Wherein I question my status as a geek

I haven't blogged in months-- I could tell you that I was away on a months-long mission of mercy, or that I had a brief affair with an eccentric Eastern European magnate's daughter, or that I was hospitalized with a contagious disease that baffled the world's scientists, and was only just cured by extra-terrestrials (or some sort of mystical entity), and sworn to secrecy by the shadowy Illuminati...  

No, no, friends, the truth of the matter was that I was waiting to hear from my alter-ego, who abandoned me months ago to try his hand at the Gaming Room of the Sky with the King of Curiosities, and got shanghaied by conspiring members of his Royal Court, and recently escaped, knocking on the door of my apartment at 4:47 yesterday morning with strange, horrible tales that left me catatonic with their perversity...

The Line

These are, of course, all lies, and as I still don't know the truth, I decided to try and find the answers at a comic book convention this past Saturday in the City of the Angels. If not by being surrounded with my familiars, then with whom?, I asked myself, while sitting in the subway train filled with ne'er do wells ("Spare a buck?" one such miscreant asked me while I was sitting on a dubiously clean seat, Moleskine in hand, pages as blank as a red-neck's imagination. "Spare me a story?" I snarled back.), faded beauties, scruffy Oliver Twists, and other mediocrities. I didn't know where my inspiration went, I wanted to tell the lot of them, feeling like Amadeus' Salieri.

Names Have Been Removed to Protect the etc., etc..

I didn't think I could milk another tale from last year's Star Trek convention in Vegas, but while I was watching the Star Trek series after Deep Space Nine, and before Enterprise, and seeing the what-has-been-described-yet-never-really-saw-as "courageous" Mayan Native-American First Officer of the Intrepid-class vessel lost in the Delta Quadrant, this little morsel came to mind.

Now, years ago, I dabbled in the theater arts, and I loathed dealing with the audience after the performance. I never liked chatting with them, and after the play would finish, I'd purposely wait in the dressing room, taking my time to remove my make-up, and if by the time I finished some folks were still outside, I'd open whatever book I was using as research, and read, baby, read. And my reasoning for this was two-fold: I didn't like how they looked at me as if they knew me, and, more importantly, I detested the questions ("Why did you say that that way?" "Why did you do that?"), because the answers were my tools to pull the role off, and I'd be damned if I was going to share my creative soul with them. Besides, who really wants to know what the actor thinks about the story? I mean, really? It's about the viewers' perception, and that, at the minimum, what they leave with after seeing the play should be slightly different than what they brought into it...

I say this because I have a teeny-weensy inkling of what it means to be asshole-ish when it came to dealing with theater-goers/fans. So when I heard that [the actor who portrayed the "courageous" Mayan Native-American First Officer of the Trek show from the late 90's] was a jack-ass on the Star Trek convention circuit, I nodded my head, and thought that it was silly considering that in the grand Trek scheme of things, with all of the wondrous people that populate the Trek-verse, that his character was so vapid, but I didn't really give it more that a passing thought. They say he's a jerk? Okay. Whatever.

Back to the 2010 Trek Con in Vegas: Saturday morning. My friends and I were having our morning coffee before the day's festivities, and were seated at a choice table that was smack dab near the main walkway, giving us a prime location to people-watch. As we were gazing at the folks walking past us, some in costume, others in "civilian" clothes, I saw a Caucasian male hovering around middle-age, who was about average height, average build, with dark-but-graying hair slicked back, wearing a Command Red Starfleet Duty Uniform, and had the same tattoo on his face that the aforementioned Mayan Native-American First Officer had.

We got his attention, called him over, and he told us his tale...

Star Trek: True Love

I've often been asked which Star Trek character I find to be the hottest, sexiest, and the one I'd slit four thousand throats in one night for. I usually respond with "Deanna Troi" or "Jadzia Dax" — the brunette bombshells — but truly it's something I really haven't given a lot of thought to, until now, and, frankly, the real answer would probably creep out even the creepiest of Trekkies (and I've been to conventions, and, may the Prophets bless my eyes, but I've seen some world-class creeps at those things).

But a few words on those two women: Troi! With her gorgeous cleavage and cute teeth: I'd buy her Tim Tams cookies and grow old with her, sleeping every night with my head nestled on her pillowy breasts, and we would share chocolate-covered frozen yogurt at the Pinkberry on La Brea Avenue. Dax! Curvy, wonderful, beautiful Jadzia, dots running up and down her body, enigmatic smile, and a mistress of hundreds of years of sexual wizardry. She can teach me Klingon moves, and I'll introduce her to the stamp collection that I accumulated from my Junior High school years. No, forget that stamp stuff!  We'll instead discover new hobbies together, and could play sudoku on a park bench, occasionally glancing at the old men playing chess on the tables next to us, and I would listen to my beautiful Dax critique their sloppy moves under her breath. And I would be loyal and would dump the Dax symbiont when it moved on to the spritely Ezri — Bashir could have her — but then I wouldn't have let Dukat kill Jadzia in the first place, so there wouldn't be a reason for the symbiont to leave, and — ergh. I got carried away...

Friends Part I

My friend Joe was like a brother to me. We met at one of those humongous hardware warehouse stores: I worked in the Paint department, and I believe he was over at Electrical. We were casual acquaintances --very much of the "Hello, Goodbye" variety -- and didn't really talk much. But, after one day coming up to me and apologizing for being so dismissive over a warning I gave him a few weeks earlier about a certain coworker who was a back-stabbing bastard, our friendship was galvanized. For you see, Joe was a fiercely loyal fellow, and took offense that I would dare to say bad things about someone he thought he knew so well. So, after being burned by the aforementioned bastard, he came up to me and apologized, and invited me to hang out with him and a couple of his friends (who later became very good friends of mine, as well), as those who are often burned do.

"Is there drinking involved?" I asked him.

"Yes. Beer," he responded.

"Okay."

Joe and I became thick as thieves: I would be the calming force and the one who challenged him intellectually, the godfather to his daughter, the only one he ever really trusted and loved as a brother. I was more Spock to his fiery Bones, with both of us having the slick intensity of Kirk-- which, of course, led to many battles, threats, haranguing, snarling, and the severing of our friendship countless times. But, after a while, one of us would ring up the other, and all was well. Until the next confrontation. Like I said: brothers.

Hmm. Haven't posted in a while, haven't I?

It would seem I've found something else to neglect (read: this blog), as I haven't posted here since February! I really have no excuse (well, except for the fact that I have an irrational dislike of the month of March. It's a long story...), and gold-plated apologies to all.

This month's post will be up shortly, and the plan is to keep it monthly from this point forward. There: now I've done one of those "commitment" things.

Maybe there is hope for me, after all?

February's Sun and the Pixie

Los Angeles, CA
February, 2009

She was 28-years-old, and tiny, as a pixie is tiny, with a lithe, athletic figure. Her hair was cut short, and always had a free-wheeling, wind-blown look. Her pretty face had the high, prominent cheekbones of her Polish lineage, and was clear-complexioned, with a hint of laugh lines around her almost-opaque hazel eyes. She had a quirky smile; it was slightly crooked, but not outrageously so. And she always looked as fresh-as-a-daisy in the morning, and, while I can not say I had a Great Love for her, I can say that she thoroughly fascinated me.

My last day spent with the Pixie had me playing host, as she had driven over to my apartment the night before to spend the day with me. She lived with her family (father, 19-year-old sister, and a pre-teen daughter) in a beach town that was quite some many miles away, and as she was the "Mother Hen" to that brood, i.e. she cooked the meals, organized family time, etc., it was getting more and more difficult for her to find the time to spend with her new boyfriend.

(A little about how we met: it was through a mutual friend, a skinhead gal-pal, who had invited me to hang out with her people, including the Pixie, for some drinks and danger. And while the drinks were very much of the "cheap beer" variety, and the danger minimal, the end result of that visit was spectacular: the Pixie expressed interest in yours truly to our mutual friend. Numbers were exchanged, and Nature, sweet, fickle Nature, did the rest.)

We awoke to a surprisingly sunny February day, and as I opened the curtains to let the sunshine in, I marveled at how magnificent she looked in the morning. Sweet-smelling, bright-eyed, and damned sexy. I was ravenous. We smiled and laughed as we rolled around my queen-sized bed...

I refused her offer to make the morning coffee — I was the host, after all — and made us a pot. We then sipped and began scheming the day's events — should we go for a hike? See a movie? Explore a new restaurant? Because her time with me was short, we wanted to squeeze every single thing we possibly could from the day. I knew that her family were not pleased about her being away for the night — she also handled grocery shopping and laundry and everything else — and it was a veritable scene of chaos at her house at that very moment. The cajoling she had to do to convince her pouty sister to watch her daughter was an exercise both in diplomacy and tyranny.

Ensign Samson

Los Angeles, CA 2004

I was in The Original Series (TOS) forum on startrek.com, when I came across a post someone made that the spanking-new DVD box sets were now available at Costco. Holy Jesus. Season One: Khan, Trelane, Edith Keeler, and where Kirk reminds us that "risk is our business." I had to have it: I haven't seen TOS in what seemed like eons, and now that it was visually remastered and with Dolby sound? Shazam. Granted, my home theater system wasn't the fancy-shmanciest in the land, but it sufficed for the dimensions of my apartment. And my DVD collection in those days was very spare indeed, preferring to borrow films from the library, or Netflix. You see, I decided when I first started collecting DVDs that I would only own the ones that I most had to have; during this period of my life I owned almost all of the Star Trek: The Next Generation box sets, some classic films, all of the Star Trek movies, and a handful of foreign flicks. And yet not even a single videocassette of The Original Series was in my house! I must posses it, I thought to myself. I must! I rubbed my hands together with an ecstatic flourish, plotting on which would be the quickest bus line to take to my local Costco, and relishing in the fact that I had two days off, with plenty of wine to drink.

Screeching tires-time. Pull back those reins, there, guy, because it totally slipped my mind that I had a commitment that I couldn't break.

Star Trek Convention, Las Vegas: August 2010 Part II

photo © 2010 David Shankbone | more info (via: Wylio)

Saturday night.

"Are you going to get Patrick Stewart's autograph tomorrow?" she asked me.

"No," I replied. "I get too embarrassed with the whole autograph-asking thing."

"Well, I am," she stated, with a tone that told me she's been itching to share that with anybody she came in contact with. "I'm going to get his autograph," she continued, "and then I'm going to ask him out on a date. I hear he's single again. And that he likes younger women..."

(This woman was in her early 40s, Caucasian, rail-thin, brown-haired, but still had her looks, and most important of all, she didn't have a crazy glint in her eye. I know crazy: I've worked with crazy, I've talked to crazy, I've loved crazy, so I'm a bit of an expert on crazy, and this woman didn't seem looney-tunes. And yet.)

This conversation between her and I was taking place at the Space Quest Bar, located inside the Hilton Hotel, and near to where Star Trek: The Experience used to be. There was a wall covering the gaping hole where it once stood, and my friends and I were tipsily scrawling our names on it.

We weren't the first.

Earring

photo © 2009 Spotlight Forest | more info (via: Wylio)

Hello, you little Earring, you! How are you? Look at you, so damned cute and tiny! A little diamond stud, with a "butterfly" back (even though you don't have wings), rolling around in my vanity's drawer for almost four years. My, my, my. I must confess, Earring, that you weren't a welcome surprise for these tired eyes of mine. I know, I know, I'm sorry, but it's true. Am I being rude? I don't think I am, but if you'd let me finish, perhaps you'll see my point.

It took me a minute, Earring, but I finally puzzled out who your owner was: her name was Florence, and she was a nurse who liked to drink a lot of white wine, and she didn't care if it was from the finest French château, or just good old-fashioned swill. Indeed, one afternoon, on a day that had many secrets, she and I were laying around nude, passing a bottle back and forth, and, after taking a long, sensual swallow, she said something to the effect that "if it had the kick, then (she) was in it."

An oenologist she most certainly was not!

Amoeba Records, Los Angeles, California, 2004

photo © 2010 Fred Rockwood | more info (via: Wylio)
Spring.

The cashier was wondering when she was going to be able to take her lunch break. Lately, she has been noticing that a red-headed girl that has only been there for a couple of weeks, a shameless trollop who is always talking (or, to be more precise, flirting) to the floor managers of the male persuasion, seems to be the first pick for lunch breaks - even when cashiers with seniority *ahem* were waiting patiently, and Hello?, they have errands to run - and is always invited to the hangouts after work. Whatever. The cashier wasn't focusing on the inequality of her not getting the big invites to the big parties at night (Whatever!), she just needed to go on break NOW. It's late afternoon, and her sister is supposed to show up soon with the money she owed her, and then she needs to dash to the bank and deposit it: Rent was due, and more importantly, her roots were starting to show, and that requires calling that salon for an appointment, which requires more cash, and it never ends, does it? She kept trying to shoot glances at her supervisor (another one ensnared by "The Red-headed Slut"), to let him know that she needed to go on break, but it seemed as if he were purposely trying to ignore her. She was about to start waving her arms, stupid bird-like, to get his attention, and if that didn't work, well, then she --

Damn, a customer was walking up to her counter, and she had to go into cashier-mode.

He was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt; he looked as if he were in his 30s, kind of tall, dark haired, and would probably be good-looking, if he weren't so unsteady on his feet. Yeah, he looked...off.