Great Hera!

ZOMG, Zombie Chickens!

One of the niftiest things about the Scott and Jean Day festivities we hosted over on Alert Nerd:  I discovered a ton of new blogs to stalk! I mean...read. Peruse, really. From a distance. Honestly, I can't even see them that well on my iPhone screen.

Oh, whatever, I'm really bad at faking detached cool. So one of those blogs is The Book Smugglers, which is dedicated to reviewing and writing about stuff that's right up my alley. The thing Felicia Day calls vaginal urban fantasy? They're all over it. Copious mentions of authors I dig (Rachel Caine, Libba Bray, Jeri Smith-Ready, etc etc etc)? Totally on the site. A massive hate-on for Jack Shephard? That's there, too, complete with man-crying.

Anyway, it has come to my attention that my love for Book Smugglers overlords Ana and Thea is not one-sided! They have seen fit to give me...a Zombie Chicken Award.



The blogger who receives this award believes in the Tao of the zombie chicken - excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. These amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. As a recipient of this world-renowned award, you now have the task of passing it on to at least 5 other worthy bloggers. Do not risk the wrath of the zombie chickens by choosing unwisely or not choosing at all…

You better believe I'm not fucking around when it comes to incurring wrath from anyone, especially undead fowl. So here are my nominees.

Geeked: Kristina is pretty much the greatest. She's a talented writer with a lot of passion and she shares my love of both geek crap and, you know, shoes. She's also an ace crafter who's working on building a custom Sackboy empire and she has A+++ Puppet Angel fisting skills. Hold out hope for Zantanna with her, won't you?

My Burning Kitchen: Darlene posts lots of pictures of amazing food that make me want to leave my desk and eat my way through the state of California. At least three stops per day would be dedicated to cake. Oh, there's also a lot of great writing about the food in between all the pictures, but sometimes I get so excited about the pictures, I have to remind myself not to scroll right past the actual words.

Face of the Cookie: This is my new internet friend Kiala, introduced to me by CHARLEY FRAKKING DANIELS. Charley claims that we're some sort of evil twin versions of each other, only I think both of us are evil? Anyway, she's very funny, and has lots to say about Portland hipsters, unicorn juice, and the mystical being known as The Power Kiala. She also has pretty hair.

Theater Dogs: This is a theater-y blog from my old friend Chad, who was once the ruling power theater critic for Bay Area Newspaper Group (is this like being The Power Kiala, maybe?), or whatever they ended up calling it. He was all quoted on the poster for Jersey Boys and shit. Anyway, this is a really entertaining mix of reviews, news, interviews and theater-ish thoughts, from someone who knows EVERYTHING about the stage. EVERYTHING.

Proton Charging: A formidable Ghostbusters site from Alert Nerd cohort and long-time friend Chris. I think this was, like, one of the first blogs on the internet. I mean, it was established in 1995, for chrissake. Anyway, it's a total mustmustmust for GB fans new and old and is also the reason I know about things like "sexy Ghostbusters" Halloween costumes. Really, if they do end up doing that long-rumored third movie, they should just make Chris the fifth 'buster and be done with it.

Okay, there you go, people. It's not every day you win an award on the internet, so wear it well. And watch out for zombies or whatever.

Stephanie

Just returned from a Bay Area jaunt, which I will detail for you in excruciating...detail once I've had the chance to digest it a bit. Going back there always makes me feel like I'm simultaneously 22 and 80, like I've come so far, yet am really just as immaturely dopey as ever. It's an undeniably comforting place for me, but I never quite feel settled while I'm there. I'm too busy remembering and thinking and trying to get All Deep and Shit. Oh, and buying stuff that will fit in with my Clunky Glasses By Way of Santa Monica wardrobe.

But listen: right now, I want to tell you about one of the people the Bay Area always reminds me of. She's #46 on the 101 in 1001 list. Stephanie.

I met Stephanie circa 2000, when we were both part of the same carpool, dot-commuting to our dot-comming workplace. I was at the height of my Judgmental Bitch era, which meant that upon meeting someone, I would actively look for a reason not to like them.

Too cheerful? Don't watch Buffy? Use the word "delish" in an unironic fashion? Bah, we have nothing in common! Get the fuck away from me!

Why I did this, I don't really know. Maybe, like Buffy, I had a superiority complex about my inferiority complex. The minute I met Stephanie, my instant judgment was that we were about as unalike as you could possibly get. And not in a fun, opposites attract, sitcommy sort of way. It was more of a "how the fuck were we even born in the same solar system maybe I should check my body for alien birthmarks" kind of thing.

Stephanie was bubbly. I was sullen. Stephanie had a curtain of shiny hair blow-dried into perfect submission. I had a Cousin It rat's nest that I sort of brushed in the morning.  Stephanie exuded a peppy, can-do cheerleader 'tude, complimented by tasteful outfits. I had...well, I don't know what, but let's just say I was still wearing the two sizes too big overalls that were a staple of my all-women's college wardrobe.

I pegged her as a sorority girl stereotype, decided our carpool chit-chat would never go beyond small talkery, and retreated behind my rat's nest hair. I thought I could predict everything she would do, wear, and say. Like, one day, she mounted a passionate defense of Jennifer Aniston, all  "I love her, you guys!" and I was like, well, of course you do, snerkitysnark, hairnest.

Then, somehow, the tides started to turn. Little things she said would make me giggle -- surreptitously, of course. And then...then. Then there was the glorious day when we were heading back to the East Bay, our car jammed in the perma-gridlocked mass, Stephanie at the wheel (of her giant SUV -- snerkitysnark, hairnest!). She casually suggested we switch from the radio to a CD. "I've got a bunch in the wallet on the floor...or just play what's in the stereo." Our third carpool companion flicked a switch, turned up the volume, and all of a sudden,  our ears were assaulted with one of the filthiest songs I've ever heard.

Throbbing, deep-voiced rap, a wailing diva on background, and a chorus that went like this:

Put it in my mouth!
(She said put it in her mouth)
My muthafuckin' mouth!
(I mean her muthafuckin' mouth!)

(This is the cleanest part -- if I repeat the rest, I will blush. But one of this artist's other albums is called "Vagina Diner," just to give you an idea.)

Okay, so what did judgey little me expect Stephanie to do, here? Be all, "OMG, you guys, how embarrassing!!!" and shut it off? Try to pass it off as a CD belonging to a date or ex-boyfriend and switch us over to some Celine Dion? I don't know if I even had time to contemplate, because as my jaw hit the plushly-carpeted SUV floor, Stephanie went "Oh FUCK YEAH," turned up the volume and proceeded to sing along word for word. This was her jam.

I was in complete awe of her in this moment -- one hand on the steering wheel, the other raisin' the roof, her well-dressed booty shaking in time to the beat.

I had a Stephanie is Awesome and I Am an Asshole epiphany.

After that, we bonded. I had her back during the next Aniston debate, citing the underappreciatedness of inherent comedic timing. I cracked up fully instead of surreptitiously when she did something funny. I relished hearing her dating stories and tried to offer up advice even though I didn't really go on dates.

During our office holiday party, she got balls-out wasted, and as our friend and co-worker drove us back over the bridge that night, Destiny's Child blasted over the radio, asking all the women who are independent to throw their hands up. Stephanie clutched my shoulder and locked her eyes with mine, earnestness personified.

"This is US, Sarah!" she cried.

"Yeah, Steph," I agreed. "I...guess?"

She rolled down the window.

"INDEPENDENT WOMEN," she bellowed out into the night. "US! INDEPENDENT!!! INDEPENDENT AS SHIT!"

She threw her fuckin' hands up.

***

As Web 1.0 started to crumble, a lot of us moved on. Stephanie moved to San Diego, and we emailed for a while, then drifted apart. I would love to find her again. Even though I didn't realize it at the time, I think she's the reason I slowly started to come down from my Judgmental Bitch High Horse, that I slowly started to realize that just because someone's not just like you, it doesn't mean they're not worth getting to know. It doesn't mean they aren't capable of making you cackle until you can't breath or that you won't develop a fully-stocked arsenal of one-word inside jokes or that they won't introduce you to new and exciting things, like explicitly-worded rap songs about blowjobs.

So listen, Steph: if you're out there...throw your hands up at me.