tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3998419493323416112024-03-05T16:41:14.062-08:00Geek Closet: From Squalor to SpaceshipMusings on a life filled with wretchedness and Romulan AleDAFPentangelihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07102015009918006038noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399841949332341611.post-45987587552086628512016-12-11T18:58:00.001-08:002016-12-11T18:58:22.032-08:00"The Fear of the Horror"Hi! How have you been? I've neglected this blog, and have been meaning to update it, but life was a whirlwind of fun, with a lot of lightsabers and sonic screwdrivers mixed in, and I didn't think my doubting the direction Star Trek was going, for example, was enough of a temptation to put work - and, by that, I mean time and tears- into a post. That's Mister LAZY Tibbs to you! I said to no one ever but should have.<div>
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Good grief. So many things are happening. I didn't even know how, or where, to begin, truth be told; I had to use a <a href="http://www.saberpunk.net/DoctorWho/DoctorWhoSerialGenerator.php" target="_blank">Doctor Who episode title generator</a> to come up with a title for this one, which is, yep, lazy, but it did distract me for a while, which was nice... </div>
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But: to business! Yes, Star Trek has lost me, and I will share why, but it'll be difficult, and will require my doing so over the course of a few posts, because while this breakup with Trek was an amiable one, and I still respect aspects of Star Trek, and always will, one needs to get the words right and, erm, respectful, knowwhatImean? </div>
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But that's not what's <u>happening</u>, is it? Things are currently happening in the world that are affecting my fandom, and I need to mind-map/distill my thoughts via this forum. This. My blog. My blog that I had to bring back from the dead so that I can feel like I'm doing <i>something </i>about it.</div>
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Hope you don't mind. I'll try and keep it light and fun. Promise.</div>
DAFPentangelihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07102015009918006038noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399841949332341611.post-27324479874306254372012-08-15T10:48:00.000-07:002012-08-15T10:48:56.580-07:00By No Means the Final Word on Vegas KHAAAN 2012<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">I awoke to see the cityscape of Downtown LA, buildings that are so well-known to me from years and years of staring at them, envisioning what tragedy or ho-ho! good-times went on within those offices and suites. My trusty a/c unit was buzzing away, and it has been all night, and will be doing so all day; spinning my head around I could see my mismatched furniture, and various what-nots, and there's a story behind each and every one of them. Everything is familiar: <a href="http://www.creationent.com/cal/st_lasvegas.html">STLV</a> did happen, didn't it? No panels to attend. No friends to meet up later with. None of it.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">I know the preceding was trite stuff, and probably not worthy of the first blog I've posted in over a year, but that is what the fingers wanted to type. And my guts and soul know that this won't be my last word on the subject. How can it be? The Vegas KHAAAN is a grand affair; it's insanity, and exhausting. It's a fucking frolic, nirvana, lifting a fan of Star Trek to sublime heights ("Celebrities! Goodies! People who 'get it!' Costumes!"), and then harshly plopping them back to Real Life, yanked away, </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;">à la</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> Dr Soren from ye olde Nexus; and like that villain from the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h06WKYFYdlo">tepidly received Next Generation film</a>, some of us desperately want to get back. Especially when some of us make connections with people who are <i>still</i> in the "Nexus." Pass me a beer, Mr Surly Bartender from the Masquerade Bar.. oh, wait, that's right: I'm no longer there. I'm <b><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Southern_California">here</a>. </b></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">We've got to back to the Island, Kate.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">But, you know: Real Life. The bills, the responsibility, the Mundane friends who <i>don't</i> get it but are still 'friends' so we adapt, and temper our geek references, and get puzzled when they go on and on about college/professional sport teams, and the jerseys of their favorite teams, and the ungodly amounts of money spent on sports packages with their cable providers or the season tickets. And don't get me started with their face painting or those <a href="http://www.cheesehead.com/">bizarre head-things</a> they wear. Or I can live and let live, right? Just don't tread on me, Mr and Mrs Sports Figure Bobble Head People, ya dig?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Trifle Deluxe, this be. I'll post something soon with photos, and impressions on individual days (actually, I probably won't do the latter, as I made the mistake of bringing a bottle of <a href="http://www.jamesonwhiskey.com/age_verification.aspx">Jameson Irish Whiskey</a>, which meant that there were a few odysseys in Booze-ania... note to self: DON'T bring the hard stuff next year!), and all of that other bloggy stuff.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>DAFPentangelihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07102015009918006038noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399841949332341611.post-37007640950698575922012-02-27T08:26:00.001-08:002012-03-01T07:01:42.395-08:00Spiderwebs and Dust Bunnies<div><p>I realized that I haven't blogged in months (and months and months...), and I promised myself that I'd, as the kids say "get on it," one of these days. But the days goose-stepped on, and I couldn't think of a damned topic, and the doubts and the confusion kept raging on, until I realized that my ailing computer was the (probable) suspect (more than likely it was writer's block on overdrive, but I don't want to think about THAT), and I got angry and furiously wrote a first draft regarding my introduction to a particular sci-fi property, when- bam! - my ailing computer just upped and quit on me, seemingly forever, and I'm left with only a smartphone to guide me...</p>
<p>Rats.</p>
<p>In any event, bright days are ahead: a new and ostensibly shiny computer is forthcoming, as well as a renewed focus on this lil' blog of mine. </p>
<p>I wrote it, so it must be true. </p>
</div>DAFPentangelihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07102015009918006038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399841949332341611.post-6940710603663531212011-11-07T09:36:00.000-08:002011-11-07T09:36:21.550-08:00Wherein I question my status as a geek<span style="background-color: transparent;">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... </span><br />
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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...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Line</td></tr>
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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 <a href="http://comikazeexpo.com/">comic book convention this past Saturday in the City of the Angels.</a> <i>If not by being surrounded with my familiars, then with whom?</i>, 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>I didn't know where my inspiration went,</i> I wanted to tell the lot of them, feeling like <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0086879/">Amadeus</a>'</i> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antonio_Salieri">Salieri.</a><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old School Doctor Who Cyberman</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent;">Indeed, I printed out the schedule of panels the night before, and had marked the events I wanted to attend: "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steampunk">Steampunk</a> 101" at 11:00AM, followed by a panel on zombie literature at noon, then at 2:00PM, a film that combined the universes of Star Wars and John Hughes. A Battlestar Galactica panel, with the loquacious <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0368745/#Actor">Richard "Hatchriffs" Hatch</a> (you remember him as "Apollo" from the Classic BSG, and "Tom Zarek" in the re-imagined version- I saw Mr Hatch at a pitiful sci-fi convention a year ago, whereupon he confessed to all five of us in attendance his propensity to ramble on and on, a trait he sugar-coated with the nomenclature "Hatchriffs"), was to be held at 4:00PM. The following hour was to be a Q and A with Star Trek luminaries, and then the day was to be finished off with a panel on Doctor Who.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Star Wars represented!</td></tr>
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I was eager, primed, and ready to go; it's been some time since I was at a sci-fi convention, and I needed the good-times fix. Walking towards the <a href="http://www.lacclink.com/">Convention Center</a> from the subway station, I saw that the cosplayers were already out in force, and the first thing I thought to myself was that I had no fucking idea who most of these characters were supposed to be. <i>Where are the <a href="http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/Andorian">Andorians?</a></i> I could hear my inner Trekkie ask. No <a href="http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/Klingon">Klingons,</a> no <a href="http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/Orion_slave_girl">Orion Slave Girls</a>— oh, okay, this is a <i>comic book</i> comic book convention, and I haven't been a regular comic book reader in decades, and, lo, my day was fucked.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicbloCtD7qEIqrEIo1iugxJ2NfCSNyK1QsjvWOYlUOXb3EEEFmmtjOHXuxLrhMVtSBGEUmaPCzGQkyH2z1_iAmvgy2_fdgH3hj4gYA6EFXPamCciuK0rFRlmdggw7HTh6yG82D96O_WvvH/s1600/Comic+Con+Geeks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicbloCtD7qEIqrEIo1iugxJ2NfCSNyK1QsjvWOYlUOXb3EEEFmmtjOHXuxLrhMVtSBGEUmaPCzGQkyH2z1_iAmvgy2_fdgH3hj4gYA6EFXPamCciuK0rFRlmdggw7HTh6yG82D96O_WvvH/s200/Comic+Con+Geeks.jpg" width="111" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Um. Huh?</td></tr>
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I suffered through a longish line (the first of many) to get my morning coffee, and while I attended this convention alone, I was now kept company by the grandaddy of all doubts: I don't think I'm the geek that I think I am. After wringing my hands in frustration, I consoled myself that the day was just beginning, and that there are sure to be shiny surprises ahead.<br />
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Walking the floor, pockets filled with cash (yeah, I know I didn't give the miscreant a buck on the subway train, but I was snarling, remember?), and eager for everything. And then: disaster. Every vendor was selling things that I didn't want to buy— I then spun my head around, and saw cosplayers in even more bizarre and puzzling outfits, and realized that this was a convention that will need a bit of a push to get going: I needed to find a bar.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beware the Three-Mile Island sauce</td></tr>
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Having asked the nice lady at the concession stand in my halting and heavily-Gringo accented Spanish where one can get stinking drunk, she suggested the <a href="http://www.hooters.com/home.aspx">Hooters</a> not five minutes walk from the Convention Center might be the place to go. I thanked her, and skedaddled. The bartender at this Hooters location was named Kimberly, and she didn't know what a <a href="http://cocktails.about.com/od/atozcocktailrecipes/r/gryhnd_cktl.htm">Greyhound</a> was, bless her little orange shorts, but once we got those little formalities out of the way, we got along swimmingly.<br />
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From my notebook:<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> <br />
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<i>* Hooters: Chatted with two guys who had it in for Erik Estrada, because years ago he allegedly snubbed the then-unknown comic George Lopez. I heard some of Lopez's material- I would've snubbed him, too.</i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> * Still at Hooters: according to my pal Kim the bartender, the creepy guy sitting at the booth near the exit comes every weekend, alternately drinks hot </i>and<i> iced coffee, and always plunks down around 80 bucks in the jukebox. </i>Is the girl he has a crush on working right now?,<i> I asked her. </i>How did you know he has a crush on a girl here?<i> she asked me. </i>I know all sorts of things, like what a Greyhound is, which I'll have another of, thanks.</div>
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After some chicken wings (and a beer), I weaved back to the Expo.<br />
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More scribblings from my notebook:<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>* 2:00PM: "Hughes the Force" I'm looking around, and, well, who in the fuck are these people?</i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>* This is a cool idea, but I wonder how many here actually </i>saw <i>a John Hughes movie in a movie theatre. Oh, the humanity. </i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>* 3:00PM: Lunch time, at a Mexican food stand, having an over-priced chicken bowl and a Coke. A lil tipsy. I shouldn't have had that second Greyhound. Recognize some Trekkies here, but I'm too despondent to be 'friendly guy.' Next panel should be fun.</i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>* 3:45PM: Fuck it. Back at Hooters, where I had to remind Kimmy what a Greyhound was again. Drank it and ran. Didn't want to miss BSG panel.</i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>* 4:10PM: Hatchriffs.</i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>* 4:30PM: Jesus Christ, this guy. Is he on the drugs? Leaving soon...</i></div>
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And leave I did, going to the standing room-only room where the Star Trek Q and A was to be, and after the affable Garret Wang ("Ensign Kim," <a href="http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/Star_Trek:_Voyager">VOY</a>) came out to say hello, he told us that Robert Picardo ("The Doctor," VOY) and my ex-wife Marina Sirtis ("Counselor Troi," <a href="http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/Star_Trek:_The_Next_Generation">TNG</a>) left early, I decided that it was too much to take, and I did the same. Cue up the sad piano music as I slowly walked out the exit, head hung low, kicking at non-existent rocks on the mocking pavement, hoping against hope that the trains will be running quickly for a change. Because I wanted to go home.<br />
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Inside the subway train, and in borderline crisis mode, I seriously doubted my geek credentials: I don't go out to see all of the latest comic book movies, I'm not familiar with names of the recent major scribes and artists, don't recognize anime characters, and, if I were pressed, I couldn't spout out credible Treknobabble if universes were in jeopardy. The only thing that gave me comfort was that I had the latest entry of G.R.R. Martin's "A Song of Fire and Ice" series -- <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B003YL4LYI/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=geeclofrosqut-20&linkCode=as2&camp=217145&creative=399373&creativeASIN=B003YL4LYI">A Dance with Dragons</a></i> -- downloaded on my phone, and I began reading it while being jostled on the packed train-- it was filled with a few middle-aged <a href="http://occupylosangeles.org/">Occupy LA protesters,</a> as well as the usual degenerates and, for lack of a better label, civilians. <span style="background-color: transparent;">Body odor, bad breath, stale shoes: this is the perfume of a subway train. But then I shook it off, and immersed myself in the story, and on how much it thrilled me, and that I was impassioned about it, and I found it to be good.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent;">While walking home, now not so much thinking on how lost I felt at the Expo as on how much reading I can get done, I then realized that being a geek is really only about passion — mind-fuckable passion — on the thing. Like how I felt about reading this fantasy book on my phone. Or, to a certain extent, those protesters who are still fighting the fight after all of these years. <b>Passion.</b> Who cares about the minutia? If I were to be exiled from the geek community because I couldn't recognize that guy with up swept ya-ya-yellow hair, or the gal with the airbrushed eyes, I couldn't care less. The Geek Closet is still open, fellow miscreants, and I ain't throwing in the towel quite yet </span><span style="background-color: transparent;">(<a href="http://www.towel.org.uk/">because you never know when you'll need one</a>)</span><span style="background-color: transparent;">.</span>DAFPentangelihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07102015009918006038noreply@blogger.com2Convention Center Dr, Los Angeles, CA 90015, USA34.0398577 -118.271788534.0382132 -118.274256 34.0415022 -118.269321tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399841949332341611.post-85417242279645710762011-07-25T08:06:00.000-07:002011-07-25T23:45:34.568-07:00Names Have Been Removed to Protect the etc., etc..I didn't think I could milk another tale from last year's <a href="http://memory-alpha.org/wiki/Conventions">Star Trek convention in Vegas,</a> but while I was watching the Star Trek series <i>after </i><a href="http://memory-alpha.org/wiki/Star_Trek:_Deep_Space_Nine">Deep Space Nine,</a> and <i>before </i><a href="http://memory-alpha.org/wiki/Star_Trek:_Enterprise">Enterprise,</a> and seeing the what-has-been-described-yet-never-really-saw-as "courageous" <a href="http://memory-alpha.org/wiki/Mayan">Mayan </a><a href="http://memory-alpha.org/wiki/Native_American">Native-American</a> First Officer of the <a href="http://memory-alpha.org/wiki/Intrepid_class">Intrepid-class</a> vessel lost in the <a href="http://memory-alpha.org/wiki/Delta_Quadrant">Delta Quadrant,</a> this little morsel came to mind.<br />
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<a href="http://rizzn.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/image_thumb221.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://rizzn.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/image_thumb221.png" width="108" /></a>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 <i>still </i>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 <i>that </i>way?" "Why did you do <i>that</i>?"), 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...<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
We got his attention, called him over, and he told us his tale...<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
"I was a big fan of [the late 90s Star Trek show with the beautiful theme music composed by Oscar-winning film composer <a href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&source=web&cd=3&ved=0CC8QFjAC&url=http%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FJerry_Goldsmith&ei=d_MsTu_SKoThiAKd77iwAg&usg=AFQjCNGIqb_wyWJQUqF37cYvwwZFXbfXqQ&sig2=_LfJpqMLv3cCsedNcULivA">Jerry Goldsmith</a>] and when I started going to conventions, I noticed that there weren't any other [Mayan Native-American First Officers] running around. So I asked the wife—"<br />
<br />
"Hold it!" I interjected. "You're married?"<br />
<br />
"Yes," he said.<br />
<br />
"Okay, go on."<br />
<br />
"Yes. Where was— yeah. I asked the wife to paint the tattoo on my face, and I put on the outfit, and thought that I could pass for him. And here I am."<br />
<br />
"How long have you had the outfit before you actually put it on?" I asked him. I was curious.<br />
<br />
"Not for long. Months, maybe" he responded, and then continued: "I then decided that I also was going to get an autograph from [the actor who plays him], seeing as he was going to be at an upcoming convention in the East Coast."<br />
<br />
"Are you from the East Coast?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, I'm from Jersey. Anyways, stop interrupting me."<br />
<br />
"Whoa. You really <i>are </i>from Jersey!" [we laugh together] "Alright, so, you're getting an autograph from [the actor]..."<br />
<br />
"I'm standing in line, in full costume: new black boots for the occasion, freshly-pressed uniform, hair slicked back, and, by now my wife has been practicing, so the tattoo looks phenomenal. I figured [the actor] would appreciate my being the only guy dressed up as his character— a character, mind you, that I admire, filled with nobility and spirituality, and had real heart— and here I am, next in line, and I'm nervous but with steel nerves, you know? Been through scrapes and all. But still, you know? Anyways, I walk up to him, photo in hand, looking like a million dollars, and he looks up at me... and grimaces"<br />
<br />
"He grimaced at you?" I asked him, mortified for him.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, he grimaced at me. He then takes my photo — you know the one, the stock photo from the show, him with his arms all akimbo — and as he's signing my photo, he's shaking his head. I don't know what the problem is at this point, and when I reach out to take the photo, he looks right at my face, and asks me, 'How old are you?' and I tell him, and he looks at me, puts his head down, and I hear him say, 'Jesus.'"<br />
<br />
"He said 'Jesus'?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah, 'Jesus.' I'm kind of like in shock, like something happened and I missed it, but I knew it was important. I'm walking away from the line, autographed photo in my hand, and then it hits me: Robert Beltran is a dick."DAFPentangelihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07102015009918006038noreply@blogger.com0Las Vegas Hilton Heliport, Las Vegas, NV 89109, USA36.1369156 -115.1522221.8439776000000023 -174.917847 70.4298536 -55.386596999999995tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399841949332341611.post-70752626931669418912011-06-07T14:15:00.000-07:002011-06-08T12:16:35.928-07:00Star Trek: True LoveI've often been asked which Star Trek character I find to be the hottest, sexiest, and the one I'd <a href="http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Klingon_proverbs">slit four thousand throats in one night</a> for. I usually respond with <a href="http://memory-alpha.org/wiki/Deanna_Troi">"Deanna Troi"</a> or <a href="http://memory-alpha.org/wiki/Jadzia_Dax">"Jadzia Dax"</a> — 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 <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trekkie">Trekkies</a> (and I've been to conventions, and, may the <a href="http://memory-alpha.org/wiki/Prophet">Prophets</a> bless my eyes, but I've seen some world-class creeps at those things).<br />
<br />
But a few words on those two women: Troi! With her gorgeous cleavage and cute teeth: I'd buy her <a href="http://www.ilovetimtamcookies.com/">Tim Tams cookies</a> 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 <a href="http://www.pinkberry.com/">Pinkberry</a> 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 <a href="http://memory-alpha.org/wiki/Trill_symbiont">symbiont</a> 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...<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
In any case, those two broads have got nothing on my one true Star Trek love, the one character that makes me sigh every time she's onscreen, and it's only now that I shall reveal to all thirteen of you lovely readers of mine who she is:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n239/Strange_Pilgrim/shot_1306171391016-1.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n239/Strange_Pilgrim/shot_1306171391016-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
It's the refit <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee;"><u>Constitution</u></span><a href="http://memory-alpha.org/wiki/Constitution_class">-class</a> <i>Enterprise</i>, as first seen in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Star-Trek-Directors-Two-Disc-Collectors/dp/B00005JKHP?ie=UTF8&tag=geeclofrosqut-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">STAR TREK: THE MOTION PICTURE!</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=geeclofrosqut-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B00005JKHP" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important;" width="1" /> Ask my friends! Back in Aught-Nine, we had a Blu-ray <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Star-Trek-Original-Collection-Frontier/dp/B002I9Z8I0?ie=UTF8&tag=geeclofrosqut-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Trek Quadrology</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=geeclofrosqut-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B002I9Z8I0" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important;" width="1" /> (STI-STIV) marathon on a high-definition television at my friends' house, and I gave a moan of ecstasy when I first saw the <i>Enterprise</i> in all of her glory and splendor on that 47" screen. It made my pal sitting next to me uncomfortable, but what do I care? This is <b>love</b>. Okay-okay-yes-yes, do I acknowledge that the ship's re-introduction went on a bit too long for non-Trek fans? Sure, but they're infidels anyway, those mundane non-believers, and what do I care about them? They're not going to <a href="http://memory-alpha.org/wiki/Sto-vo-kor">Sto'Vo'Kor</a>: I am!<br />
<br />
I've decided that I'm going to play that introduction of the love of my Star Trek life on my DVD player — I don't have a fancy-shmancy Blu-ray/high def TV yet, but you can bet your polka-dotted Tribble that when I do, ST:TMP is the first thing I'm buying! — and write down a (somewhat) minute-by-minute analysis of the unveiling of the grandest of all starships! Here we go (and forgive the incoherence):<br />
<br />
17:28 There she is! THERE SHE IS!<br />
<br />
17:37 Kirk looks longingly at the <i>Enterprise</i><br />
<br />
18:08 Still swooping around the ship, her lights flickering as if to say: "Hello, lover!"<br />
<br />
18:15 A shot of those art-deco touches on the nacelles. Oof.<br />
<br />
19:20 FINALLY! A full-shot view of my girl! Gorgeous, I tell you!<br />
<br />
20:37 Playful horns on <a href="http://www.jerrygoldsmithonline.com/">Jerry Goldsmith's</a> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Star-Trek-Motion-Picture-Collectors/dp/B00000FC5P?ie=UTF8&tag=geeclofrosqut-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">score</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=geeclofrosqut-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B00000FC5P" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important;" width="1" /> tell us she is a feisty ship!<br />
<br />
21: 54 Kirk: (after they docked) "Thank you, Mr. Scott." Scotty: "Aye, sir."<br />
<br />
Ah!!! I can't take it! I was too wrapped up in her angelic sweeps and alluring curves to write a proper analysis! You can keep your <a href="http://memory-alpha.org/wiki/Akira_class">Akira-</a> or <a href="http://memory-alpha.org/wiki/Intrepid_class">Intrepid-</a> or <a href="http://memory-alpha.org/wiki/Sovereign_class">Sovereign-class</a> designs: this is the only design that tickles my fancy.<br />
*********<br />
<br />
<a href="http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n239/Strange_Pilgrim/shot_1307464595716.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n239/Strange_Pilgrim/shot_1307464595716.jpg" width="200" /></a>Years ago, I purchased an elaborate, snap-together model of the <i>Enterprise</i> from <a href="http://www.bandai.co.jp/e/index.html">a Japanese model company</a>; I set aside hours to set it up, all 79 pieces laid out in a precise pattern, and I slowly sipped red wine, and savored each and every moment, as I brought her to life. She is now my most prized possession, and is probably worth only an sixteenth (if even that) of what I originally paid for it, but do you think I care? No, I don't! It has brought me joy ever since, and I still remember how excited and eager I was waiting for that parcel to arrive— it reminded me of when I was a young boy, waiting for the arrival for a ventriloquist's dummy I ordered from a comic book. Yes! I'm weird! I like stamps, ventriloquism, and I believe the sexiest character out of over 500 hours of Trek is the refit NCC-1701 starship. But at least I'm going to <a href="http://memory-alpha.org/wiki/Sto-vo-kor">Sto'Vo'Kor!!</a> Yes!DAFPentangelihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07102015009918006038noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399841949332341611.post-54189111924037119242011-05-19T12:15:00.000-07:002011-05-19T12:15:42.165-07:00Friends Part I<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://theurbanhunter.files.wordpress.com/2010/06/simpsons_handshake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="151" src="http://theurbanhunter.files.wordpress.com/2010/06/simpsons_handshake.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>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.<br />
<br />
"Is there drinking involved?" I asked him.<br />
<br />
"Yes. Beer," he responded.<br />
<br />
"Okay."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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The man was a talented guitarist, and was a vastly better player than I was. He'd teach me what he knew, and I would learn it, thinking that I now knew it all, and then he'd go ahead and dazzle me once again with yet another flashy guitar riff, the rascal. We learned <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Beatles">Beatles</a> songs together, working out the vocal harmonies, and at social gatherings it was expected for Joe and I to break out the guitars, and play a little something. And it was also expected for Joe and I to laugh louder, joke more, worry less, and have our cups filleth over with more beer than anyone else.<br />
<br />
Joe knew of my fondness of Star Trek, and would poo-poo my trying to minimize my Trekkie-ness. You watch the movies all of the time, he'd say, why do you try to deny you like it? He was right, of course, but at the time I was trying to have dates with women, and, in those days, being an outright geek was social suicide. Yes, I cared about how I was perceived, so shoot me.<br />
<br />
In any case, back in '94, I was excited to see the upcoming, first big-screen adventure of the crew from<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Star-Trek-Next-Generation-Complete/dp/B000RZIGVS?ie=UTF8&tag=geeclofrosqut-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank"> Star Trek: The Next Generation (TNG).</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=geeclofrosqut-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B000RZIGVS" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important;" width="1" /> By this time Joe and I have been friends for years, and he always felt left out of the Trek loop. What is this show that my friend watches all of the time? he probably thought to himself. Over the years, and when it was just he and I, strumming our guitars, trying to figure out the clever guitar bits, every once in a while I'd share my thoughts on the original Star Trek, and on how, among other things, it taught me about friendship and loyalty, and on how I viewed my friendship with Joe in the same way. We'd then get embarrassed, and play another song. Sissy stuff, you know? But after years of friendship, Joe was now curious about Star Trek, and thought that <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Star-Trek-Generation-Generations-Insurrection/dp/B002I9Z8GW?ie=UTF8&tag=geeclofrosqut-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Star Trek: Generations (GEN)</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=geeclofrosqut-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B002I9Z8GW" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important;" width="1" /> would be a good starting point.<br />
<br />
At the time, I wasn't too well versed in the varied details of TNG, as I was always out and <span id="wylio-flickr-image-4751532707" style="display: block; float: right; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; position: relative; width: 230px;"><span class="wylio-credits" id="wylio-flickr-credits-4751532707" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; clear: both; color: #aaaaaa; float: left; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; width: 100%;"><span class="photoby" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 2px; padding-left: 2px; padding-right: 2px; padding-top: 2px;"><span style="display: block; float: left; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">photo © 2007 <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/dkalo/" style="color: #aaaaaa; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank" title="click to visit the Flickr profile page for Dimitris Kalogeropoylos">Dimitris Kalogeropoylos</a> | <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/26455260@N06/4751532707" style="color: #aaaaaa; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank" title="get more information about the photo '06 Star Trek The Undiscovered Country 1991'">more info </a></span><span style="display: block; float: right; margin-left: 5px;"><strong style="margin: 0;">(via: <a href="http://www.wylio.com/" style="color: #aaaaaa; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank" title="free pictures">Wylio</a>)</strong></span></span></span></span><br />
<a href="http://img.wylio.com/flickr/987502/230/4751532707" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="06 Star Trek The Undiscovered Country 1991" border="0" height="342" src="http://img.wylio.com/flickr/987502/230/4751532707" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="06 Star Trek The Undiscovered Country 1991 - photo by: Dimitris Kalogeropoylos, Source: Flickr, found with Wylio.com" width="230" /></a>about when the show was airing. Sure, every once in a while I'd catch an episode or get a hold of a VHS tape that had a couple of fresh (to my eyes) NextGen episodes, but I was all about the Classic Trek films in those days. Loved them, in fact. I owned the tape to The Undiscovered Country (TUC), and offered to watch it with Joe, as a sort of primer to Trek; but it was also a way that, after years of friendship, to finally let him into my private arena, and share a personal passion with this man who was my best friend, with the caveat that he was not to bust my chops if he thought it was too dorky. But it was all for naught-- he appreciated the commentary on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cold_War">US/USSR relations,</a> and thought the subject matter as a whole was quite the big screen story. (And the effects weren't too shabby, either!) He "got" it. And so, after being sure he really did "get" it, I told him I'd go with him to see GEN... which was a mistake. The movie didn't have the sweeping class of the Original Series films, according to Joe, and for a non-fan of Star Trek, let alone science fiction, in general, there were too many things that were not clear. I saw his point. Hell, I agreed with him.<br />
<br />
We never saw Star Trek together again.<br />
<br />
Joe and I have lost touch over the years. He has since re-married, and they had a child together. She already had a young son, and Joe had a daughter from his first wife, so it was a menagerie of children. I couldn't relate: we couldn't have long drinking sessions deep into the night, and the guitar playing would wake up the baby. Phone calls were made with less frequency, and barely returned, until finally, they stopped. Admittedly, I was the one not answering the phone, but I think we both knew that I was doing what was necessary. He had his family, and I mean, <i>real</i> family, not friends who chose to consider each other as such, and I think he didn't really know where me and my bohemian ways fit into this new domesticated scenario of his.<br />
<br />
I had lost my friend, and my brother. And for years it felt as if I didn't have a family of my choosing...until last year, at a Trek convention, when I met my <a href="http://www.twitter.com/starfleetmom">Trek Sister,</a> and her entourage filled with ne'er do wells, super-geeks, and quirky chicks; I have since maintained those friendships through various forms of social media (read: Twitter). These people are my friends and my Trek Family... I mean, my <i>real</i> family.DAFPentangelihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07102015009918006038noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399841949332341611.post-87015470478502825162011-04-14T11:12:00.001-07:002011-04-14T11:12:28.238-07:00Hmm. Haven't posted in a while, haven't I?<p>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.</p> <p>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. </p> <p>Maybe there is hope for me, after all? </p> DAFPentangelihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07102015009918006038noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399841949332341611.post-6626712441428018412011-02-25T15:40:00.000-08:002011-02-25T15:40:17.792-08:00February's Sun and the PixieLos Angeles, CA<br />
February, 2009<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
(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.)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
<a href="http://www.kheper.net/topics/breatharian/sunlight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://www.kheper.net/topics/breatharian/sunlight.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
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...<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Her cellphone buzzed; her father sent her a text asking her where one of his ties were. I looked away, giving her privacy as she responded. She didn't say a word about it afterward, but I saw a flash of <i>something</i> dancing behind her eyes, a mocking, malevolent creature named Worry, and then just as suddenly, it disappeared. I shrugged it off. The coffee was too good.<br />
<br />
We showered together - it was our first time doing so — and while we were dressing, she realized that she'd forgotten to bring an extra pair of shoes: the outfit she wanted to wear for our night out (we decided to have a night out in LA, and let adventure find us) wouldn't work with the scruffy tennis shoes she wore on the drive over.<br />
<br />
"Don't worry," I soothingly told her. "There's a discount shoe warehouse not seven minutes walking distance from here."<br />
<br />
She squealed.<br />
<br />
Magic words: I always forget the power of the combination of the words "shoe" and "warehouse." I laughed, and offered to walk with her, if she'd like. She beamed. I made her happy.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitl7eGLKuVtwd8LYQd5qq7xkmllxkWahV2hJwuKs3ObvMXl8DDiAEcwEAKn9dZTIyzweO0N8DzxON8XgWWCjlQupLsNldEPayTcxHZivRVt_6u2MLkt4BetgSLXXXWIydLV1Wpossmycs/s1600/red_shoes_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitl7eGLKuVtwd8LYQd5qq7xkmllxkWahV2hJwuKs3ObvMXl8DDiAEcwEAKn9dZTIyzweO0N8DzxON8XgWWCjlQupLsNldEPayTcxHZivRVt_6u2MLkt4BetgSLXXXWIydLV1Wpossmycs/s200/red_shoes_2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>We walked to the aforementioned ginormous shoe boutique, and, ignoring the wrath of boyfriends and husbands who chose to mill about the entrance of the warehouse on their cellphones doing time-killing cellphone things, I offered to help her find the shoes she wanted. I would walk down one aisle, her on another, and after finding something that matched her specifications (red in color, and that's basically the extent of it), would shout out, holding the prize in the air. She'd hold them in her hands for a microsecond, and tell me to keep searching. This went on for a little while, until we finally found the perfect shoes for the upcoming perfect evening.<br />
<br />
And then: disaster. After a quick breakfast, she received a call from her villainous sister, who told her she wasn't going to be able to pick up the Pixie's daughter from school because she had "stuff to do." Which meant that our day was to be cut obscenely short. I was devastated, but kept a positive face on. She became distraught...and again that <i>thing</i> flashed behind her eyes. My heart fell. I knew that Worry was going to wreak havoc upon her, and someday make her feel that she had to choose between family and me.<br />
<br />
************************<br />
<br />
We never saw each other again after that day, and ended things two weeks later. Our time together was brief, and long ago, and yet I have the most vivid recollections of her; for you see, February's sun won't ever let me forget.DAFPentangelihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07102015009918006038noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399841949332341611.post-40949433098015876482011-02-09T12:58:00.000-08:002011-02-09T13:54:27.287-08:00Ensign Samson<a href="http://www.puppiesforsale.com.au/images/breed/PomeranianL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.puppiesforsale.com.au/images/breed/PomeranianL.jpg" width="200" /></a>Los Angeles, CA 2004<br />
<br />
I was in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Star_Trek_The_Original_Series">The Original Series (TOS)</a> forum on startrek.com, when I came across a post someone made that the spanking-new DVD box sets were now available at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Costco">Costco</a>. 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 <i>and </i>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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
I was supposed to dog-sit Samson, my then-girlfriend's dog, and she expected me to not just watch him, but to <i>really </i>watch him, i.e. take him for walks, feed him his snooty dog food, and constantly massage his little legs (because they were prone to cramp up on occasion). Yes, my friends, during the time that she and I were dating, my middle name became "Emasculated," but I loved every inch of her, her every grunt and snarl, that I more often than not complied with her dog-centric requests.<br />
<br />
But first, a little about Samson: he's a toy <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pomeranian_(dog)">Pomeranian</a> who literally had a staring problem. For whatever reason, he really liked me, some might even venture to say that he loved me, and the dog liked to stare at my face. (I have that effect on strange animals, I suppose.) I was nice to him, mind you, but didn't go out of my way to get into his good graces. He used to sit still and just stare at me, waiting for me to make a move, any move, no matter how small. It was unnerving, but you get used to it. There was a particular night when my then-girlfriend (with Samson, of course), after a cozy dinner at my place, decided to stay the night, and it was now late -- I'm talking last-call late -- and she had since fallen asleep, while I was alone at my kitchen table writing something or other on my computer. And there, as usual, was Samson, sitting by my feet and staring up at me. But it was way past his bedtime, and the poor guy was sleepy, and despite his force of character, his teensy eyes were now slowly closing, his little head nodding to and fro. He was sitting there, falling asleep, waiting for me to make a move. I finally did- I picked him and let him fall asleep on my lap while I finished writing...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://img.amazon.ca/images/I/41CCC9QNB4L._SL500_AA300_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://img.amazon.ca/images/I/41CCC9QNB4L._SL500_AA300_.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>At any rate, I had a problem: how was I supposed to watch her dog on my day off, when I had some serious watching of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Star-Trek-Original-Complete-Season/dp/B0002I831S?ie=UTF8&tag=geeclofrosqut-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Classic Trek DVDs</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=geeclofrosqut-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B0002I831S" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important;" width="1" /> to do?<br />
<br />
Solution: I called her and told her to drop off Samson at my house at a slightly later time than the one we agreed upon. She frowned at me over the phone, but then I promised her the world, forever and ever, amen, and so she agreed, and hung up. I then whooshed my way to Costco, nabbed the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Star-Trek-Original-Complete-Season/dp/B0002I831S?ie=UTF8&tag=geeclofrosqut-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">DVDs</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=geeclofrosqut-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B0002I831S" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important;" width="1" />, whooshed back home, and prepared myself for Her Royal Highness' arrival (which wasn't very long after I'd returned). As soon as she closed the door behind her, Samson looked up at me, and I looked down upon him, and I attempted, through my returning stare, and with every fiber of my being, to communicate to him to please, PLEASE be a quiet doggy, and to PLEASE play with all of the expensive doggy toys I've bought for him over the months that have now been gathering dust. And to please let these next few hours be calm ones, and allow me to spend them unfettered with the televised adventures of Captain Kirk, Mr Spock, Bones, and the rest of my friends from the <i>USS Enterprise</i>, and that if he would do so, that I would give him the rank of <b>Ensign</b>, and that I will never, ever forget him.<br />
<br />
He did, and I never will.DAFPentangelihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07102015009918006038noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399841949332341611.post-37327752390283627692011-01-20T16:59:00.000-08:002011-01-21T10:50:29.197-08:00Star Trek Convention, Las Vegas: August 2010 Part II<span id="wylio-flickr-image-5037732191" style="display: block; float: left; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; position: relative; width: 116px;"><img alt="Patrick Stewart Met Opera 2010 Shankbone" height="155" src="http://img.wylio.com/flickr/116/5037732191" style="border: none; margin: 0; padding: 0;" title="Patrick Stewart Met Opera 2010 Shankbone - photo by: David Shankbone, Source: Flickr, found with Wylio.com" width="116" /><span class="wylio-credits" id="wylio-flickr-credits-5037732191" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; clear: both; color: #aaaaaa; float: left; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; width: 100%;"><span class="photoby" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 2px; padding-left: 2px; padding-right: 2px; padding-top: 2px;"><span style="display: block; float: left; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">photo © 2010 <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/27865228@N06" style="color: #aaaaaa; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank" title="click to visit the Flickr profile page for David Shankbone">David Shankbone</a> | <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/27865228@N06/5037732191" style="color: #aaaaaa; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank" title="get more information about the photo 'Patrick Stewart Met Opera 2010 Shankbone'">more info </a></span><span style="display: block; float: right; margin-left: 5px;"><strong style="margin: 0;">(via: <a href="http://wylio.com/" style="color: #aaaaaa; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank" title="free pictures">Wylio</a>)</strong></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<b>Saturday night.</b><br />
<br />
"Are you going to get Patrick Stewart's autograph tomorrow?" she asked me.<br />
<br />
"No," I replied. "I get too embarrassed with the whole autograph-asking thing."<br />
<br />
"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..."<br />
<br />
(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 <i>crazy</i> glint in her eye. I know <i>crazy</i>: I've worked with <i>crazy,</i> I've talked to <i>crazy,</i> I've loved <i>crazy,</i> so I'm a bit of an expert on <i>crazy,</i> and this woman didn't seem looney-tunes. And yet.)<br />
<br />
This conversation between her and I was taking place at the <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/spacequest-bar-las-vegas">Space Quest Bar</a>, located inside the Hilton Hotel, and near to where <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Star_Trek:_The_Experience">Star Trek: The Experience</a> 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.<br />
<br />
We weren't the first.<br />
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There were other names on that sad, flimsy drywall— names that literally spanned the four corners of the globe. There were names I couldn't pronounce, a few were barely legible. And while some of the names were of individuals wishing one and all a <a href="http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/live-long-and-prosper.html">prosperous and long life</a>, most of the names were of collectives; groups of friends who chose to be immortalized together, as well as names of families, with infantile-scribbling towards the bottom of the wall, ostensibly done by kids who were allowed to do their stuff. Yet there were more than names on that wall: there were also drawings and poetry, with a smattering of quirky stickers and mysterious post-it notes. But, yes, it was the names that stood out to me. A heartbreaking amount of names.<br />
<br />
*********************<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://en.academic.ru/pictures/enwiki/68/DeannaTroi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://en.academic.ru/pictures/enwiki/68/DeannaTroi.jpg" width="163" /></a></div>The future Mrs Stewart was into cosplay ( "cosplay," for those who don't know, is one who wears a costume based on a sci-fi, anime/manga, or fantasy character, and if they have the sartorial skills to unleash their vision, create their own costumes by hand, which she claims to have done) and was wearing the asymmetrical green/teal dress that Deanna Troi, the exotic ship's counselor from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Star-Trek-Next-Generation-Complete/dp/B000063V8T?ie=UTF8&tag=geeclofrosqut-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Star Trek: The Next Generation</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=geeclofrosqut-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B000063V8T" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important;" width="1" />, wore on seasons 4 and 5. The costume was spot-on, and I told her so, to which she replied:<br />
<br />
"Why, thank you! I hope that Patrick likes it."<br />
<br />
She wouldn't drop this "Patrick Stewart" business, which meant that there will be no invitation for her to come back to my hotel room that night. There began within me a burgeoning sense of sorrow for her and her quest. And yet now I question if it was for her, or for the Wall of <s>Heartache</s> Tears that covered the now-empty Experience. The all-encompassing memory of that Las Vegas attraction at its heyday was powerful voodoo; it was in the air, and one couldn't walk away unmoved by the words and sketches on that wall that unitedly mourned a place that shone brightly for years, and then...blinked out.<br />
<br />
********************<br />
<br />
I said goodbye to "Mrs Stewart," wishing her luck. I don't know if she ever did ask the British actor out on a date, nor do I know if, after all of these months, that wall is still standing. My friend took a picture of our names on that wall -- I still have it somewhere -- and it is the one photo I own that is truly "worth a thousand words."DAFPentangelihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07102015009918006038noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399841949332341611.post-2838533419842420772011-01-12T12:59:00.000-08:002011-01-12T12:59:20.588-08:00Earring<span id="wylio-flickr-image-4564506454" style="display: block; float: left; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; position: relative; width: 120px;"><img alt="Diamond Earring Product Shot" height="120" src="http://img.wylio.com/flickr/120/4564506454" style="border: none; margin: 0; padding: 0;" title="Diamond Earring Product Shot - photo by: Spotlight Forest, Source: Flickr, found with Wylio.com" width="120" /><span class="wylio-credits" id="wylio-flickr-credits-4564506454" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; clear: both; color: #aaaaaa; float: left; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; width: 100%;"><span class="photoby" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 2px; padding-left: 2px; padding-right: 2px; padding-top: 2px;"><span style="display: block; float: left; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">photo © 2009 <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/42678411@N03" style="color: #aaaaaa; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank" title="click to visit the Flickr profile page for Spotlight Forest">Spotlight Forest</a> | <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/42678411@N03/4564506454" style="color: #aaaaaa; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank" title="get more information about the photo 'Diamond Earring Product Shot'">more info </a></span><span style="display: block; float: right; margin-left: 5px;"><strong style="margin: 0;">(via: <a href="http://wylio.com/" style="color: #aaaaaa; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank" title="free pictures">Wylio</a>)</strong></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Shaw_wine">swill.</a> 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."<br />
<br />
An <a href="http://www.oenologist.com/index.html">oenologist</a> she most certainly was not!<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Florence, your mama, was introduced to me via a mutual friend who has now gone the way of the Crazy. Yes, "crazy:" it means that the mutual friend is no longer a friend, because she went crazy on me, as I've never had the patience for lady-friends who kick in with the demands. Why demand things from me that my guy-friends don't? Why this special treatment? And why am I even talking about the mutual friend? Quit distracting me.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://powerstates.com/wp-content/uploads/family-200x200.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://powerstates.com/wp-content/uploads/family-200x200.gif" width="200" /></a>Right. So, Florence was a couple of years older than me, and if god protected fools, little children, and ships named <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/character/ch0001475/quotes">Enterprise,</a></i> then god must have been pulling overtime protecting that clumsy-dunce of a woman. Doubt me, do you? Well, for starters, and this is only a comment on aesthetics, Earring, she didn't need tattoos (and I happen to like tattoos, mind you) to decorate her body, because she had an almost-infinite number of bruises and scrapes all over her skin, direct results from her drinking, and yet worked as an Emergency Room nurse! Didn't her supervisors know about her bumbling boozy ways? It makes me wonder about the sanity of the system, Earring. It makes me think that there is no line to cross, that nothing is protecting us; I now see that the Plan wasn't to include humanity (yes, and jewelry, too) in the <s>Heavens</s> cosmos at all. But now that we are here, why, we're feed for Universal Yuks. Fodder for the Cosmic Crack-up. Big Fun with Billions of Fools.<br />
<br />
Holy Light, but I'm rambling! Okay: your mama and I, in the beginning at least, found each other to be fun-drunks. She lived in the Central California region, and she'd drive down after her final shift of the week to stay at my place for a couple of days. This arrangement lasted for a few weeks. We'd sit around, nude (yes, I know I mentioned the nude thing before, but I actually liked seeing her nude, as she was athletic, and had the whole tanned-and-toned thing going on, scabs and gashes notwithstanding), snapping scenario-photos of my Star Trek action figures with our cell phones' cameras. She was partial to <span id="goog_1376983664"></span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Nemesis-Captain-Jean-Luc-Picard-Figure/dp/B000068CSQ?ie=UTF8&tag=geeclofrosqut-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Picard,</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=geeclofrosqut-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B000068CSQ" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important;" width="1" /><span id="goog_1376983665"></span> while I like to give <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Star-Trek-Original-Captain-Chair/dp/B000GQ0WOM?ie=UTF8&tag=geeclofrosqut-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Kirk</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=geeclofrosqut-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B000GQ0WOM" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important;" width="1" /> all of the glory poses: here we were, Earring, grown adults, drunk as lords, taking action shots of dolls! Not my shiniest of moments, my little diamond-studded friend...<br />
<br />
At any rate, I don't remember the exact details of our calling it quits. Truly, the specifics are fuzzy, but I know that I called my buddy Sven to come over, to help me get rid of her, as she was a graceless lush, and had knocked over my bookcase (!) for the last time. I vaguely remember me telling her that Sven would be a better romantic match for her — oh, the look she gave me, Earring, with so much surprise and pain — and that after she kissed him in front of me, he complained to me in sotto voce that she tasted like "rusty nickels." That I remember clearly. More wine was poured, and promises were given. He left after she fiendishly feigned control over her maladroit mannerisms, but then she immediately started up again, shouting at me with the force of someone who has been shouting at people for so many years (and for so many reasons). I shouted back at her, and so on and so forth, and roll end credits.<br />
<br />
No, no, I don't know what your mama is up to these days, but you know what? I bet your sister is here somewhere, Earring— let me see if I can find her for you. Would you like that? Thought you would.DAFPentangelihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07102015009918006038noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399841949332341611.post-49887281686777182212011-01-04T12:01:00.000-08:002011-01-04T12:01:25.725-08:00Amoeba Records, Los Angeles, California, 2004<span id="wylio-flickr-image-4354360681" style="display: block; float: left; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; position: relative; width: 134px;"><img alt="Jack's 14th Birthday trip to Amoeba Records" height="200" src="http://img.wylio.com/flickr/134/4354360681" style="border: none; margin: 0; padding: 0;" title="Jack's 14th Birthday trip to Amoeba Records - photo by: Fred Rockwood, Source: Flickr, found with Wylio.com" width="134" /><span class="wylio-credits" id="wylio-flickr-credits-4354360681" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; clear: both; color: #aaaaaa; float: left; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; width: 100%;"><span class="photoby" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 2px; padding-left: 2px; padding-right: 2px; padding-top: 2px;"><span style="display: block; float: left; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">photo © 2010 <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/44356659@N00" style="color: #aaaaaa; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank" title="click to visit the Flickr profile page for Fred Rockwood">Fred Rockwood</a> | <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/44356659@N00/4354360681" style="color: #aaaaaa; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank" title="get more information about the photo 'Jack's 14th Birthday trip to Amoeba Records'">more info </a></span><span style="display: block; float: right; margin-left: 5px;"><strong style="margin: 0;">(via: <a href="http://wylio.com/" style="color: #aaaaaa; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank" title="free pictures">Wylio</a>)</strong></span></span></span></span><br />
Spring. <br />
<br />
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 <a href="http://www.drinksmixer.com/drink644.html">"The Red-headed Slut"</a>), 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 -- <br />
<br />
Damn, a customer was walking up to her counter, and she had to go into cashier-mode.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
He had what-looked-like-DVD box sets under his hand — she couldn't make out what they were of (movies? TV?), but seeing them reminded her that she had recently lent her sister a <i>Friends</i> DVD box set, and that started to send her back to the swirly, dark scenarios that had been going through her head just a second ago. As he stepped up to the counter, she could smell a little alcohol on his breath. Come on, fella, please don't be an ass and draw this out, she thought to herself.<br />
<br />
And then she noticed what the DVDs were: <i>Star Trek. </i><br />
<br />
You noticed that, did you? said the Boozy Customer Guy. (Did she really just say that out loud? She really needs to stop doing that.)<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfRVChMqZxd03eWqdYk2BNAK7xMEom0x7uDTzl4sHssMTyGGCSHfRO0kM8yKTUzbSR_yK5QRrkfBp8toclOxlvsHedqK_fDI3yVxETKHwf1YioynNbFYv4MBhW_B80ap-snINqJHFpXPTN/s1600/Red+Star+Trek+TNG+JPEG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfRVChMqZxd03eWqdYk2BNAK7xMEom0x7uDTzl4sHssMTyGGCSHfRO0kM8yKTUzbSR_yK5QRrkfBp8toclOxlvsHedqK_fDI3yVxETKHwf1YioynNbFYv4MBhW_B80ap-snINqJHFpXPTN/s200/Red+Star+Trek+TNG+JPEG.jpg" width="200" /></a>She tried to make the usual cashier/customer banter go quicker than usual (I mean, this old guy is in his 30s. And he's drunk at, like, three in the afternoon.) So, she just smiled at him, nodding her head as she was finishing up ringing up the purchase. She looked up at him, and told him the total, and he gave her a big smile, as if he conquered something, or had some sort of victory. It was a strange look. Not bad strange, just strange. As he was reaching for his wallet, he started to tell her that, yes, indeed, the DVDs were "Star Trek," but not the older stuff — you know, with Kirk and Spock, he said — but the newer series, <i>The Next Generation,</i> and that he hadn't watched all of the episodes while the show was running back in the early 90s, because at the time, he went on, he was a bit of Young Turk (<a href="http://www.thefreedictionary.com/Young+Turk">whatever that means</a>), and was always running around, and drinking (which she could believe). He went on: I was having too many relationships that ended badly, and not enough that were worth a damn. And then he said something that kind of stuck out in her mind: <br />
<br />
I was breaking hearts so that they couldn't see that mine was all gone, he said.<br />
<br />
It made her feel... weird. Sister. Bank. Red-headed slut: Not really at the forefront of her mind at this moment. She was here, with this Boozy Customer guy, his eyes full of winking and fun, and she couldn't resist asking him if he was still up to his old "Young Turk" tricks. He laughed, recognizing the state he was in, and how he must look to her, and kept smiling. She was putting his cash into her register, realizing that he was actually excited to buy these <i>Star Trek</i> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Star-Trek-Next-Generation-Complete/dp/B00005Y1NF/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&qid=1294168502&sr=8-5">DVDs</a>, and was probably going to go right back to his place, crack open a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_Daniel's">bottle</a>, and watch those episodes, one right after the other, deep into late night. She thought it was... strange, but not bad strange. She looked up to see her sister walking towards the counter (which surprised her- she thought her sister would be her usual late-self), and then turned to see the Boozy Customer Guy wave to her and leave. Her sister, after arriving at the counter, took a beat, and then asked:<br />
<br />
Who was that guy?DAFPentangelihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07102015009918006038noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399841949332341611.post-89826655755576195432010-12-27T20:59:00.000-08:002011-01-04T11:09:49.837-08:00The Foothills of Southern California, 1996.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://filelibrary.myaasite.com/Content/24/24741/14443251.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://filelibrary.myaasite.com/Content/24/24741/14443251.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />
Winter.<br />
<br />
For the last few months, or more specifically, since he started dating The Harpy, every time we'd enter my friend Jeff's <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jaguar_XJ#Series_3_.281979.E2.80.931992.29">vintage Jaguar</a>, he'd always say the same thing: I can't afford this thing anymore. To which I'd respond with something like, Why in Hades did you buy it?<br />
<br />
My friend Jeff: A world-class boozer, fluent in Blarney, but a little too worried about how he was perceived. He started leasing the Jaguar to give him a green-colored chariot of respectability as he parked his car on the parking lots of prospective customers. He was a pharmaceutical supply salesman whose career was now on shaky ground; he talked a good game, but lately hasn't been able to seal the deal, and he figured that the car would grease the wheels of wealth. But his car-tactic was a failure— his debts were suddenly starting to grow like hyperactive-mold on rotten fruit, and now his girlfriend, The Harpy, was demanding he buy Christmas gifts for her two kids because their dad was a deadbeat. <br />
<br />
Now, this particular night was to be our <i>Pre-Christmas Drinking Night</i>, consisting of Chivas Regal on the rocks, beer chasers, and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Every-Day-Was-Like-Christmas/dp/B000002WR7/ref=sr_1_8?ie=UTF8&qid=1293508082&sr=8-8">Elvis Presley Christmas cassette tapes</a>, but now we had to shop for, and then drop off, the oodles and oodles of gifts for The Harpy, her kids, and, to cover all the angles, her mother.<br />
<a name='more'></a> <br />
I wasn't particularly fond of his girlfriend before, but now I liked her even less, and even went so far as to tell him that she'd end up killing his soul in the end. These car payments are the ones that are killing me, he responded, staring accusingly at his dashboard.<br />
<br />
After a lengthy good-bye to The Harpy (she thought I was an good influence on Jeff, which made me loathe her all the more), we went to the liquor store, picked up our supplies, and started to drive to my house, ready for the King to warble those sweet, Christmas tunes that I needed to hear to make the Holiday come alive. But Jeff had other ideas: he wanted to take a drive through <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Foothills_of_California">the Foothills</a> first. I didn't know why, and he wouldn't communicate his reasoning to me, but I went along for the ride. He finally stopped at a spot that overlooked the tall, dark hills, and turned off the ignition. Elvis was still singing about a child on a manger on the car's tape deck, and as I rolled down the windows I was immediately hit by the sticky-sweet scent of the virginal trees. <br />
<br />
And it was at this moment that my stalwart friend, and fellow booze-hound, broke down into tears. He couldn't take the mounting finances that he felt were crushing him. He turned to me and asked if I'd help him get rid of his car miseries, once and for all: he wanted me to help him push his car over the ridge, so that he could claim the insurance. <br />
<br />
I took a breath, and told him that I wouldn't help him: Let's just go back to my place, I told him, and drink on this. We can figure this out — we HAVE to — because if I help you with this right now, both of our souls will go down with this damned vehicle.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcPO3FCDKNPCrMiCsRg-CeoArkRlgOhho3FXcecC9JyxVaQYtBEOVgNdtVoU-kC4DKP7n6GdZFWmgBd9Wt6LdDKnWtXwGSfTlZMfww19dwZGQYVLscVOF7vff-NX6WLxPts2nNGowizbLT/s1600/beautiful-roads-20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="429" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcPO3FCDKNPCrMiCsRg-CeoArkRlgOhho3FXcecC9JyxVaQYtBEOVgNdtVoU-kC4DKP7n6GdZFWmgBd9Wt6LdDKnWtXwGSfTlZMfww19dwZGQYVLscVOF7vff-NX6WLxPts2nNGowizbLT/s1600/beautiful-roads-20.jpg" width="600" /></a></div><br />
The drive back to my house was silent; only Elvis dared break it. As the road changed from hushed fauna, to sporadic streetlights, and then civilization, I remembered when I first met him months ago, and on how I was struck by the look of desperation in his eyes, despite his free-wheeling and fancy-free ways. He bought us all drinks on that first meeting, but I never could reconcile the anguish with the generosity. So you can imagine my horror when years later, after a particular rambunctious evening of revelry, I awoke to look in my spotted bathroom mirror, and see the same look staring right back at me.DAFPentangelihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07102015009918006038noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399841949332341611.post-10936365460164294582010-12-16T12:41:00.000-08:002011-01-04T11:10:48.585-08:00Star Trek Convention, Las Vegas: August 2010<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1144/1366577917_595889eb5a.jpg?v=0" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="500" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1144/1366577917_595889eb5a.jpg?v=0" width="333" /></a></div><br />
Wednesday.<br />
<br />
I decided that after the long drive, I'd unwind for a moment in my <a href="http://www.lvhilton.com/">hotel room</a> and perhaps take a look at the view I was promised (it faced their emerald-green golf course), but the thing I most wanted to do was swim in the hotel's pool.<br />
<br />
I can't remember the last time I swam in a pool. We didn't have a swimming pool at our house growing up, but I had a cousin who did, and in those days being a welcome house guest, I'd visit him frequently and, consequently, would swim often.<br />
<br />
I was a pretty good swimmer in my youth. I wasn't bulky enough for football, and while I had some skill at basketball, I frankly didn't much care for organized sports. Swimming was an invigorating, solitary experience: being an astute fellow who paid attention to science class, and filled with the knowledge of the human body's relation to it, I felt as if I was conquering the very element of water itself.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3120/3212438828_e1e1231707.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="334" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3120/3212438828_e1e1231707.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
In my adult years, most of the pool parties I was invited to were instances of me indulging in the "party" part of the event, and I have since left the "pool" aspect of it for the brave and the fool-hardy. <br />
<br />
[Things I purchased for this trip: extra toothbrush, travel-sized deodorant, "medicinal" tea bags, and swim trunks]<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/49/147669222_29936d9bb2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="500" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/49/147669222_29936d9bb2.jpg" width="375" /></a></div><br />
But of course, planning on making the first evening in Vegas a serene and calm one was an exercise in futility.<br />
<a name='more'></a>I walked into my room, tossed my bags on the bed, looked out the window (and ho hum'd the "emerald-green" golf course, as I'm not an avid golfer), put on a fresh shirt, and went to the casino bar Space Quest, which is situated near the former location of the <a href="http://vernonwilmervideo.blip.tv/">much-lamented</a> <a href="http://memory-alpha.org/wiki/Star_Trek:_The_Experience">Star Trek: The Experience</a>.<br />
<br />
There was to be a meet-up with other folks who used social networks (i.e. Twitter), and who listened to Trek-themed podcasts (i.e. <a href="http://www.trekcast.com/">Trekcast</a>), and a good time was to be had by all. I knew about this meet-up in advance, and expected to attend.<br />
<br />
I had Heineken beers to drink that night, and stayed away from the hard liquor. And I got tipsy faster than usual, because, after close to two decades of constant drinking and philandering, I hadn't had a drop of alcohol for two months prior to this trip, and the booze now buzzed around my cranium like so many irritated bees. So much for the pool...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1320/1445959043_557d5b9338.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="375" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1320/1445959043_557d5b9338.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
Indeed, I decided this is as good a place as any to start this journey into the Blogosphere, where years of me splashing around in an altogether different sort of liquid have taken its toll; where I realize that the years ahead of me are more than likely shorter than the years behind; where I will probably reveal more of myself than some might expect; where I recognize that while other men my age have their pre-midlife crisis filled with young women, fast cars, and martinis, I seem to be having mine filled with sci-fi conventions, genre movies & television, and a gradual shying away from the world-renown Los Angeles night life.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.arborius.net/~jphekman/b5/koshisms.html">And so it begins.</a>DAFPentangelihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07102015009918006038noreply@blogger.com3