serinde

Sunday was perhaps not the best day to go; there wasn't a lot going on other than the dealers' room and Land of Signings. Now, the shopping was tolerably good--I got several things I lacked at bargain prices--but it would have been nice to see panels or talks or some such. Also, the place was very ill-organized, and the maps they put in the "program" were next to useless. I realize the organizers were probably exceedingly hard up for space, but a place where you could just sit down and gather your thoughts for a second would have been worth its weight in gold.

In spite of this moderate amount of meh, nevertheless I am full of OMG SQUEE that is beyond the SQUEE I can ordinarily SQUEE. As we were getting ready to leave, I noted that the press around Darwyn Cooke's table had finally let up, so I swam my way over. I didn't have anything for him to sign (or anyone else, not having my thinking cap on this morning) but I really wanted to tell him how much I was enjoying his work on The Spirit, and to thank him for doing it. So I did, in my usual tongue-tied and stuttering fashion as comes upon me whenever I meet A Famous Person. He smiled and thanked me, and said that was very sweet of me; and as I embarrassedly ducked my head and thanked him again, he said "Oh what the heck" and GAVE ME A COPY OF THE BEAUTIFUL HARDCOVER of the first several issues. I melted into Happy Tears and incoherent thanks, and floated out of the building.

Current Mood: giddy

elibalin and I are going to the comics con today. Will probably be there in the 10-5 range if you want to meet up; text me. And I can tell that I am utterly damaged because I am fretting about what to wear. As

dariodevil put it yesterday, "the neckbeards won't notice anything but your breasts anyways". (He is not going, as some sort of masochistic exercise.)

...I just discovered that feeding "Nerd Prom" into Wikipedia does, in fact, take you to the San Diego Comic-Con page. <3

Edit: For those with a deep emotional involvement in my quandary--I think I've gotta wear my Suicide Squid t-shirt. OBSCURER THAN THOU, motherfuckers!

I posted Craigslist and Petfinder ads to try and find homes for the aforementioned four cats, as Beth said she had a great deal of luck using those sites to home the various lawn cats she'd civilized. But every single ping so far has been an opening to a scam attempt, and a lame one at that. Yes, I find myself utterly taken in by your ill-spelt offer to send me a cashier's check to adopt a pet from New Jersey when you live in Utah! Fucking worthless parasitical morons; I hope you all die of pustulating venereal disease. STOP WASTING MY TIME.

If I had All The Money In The World, I would go around tracking these people down and punching each one carefully and thoroughly in the face, a la "Jay And Silent Bob Strike Back".

Current Mood: aggravated

Tagged by

tactisle for this one (well, okay, I ran into his outstretched palm). Ping here to be forced to explain six of your own icons.

Forthwith, his curiosities:

This is a magnet I picked up at the Imperial War Museum when Steve and I were in London. I just loved it to bits; it sums up exactly what the Nice Cup of Tea is about, for me, and it represents gathering my energies and/or thoughts for the next wave of action. A Post-12 Recovery Phase, if you will.

A rare color picture of Clara Bow. I came across it when we were looking for old-timey pictures to represent our characters in Steve's Call of Cthulhu campaign. Though I in no way resemble the divine Ms. Bow, nor can I hope to, the picture encapsulates the allure of glamour, fashion, and elegance.

This is a panel from the pinnacle of Frank Miller's unparalleled run on Daredevil, the story arc called "Born Again". I have

dariodevil to thank, of course, for introducing me to this most excellent work. This particular panel takes place after DD has fought a semi-super-soldier called Nuke, who is a juiced-up psychotic hyper-patriot (he has the American flag tattooed on his face) used by elements within the military for serious dirty work. Captain America is following up to find out who this Nuke guy is. And so he asks... This, I felt, perfectly encapsulated how I feel about the way our country and its very real, very important values & purposes are being utterly debased by vile people who are wrapping themselves in the flag and calling everyone else traitors.

Happier matters: my maneki neko mug! I saw this at an Asian imports store (they mostly carry jewelry, really nice stuff at that; I have several pieces from them) and fell instantly in love. I love the way it fits my hand; I love the feel of the pottery; and I am inordinately fond of fortune cats. It makes me happy in every possible way, far beyond what a chunk of clay should.

This is not the Hulk. It's J'onn J'onzz, the Martian Manhunter, who is (among other things) a shapeshifter. This particular image is from a plotline during the storied Giffen/DeMatteis Justice League International era, in which J'onn gets dependent on ~~Oreos~~ Chocos. Booster & Beetle, being their usual impish selves, hide his stash, sending one of the most powerful sentients on the DC Earth on a rampage. Hilarity ensues. What better to signify my self-control and impulse issues?

Oh, Murdoc... It's undoubtedly very, very wrong to have a crush, however brief, on an entirely fictional and fairly vile character. But when the video for Clint Eastwood hit, we were all completely blown away; and in that vulnerable state, my yen for The Wrong Kind Of Guy took hold. I got better quick enough. But, Murdoc's attitude was just about right for a FOAD icon (though it was harder than I thought to find an image where he actually looks cranky).

The corner of 78th and York. I'm getting ready to cross York to head down to the river. The light is just about to turn in my favor, but there is a fire engine coming down the avenue all blarin' and flashin', so I maintain position on the curb. The usual few taxis try and dash in front of it, to the usual annoyed ear-splitting horn BLATT. I see, on the curb catty-corner from me, an elderly woman starting across the street. It looks as if she's aware of the fire truck, but is moving up to the edge of traffic in that unique aggressively-nonchalant New York fashion.

Instead, she starts going out into the intersection. Fire truck screeches to a halt, blows its horn. She visibly startles, and steps back.

There is a pause.

AND SHE STARTS ACROSS THE INTERSECTION AGAIN.

I stare agog. The other pedestrians stare agog. The fireman at the wheel stares agog, as his sirens continue to roar.

After she finishes her leisurely stroll, and the truck continues on its way, I start to cross the street, shaking my head. I catch the eye of a fellow crossing in the other direction, who has an identical expression on his face, and we have a Moment of Shared WTF, half-laughing, half-stunned.

Current Music: The Decembrists, "Yankee Bayonet"

I've been feeling a bit constrained in my workly garb of late (usually dress slacks, and a blouse or button-down shirt of some kind)--and I feel a touch overdressed by turns, compared to my colleagues--so I pushed the envelope a bit last week. I dug out an old favorite (which had been put away when I went up in size, and it now fits again, YAY) that some of you will have seen: black turtleneck under a brown plaid wool jumper. (...That is, American-style jumper, you right-pondians; I did not go to work clad in nothing but a sweater. kthxbye.) Now, I had been accustomed to accessorizing this a la Mod with torn fishnets, black rubber clogs, my London Underground lunchbox-purse, either a Hello Kitty necklace or my heavy locking chain, and if I wanted to really make Steve uncomfortable with the schoolgirl imagery I'd do my hair in twin braids; but none of this seemed appropriate for $CURRENT-ORK. So instead: black silk leggings, black leather ankle boots, tasteful white-gold necklace, and regular purse. (I did forget that it looks even better if I wear my glasses instead of contacts. Well, next time.)

I thought it struck a tolerably good balance between self-expression and professionality. (I also got a compliment from one of my officemates, viz. "Work that miniskirt, girl!". *smug*)

ObMusic: iTunes appears to be as psychic as my MP3 player.

Current Music: Oingo Boingo, "Wild Sex In The Working Class"

This diet business still seems to be working. Bataan Power Walks during lunch are apparently enough to keep my metabolism awake (though the lack of aikido is starting to tell in stiffness and backaches). Another pair of new slacks are somewhat loose now. Wherein I realize a truth: although women's dress pants may have belt loops, they are functionally useless. The waistband is usually cut to ride low, or even slant slightly down, so trying to wear a belt with them doesn't work right at all. (Aside from the fact that, depending on your blouse, it may deform the line somewhat.) WHY DO THEY BOTHER?

I need more skirts. Beth is eager to teach me patternmaking, particularly for skirts which she says are easy and fun, but I have sworn I'm going to clear off a bunch of my sewing obligations before I start any new projects. And I have a lot of them.

We are trying to find homes for four (adult, male, neutered, currently indoor, with-claws, people-friendly) cats. Two are the former Panix office cats; they are brothers--enormous mellow lazy white beasts with a few grey spots (though they kept the office rodent-free for a number of years, in spite of their indolence). The other two are former lawn cats of Beth's, and are black-and-white Jellicle cats: unrelated, though they look like they could be littermates. One is a husky, handsome tuxedo boy and quite a Cat About Town; would probably be happiest as an only cat, where he can hog all the attention, but has been getting along with the others without too much fuss. The other is born to be a lolcat--definitely the class clown, and with absolutely hilarious expressions. He's also more energetic than the others, and is prone to just randomly running around from time to time.

If you need a cat, or know someone who needs a cat, or anything, please post here or email me. I'm willing to drive them a fair way, so don't count yourself out even if you're not in the NYC metro area.

Current Mood: harried

elibalin forwarded me this for my morning insanity. (Work-safe, possibly not brain-safe.) It depicts the waterski show at the Ohio Sea World in the summer of 1977--they had one every year, but changed the "skin", as it were, periodically. (E.g., another one was a sort of hillbilly feud theme.)

It is almost a certainty that I saw this. Since Aurora is only about 40 minutes away, our family went to Sea World every summer without fail. BUT I DON'T REMEMBER IT, because at age 4, my attention extended to the kiddie playgrounds, the dolphin petting pool, and Shamu. A gloriously ridiculous memory and it is NOT MINE.

Got an update from Mom. Grandma's gotten much worse psycho-emotionally again (though by turns, she has times of realizing that she's unclear on a lot of what is reality and what is not--is that better, or worse?) and now, as a result, she's declining physically. It doesn't help that her therapy has been declared Complete and so they won't be doing anything to help maintain her physical self.

Not sure what happens next. No idea how long a person's mind, body, and spirit can sustain in this kind of state.

Current Mood: woeful

( It started in the A/V room... )

(Confession--it was actually Nobu Next Door. Same kitchen & chef, though.) Forthwith, the omakase (tasting menu):

1st Course: Toro tartare with caviar in wasabi sauce, with a yamamomo garnish.

2nd Course: West Coast oysters seared in sesame oil, with citrus soy sauce, over a cucumber salad.

3rd Course: Baby yellowtail [this had a Japanese name I am not remembering] sashimi on a bed of organic cilantro, with soy-onion vinaigrette.

4th Course: Lobster tempura with ponzu sauce over mesclun.

5th Course: Sea bass marinated and then seared, over...something which I was too tipsy to properly write down...with foie gras on top, in sweet miso sauce. [This is a Nobu signature dish, we were told. I see why.]

6th Course: Sushi! One piece each of salmon, toro, baby yellowtail, mackerel, and a Japanese red snapper that also had a different name which escaped me. And a cup of miso soup with clams in it.

Dessert: Green tea ice cream and the most darkity dark dark chocolate souffle that ever darked.

I chose the wine, a Sancerre. Went well with all courses.

Everything was as astoundingly good as you might expect from a place with a reputation like Nobu's. Each course that arrived, I thought couldn't possibly be matched--and then was. The only exception was dessert: it was outstanding, and I appreciated it, but it wasn't quite to my taste as I am not a fan of super-dark chocolate. (It made

audiovile excessively happy, though.)

That shit nearly done filled up, yo. Nothing left but King-size rooms. Book now or be staying in Outer Bumblefuck again.

(I am trying to get a suite for

b00jum's hail-and-farewell bash, but I may have left it too late. Should have remembered that this particular venue has a, shall we say, accelerated and narrower window of opportunity.)

It is 7am, and the sun is not up, and it is drenching rain. I am still feeling woozy from a staggeringly successful night out with

audiovile in honor of our anniversary (Nobu + Brandy Library = OH MY HEAD). Why is my ass not still passed out in bed? Because I am trysted, agreed, and determined to go to a textile schola today, and it is in ~~Outer FuckYouistan~~ Flemington, wherever the shit that is (answer: almost in Pennsylvania), and the class I most want to go to starts at 9:30.

WHER MI COFFEEEE

( This is unusually spiritual and, possibly, pretentious; but important to my brane, so. )

I overslept this morning, and am running late, and have 20 minutes to get dressed and have breakfast and get out the door; but there is a happy drooling kitty on my lap who I'm getting insufficient quality time with and every time I offer to move he looks up at me with his so-contented face and purr-wheeze-drools at me and I am helpless.

He knows this, of course. I am being played like an old fiddle.

Current Mood: content

I've ended up heavily involved in the Shiny New Website for our department, and what this is making abundantly clear to me is that I'm the functional equivalent of the oldsters who would call up $JOB-1 for support because they want to see their grandchildren's pictures on the Googles, and they know a computer is involved but that's about it. There are all sorts of concepts involving information design that are wholly oceanus incognitus for me: words like "wireframe" and "workflow" swirl around me like riptide currents. I am managing to keep my face mostly above water, though. Mostly.

Also, it is strange having to do with a WYSIWYG CMS thingy instead of just banging out a bunch of HTML tags in emacs. I mean, it's not just the fact that you make clicky for boldtext, but the whole difference in what a page or other elements might actually consist of. Not being able to directly manipulate files is turning my world upside-down.

Finally, I have been introduced to Software That Makes Pretty Graphs And Charts. I spent the afternoon making a charty thing. It looks...chartlike. Considering the software is Microsoft spooge, I think that probably constitutes a win.

We have a spare ticket for Blade Runner: The Final Cut at 8:30pm tonight. Post here or mail me if you want it.

Current Mood: late

I'd intended to go to aikido after work today, but was in meetings until 5:30, so that was not going to happen. I scrambled and ran and just made the 6:13 train home--at the cost of sweaty dishevelment; I do not mean the sexy kind--and nearly lost my wallet at Secaucus junction. Indeed, I did lose it except that a kind person stopped me and pointed it out. (Side rant: My sistren, it is by means of our dress clothes that Man is keeping us down. Until we have useable pockets, we will continue to be the moral equivalent of barefoot & pregnant.)

Finally got home...whereupon I realized that my keys were not in my purse. For the first time in six months. And also, the first time in six months that neither

audiovile nor

naudia were home, nor were going to be for hours. The garage happened to be unlocked, so I got out my bike--mind you, it is dark, and I am still in dress slacks and a blouse--and rode the 2 miles to

sweh's house to pick up his key. (Also, he fed me, comforted me, and let me rant, because he is loving and clever and supportive and other good things.) I only nearly died of stupid drivers twice. It would have been better if I could've taken my Burning Man bike, which is festooned with EL wire, but the tires were flat and the only pump we have runs off the car battery, aheheheheh.

Iz can be bed tiem now plz.

Went with Beth last night (tix were a combined birthday/Xmas present for her, as she is enormous Springsteen fan). I can't think when I've ever seen a show with that much pure energy. Absolutely fucking fantastic.

And if you're going to see him, it goes without saying that the place to see him is in New Jersey. Because every one of those 20,000 people bellowing about Highway 9, you know they mean it.

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serinde

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