe he liked me a little bit. Unfortunately, I was going through a
rather short-lived phase of "maturity" and donated my entire action
figure collection to Goodwill. I only hope Glory the Third ended up in a good
home.
Of course, there was one final Glory.
The Last Glory was found by me in a super-discount bin at
Lee’s Comics my first year of college. She was $2.
I gave her a place of honor in my dorm room and she presided
over my milk-crated CDs and sluggish Mac Classic II for almost four years.
Until the last semester of senior term, when I finally broke up with my
boyfriend Curtis, aka Cap'n Douchebag. The Cap'n was a self-described “male
feminist” who knew three chords on the guitar and claimed that not washing his
hair was an act of rebellion against the patriarchy. We shared a love of
beat-up sci-fi paperbacks and almost nothing else. After I dumped his ass, he
used the key I had stupidly given him to sneak into my room and liberate The
Last Glory from her perch. Even though he didn’t understand me at all, he
somehow figured out that she was one of my most valued possessions.
It’s been seven years and I’ve been basically celibate ever
since. It’s not that Cap'n Douchebag ruined me for all other men or anything.
It’s just that I can’t be bothered. My generally irritated demeanor hasn't
changed much since college and it's pretty tough for me to find people I like
enough to even be friends or friendly acquaintances with.
Truthfully, I want my Glory Gilmore figure back way more
than I want to ever have sex again. OK?
Luckily, I may have a chance at the former very, very soon.
To read the rest, check out Grok #1: An Alert Nerd Zine.
