Peace

Have a good weekend, yo.

Astronaut pants 3

Madoka

Brought to you, once again, by memories of high school.

I share my birthday with some fairly groovy people. There's my future ex-fling Sean Altman and concert organizer extraordinaire Lexi, of course. And there's also Japanese illustrator Madoka Yamakawa. I'm neither Japanese nor illustrative, so how did I come to know someone who is?

I had the good fortune to meet Madoka when she was an exchange student at my high school during my senior year. She stayed at the home of one of my cronies, TB. To say that she had an interesting experience would be putting it mildly, and probably far too generously. This poor young woman was transplanted from urban Japan — Tokyo? I forget — to rural western South Dakota and pretty much left to fend for herself. Her host family, the Bs, lived on a sheep ranch about 20 miles from civilization, if you can call my hometown civilization. Unless you're really, really into wide-open, wind-shredded spaces in shades of beige and brown, the area is just plain harsh. I don't know what the exchange program was thinking when they plunked her down out there, I really don't.

Of the four kids in the B family, one boy was away at college, one boy was in junior high, and the only girl was still in grade school. The only child Madoka's age was my buddy TB. TB, while exponentially the smartest kid in our class, was not necessarily the most social, despite having spent a year as an exchange student himself (on an Australian sheep station, which he considered a cruel irony; it was just like home, but with Vegemite). At that time, TB was a 17-year-old guy who had not asked for yet another younger sibling, especially not a girl who shared none of his interests, especially not one who barely spoke English and who definitely did not drive.* He did not appreciate being drafted as her babysitter and chauffeur. He didn't blame Madoka herself, since it had not been her idea, and he wasn't mean to her, but neither was he a hovering big brother figure.

TB's new sister arrived at the end of summer, just before the start of school, and he was instructed to introduce her around. Social life in our town consisted primarily of driving around to see who else was out driving around and of wandering to the nearest movie theater in the next town over, 10 miles away. So that's what TB did: brought Madoka into town to pick the rest of the gang up to go see a movie. We managed to cram at least six corn-fed Midwestern youths, plus one petite Asian female, into TB's red Tercel, but it wasn't pretty.

Madoka was jet-lagged and shy. The rest of us were strutting seniors, smug about . . . well, everything. We talked at her nonstop all the way to and from the theater — we saw Short Circuit — instructing her about what and who was important and what and whom to ignore. I don't recall her saying more than a few words all night.

Despite this nerve-jangling introduction, Madoka gravitated toward the girls in our group, and we, having known one another since preschool, were happy to have someone new and interesting to talk to. Once she found out that she and I shared a birthday, we were bonded for good. Madoka played the flute, so she sat near me in band. Though I played the oboe most of the time, I was a member of the flag corps during marching band season and recall accidentally knocking her in the head with my pole one morning as we went out to the football field to practice. She cried and so did I, I felt so bad. She forgave me, though.

Madoka auditioned for the fall play (Up the Down Staircase) because Lisa and Helen and I were all drama nerds, and she generously perceived us as being popular. She was painfully self-consciousness at the front of the classroom. Nervous and sight-reading in a foreign language, she flubbed a line reading and fled the room sobbing, "I have failed! I have failed!" Two of us went to the girls' room after her while the third stayed behind to petition the teacher/director for a role for her, but not one that would force her to speak English too much. Pang, the director, had completed his mental cast list already, of course, and Madoka was already on it. She worked hard on her single line and delivered it quietly but correctly on opening night, later flushing with pride during the curtain call.

Upperclassmen at our school enjoyed open campus privileges, meaning we could leave the grounds during our free periods. I lived just a block away, and since MTV had recently reached our area, my house became the natural gathering spot during free hours and after school. Madoka developed a major infatuation with Steve Winwood and sang along with "Higher Love" every time it came on. She wasn't especially interested in the Atari 2600 video games we liked to play, but she did enjoy the rowdy chat of those waiting their turns with the joysticks.

Madoka had school spirit, something the rest of us felt we'd outgrown long ago. She seemed truly to admire the homecoming court, of which Helen was a member, and cheered enthusiastically for sports she'd never encountered before. The rest of us played along so she wouldn't be the only one, and you know, it was kind of fun. I think I went to more school events that year than all other years combined.

Madoka also made a serious effort to learn the social ins and outs, frequently quizzing us about who was popular, why or why not, and whether she ought to start hanging around them. These were thought-provoking questions for the rest of us, since we had instinctively known who the "in" crowd was since we were still jumping rope at recess. I don't recall Madoka dating during her year with us, but I'm sure my mother remembers whether she went to the prom or not, and if so, with whom and what she wore.

Anyway, senior year flew by, we said tearful graduation-day farewells, and Madoka returned to Japan. I received occasional cards and Christmas gifts, but we lost touch. But recently she has revisited her host family and our little berg in the middle of nowhere. She stopped at my family's house, naturally, to chat with Mother Media and show off her handsome husband and adorable daughter. They exchanged e-mail addresses, and Mom has been forwarding me Madoka's notes and photos for months. She's living in Washington, D.C. now, after attending art school in Italy and working for a Tokyo television company, and has a second beautiful child.

I'd been meaning to write back to her but never took the time to put together a long, proper, newsy letter. When I received a birthday greeting this year, however, I finally got off my butt and wrote back. It wasn't a very coherent letter, starting with the present and alluding to things past, but it's a start. I honestly mean to keep in touch with her this time. With e-mail so handy, there's no excuse not to. I have no idea what we might have in common these days, but a birthday is a start.

---

* In South Dakota, you can get a learner's permit at age 14, and everyone does. The country kids have usually been driving around their parents' property since their feet could reach the pedals anyway. The first kid in a rural family to hit 14 is automatically drafted to drive the rest into town for school, which he or she does in a beat-to-crap American-made sedan until graduation, whereupon the sedan is passed down to the next oldest to continue the tradition. A car is a necessity, and a teenager without a driver's license is simply unheard of.

Photos today? YES

Today around the world: July 29 is System Administrator Appreciation Day in the U.S. Geek power!

Astronaut pants 2

The One That Got Away

Brought to you by prom memory lane.

Prom #2. Spring 1985.

I think of S, the boyfriend with whom I attended my sophomore prom, as the One Who Got Away. Truthfully, though, it wasn't he who got away, it was me. S was willing to stick around, but I ended up breaking up with him — not because he wasn't a swell guy, but because, to my great dismay, I found that I was not in love with him. I wish I had been. I wished it then and I wish it now.

S possessed every quality I wanted in a beau: brains, brawn, humor, honesty, integrity, a loving and supportive family, a sensible car, a sense of adventure, a balanced checkbook, and an appreciation for similar qualities in me. He could even write! He wrote me multi-page, single-spaced letters from college that detailed not only the goings-on around campus, but also his feelings about them. The man communicated his feelings eloquently, and I let him go? Alas, yes. The only thing missing was chemistry, and that was not a shortcoming of S's, but rather of us as a pair, and there wasn't a damn thing either of us could do about it.

We tried, though, and had a lot of fun in the process. After the social isolation involved in dating the Byronic D the year before, I was delighted to hook up with gregarious S and his sports-playing, madrigal-singing, honor roll-making friends. S was salutatorian of his high school class and an entrepreneur who started a programming business in the days when personal computers were still the province of power geeks. Smart is sexy! S and I went to movies, ball games, and parties together, always laughing. Naturally, we went to the prom together, too.

That was the year the prom was postponed on account of snow. Spring is not always kind in the upper Midwest, and that year it was especially turbulent. Huge, wet flakes glopped up the roads so badly that driving was determined to be too dangerous, and nobody wanted to drag their good clothes through the slush anyway. Prom was almost canceled entirely, but that suggestion provoked too great an outcry. So the traditional Saturday night shindig was postponed to a weekday evening the following week.

Yes, a weekday! And that was the death of it. We all still went, of course, but let me tell you, a prom on a Monday just isn't a prom. It isn't even really a party. It feels wrong. Sure, parents set the usual late prom night curfews, and attendance at school the next day was understood to be pretty much optional, but our hearts weren't in it. We were embarrassed to be the lame-o school that had its prom mid-week.

I wore blue that year (it might have been the hoop skirt year) and had planned a cascade of corkscrew curls, a slightly less difficult-to-execute coiffure than the previous year's. However, due to the lingering humidity, my corkscrews looked more like swizzle sticks by the time we made it to the dance — and we're talking less than a quarter of a mile here. Bleck.

But I still had a good time with S, who despite being a lineman on the football team was also a decent dancer who wore his tux with élan. My friends and his mixed well, so I got to dance with some other nice boys, too. I don't remember whether we went to the after-prom party or not.

Ultimately, Prom #2 qualified as OK, not because of my date, but because of the circumstances surrounding it. Mother Nature upstaged our gowns and teenage drama, and we really didn't appreciate it.

S was two years older than me, a junior at the U when I enrolled as a freshman. I'd broken up with him by that time, but we still saw each other on campus, and he dated a girl who lived on my floor in the dorm. They eventually married and are, as far as I know, still married, with at least one child. S became an account after college, but in recent years he has gone back to school for education credentials so he can teach high school math. His students are lucky to have him, as was I.

Photos today? YES

Today around the world: July 28 is Olavsoka Eve in the Faroe Islands. The Faroe Islands, near Northern Europe, are an island group between the Norwegian Sea and the North Atlantic Ocean, about halfway between Iceland and Norway.

Farmers' market: flowers

Farmers' Market

The farmers' market takes over Nicollet Mall every Thursday in the summer.

Astronaut Pants

I received a set of magnetic poetry/pickup lines as a gift recently. One of the lines is, "You must be wearing astronaut pants, because your body is out of this world."

I'm going to see what else I can do with my astronaut pants.

I do NOT collect salt & pepper shakers.

Left: Invasion of the Monster Women
Right: cute chef cats

My Three Proms

Brought to you by a gym full of crepe paper and balloons.

I went to three proms when I was in high school, my freshman, sophomore, and senior years. I attended the first two with boyfriends and the last with a buddy. One was fun, one was OK, and one sucked monkey butt.

Prom #1. Spring 1984.

A freshman, I had been dating D for most of the school year. Why? Three reasons: he was a senior, he asked me, and I felt a bit sorry for him. In case you're wondering, these are three supremely lousy reasons to date a boy, or to do anything else you're not sure you want to do. But I was young and foolish then, so we went steady, and my parents bit their tongues.

At the time, I was sure Mother and Father Media disapproved of D simply because he was a boy dating their daughter. In the next couple of years, however, I came to realize that D's being an angst tornado who liked to drive too fast on gravel roads had something to do with it, too. So-so grades and a lack of plans for the future also factored in, as did poor dental hygiene and a fondness for boot-cut polyester pants. Mom and Dad didn't truly dislike D; he was a good guy at heart, and I remember him fondly for that. He just wasn't very polished.

But a girl doesn't care about polish when her first boyfriend asks her to her first prom. I said yes. And so began the downhill slide.

I believe I've mentioned before that I am fashion-impaired. While as an adult I'm able to admit my handicap, as a 14-year-old planning for her first prom, I was not. Perhaps to subtly punish me for my choice of dates, or perhaps simply because I insisted on it, Mother Media let me choose my own dress. God has allowed me to forget exactly what it looked like, but I think it might have been pink, with a semi-western flavor. Lace may have been involved as well. Mom will remember, but I hope she doesn't whip out photos to taunt me with.

The dress might also have been a hoop skirt. That's right, a hoop skirt. I wore the hoop skirt either that year or the next. Please do not ask me why; I have no excuse. Perhaps I wore one in a school play and thought it was cool. It was certainly different, as we Midwesterners say when we mean godawful.

I do recall that it was uncomfortable and unwieldy. Any time I sat down, the hoop ponged out in front of me like a bell halfway through its ring, revealing infrastructure and undergarments. That was embarrassing, so I didn't sit down much, opting instead to stand around in uncomfortable shoes. I also had trouble getting into and out of my date's car and going through doorways. And forget dancing close; same problem, with the added drama of my skirt knocking into the couple behind me. PLUS I was the only girl at the prom, and probably in the entire time zone, wearing a hoop skirt, so people were looking at me funny all night. Oy! Let's not talk about it any more.

Let us also not speak of D's attire, which was right down at the bottom of the sartorial food chain. He didn't have the money for a tux, so he ended up begging, borrowing, or stealing a blue suit from somewhere. Polyester, naturally. I think it was western cut, which was good, because it went with his cowboy boots.

Then there was my hair. When I was 14, I had straight, honey-blonde locks down to my pert little tushy. A pain in said tushy on normal days, my hair was especially problematic on special occasions because both Mother Media and I felt obliged to make it, well, special. That meant altitude and curl. Design was up to me, but execution fell on Mom's shoulders. The coiffure process always took at least an hour, and it was not a happy hour. And no, getting it done at a salon was not an option. (A) There were no salons in Hometown, only two-seater beauty shops in ladies' basements and garages, and (B) such things just. weren't. done.

So the hair was a DIY affair. The sheer volume and weight of it meant copious pinning, and its slippery fineness made "hold" a challenge. No hairspray was strong enough. At that length, my hair was too heavy to curl springily, so it always looked lank and tired. I knew all these things going in and started the session with a bad attitude. Then, any time a bobby pin or a jet from the steam-powered curling iron irritated me, it was all Mom's fault, and the 'do never came out quite the way I had imagined it — also her fault. Fits were thrown, lip was given, tears were shed. Primping for Baby's First Prom is supposed to be a pale-pink mother/daughter bonding experience, but frankly, I'm surprised she still speaks to me. Sorry, Mom.

Anyway. The prom. We did not rent a limo, as I understand the young folk do nowadays. For one thing, there simply were no limos in town; the nearest was probably 60 miles away. For another, D had no money, so an outlay for wheels was out of the question. And my house was a block from the school, so it would have taken longer to load ourselves into it than to actually make the drive. D parked his muffler-dragging rust bucket at the gym and escorted me to the prom on foot.

We arrived in due time, if not in style, and lined up for the Grand March, a tradition all its own. I kid you not, the whole female half of town turns out for this. Grand March would be the social event of the season if the area had capital-S Society, or a social season.

All prom couples enter through an archway of balloons while their names are announced over the PA system and shlocky lite rock hums in the background: "Yolanda Smithers, escorted by Reginald Dingleberry." Each couple parades down the center of the basketball court — excuse me, the dance floor — so the people packed into the bleachers can get a good look at them. It's a free source of rumor fuel about who's seeing whom, who has dumped whom and, most importantly, who appears to be trying to hide a pregnancy beneath her gown.

At the end of the floor, each couple goes either left or right. They're directed by Miss K, algebra teacher, golf coach, and Official Grand March Choreographer, perched under the far basket on a grimy stool dragged out from the auto shop classroom. Pairs reverse course and head back up the floor along the baselines. Reaching the arch, the couple on the Home side links arms with the couple on the Visitor side, and the foursome proceeds down the court. Again, Miss K directs each unit left or right for the return journey. Quartets link up at the arch to form octets, which make their pass down the room and finally disperse near the refreshment tables. When the last wavering line crosses the free-throw line, the public departs to talk about the dresses and 'dos (and don'ts), and the prom commences.

Grand March sounds relatively simple, but Miss K leaves nothing to chance. Prom couples spend a few hours drilling on maneuvers during the week leading up to the big event. Some students are known to acquire a date, or claim to have acquired one, for the sole purpose of getting out of class to practice.

Grand March was pretty much the climax for me. D and I didn't dance much because his knees hurt, and his boots had bad traction anyway. We also didn't hang out with anyone else, since my friends didn't like D all that much and his didn't care for me. We drank some punch, ate some cookies, drank more punch, and . . . that was it. There was nothing else to do. We wandered the school's darkened hallways for a few minutes and ended up on the saggy couch in the student lounge, watching Saturday Night Live on a grainy black-and-white TV with bad reception.

Around midnight, we felt we'd put in enough time at the dance and set out to take advantage of the generous curfew my parents had set for this august occasion. I don't remember whether we went to the after-prom party or whether we thought it was too uncool. I don't think we went. I knew D wanted to find a beer bash somewhere, but I had forbidden drinking. So we drove around town and the outlying area for an hour or two, just as we did on every other Saturday night, looking to see who else was out driving around. Nobody was. They were all at the keggers, or crammed into poolside rooms at the Holiday Inn in the next town over, and there was no way I was going to a motel with a boy over night! D had me home by 2:00 a.m.

I was, needless to say, disappointed. The prom had not lived up to the hype. D, despite all my kisses, had not turned into a prince. And thus yet another prom cynic was born.

D was, last I heard, a highway patrolman or state trooper in a square western state. I believe the report also mentioned a wife and child(ren). (Source: www.smalltowngossip.mom.) As a boy, he was making his way the only way he knew how. I hope that he has found happiness now, and I wish him well.

Whew! That was tiring. Stay tuned for Prom #2 & #3 sometime soon.

Photos today? YES

Today around the world: July 27 is Cross-Atlantic Communication Day in the U.S. — and overseas, if we do it right.

DIY

Magnetic poetry sort of sticks with you.

I am a plant supervisor

Ivy isn't looking her best right now. But I relocated her to this larger pot over the weekend. Hope it helps.

Picture This

Brought to you by my dear, dear friends at Blogger.com, which hosts this blog.

Band Name of the Day just got a whole lot more obnoxious.

I know what you're thinking: How is that possible? Well, my friends, thanks to the miracles of modern technology, the Media Sensation has just learned to photoblog — to post both text and images direct from my picture phone to my web page. No saving, no downloading, just pure blogging satisfaction. It's absurdly simple and completely free. All you need is a picture phone and five minutes for setup (go.blogger.com), and shazaam! Pictures to supplement the usual thousand words.

Photo posts will be, of necessity, short and sweet. I will try to limit myself to a couple a week, although I'm sure I'll overdo it until the newness has worn off. Heck, I've already posted two or three quite a few today alone. Check 'em out! I haven't yet worked out whether I can send images to e-mail list subscribers; stay tuned for breaking news. If not, you'll just have to visit the home page occasionally to see what's shakin'.

I should warn the unwary that I am genetically predisposed to take prodigious quantities of photos. The only reason I haven't done so in the past is because I've been too lazy to figure out ways to display them, but Blogger has solved that problem for me. I should also warn you that the resolution on my picture phone is something like .3 megapixels — in other words, amateurishly low. If you want quality, talk to Sister-san, or send me donations for a higher-rez camera. PayPal preferred.

As thanks for your indulgence, I'm willing to take requests. Send me on a photo scavenger hunt. What would you like to see?

Today around the world: July 25 is Senor Editor's birthday. Feliz cumpleanos, Senor!

I LOVE photoblogging!

No!

I did not buy this for Senor Editor's birthday. He's too valued a friend.

Remember?

Hint: I saw this in San Antonio a couple weeks ago.

Weekend HQ: the hammock

I have created a monster!

I've just learned how to post both text and photos direct from my Treo to my blog. I am in geek heaven. Prepare to be spammed until the newness wears off.
Hey -- like my new favorite shirt?

HB, brother

In honor of Senor Editor's birthday, I bring you Backstroke of the West. Even if you aren't a Star Wars fan, you may find this worth a click: a series of screen shots from a bootleg of Revenge of the Sith, with subtitles that were translated first into Chinese and then back into English. Senor Editor is my buddy and former coworker Mike, who has been having a rough year so far. As a favor to me, please take 20 seconds out of your busy day and send a birthday greeting to islandwriter @ hotmail.com. Thanks.

sway to go

I've spent the better part of the afternoon and early evening in my hammock reading a book -- Bangkok Tattoo, sequel to Bangkok 8 -- attended by sleepy cats and the occasional monarch butterfly. Washed down the climax with mint chocolate chip ice cream. Life is GOOD.

Good Better Best

It's Friday, and I can't string together more than about five words in a row without getting distracted.

good: sale at the bookstore
better: finding something I want
best: finding a gift card in my purse for a further discount

good: employer supplies free cup-o-soup in the break room
better: Boss Lady brings Dilly Bars for Thursday afternoon break
best: Big Boss orders pizza for Friday lunch

good: kung fu movies
better: Jackie Chan movies
best: Rumble in the Bronx — Jackie Chan movie set (but obviously not filmed) in New York City, with Hong Kong's version of 90s-era Big Apple punks. And mountains.

good: Charlie Evett
better: Barry Carl
best: George Baldi

good: pepperoni
better: pineapple
best: pepperoni & pineapple pizza from Pat's Pizza in Orono, ME

good: Friday
better: Saturday
best: Sunday

good: taters
better: tater tots
best: tater tots with ranch dressing

good: Sarah Vowell
better: David Foster Wallace
best: Wil Wheaton

good: college
better: grad school
best: job with health insurance

good: reading a novel that mentions Haagen Daaz Macadamia Nut Brittle ice cream
better: finding that Mother Media has put the same flavor in my freezer
best: discovering that when she dished some up, she hid a scoop of Godiva Double Chocolate in the bottom of the bowl, too. Thanks, Mom!

good: Owen Wilson
better: Owen Wilson with Ben Stiller
best: Zoolander and Starsky & Hutch on DVD — cheap

good: age 16: license to drive
better: age 21: license to drink
best: age 36: poetic license

good: Star Trek
better: science fiction conventions
best: drunken Klingons playing Dance Dance Revolution

good: playing the flute
better: playing the oboe
best: buying orchestra tickets

good: CNN
better: BBC
best: DVD

good: common ground
better: common courtesy
best: common sense

good: Robin Williams
better: George Carlin
best: Eddie Izzard

good: Latin 101
better: ig-pay atin-Lay
best: Latin lover

good: Dracula
better: Interview With the Vampire
best: Buffy the Vampire Slayer fanfic

good: Big Red
better: Juicy Fruit
best: Doublemint

good: Futura
better: Bodoni
best: Times New Roman

good: horse sense
better: horseplay
best: hors d'oeuvres

good: sideburns
better: sequins
best: Elvis

good: mental note
better: bread-and-butter note
best: Post-It note

good: driving Dad's car
better: driving my own car
best: driving my paid-for car

good: garage sale
better: flea market
best: eBay

good: lawn chair
better: chaise lounge
best: hammock

good: Oscar the Grouch
better: the Count
best: Cookie Monster

good: knowing when to hold 'em
better: knowing when to fold 'em
best: knowing when to walk away and knowing when to run

good: limerick
better: sonnet
best: haiku

good: brown M&Ms
better: green M&Ms
best: blue M&Ms

When I Am Queen

When I am Queen, there are going to be a few changes around here. Under the Media Monarch:

• Our royal niece is officially the Cutest Niece Ever. Nieces of competitive cuteness will be given unattractive haircuts and dressed in clashing plaids.

  
  

• "I'm reading" is a valid excuse for missing any event, meeting, appointment, or chore.

  
  

• All TV commercials must be personally approved by Her Majesty.

  
  

• Her Majesty is reading.

  
  

• National anthem: "Shout!"

  
  

• National stain remover: Shout.

  
  

• Teachers and pro athletes get equal pay.

  
  

• We're with our royal colleague the King of Spain: make Friday part of the weekend and give every new baby a chocolate éclair.

  
  

• Jeans and T-shirts are acceptable business attire. Visible thong underwear is not.

  
  

• Cigarettes, which only Her Majesty's Government may sell, cost $250 a pack. Smoking is legal in locations not upwind of anywhere else on the globe.

  
  

• Secretary of Defense: Jackie Chan.

  
  

• Court Musicians: Rockapella.

  
  

• Court Jester: Eddie Izzard.

  
  

• Court TV: No.

  
  

• Royal Pain in the Ass: Rush Limbaugh.

  
  

• Her Majesty is rubber and you are glue. Whatever you say bounces off Her Majesty and sticks to you.

  
  

• No one graduates without knowing how to use the apostrophe. No one!

  
  

• Wherever there's free coffee, there's also free Coke.

  
  

• Public restrooms will be designed using common sense.

  
  

• Mandatory ice cream (or comparable lactose-free frozen dessert) at all staff meetings.

  
  

• Out: bald eagle. In: fluffy kitten.

  
  

• Political speeches that can't be made in limerick form in less than five minutes don't get made at all.

  
  

• National pastime: Blogging, not baseball.

Welcome to my world.

Junk Drawer

Brought to you by every thought that flows through my mind. I'm cleaning out my mental junk drawer today. Take 'em as they come.

Item: Scotty died. Beamed up for the last time. I'm sad, but he lived well and he died well. I guess that's all right.

Item: One of my blogfriends is being harassed at work. Not sexually harassed, but bullied by her boss. That is not all right! When are people going learn that acting like a tired toddler with diaper rash is not acceptable in the workplace? Tommy Boy, I'm talkin' to you. My blogfriend lives in Europe, so there's not much I can do to help except offer moral support. Send a few anti-knucklehead thoughts her way, won't you?

Item: It was so! frelling! humid! at Sensational Acres this morning that the cat litter was clumping on its own. I had to step into the shower just to dry off. When I closed the windows to contain the air conditioning, feline despot Warren Peace got so mad at being cut off from the scents of the great outdoors that he peed on the carpet. &^%$@*%! I'm changing his name to Warren Pees.

Item: My left earlobe is pierced straight on, but the hole in the right lobe is at about a 45-degree angle. So the earring on the left faces primly forward, but the earring on the right is always looking out the window.

Item: I'm wearing my green wrap skirt today, the one that's lined in front but not in back. Don't worry, Mom — I wore better underwear this time.

Today around the world: July 20 is Crown Prince Haakon's birthday in Norway. One of my coworkers is going to spend two weeks in Norway on vacation. I hope she sends us some video postcards.

Make It a Double

Brought to you by my friend Tim -- so you know who to blame.

Ready?

A woman walked into a bar and asked the bartender for a double entendre.

So he gave it to her.

Monsoon Wedding Crashers

Brought to you by the movies.

Yesterday afternoon, I decided to beat the heat by seeing The Wedding Crashers at a local megamultiuberplex. It was a learning experience.

First of all, do not make the mistake, as I did, of assuming that movies screened before 7:00 p.m. are matinees. Maybe they used to be, but not any more, no ma'am. When the guy at the ticket counter charged me full price for a 5:00 movie, we got into a little debate about it. I lost. The theater has a new policy: anything after 4:00 is no longer a matinee, it's a full-price show. That means $8.50 b.p. (before popcorn). BOO!! HISS!!

This theater, which I formerly liked a little despite its megatrocity, has also begun force-feeding the captive audience TV commercials before the previews. (I realize that this has been going on for quite a while — since ET if you count the advent of product placement — but I've just gotten around to crabbing about it now. Sorry to keep you waiting.) I don't know about you, but I go to the movies to get away from TV. Movies are supposed to be different, and better, than TV, not simply larger and louder. Yes, I know Americans have a hard time with that concept. Deal.

New Media Sensation policy: even more Netflix, even fewer trips to the theater. I make better popcorn anyway. Try it with melted peanut butter.

[Aside: While I waited for my movie to start, I strayed into a nearby bookstore, where I found the latest Harry Potter hardcover on sale for 40% off. That meant I could have snagged it for $18. But I didn't. I've read enough reviews to guess what the Big Surprise is and tripped over a few spoilers that confirm my theory, so I'm in no hurry. Can't decide whether to buy the hardcover used in a month or two or just wait for the paperback. But I will get it eventually. I'm a little OCD about finishing a series once I've started.]

OK, where was I? Ah yes, The Wedding Crashers. It's a romantic comedy about John and Jeremy (Owen Wilson [insert heart symbol, twice] and Vince Vaughn [insert heart symbol & banjo sexy symbol]), who crash weddings to pick up chicks. Sounds corny, but somehow it works very well: they're looking for love at a celebration of love, but settling for mere lust until Cupid strolls by. It's a major hoot with plenty of sap-o-rama redemption at the end. I recommend it.

Wilson plays the same laconic hottie he always plays, although he takes a stab at grown-up seriousness toward the end. Hey, whatever gets him more screen time. Vaughn, as the beleaguered foil, completely steals the show. I will probably never tire of looking at Wilson, but I watch Vaughn. Unlike with most large actors, who make their size their trademark and hit "coast," you don't notice how big Vaughn is — 6'5" and beefy — until you see him in a scene alongside other people. You're too busy noticing how he's reacting, how he's feeling, how pouchy his eyes are and why that's just right. That's because he's acting. Hear that, Tom Cruise? Acting.

Vince was born in Minneapolis, by the way. I think that's a sign our paths are destined to cross.

Which brings me, naturally, to the weather.

When I emerged from the theater, I stepped out into a monsoon. Torrential rain, angry winds. I was soaked by the time I crossed the sidewalk, let alone the parking lot — but only on the front. Since I was walking into the wind, my back half stayed as dry as if I'd remained inside. No complaints. We needed the rain.

Leaving a wedding movie in a monsoon reminded me of a wedding movie with its own monsoon. Monsoon Wedding is an Indian film about an arranged marriage, a bride with a secret, wild & crazy relatives, and a subplot that will stay with you longer than the main story. The cinematography is gorgeous, the acting moving, and the music exuberant. The good guys win in the end, as in The Wedding Crashers, but you're rooting for them more strongly here. The director's comments on the DVD are enlightening rather than in-jokey. Again, two thumbs up.

As a contrast, I offer this review of Kicking and Screaming, which I saw Saturday: I went to the $2 theater and almost got my money's worth. It's a disappointing turn from Will Ferrell (who, incidently, appears briefly in The Wedding Crashers, too. And stars in Bewitched. Will's been busy this year.) Still banjo sexy by a slim margin.

Seen any good movies lately?

Today around the world: July 18 is Constitution Day in Uruguay.

nerdiest

nerdy: I used to get busted in grade school for leafing through the dictionary for fun.

nerdier: The FBO supply sergeant just handed out new dictionaries to all the writers. Woo! I'm more excited about this than about the monthly birthday celebration — and that includes cake.

nerdiest: I get to take the old dictionary home. WOO! Mine's bigger than yours!!

The Unofficial Officials

Brought to you by force of habit.

Some time ago, one of the local papers, in its community/write-in section, had a discussion going about "unofficial officials" — that is, having a parking space (or whatever) that might as well be officially yours since you use it so often, but it's not officially marked. You know it's an unofficial official if you get annoyed when someone else uses your _____, even though it's not really yours.

When I started looking around, I realized that I have several unofficial officials. Some have arisen from habit, others from necessity. At my old job, for instance, I always parked my car in about the same place in the large, crowded lot and got grumpy if I arrived at the wrong time and my favorite spots were already filled. I formed this habit mostly so I wouldn't forget where I'd parked, but eventually it became a public service as well: my friends could tell with a glance at "my" spot whether I was at work yet, and it threw all of us off when I parked somewhere else.

Now that I drive to the train station each morning, I have a new unofficial official parking space: three slots from the crosswalk, right by the tree. I usually don't have to worry about finding it occupied, as the other half-dozen drivers routinely there before me have staked their claims elsewhere. Little red pickup: on the end. Blue sedan: beside the light pole. Brown car: mid-row facing north. Some fly-by-night aced out Red Pickup a few days ago, bumping him down into my territory, and it was just wrong. The cars themselves were unsettled. I could feel it.

I have an unofficial official seat on the train, too: just inside the doors, facing rear, with plenty of legroom. I only vacate it if a wheelchair user needs the space. Similar routine applies on the bus.

And it doesn't stop there, oh no. I have an unofficial official parking space in every public bathroom I frequent, too. Of course, it's not as simple as always going to door #3; my preference depends on where I am. I've even noticed, now that I've attended CONvergence at the same hotel a few years in a row, that I have unofficial official stalls in the bathrooms there. And in the truck stops where I gas up the Subarushi when I roadtrip to Mother Media's house. Any psych majors out there need thesis material?

When I drive my car to the T'ai Chi studio, I always park it in the same place. When we're waiting in the hallway for the studio to open, I always sit and stretch in the same place. In the dressing room, I have an unofficial official dumping spot for my bag, which my classmates will leave open even if the room is crowded — because they've all gone to "their" spots. Inside the studio, the space beneath the clock is unofficially officially mine; I know because people will look there first if they want to find me.

All through grade school and high school, I bridled at the constraint of assigned seating — yet when I finally got to college, I quickly assigned myself seat in each class, as did almost everyone else. Same in the cafeteria. Same in the lounge. Same at the local watering holes (or so I'm told, because I of course did not enter such establishments). Colleagues sit in the same chairs meeting after meeting. Friends choose the same theater seats movie after movie. When the usual suspects get together at Partner-san's house, everyone, including the dog, has a designated seat.

Free to choose, we choose to limit ourselves. Faced with variety, we opt for sameness. Give us the open road and we'll groove it with ruts.

Welcome to the Land of Opportunity.

Today around the world: July 15 is the Sultan's Birthday in Brunei Darussalam.

What Say You

Brought to you by . . . you. Occasionally — very occasionally — people take a minute to answer questions I've posed. I appreciate it more than you think, so don't be shy. Anyway, I thought you might like to see what's been said in response to a couple recent posts.

1. Good Deed Dare (6/14/05). I asked readers to commit a random act of kindness and tell me about it anonymously.

• bought a bike for a little boy whose father had just died

  
  

• "When you see a couple taking turns getting their picture in front of a landmark...offer to take the picture for them, so that they may both be in it. That always puts a smile on people's faces."

  
  

• brought homemade cinnamon rolls to neighbors on their first Christmas morning after a death in the family

  
  

• "I paid the toll for the person behind me on the toll road."
  

I sincerely hope these are not the only good deeds done, only those that were mentioned. Please continue this project on your own, whether you tell me about it or not.

2. Who's On First? (6/17/05). What's okay to post in a blog or online journal and what's not? What happens if you cross the line?

• The rules seem pretty simple to me.
  1. don't giveaway company secrets
  2. don't blog on company time unless you are being paid to do it.
  3. don't post pictures, or audio, or anything like this that will cause undue media attention.
  
  I'm not really sure about #3 but the people who have been dooced did something along these lines. There is also a big if in here. If your company environment does not seem to like change or new things it may be a lost cause. (David)

  
  

• Along with the first amendment comes responsibility. Most Americans fail to realize this and use our Constitution to rationalize their irresponsible behavior.
  
  Otherwise, it's a great amendment. (Muzikdude)

  
  

• I learned this lesson the hard way: no matter how anonymous you THINK your blog is, it can be discovered in any number of ways. And if it is, better be sure that you're willing to live with the consequences of what you write. I'm an HR professional, and sadly, bloggers don't have a whole lot of protection when it comes to writing negative stuff about their company. (Fortunately, blogging is still a relatively new phenomenon, and not a lot of higher-ups are aware of it.) I wrote some unkind things about relatives on my blog, and thought that it would never be seen by the subjects. Wrong. (Rugger Jay)
  

Cool, right? So let me hear from you again. Tell me one thing I'd never guess just from looking at you. (Here's one to get you started: I wasn't born in this country.)

Today around the world: July 14 is Bastille Day. Le huzzah!

ICE

Brought to you by the bandwagon, onto which I will happily leap when it suits me, especially if it continues the telephone theme from yesterday. Here's a BND PSA.

ICE stands for In Case of Emergency. There's a movement afoot in the U.K. to have people record emergency contact information in their cell phones and PDAs in an entry named ICE. That way, if an accident befalls you, an emergency aid worker who finds your phone might be able to figure out who to call.

Granted, this is not a foolproof system. Not every EMT is going to look into your phone, or have time to. There's no guarantee they'll be able to figure out your device, which may be different from others. A phone or PDA may be lost or destroyed in the accident. But it would do no harm to enter the info, and it might even help.

The article I read, on Snopes.com, suggests creating entries named ICE1, ICE2, etc., if you have more than one emergency contact. You could also create a memo file called Emergency Contact Information if your device has such a function. And continue to take other precautions, such as carrying the contacts (and other important medical information) in printed form along with your identification.

Spread the word. Be cool, ICE your phone this summer. Just don't enter your info while driving, or that "can't happen to me" accident may actually happen to you.

Today around the world: July 12 is Battle of the Boyne Day in Ireland.

Your Call

Brought to you by phone.

Editor's note: Congrats to Chef Jeff on his new gig! WOO!

And now back to our regularly scheduled rambling.

We Midwesterners are an individualistic lot, not necessarily known for our willingness to reach out and touch someone. Stagecoach mail and the Pony Express were plenty good enough for denizens of the Great Plains for quite a while. Now, even though telephone poles outnumber prairie dogs out here in Flyover Land, we still don't talk to one another all that much (although cell phones are changing that habit a bit).

Anyway, we could use a little help using this new-fangled thing called the telephone. To aid the cause, I have drawn upon my vast experience in the field to offer this Midwesterners' Primer on Phone Usage.

1. Know your time zones. If you're in Mountain Daylight Time calling Central Daylight Time, add an hour. For example, although it's 9:00 p.m. at your house in MDT, a reasonable hour for adults to be awake, it's 10:00 p.m. in CDT, at which time adults who have to get up at 6:00 a.m. are thinking about going to bed, so don't be surprised if they sound a little tired.

   
   Conversely, if I get home from work at 5:45 CDT and call you in MDT, expect me to sound puzzled that you're not home. Never mind that it's only 4:45 for you and you probably haven't even left the office yet; if I'm home, everybody should be home, right?

   
   If you're in Phoenix or calling Phoenix, which declines to participate in Daylight Savings Time, forget trying to figure out which time they're using at the moment and just call.

   
   

2. Think happy thoughts. It's tough for Midwesterners to repeat good news; doing so sounds too much like tooting one's own horn, or at least jinxing good fortune. Still, try to leaven the misery. Challenge yourself to relate at least one tidbit that doesn't revolve around the disease or death of any friends, family, crops, livestock, or four-wheel drive vehicles.

   
   

3. Finish the story. I know you save up a ton of news for each call and want to blurt it all out at once, but please try to tell stories one at a time. If you get off on a tangent, return to finish the original thought. Otherwise, how is your listener to know how many trailers the latest hailstorm destroyed?

   
   

4. Have mercy. Portable handsets and cell phones are great, yes, but if you're going to carry yours into the outhouse bathroom, I don't want to hear it and I don't want to hear about it.

   
   

5. Reconnect. If you get a bad connection, perhaps because you're already 50 miles outside the range of the nearest satellite cell out there on the prairie, it's okay to hang up and try again, either from a land line or when you're back in your service area. Conversations consisting entirely of "Can you hear me now?" are only funny on TV.

   
   

6. Pass with care. If you're passing your phone to someone else, warn the person on the other end and tell him whom he's getting. Not every bit of news is appropriate for every ear, you know? (I.e. infected navel piercing/Aunt Mabel. Unless it's her navel, in which case she'll tell you every last gory detail. Shut up, you know she will.)

   
   

7. Limit good-byes to three or fewer. Once we flatlanders have taken the huge step of picking up the phone, we're reluctant to put it down. It's common knowledge that in Middle American English, "good-bye" actually means, "and another thing." However, for those who have been sipping coffee (or whatever) throughout the conversation, the second good-bye acts as a Pavlovian trigger to the bladder. By the time someone starts to insist that she has to go, you can assume that she has to go. Let her.

   
   

8. Turn it off. It's hard to give up that feeling of connectedness once you've achieved it, I know, but there are times when you really do have to turn your phone off or at least ignore its ring. Any time you're talking to someone in person is one of those times. Any time you're on wheels is another. Seriously.

With just a little practice, you too can become a Phone Champ! So polish up your skills: call your mother.

And by the way, I don't have to. Mother Media is at Sensational Acres at the moment, about to board the train and meet me downtown for an urban shopping/dining experience. She anchored the Acres for me during my recent business trip to Texas, in addition to being pretty much the coolest mom ever, so I owe her a night on the town. And then some.

Today around the world: July 11 is Flemish Community Holiday in Belgium.

small call

Sitting, waiting, in San Antonio International. A guy pulls a compact cell phone from his pocket. I think, "I've chewed wads of gum bigger than that. I've hawked loogies bigger than that."

Why the slimy/oral imagery? Couldn't tell ya.

Soylent Theater

CONvergence 2005, Episode IV

One of the high points of every sci-fi con is the Masquerade. This popular event has evolved from a mere fashion show into a costume/skit/performance art competition, complete with soundtracks, dialogue, props, and special effects. Contestants are judged on presentation as well as on appearance and workmanship, with separate categories for kids, novice entries, and seasoned competitors.

Now, I?m picky when it comes to theater, even amateur theater, so I always take the precaution of visiting the bar before the Masquerade. A Bass Ale or two makes me a much more appreciative audience member: more patient with the delays between entrants, the inevitable technical difficulties, and the occasional overly long or simply incomprehensible performance. A Bass or two keeps me from bellowing the following at the top of my lungs:

1. If you're going to present a comedy sketch, be funny! Seems like a no-brainer, but you'd be surprised how many people overlook that key ingredient.
   
2. If your theme song is "Kung Fu Fighting" and your skit involves kung fu fighting, learn some frickin' kung fu fighting already! Don't fake it. We can tell when you don't know how to hold your weapon or throw a punch. Don't make us laugh at you for the wrong reason.
   
3. Limit the cute kid moments to 30 seconds or less. That's long enough for us to appreciate how cute the kid is and how hard you worked on the costume, but not so long that the poor child runs out of choreography and just stands there like a deer in the headlights until the music fades out.
   
4. If the reading of the credits for your entry takes longer than the actual staging of it, you're trying too hard.
   

With that off my chest, here are a few of my favorite moments from this year's Masquerade:

• Star Wars meets Monty Python. Must be seen to be believed.

  
  

• Dash from the animated feature film The Incredibles. Dash is a kid whose superhero power is the ability to run lightning fast. A little boy about five years old comes out on stage in an excellent Dash costume, poses for a second, then exits stage left. A moment later, he, or rather his twin brother, reappears at stage right, poses for a second, then exits. Reappears stage left, etc., a couple more times. Dash obeyed the 30-second rule, and the audience roared the entire time.

  
  

• Dolphins of Damnation. There was a talky skit about I forget what, but it included the phrase "dolphins of damnation." That would make a darn fine name for a band, don't you think?

  
  

• LOTR elf Legolas, complete with bow. Nice wig, but needs more Orlando.

  
  

• Superhero Helpline. In this story, a superhero's sidekick has been captured and is tied to a chair awaiting doom. He chair-hops over to a phone and, using his nose, dials the Superhero Helpline. He must then navigate a typical maddening voice menu, including an option to continue in Spanish and "If you're drugged and unconscious, press 2."

  
  

• Shaun of the Dead. A deadpan British zombie-themed dance number, complete with visual references to Michael Jackson's "Thriller" and a special appearance by claymation Brits Wallace & Grommit and Shaun the Sheep. (Sadly, however, no "Zombie Jamboree.")

  
  

• Writer's Block. A frustrated writer tosses a crumpled page over his shoulder and exits. Then, from a darkened corner of the stage, arises an enormous crumpled paper monster. Trust me, writers do worry about this sort of thing.

  
  

• Stagehands. The guys clearing the stage between skits got more applause than some of the actual performers ? in some cases, because their acting was much better.

  
  

• The Great Luke Ski. While not a contestant, the Great Luke Ski did make a guest appearance to perform his song "Jedi Knights" from his Star Wars parody medley "Grease Wars." Luke Ski, a regular on the Dr. Demento radio show, is the Weird Al of sci-fi. "Jedi Knights" is sung to the tune of "Summer Days," or whatever that song is ? the "tell me more, tell me more" number. It's pretty funny, although Ski is a much better rapper than singer. I caught his whole show in Connie's Space Lounge later Saturday night and quite enjoyed it. He even worked in a short vocal percussion break ? just long enough to make me pine for Jeff Thacher.

  
  

• Soylent Theater. The Soylent Theater troupe has been providing entr'acte entertainment at CONvergence for the past seven years. They've had moments of X-treme lameness in the past, but this year they were pretty damn good, and I'm not just talking through my Bass. They were well rehearsed, topical, funny, and easy to hear. What with Star Wars being all the rage this summer, their piece for the opening ceremonies was "The Sith Wing," a Star Wars take on the TV show "The West Wing." Their half-time presentation for the Masquerade revolved around Anakin Skywalker training to be not a Jedi Knight but a stand-up comic, wielding a rubber chicken instead of a light saber. Funny stuff. Soylent Theater: It's made from people!

As much as I enjoyed the Masquerade this year, I did not stick around after Soylent Theater's bit to learn the results. I was famished and had to head to the House of Toast for a slice of whole-wheat with Spaghetti-Os and a side of sushi. I'll check the con web site sometime soon (now that the organizers have had a chance to sleep it off) and let you know.

Today around the world: July 8 is Gay Pride Day in the Netherlands.

'N Cyst

Hello? When did spewing forth your entire medical history become an acceptable way of introducing yourself? I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT YOUR DAMN CYST, LADY!!

Kimonos & Combat Boots

CONvergence 2005, Episode III

Some people never outgrow their love of playing dress-up. They're the ones who make cons so much fun for the squares like me. Heck, I looked so conservative in my plain T-shirt and jeans that a couple different hotel employees started explaining the oddballs to me until I flashed my con badge to prove that I was one of them. I saw, in no particular order:

• T-shirts showing affinity for clubs, TV shows, movies, role-playing games, comics, computer code, and general smartassery
  
• numerous Star Wars storm troopers
  
• numerous wizards of varying ages and elaborateness
  
• numerous Jedi knights of varying ages and elaborateness
  
• a handful of little girls in their dance recital costumes ? because hey, it's a costume! Rock on!
  
• a full-on Swamp Thing, possibly the most impressive get-up of all
  
• tons of Renaissance festival garb, with face paint or fairy wings added to drag it into the realm of fantasy
  
• Klingons, Klingons, Klingons: Klingons in full battle dress, Klingons in ceremonial dress, Klingons in vacation wear, but no Klingon Elvis impersonator this year. (And let me just take an editorial moment to say that suburban Klingons can't fight worth crap!! The annual batleth tournament is a joke, man. Somebody get these yobos some fighting skills, stat.)
  
• assorted Starfleet officers
  
• several brave souls dressed in little more than their tattoos
  
• a coven of Goth kids
  
• a convincingly tall Hagrid, complete with umbrella
  
• a few samurai, apparently crossing over from anime
  
• at least one pirate dandy
  
• a classic, campy Batman, complete with middle-age paunch
  
• an obese, transsexual, alternate-universe Uhura
  
• a mowhawked young man in a kimono and combat boots
  
• dozens of ladies in skirts and corsets, some with glowsticks tucked in their ample cleavage
  
• belly dancers. Can't have a con without belly dancers.
  
• Santa Claus. Some guy walked around half the weekend in a beautifully rendered Santa suit. I guess that falls into the fantasy category?
  
• a couple guys in leather harnesses and buttless chaps. Again, fantasy. Please don't show me your sword.

For all their creativity, none of the above entered the Masquerade, or costume contest, with the exception of Santa Claus. They just dressed up for kicks and giggles, and I thank them for it.

Today around the world: July 7 is the Running of the Bulls in Spain. Bad place to wear your "GORE" campaign button, eh?

Box of Barbies

CONvergence 2005, Episode II

The dealers' room at a sci-fi con looks like a dozen geek basements exploded simultaneously, spewing their contents into a badly ventilated hotel ballroom. I'm assuming it's a hotel employee who apportions the space, unprepared for the prodigious butts and frontbutts that will be negotiating the aisles. Still, you can't beat geeks for creative merchandising. The dealers' room is always one of my first stops; you never know when you're going to find that rare, decades-out-of-print "City on the Edge of Forever" photonovel for a steal.

The dealers' room at CONvergence is typically more fantasy- than sci-fi-oriented, which is fine with me, but this year, sadly, the knife and sword sellers outnumbered the used booksellers three to two. There were plenty of your standard pewter wizard/dragon/prism figurines, some papier mache masks I?m pretty sure I recognize from the Renaissance festival, cloaks in leather and velvet, and a corsetier whose wares start at size XL. You can also purchase soft-sculpture dragons with bendy tails so you can perch them on your shoulder. And there's plenty of handmade jewelry ? silver, glasswork, beading ? that's neither science fictional nor fantastical, but still very pretty.

On the sci-fi end of things, you can shop for used books, videos, comics and graphic novels, action figures, ship models, autographed photos, lunch boxes, and golden throat albums by William Shatner. On the just plain geeky front, you'll always see several tables selling T-shirts, buttons, and bumper stickers sporting clever sayings. I've never before seen so many variations on the Jesus fish car ornament.

My favorite of this year's dealers was a manic woman whose stock consisted of several boxes of used, nude, not particularly clean Barbie dolls and tray upon tray of tiny clothes and accessories for dressing them. ??? Yeah, I didn't get it, either, so I went over and asked the nice lady how Barbies tie in with sci-fi and/or fantasy. Ask a silly question . . .

Delighted to be interviewed, the dealer introduced me to her signature creation, the Drag Queen Amidala. The Drag Queen Amidala is a hapless G.I. Joe cross-dressed in a handmade outfit and hand-sculpted headpiece/hairpiece to look like Anakin/Darth Vader's unfortunate girlfriend. Just in case you find the clothes and hair too convincing, though, the dealer has spent several hours blending acrylic paint to just the shade and consistency to daub some beard stubble on the figure's face. She had tried using eyeliner and eyebrow pencil, she said, but they smeared too easily.

Clearly quite a lot of thought and effort went into the Drag Queen Amidala. It was this woman's pride and joy. When I asked permission to photograph the doll, she actually blushed with pride, then tripped over herself to dig out a display stand to prop up Amidala for a close-up. By the time she was done primping and posing and arranging the background for the portrait, I was starting to feel guilty about taking up so much of her time. But there wasn't a huge crowd clamoring for Barbies, so I guess it was OK.

Today around the world: July 6 is the Anniversary of the Coronation of King Mindaugas in Lithuania.

Wherefore Art Thou

CONvergence 2005, Episode I. I spent half of the holiday weekend at CONvergence, a rather large science fiction/fantasy convention. Although I didn't go to any of the panel discussions, I did spend a lot of time walking around looking at things. Over the next few blog-days, I'll share some highlights.

Sci-fi/fantasy is the genre for people interested in exploring strange new worlds, so no con would be complete without an art (and craft) show — the drawer's/painter's/sculptor's/weaver's version of fanfic. Not being a visual artist myself, I don't feel qualified to comment much on the quality, but I can tell you that entries ran the gamut from impressive pro-quality work to "I've suffered for my art and now it's your turn." I saw, in no particular order:

• the usual smeary pastel faeries and dragons
  
• graphic art/comic book panels that were not only well drawn, but actually funny
  
• stunning pencil sketches of Lord of the Rings characters
  
• weavings depicting irrational transcendental numbers in color/graphic code form, according to the accompanying artist's note; I'll take her word for it
  
• faux dinosaur fossils
  
• mosaics composed of hundreds of tiny coils of colored paper lying on their sides, an art form called quilling (artists used to curl the paper strips around a feather quill)
  
• numerous big-breasted elves: pencil, ink, computer-assisted, woodblock, batik, quilling . . . OK, I get it! You like pointed ears and perky boobs! MOVE ON ALREADY!
  
• plump, round-eyed polymer clay wizard sculptures
  
• fanciful bronzes with moving parts; just turn the crank
  
• handknit scarves in Hogwarts house colors
  
• velvet wizard hats
  
• snakes made of chain mail. (Not chain letters, tiny metal rings hooked together like a chain link fence. You know, like armor.)
  
• leather- and metalwork pieces of a Klingon ambassador costume
  
• awful little stuffed kitties with greasy-looking wings
  
• R-rated woodblock prints — all naked women, of course
  
• anime wannabe illustrations
  
• oil paintings of otherworldly landscapes
  
• printouts of line drawings created on an electronic Etch-A-Sketch
  

The work is up for bids during the first two days of the con, with starting bid prices ranging from $5 to $1,500. The art show culminates in an auction on Saturday night. In addition to bidding on the art, viewers can vote on favorites in various categories. I've never attended the auction, since it starts before the Masquerade is over. There was nothing at this year's show I felt a need to bring into my home, but there was enough good stuff to draw me back next year.

Today around the world: July 5 is Tynwald Day on the Isle of Man.

BND poll

A friend has moved away but makes it back to town once or twice a year. A few weeks before one such visit, he invites you (via e-mail) to drop by his hotel for a drink and a chat on a certain evening. It's a weeknight. For you, this means a 20-minute drive each way, plus drink/chat time.

What do you do?

(A) Mark your calendar and show up on the appointed day.

(B) Reply that you can't make it, but call him instead.

(C) RSVP that you'll probably come, but then not show.

(D) Not respond at all.

Caravan Click

It's Fiction Friday!

I rarely write fiction, due primarily to the severe lack of plots rolling around in my brain. However, I have it on good authority that this should not be a problem. So what the heck, here's some fiction. And by fiction, I mean things that are not true and did not happen to me, no matter how much they seem to resemble actual events in my life.

---

As the late afternoon sun inched beyond the skylight, enough chill permeated the apartment that I reluctantly turned on the heat. I'd become necessarily tight with a buck over the past year, but I hate cold even more than high gas bills. Julie and Matt, who rent me the Fonz-style loft over their garage, had done an excellent job of insulating the place, but March in Minneapolis is still winter as far as the thermometer is concerned.

As the light waned, so did my enthusiasm for work. I had been diligently plunking out yet another article on the subject of weight control, which I could have summarized, like all the others, in four words: Eat less, exercise more. The fitness stories kept the wolf from the door — though not far — while I waited to hear from my agent. After months without an encouraging word about my Great American Novel, I was seriously considering looking for full-time work again. My savings were running low, self-employment taxes were running high, and the unpredictable nature of freelancing was a serious bother to my plan-ahead nature.

Going out on my own had seemed like a good idea at the time. I had gotten a decent chunk of change from the sale of the house when Paul and I split, which combined with the prospect of magazine work had been just enough to push me out of my cubicle and into the glorious life of the freelance writer. I was in serious starting over mode anyway, so why not? This would be the perfect opportunity to stop stagnating at my office job and make serious headway on the novel.

It went well for a while. My friends rented me the bachelorette pad for less than they should have, and I poured heart and soul into my writing and my studies. I had finished the book, scraped up an agent (with the help of other friends), and sent my baby off to be published within the first six months. Then I sat back to wait.

My patience, and therefore my vacation, lasted a week. Then I took another good look at my financial situation and started calling all my friends in the publishing industry.

I got work, enough to slow the drain on my savings account, but not enough to truly make a living. And it was not the stimulating, challenging, reputation-making work I had imagined for myself; it was "eat less, exercise more." I had started another fiction project, a sequel to the first, but my heart wasn't in it. I was spending more time online reading other writers' blogs than producing anything of my own. The more time passed without word of my first book's sale, the clearer my realization that playtime was nearly over. I'd had my shot, and it would soon be time to rejoin the real world.

I was knee-deep in cynical resignation when the phone rang.

"Don!" I exclaimed, recognizing my caller's voice. Don Preston was as unlikely a friend as I was likely to have. We'd met while both working for a home-improvement magazine. Don was a carpenter by day and church choir director by night, while I knew nothing of tools (I'd been the copyeditor) and enough of churches to know I didn't want any. He was a devoted dad, I child-free by choice. He listened to 70s rock and roll, I preferred a cappella. A shared sense of humor, however, was enough to draw us together.

After the small talk and publishing community gossip, he got down to the reason for his call. He had an opportunity for me.

"I thought of you immediately, Kielle, even though you're going to say, 'That is so not me' as soon as I tell you what it is. And it's by no means a sure thing; you'd have to interview for it and all that. But I think you're the right person for the job."

"Well, don't keep me in suspense, then. What is it?"

"Have you heard of the Williams Praise Caravan?" he asked.

I had. The Williams Praise Caravan was a company of contemporary Christian musicians that toured the country playing to huge stadia packed with the faithful. I'd even been to a couple Caravan shows with some friends of my parents whom I was fond of despite distinct differences in our religious views. Alarm bells went off in the back of my head.

"Yes," I said slowly, wondering what was coming.

"Well, Bill — Bill Williams, who owns the Caravan — wants to update its image. He wants someone to ride along with the tour and document the shows and keep the website up to date. Sort of half embedded journalist, half roadie. And I think you'd be great at it."

"You're right, Don, that is so not me," I laughed. "That's just about the last concert tour I would ever choose to go on. And isn't tour blogging passé already?"

"Bill Williams doesn't think so. Besides," Don added nonchalantly, "I already told him about you, and he wants to meet you."

"Dude!" I spluttered. "You what?"

"I sent him some of your clips and pointed him to your blog. He's impressed with your writing. And with the fact that you could be available on short notice."

"First of all, how do you know Bill Williams? And second, I don’t' know whether to thank you or kick your ass."

I could hear Don smiling, though he had the courtesy not to laugh. "We were in music ed together in college, and we've kept in touch. And I really hope this works out well, because I don't think I could survive an ass-kicking from you."

Trying to sound stern, I said, "You're right, you couldn't." I sighed. "How short is short notice?"

"Short. He wants somebody on the bus two weeks from now."

Short indeed. I was silent for a minute, doing my best not to feel any excitement at the prospect of going on tour with a popular musical act and getting paid to be a professional blogger. This gig would get me way out of my rut.

"Oh, gee, look at the time," said Don. "I'd better get off your phone."

His innocent haste made me suspicious. "Why the hurry?"

"I sort of told Bill you'd call him at 5:00."

"It's only 10 minutes till four."

"He's in the Eastern Time zone today. An hour ahead."

"You bastard, Don."

"You're welcome."

* * *

I called Williams as promised, telling myself that it would make Don look bad if I didn't. I'd had barely enough time to look up the Praise Caravan website and skim the highlights. One thing was for sure, the site did need updating. The page design was straight out of the late 90s, and the colors were atrocious.

Williams, clearly preoccupied, kept the conversation brief. He considered me qualified, he said, based on my writing samples and Don's character reference. The conditions of the job were these: to administer the website and bulletin boards and act as the online fan liaison; to update performer profiles; to ride on the tour bus and attend the performances and post a daily road journal of the group's travels; to take some photos; and to do whatever else came up. The journals and photos were to contain nothing that would embarrass the performers or reflect badly on the Caravan, and nothing that was in bad taste (which was left undefined). Six-week probationary period.

Benefits? Full insurance coverage. Transportation, meals, and lodging provided. The salary represented a 300-percent raise over my present income. That was the part that really caught my eye.

I inquired about equipment. Did they have a computer for me to use? A camera?

Buy what you need and the company will reimburse you, he said impatiently. Did I want the job or not?

In a moment of weakness, I said I did.

"Great. Meet us in Atlanta on April 1. Welcome aboard."

* * *

The next two weeks were a blur. I had few affairs to wrap up other than finishing the stories I was working on. I bought the best laptop computer on the market and tricked it out with wireless Internet and all the bells and whistles. I bought a digital camera and a combination PDA/cell phone and did the same. I spent a day getting them all to work in concert, and by the end of it I could post photos and text to the Internet with my remote devices.

I also made myself master of the subject matter. I spent hours reading all I could find about every member of the company, from Bill Williams himself to the singers and band to the business manager and tech crew. I read the bulletin boards and acquainted myself with the fans and their web pages. I noted the complaints they had with the existing Caravan site and began sketching out improvements. I constructed my redesign on the new computer and had it ready to go live pending Bill's approval.

I spent a lot of time explaining my new job to my friends.

Then I stuffed three weeks' worth of clothes into my biggest suitcase, locked up the loft, and got on a plane for Atlanta.