Great Hera!

101 in 1001 Super-Fun Update

I just want to see how I'm doing. So do you, I bet!

3. Clean out my closet, hang clothes nicely, take cast-offs to Goodwill. So I did this. But my closet is now a clothes-barfing mess again. I sense this will be an ongoing struggle.

6. Go on a Kogi taco quest with Charley, Darlene, and whoever else wants to join me. I did this! Well, Darlene wasn't there, *sobsnifflehic*, but she will be one day, I'm sure. I've actually been on several Kogi quests now. One involved The Alibi Room, friends from all different aspects of my life, and me getting sloppily, spazzily drunk and rage-Twittering about Weezer. Good times.

12. Re-write Projects #1 and #2 and give them to readers. These are things I wrote last year that I haven't touched since I finished them. But they both need tweaks and outside opinions. Project #2 has been through these steps. Project #1 is basically re-written, but I'm losing interest in it. I'll probably just proofread and call it a day.

13. Start Project #3, in the same vein as #1 and #2. Did this! Doing this right now!

16. Write something totally cool for the new Grok. Don't know if I want to do another ongoing story, but it's always a temptation. Did this! And it is serialized, so suck it, March 11 version of Sarah.

17. Do the ScriptFrenzy thing. According to friend Sarah O., "a bunch of us" are going to do this. Sort of did this. Participated, didn't finished, but have basis for thing I'm going back to once Project #3 up there is completed.

19. Improve my D&D character's backstory. Right now, she actually doesn't have much of a backstory beyond "can shoot good" and "is blind, but NOT because I had a really hard time painting eyes and finally just gave up." Say hello to my secret society-connected Monster Hunter with flaming arrows!

25. Go on a Bay Area jaunt with Megan and get into trouble, like we have in the past. But not too much trouble. Yes! Re-live it now!

29. Find a short-sleeved black cardigan to rotate with the every-disintegrating one I bought at Anthropologie 5 million years ago. I don't want to look like a ragamuffin at my friend's wedding in May, but the outfit I'm envisioning involves this cardigan. Done. No ragamuffins here.

30. Actually participate in Wardrobe Remix. I joined ages ago and have posted like 2 photos. What would help is if I could figure out how to take a self-portrait on my cam--oh, hey! Yes. Not as much recently, but yes.

31. Learn how to take a self-portrait on my camera. Yup. It's come in handy in non-WR situations as well.

33. Get my boots re-heeled. Two pairs are in need of surgery. Boot surgery was successfully accomplished.

36. Get a cupcake from Magnolia Bakery. One of the first things I did on my last trip to New York. Vanilla cake, chocolate frosting, glorious.

37.  Go to the Golden Age comics exhibit at the Skirball. Is it cheating to include something I pretty much know I'm going to do? I don't think so. Not only was this totally accomplished, but it was accomplished with awesome people like Darlene, Paul, Carla, and my blog-less friends John Charles and Katherine. Get a load of our super-team right here.

45. Obtain a decent hairdryer, perhaps with a diffuser? Perhaps that one that looks like a freaky hand? Well, I do have a new hairdryer, and it does have a diffuser, but its level of decent-ness has not yet been determined. I'll let you know.

52. Go to a reading/book signing featuring an author I admire. Attended Amber Benson's thing at the Best Library in the World. Great Q&A, great moderator (Tom Lenk!), and I absolutely loved the book.

57. Interview someone from Gossip Girl. There might have been a certain something involving a certain someone named CHUCK BASS. Stay tuned.

59. Start doing yoga again. My class from last year seems to have fizzled out, meaning my general aura is much less namaste than it should be. Yoga has been started again. My aura? That's...in progress.

75. Somehow convince Kristina to make me a custom Sackboy. I don't know how, but I guess I did this (see #21!). Along with convincing Kristina to create her own list and convincing Kristina to participate in Grok.  What else should I convince Kristina to do? I'm open to suggestions.

79. Actually comment/tell someone when they write a blog post I like. So many times, I'll read something, find it brilliant, then close my browser. Lame. I think I've been pretty okay at the commenting. Sometimes I get sort of overwhelmed and frazzlepated and then it's almost too much to even READ all the blogs I like, but whatever. I'm working on it.

82. Visit my college campus and go check out my old dorm. Bonus points if I can somehow gain access to my old dorm room to see if my initials are still carved in the doorway. Uh-huh. We couldn't gain access to the actual rooms, though -- no one home.

88. Find some of those geek-goth fingerless glove/armwarmer things for my jaunts to colder climates. I didn't so much "find" them. Rather, the immensely talented Sarah W. MADE THEM FOR ME. Everybody tell her to open up an Etsy store or something.

93. Wear my favorite vintage dress more often. I put it on a bit of a pedestal, I think. But it is meant to be worn. I wore the hell out of it at my friend Sonjia's wedding last month. However. Due to some rather enthusiastic rug-cutting, there may or may not be a bit of a hole underneath one of the arms now. So maybe it does belong on a pedestal.

So that's...what? Almost a quarter of this bitch taken care of? Not bad. Of course, scanning past some of these I have not yet done (like sending Matt his poster, OH MY GOD) is majorly guilt-inducing.

Bay Area Travelogue

One thing I love about CW-friendly teen melodramas is they always magnify that "OMG every little thing is SO IMPORTANT" feeling so near and dear to actual teenagers. And, you know, arrested development-type twenty and thirtysomethings. Ahem.

I don't quite embrace that general state of being as much as I used to, but it all comes roaring back whenever I visit the Bay Area. Because when I lived there, I marinated in that state of being. I really don't know how I ever got anything done, so busy was I gazing moodily at the AT-ATs and scratching Magnetic Fields lyrics on the back of my hand.

The trips back are always mind-blowingly fun, but they also get me all thinky and nostalgic and I have to stop myself from becoming "every little thing is SO IMPORTANT" girl, because, come on, I am too fucking old to be Jenny Humphrey.

Well...most of the time, anyway. Let's travelogue.

THURSDAY, APRIL 23
I devour both "People Stylewatch" and a McDonald's homestyle chicken sandwich at the airport, then catnap on the plane. Vacation! Once I arrive in Oaktown, I meet up with Friend Megan, another ex-Bay Areaer who has since returned to her home state of Oregon. Upon settling into the Bayporter, we notice it is, to quote Meg, "bejank." Like the seatbelts don't really...work. And the luggage is piled haphazardly. And the driver really, really loves discussing minute details about True Crime cases from yesteryear. And it takes two hours to get to Friend Amanda's place in Richmond, since we have to drop people off in Emeryville, Berkeley, and Whothefuckknowswhere, USA. We arrive at Amanda's unscathed, but decide to NOT request the bejank True Crime Shuttle next time.

We kick things off right with a trip to our alma mater, Mills. We remember how to take the bus, and correctly spot all the Clunky Glasses Alterna-Mills Girls on their way to campus. Once there, we immediately begin our Aged Graduate commentary on how all the current students look "so young."

"They're too young for me to date, even," says Megan. (This is HUGE!)

We end up at the office of our old newspaper, The Weekly. Except it's not The Weekly any more, because apparently it doesn't come out...Weekly?

Anyway, the young staffers of the NotWeekly let us in, and we take 5 million and 1 photos of the Weekly Wall, which contains rows of signatures from journos past (including ours!), and then delete all the ones where we look fat. The NonWeekly staffers studiously ignore us, until we insist on telling them tales 'bout The Good Old Days.

"We had a waxer!" I proclaim. "A waxer."

"Haha," says NotWeeklyer #1, looking mildly uncomfortable.

"And that!" cries Megan, pointing to a cramped, windowless room. "That is where people would go when they were having a breakdown. Everyone cried in that room."

"You should revive that tradition," I say.

"Haha," says NotWeeklyer #2, looking REALLY uncomfortable.

"We didn't even have real computers," continues Megan. "Unless you count Mac Classic IIs as 'real computers.'"

"Haha," says NotWeeklyer #1. "You have somewhere else to be, maybe?"

We do.

We hike up the hill to our old dorm, Ethel Moore, and wait patiently for someone to let us in. Then we climb up on the roof and peer in the windows, hoping someone will see how completely not creepy we are and let us in. Then we chase after a couple of girls who look like they live there, because maybe THEY will let us in, but we're old and slow and they don't see us (or maybe they do and that's why they start walking faster all of a sudden). Finally, someone does let us in, and we go up to our old rooms and take more pictures and remember.

FRIDAY, April 24
We -- me, Megan, Amanda -- tool around the East Bay all day, buying stuff and eating stuff and chatting for a good bit with beautiful and hilarious Friend Lisa G. I purchase a vintage Pendleton plaid jacket for $20, because I've always wanted one. I am convinced it makes me look just a little bit like a lumberjack.

"Lumberjacks do not wear pearls," insists Amanda.

The evening is dedicated to our big pizza par-tay, which basically involves inviting everyone we know to The Lanesplitter in Berkeley. I always start tensing up right before stuff like this, because I feel like I have to present the Best Possible Version of myself to people I haven't seen in a while. I drink a little wine to take the edge off. This turns into A LOT of wine. This turns into me drunkenly discussing social media/comic book conventions/online interaction with my old friend Leslie and my new, never-met-in-person-before friend Chrissy.

"Why are there so many fucking people at Comic-Con now?" I growl at them. "And why am I so weird when I meet people in person?"

Best Possible Version, indeed.

Later, I meet Megan's cousins, Scott and Madeleine, and say something funny/insightful about Dollhouse or Tahmoh Penikett's cheekbones, only I don't remember what.

Me: "Something funny/insightful about Dollhouse or Tahmoh Penikett's cheekbones."

Madeleine (to Meg, re: me): "Oh, we like her."

Hmmm, I think. Maybe I'm not so weird after all! Hic.

SATURDAY, April 25
Megan and I stroll through Berkeley, taking note of the eerie, ghost town quality of Telegraph and some graffiti that proclaims "Hagrid isn't the only giant on campus, if you know what I'm saying."

Today we're on a mission! We're determined to buy Amber Benson's book, Death's Daughter, from favoritest sci-fi/fantasy bookstore ever, The Other Change of Hobbit. TOCOH is the kind of place where the salesguy will congratulate you on your purchase of "the Shetterly." Or will heartily debate you when you ask for some Gene Wolfe. Or will just be generally awesome while you browse for six hours. It is also the kind of place that has a cat (this will be important later).

Meg and I canvas every inch of the store, but cannot locate the book. Salesguy is busy helping a customer who claims to be from "another astral plane," so we wait. Suddenly, we hear a blare-y, vaguely human screech.

"WHERE IS HE?! WHERE'S PATCHES?"

A tie-dye-sweatshirted lady barges into the store and immediately starts chasing after the beleaguered bookstore cat.

"PATCHES!!!"

As she bends down to pick him up, Cat is all "HISSSSSSSSSSS! REEEEEEER!" which I think translates to "oh hell no." Cat runs away and hides behind some vampire erotica.

Tie-dye Sweatshirt is undeterred. "PATCHES!!" The blare-iness is more insistent here. "I just want to HOLD YOU!!!"

"Patches doesn't want to be held," I mutter.

"Would you?" mutters Meg.

"Oh, PATCHES." A disappointed kind of blare-iness.

With a weary sigh, Tie-dye Lady heads out into the world, perhaps on the hunt for bookstores with more easily tormentable cats.

We determine that TOCOH does not, in fact, have Amber Benson's book, though Salesguy offers to order it for us. We are disappointed, but also near hysteria ("PATCHES"), so we bid him good-bye, run out the door, and collapse into uncontrollable laughter.

Later that night, there is more wine. And here is where I take a turn into "OMG every little thing is SO IMPORTANT" Land. Meg sort of blurts out something important about her life and Love. The conversation wanders and I get frustrated, cause Meg doesn't really get into talking extensively about her feelings and shit, and getting her to elaborate on said statement is like trying to coax spoilers out of a recalcitrant TV executive.

"Why do you do that?" I grumble. "That's major. That's a big motherfucking deal, and you say it like it's nothing."

"There's not really anything else to say," she says.

"Blergh," I say, falling asleep.

SUNDAY, April 26
Meg and I arise early to feast on an amazing breakfast prepared by Amanda's husband, Friend Peter. We then basically kill time 'til our cab arrives, watching Peter watching Catwoman on AMC (what).

When we get to the airport, there's the need to keep things light, cause we'll be separating soon. I walk her halfway to her gate, then have to turn around and walk back to mine. We hug and say good-bye. As she rounds the corner, I yell after her:

"PATCHES!"

I hear her giggle.

And this is sort of, like, a Moment, because a bunch of thoughts clash through my brain all at once, and I realize that one of the reasons I get all "OMG every little thing is SO IMPORTANT" when I'm here is...I'm scared of losing key memories that go with this place. I'm scared of losing the people that go with this place. Like, if I don't know every little piece of this thing Meg's feeling about Love, what the fuck do I know? Are we even still close? Am I holding onto things that don't even exist because of my nostalgia addiction?

I get my answer instantaneously. Because she yells back, top of her lungs, an answering call:

"PATCHES!"

I turn and start to walk away and I feel myself grinning, even though I know she can't see me anymore.

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.

Going For It

I've been sucked into another Black Hole of Writing That Does Not Involve Writing Here. I might have a self-indulgent playlist that goes with it, even! Would you like to hear?!

No? OK. Let's talk about something else.

I visited my friend Mary in Phoenix a few weeks ago. The Mary from this story. When we're together, we revert a little back into college mode, laughing at everything, eating massive amounts of carbohydrates (pancakes and hashbrowns should always be acceptable on the same plate), and speaking in that weird sort of shorthand you get with someone who you once hung out with 24 hours a day for multiple days at a time. ("Do you think..." "Yes, it's just like..." "I thought so, too, but what about..." "No, I don't think she would..." "Exactly.")

We also have meandering discussions about Going For It. We both seem to admire Going For It, as demonstrated by various individuals. Brandon Flowers in that feathered matador jacket on SNL? Going For It. Stephenie Meyer writing the most jaw-droppingly insane conclusion to her thousand page vampire saga and inventing a godawful baby name in the process? Going For It. The mad-eyed ladies who storm Phoenix's battered Nordstrom Last Chance in the hopes of scoring a moderately stained L.A.M.B. tote for 60 percent off retail? Going For It.

I think my general admiration of Going For It quite handily explains my sheer love for certain things -- scifi/fantasy books, superhero comics, angsty teen TV, musicals. There are always big stakes and big emotions. Going For It is how you accomplish shit, whether it's making out with Nate Archibald or becoming Masterharper of Pern.

(Incidentally: great essay on the connection between comic fans and musical fans here. This point is addressed!)

But as our talks wandered, it became clear that there are certain instances wherein the awesomeness of Going For It is...questionable. I mean, obviously, if your version of Going For It involves hurting someone or being a big asshole, that's not so cool. But what if it only leads to a mild form of douchebaggery that is just you being you?

OK, so case in point: Mary told me all about a local Arizona celeb who seems to be Going For It in a big way, but in doing so, is kind of insufferable. I'm going to have to fictionalize this a little so as not to offend, so...let's say that Charley moved to Arizona, made a name for himself as an outsider artist, and re-christened himself CHARLEY FRAKKING DANIELS.  CHARLEY FRAKKING DANIELS has an entourage of American Apparel-swathed hipsters that follows him everywhere. CHARLEY FRAKKING DANIELS attracts crowds of even more American Apparel-swathed hipsters with his outsider art. CHARLEY FRAKKING DANIELS has really become quite the It Dude in the strangely incestuous Phoenix scene.

Now. CHARLEY FRAKKING DANIELS sounds pretty annoying, right? A bit of a legend in his own mind? A bit easily mockable for taking himself so seriously?

A few rum-and-Cokes into the conversation, Mary and I circled back around to the topic of CHARLEY FRAKKING DANIELS, and suddenly found ourselves fascinated by his mysterious origin story. According to reliable sources, CHARLEY FRAKKING DANIELS was initially quite mild-mannered -- more of a Charles, more into lower-case letters -- and very much on the outskirts of the outsider art scene. A true underdog. But when we tried to push for more details, the source clammed up and seemed downright disdainful of the success CHARLEY FRAKKING DANIELS enjoys. We are still in the dark as to how, exactly, the transformation occurred.

But it did occur -- this is the important part. So couldn't it be said that CHARLEY FRAKKING DANIELS is the absolute embodiment of Going For It? Did he not become the person he ultimately wanted to be?

Yes, his own personal version of Going For It involves elements that you and I might find sort of irritating. It is easy for us to make fun of his ambitions. But he's still doing his thing the way he wants to do it -- he would absolutely make things happen with Nate Archibald, no question, no hesitation.

And that's why...that's why I think I have to admire him a little. I could potentially learn a lesson or two from the sheer moxie of CHARLEY FRAKKING DANIELS.

After all, I might want to become Masterharper of Pern someday.

My Heart, It Beats Like a Drum

On our first date, my future husband and I spent a classically sunny-cold San Francisco day walking along the pier, touristing it up a bit even though we lived there. At one point, we ducked into an arcade and found ourselves swept up in a mass of people, all enraptured by the same thing: a tiny, bowl-cut-sporting youngster who was totally shredding on Dance Dance Revolution. He was an awesome sight to behold. Amidst the flashing lights and blaring music and sweaty crowd of gawkers, my date, this boy I liked so much I could barely stand it, reached out and let a tentative hand rest on my back. And then, spooked, he quickly yanked it away.

I asked him later WTF was up with that. He explained that he thought I was bothered by it, that I hadn't really responded to this casual-affectionate touch. He was shy! He didn't know! Girls are weird! Still, despite the brevity of the moment, it was a first step towards something.

I think maybe that's why I sort of connect Dance Dance Revolution with romance*, somehow. Why more products of pop culture don't make better use of the manic-crazy exuberance a Dance Dance Moment can bring, I do not know. But as Twitterpal Sigrid Ellis** reminded me the other day, there's at least one movie that does, and this movie does it SO WELL, I don't know if I can even describe it properly. But here goes.

The movie is Imagine Me & You, with Piper Perabo and Lena Headey as slightly star-crossed lovers. (This was pre-Sarah Connor for Lena, but post-Gossip...did anyone else actually see Gossip? Did you see it in the theater?! I don't really remember why I saw it in the theater. I think I had some severe taste problems in 2000, but one could argue that that hasn't changed a whole lot. As for Piper, if you were put off by the strange performance/vocal intonations in Coyote Ugly -- and I was -- know that she's really adorable here, especially with the British accent.) Geek points are earned thanks to the presence of Anthony Steward Head as Piper's dad and I guess now you could say Matthew "Ozymandias" Goode adds a few as well.

But anyway, the point is, there are various little moments in the movie where you know Piper and Lena are meant to be, and the BEST of those moments, at least as far as I'm concerned, is the scene where they shred on Dance Dance Revolution. They find side-by-side dance pads at the arcade and proceed to perform an obviously pre-choreographed routine and fall in love amidst the 1-2, front-back-left-right, "YOU GUYS RULE"-ness of it all. The beauty of this scene is that, yes, there are lots of things that tend not to happen in reality -- synchronized upper-body movements, lengthy pauses in the routine, etc. -- but it just doesn't matter, because it has that authentic feeling of unbridled Dance Dance-induced joy.

Thankfully, there seem to be a ton of people on YouTube who enjoy this scene as much as I do, so you can check it out for yourself. The best part is when they switch dance pads.

*I guess this is why I included a Dance Dance sequence in my last Grok thing? At the time, I didn't connect it to either that real life moment or the fictitious one in Imagine Me & You, but now...now I see! I'm so transparent.

**Sigrid also writes for one of my favorite new blogs around, the appropriately-named Fantastic Fangirls. If you like good, thoughtful writing about comics, this is for you.

Minute Minutiae

Why the lack of updates, Sarah? Are you committing more petty theft? Making social blunders too embarrassing to share, even on the internet? Twittering your life away? Whywhywhy?!?

Because my brain is slowly melting out of my ears, that's why!

I just...have no life right now. I am working on Stuff. Time evaporates before I can utilize it well. It's a boring excuse, but I'm too zonked to make up a better one.

In order to make sure I still have some semblance of a social life, I've been trying to set aside the time for Taco Tuesday. Taco Tuesday flows organically from the workday and therefore seems do-able. Taco Tuesday means $1 tacos, half-price margaritas and long, careening conversations with friends. I finally met one of my favorite Twitterpersons at Taco Tuesday. I got some hot blogger gossip at Taco Tuesday. I ate my weight in cheese at Taco Tuesday. Taco Tuesday!

But here's another thing that happens, thanks to Taco Tuesday: the two margarita minimum makes me a little tipsy, necessitating a few final minutes spent at the office before I drive home. To fill those minutes, I go bother Charley, who works the night shift. And I often talk quite a bit. And sometimes I talk about things that I forgot I knew about in the first place.

This, I think, is sort of an essential piece of the DNA that makes a nerd. Sure, you know all your genre-related trivia. Sure, you can make this reference and that reference with ease and banter with your comic shop buddies and occasionally horrify your Mundane friends and so on and so forth. But that weird skill that helps you remember genre-related trivia? Sometimes it helps you remember other, less cool stuff, too.

For example: did you know that I apparently have a shitload of Silk Stalkings factoids saved up in this brain of mine? Neither did I. Until I started tipsy-talking to Charley.

Silk Stalkings was a murder-of-the-week cop show on USA Network (and sort of on CBS) before it was all "characters welcome." I don't remember why, but for a brief period, I was completely fascinated with this show. I think it's because it tried to flirt with a bit of a sexy Cinemax-y edge, but really couldn't go that far, not being on a pay channel and all. Also, at the heart of the pseudo-smuttiness, there was this extremely earnest "will they or won't they" love story between the two main characters, played by Rob Estes and Mitzi Kapture.

Anyway, this is sort of how the convo went...

Charley: "Well, really, [SHOW REDACTED] is just Silk Stalkings, with all the gratuitous shots of girls and...

Me: "YES. OMG, do you remember how, on Silk Stalkings, they would always have that '80s sexy saxophone in the background? I fucking love the '80s sexy saxophone."

Charley: "Yeah. Haha!"

Me: "OMG, do you remember how they ended the Mitzi Kapture/Rob Estes run on that show?"

Charley: "Uh, well, I didn't really watch it regul--"

Me: "Yeah, so Mitzi Kapture and Rob Estes are totally in love, right? Only they can't admit it, because they WORK TOGETHER. But it's like this sweet storyline on this totally trashy show. So then one of them almost dies and they finally admit they're in love and they have sexy '80s saxophone sex and Mitzi gets pregnant. Like, the first time they have sex, she gets pregnant. Oh, but then guess what happens?"

Charley: "I don't--"

Me: "Rob Estes gets SHOT and DIES. On this show where the whole point is basically these characters getting together. They're BOTH leaving the show, right? But instead of letting them ride off into the sunset and satisfying all the dedicated fanfic-ers and shippers, they fucking KILL Rob Estes and then Mitzi is heartbroken and resigns from the force. And remember, she's pregnant. It's so heartbreaking and WEIRD. It's like they chose this one moment to get all artsy."

Charley: (nervous) "Haha."

Me: "What the fuck was that? Why do I know this? Why am I still talking?"

Charley: "I have work to do."

Me: "I'm gonna go home and think about Silk Stalkings."

And that's what I did. I leave you with the fantastically sexy saxophoned (OK, OK, not much saxophone here -- they saved that for the actual scenes) intro to Silk Stalkings, which will have you singing "Oh YEEEEEEAAAAAH" for hours on end.

Shenanigans!

.....or Why I Am the Greatest Internet/Long Distance Friend of Our Time, Or Any Other Time, For That Matter.

I was in my Spaz Mode today. I attribute this partly to the wild round of texting/phoning/IMing I engaged in for a good few hours in a (probably pointless) attempt to shape my weekend plans into a form of insanity that at least makes a little bit of sense and partly to the two lemon squares I inhaled around 3:02. Oh, oh, and a little bit to finishing Grok, which was a huge undertaking for all involved and is, in my opinion, quite cool and you should all check it out if you haven’t already.

So here I am at 4:10, sugar-hyped beyond belief, hair falling out of its sad ponytail, eyes bloodshot and popping open to their maximum state of, er, openness, when I get an email from Matt with the following subject line:

"can someone steal one of these for me & mail it to Jamlando? kthxbye"

The text of the email is a simple link to this.

If you don't want to click on that, it's a photo of an LA Weekly sign posted on the front of an LA Weekly bin that says:

"If you can read this, PRINT AIN'T DEAD."

Thirty seconds later, I am running, like I'm on fucking Alias, to the elevator, then out the door and down the block to our trusty mid-Wilshire LA Weekly bin.

The sign, she is there!

I am exultant…then I start to get paranoid. There's a security guard who presides over the mini-mall behind the bin. What if one of his main duties -- along with making sure no one parks there for over 30 minutes or pulls a salsa bar heist at El Pollo Loco -- is busting the hardened criminals who try to gank the LA Weekly sign?!

So I'm sly about it. Sneaky. I oh-so-casually lean over the bin, blocking the sign, and take a copy of the paper. Then I artfully slip the sign out from the bin and hide it under said paper.

Then I run. Like I'm on fucking Alias!

I zip back up to my office, plunk myself in a quiet corner, and snap the following photo on iPhone:

See? My eyes really are bloodshot. I look demonic.

I upload the photo with FlickUp, then send the link to Matt and commence in feeling overly satisfied with myself.

He writes back:

"NICE. Can I have one?"

OK, apparently, my speediness on this matter was SO AMAZING that Matt did not realize I had just pilfered said sign in direct response to his email. Maybe he thought I had a whole stash of 'em just lying around.

So I write back:

"I stole that one for you. I'm awesome."

(Because…right?!)

He then expresses rightful astonishment at THE POWER OF THE INTERNET.

So apparently, if you email me some sort of request that involves me engaging in some wacky (not too time-consuming) shenanigans, I will be totally happy to oblige. Think about it.

D&D Diary: Snack Attack

So our D&D adventure seems to be grooving along to a nice, experience points-gaining rhythm. I thought it would be near-impossible for seven LA-dwellers to gather on a semi-regular basis, but I guess all it really takes is the promise of storming the Shadowkeep with a bunch of like-minded nerds and their pizza-stained power cards. Book clubs, take note.

Anyway, one fantasticawful thing about our sessions is that there is always a prodigious amount of snacks available. Snacks of all sizes, shapes, colors and levels of wheat and/or gluten-free-ness. And for whatever reason, all that arrow-shooting and questing and damage points-ing makes me eat fucking constantly. Roll for initiative...to stuff your face!

So my elven cleric pal Airleas and I  decided to introduce some semi-healthy snacks to the proceedings. I mean, you know, I'm not too body-obsessive, but I would like to still be able to zip up my chain mail once this quest is all over. And as an Almost Officially Old Person, I have things like cholesterol to think of!

Here are some of the offerings we tried out last week, complete with ratings. Maybe this will help you and your similarly snack-addicted D&D posse out. I live to serve.

Trader Joe's Baked Jalapeno Cheese Crunchies:  Sort of like a hippie take on Cheetos. The Dungeonmaster thought these looked "really fucking gross," and they do sort of bear a not-all-that-pleasant resemblance to tiny, mold-encrusted tumors. But guess what? They're tastiness personified! Er, chipified. Now, whether this type of tastiness is for you is another question entirely. I liked the airy crunch and hint of spice. Others seemed unimpressed. They might be akin to how a well-meaning waiter once described a weird-sounding appetizer to me: "a two-biter." Spider, our Tiefling rogue, enthusiastically popped one in his mouth, then went through a series of "eh? Bleah...eh?" faces. But then he hypothesized that he just chose a crunchy with too many green jalapeno flecks on it, so he went back for more and found the second crunchy much more pleasing. One bonus for D&Ders -- there's a light cheese dusting, but it's not as finger-encasing as, say, actual Cheetos or white cheddar popcorn. Easy to wipe quickly, then keep rolling. Overall rating: 8.5 out of 10.

Cilantro Chive Yogurt Dip: I think this might be another TJ-brand item, but it seems like something you could make fairly easily. You know, in all your spare time between quests! I was looking for a substitute for your basic Ranch Dip, which I unfortunately consumed about a gallon of during a previous encounter. This has a surprisingly thick texture and a nice, mild flavor, although truth be told, I don't remember it that well. I think it was good with carrots. The aforementioned texture is a boon for role-players worried about dripping all over the dungeon tiles, which has, after all, been known to cause quest-ending arguments.  Overall rating: 7 out of 10.

Hansen's Diet Tangerine Lime Natural Soda: OK, I'll confess -- I generally hate "natural" sodas. I don't even know why. It's a Coke addict's bias, I guess. But this sounded light and refreshing and generally perfect for a sticky summer's eve spent indoors, so I thought, why not? Annnnd...it's OK. It's cool and fizzy and goes down just fine. But there was a weird sort of aftertaste that went along with it that was almost...chemical-y. Now was it actually chemical-y or are my tastebuds so frakked up from all my real soda consumption that I just think natural things taste chemical-y and vice versa? Well, whatever. In the end, it's not for me. I did, however, have a sip of the DM's Hansen's Diet Root Beer and found that much more to my liking. It kind of had the same aftertaste, though. Overall rating: 4.5 out of 10.

If you have further suggestions for RPG-friendly eats, please send them my way. In the meantime, more healthy-ish snacks await us this week. But I think I'll eat them with regular soda, the way God intended.

The Sarah ConnAWKWARD Chronicles

I feel like this blog has kind of turned into a chronicle of my navel-gaze-y social ineptitude, a series of posts that could all be summed up as The Dumb Thing I Did That One Time. Well, whatever. The kids love the wacky, self-deprecating antics, so I am told!

So here's what happens when a geek starts thinking maybe, just maybe, she's got this "interaction with people" thing down.

Friday night, I go to a show written by this stupendously talented young lady. I'm milling about, feeling pretty dang good about myself, because 1) I'm wearing those ridiculous Target shoes, and apparently Jenelle told everyone in advance about the Target shoes, so I keep hearing "OooOOOooooh, are those them?!" followed by a chorus of admiring coos centered around whichever foot I happen to stick out for inspection and 2) I know a lot of people there and am managing to act normal around them. I meet one of my super-awesome, super-geek internet friends and don't say anything weird. I compliment my friend Jaime* in a charming (ie not overly loud and/or inappropriate and/or off-putting) fashion. I make the much-dreaded small talk.

(*Sidebar: I think I need to share how I met and became friends with Jaime. That story is  not-so-navel-gaze-y and actually sort of fun.)

Eventually, we all move into the theater. I secure a seat next to my favorite Two Librarians and bolt for the bathroom. I am scurrying back -- mentally patting myself on the back for being such a well-adjusted social butterfly -- when the following happens.

I'm walking up the stairs to my seat and, out of the corner of my eye, see someone seated on the aisle get up out of their chair, as if to let someone else into said aisle. I am VERY FOCUSED on getting back to my seat (and also on the back-patting), so I sort of scoot around this person, pointing beyond them all the while, as if to say "I'm going here, excuse me." I do not register this person's face. I am on a mission! Back to my seat!

So I sit back down and then I see that this person? That I just scooted around so blithely? Totally my friend Ben. And he stood up, I think, not to let someone else into the aisle, but to say hi to me. And I blew right past him, not even registering his face, just seeing a blank torso standing up and impeding my progress.  (Or maybe it was a dual purpose -- letting someone else in AND saying hi. Either way, I'm a tool.)

Fuckity O'Fuck!

So I scurry back down and say, "Hey...I just totally walked by you, didn't I?"

And then the show was starting so it was sort of like, "well...well...awkward..."

Afterwards, face flaming, I find him in the crowd and am like, "Sorry! I didn't realize it was you! Blahblahblah!"

"That's OK," he says. "You're just dead to me."

Anyway. It just goes to show you: I cannot get too comfortable in my own perceived awesomeness, because it is always oh-so-very-temporary.

At least I still have my shoes.