L o b a B l a n c a {dot} c o m

Loba plans and the Prophets laugh. I had places to go, people to do today. Instead, I’m sitting inside, watching as the “one inch” of snow that the meteorologists said we were going to get has transformed into multiple inches. I know a lot of girls who would get excited over more inches than originally promised. I’m not that girl.

I’m also apparently incredibly dirty-minded. I do apologize. However, I never said that Loba’s online lair was kid-tested and mother-approved.

So I remembered another dream. Not that big a deal to most people, I’m sure. However, Loba very rarely retains memories of dreams. For a long time I thought that I didn’t dream at all. Then Dr. Crusher and Data explained to me that if Humans didn’t dream, we’d go crazy. That was when I knew that I had to dream…I just never remembered any of what I was dreaming.

I realize now that I only remember the dreams that I wake up during. Like this morning. I was having a dream about something that actually happened. It was my final semester of college. My classes were over for the day and I was walking to my car when I ran into someone from my high school graduating class.

This probably doesn’t sound like that big a deal to most people. You go to a state university located fewer than 30 miles away from your high school, you’re bound to encounter a classmate or two on campus, right? Maybe if you went to a normal high school. I did not. The number of students in my graduating class didn’t even reach into the double digits. So this was a pretty big deal.

In both my dream and in the real experience, I remember the awkwardness of the encounter…the surprise on both sides, the slight joy mixed with discomfort. I can’t speak for my classmate, but I understand now that my discomfort was based on the fact that encountering him forced me to come face to face with a part of my life that was slowly fading, as was the person I was during those days. College is a time of reinvention and discovery, and while there were no external signs of any major transformation on my part (no pink hair, no tattoos, no piercings…I’m insanely vanilla in my appearance), inside I knew I was different from the person he once knew.

I think he could understand this truth as well. While he still looked the same as he did in high school, he had changed his name (and in fact seemed quite flustered when I called him by his old name). He was in a state of reinvention as well. So there we stood, two people identifiable to each other only on the outside, still in a state of flux on the inside. Not really all that into being reminded of those people we were trying to leave behind.

There wasn’t really anything more special than this about the dream, just like there wasn’t anything more special about the actual encounter. In reality, I think we shared about 10 minutes of conversation in which we caught up with what each of us was doing, and that was that. No offer from either side to exchange numbers or e-mail addresses. Just a smile and a goodbye. That was more than 10 years ago now. It was the last time I ever saw anyone from my graduating class.

I think this memory resurfaced in my dream world because recently I ran into someone else from my old school. It completely threw me off because: A) I didn’t recognize her at first (she was barely a teen the last time I saw her and now she’s a grown woman); and B) she so quickly recognized me. Again, insanely vanilla in appearance am I that I can still be identified by someone who last saw me when I was 17 years old. But though she recognized me on the outside, I was acutely aware that the person she saw on the outside was no longer home on the inside to the person she remembered from those days. The foundation is admittedly the same, but the rooms have been cleared out, given a fresh coat of paint, and completely redesigned.

I’m not really sure where I wanted to go with this post. It was just something on my mind as I sat here in my geek cave, watching the snowflakes tumble and twirl from the sky.

Today’s a nasty one for work overload, denizens, but I haven’t forgotten that it’s…Flashback Friday! And so today, I bring you PEZ! More precisely, I give you a photo of Loba’s very own PEZ dispenser collection. Perty, innit? As I’m sure you can no doubt deduce, most of the PEZ dispensers I received were holiday gifts…something tucked into a Christmas stocking or Easter basket or received in my big Halloween pillowcase/bag. It’s a lovely gift for any kid you want hyped up on an instant sugar rush (especially if said kid doesn’t belong to you). You’re pretty much giving them a toy that when they play with it, it delivers a little brick of pure flavored sugar. And the more you play with it, the more sweet goodness you get. It’s a life lesson best learned early.

[Fhat the wuck? Did I just make an inappropriate joke at the expense of a childhood memory?!]

My very first PEZ dispenser was the little chick wearing a red hat. Said hat comes off. So does Santa’s hat as well as the two snowmen’s hats. And noses. Rudolph’s ears come off, and Batman’s fleshy face slides out of his blue cowl. Yes, I used to disassemble and reassemble my PEZ dispensers with such frequency that I’m amazed all the pieces still fit back into place (see my Mouse Trap Flashback for more on this).

I have a vague memory of sitting in the back of our family Chevette (the destined-to-be-mine blueberry Nerd Mobile), taking all my PEZ dispensers apart and then making them do battle like Transformers. I so desperately wanted Transformers. I got PEZ dispensers instead. So I made do.

[Oh dear Prophets, was I really that big a geek when I was little?]

Know what I love most about this photo of my PEZ collection? How I inadvertently snapped a bonus flashback photo by lining them up on top of our old Betamax VCR. Betamax!! Yeah, my dad still has it, and still has it in working condition. See how awesome it is to have tinkerer blood? It’s strangely comforting to know that I can still watch my Beta tapes of Troop Beverly Hills and the remake of The Blob whenever I go to visit.

Also, see the little telly in the background, reflecting my dorkiness in the screen? This is my old TV, the one from my Hunt the Wumpus Flashback! Told you my dad still had it.

So, there you go. PEZ. Go get some. Rot your teeth. Bounce off the walls. Pretend the dispensers are Transformers. It’s all Loba-approved fun

While looking for something else in my photo archives, I came across this. I’d give you a setup, but I really think this speaks quite well on its own.

And then this morning, my alarm went off while I was in the middle of a dream in which I was interviewing Nana Visitor for a talk show that I was auditioning to take over, I think from Conan O’Brien.

I’ve really gotta lay off the Trek.

Silly photographer! Holy Sci-Fi Trinities are for boys!

Know why I think this is one of the most bittersweet Trek photographs in existence? Because whoever composed this shot must have been under the same wonderful, fantastical, extremely naive delusion that I was under when I first discovered TNG. You know, that the famous holy trinity of “KirkSpockMcCoy” would somehow transfer to this new show and would morph into “PicardRikerCrusher.”

Never really worked like that for the Dancing Doctor, though, did it? No, Beverly was never given the respect (or screen time) afforded to the great Bones McCoy. So what happened? Why was Dr. Crusher never considered one of the big hitters from the cast? Was it because Gates McFadden wasn’t up to taking the role to that level? I would strongly disagree with that statement. Yeah, yeah, I’m biased. It’s my blog and she’s my favorite character. Piss off.

Or was it something more?

Let’s look at the other female characters from TNG’s first season. The lovely Deanna Troi. Counselor, empath, sexotic alien, galactic cheerleader. She didn’t really do a whole lot that first season beyond change outfits and hairstyles a couple times. And get a shitload of headaches. Actually, that’s pretty much a great summary of Deanna Troi for the first 6 seasons of TNG.

Then there was the feisty Tasha Yar. Security chief, dangerous, damaged, loyal, dead.

Poor Tasha, so much potential there, shackled by the proclivities of her IRL representative, Denise Crosby. Whether it was personal frustration over the lack of character development or TPTB not really digging all of Crosby’s craziness, the axe came down on Tasha before the first season was even over. Or rather the Ink and Metamucil Monster came down on her. Yes, that is what Armus was made of…printer’s ink and Metamucil. I’d be a killer anger blob, too, if I was made of such stuff.

Still, Tasha was able to return thanks to all that tasty alternate timeline goodness that has granted us the shit bog known as the new J.J. Abrams’ Star Trek universe. Tasha’s return is considered one of the best TNG episodes of the series. Tasha’s gift to the new timeline, however, is about as popular with fans as J.J.’s movie is with me.

I’m looking at you, Commander Sela. Genetically unfeasible (blond hair, blue eyes, and pink skin? Are you sure you’re half green-blooded Romulan?), insipid, uninspired, and ridiculous, Sela was one of the worst characters ever introduced to the Trek mythology. Even worse than Sybok. Better hair though.

[Trek Tangent: I still say the Sela storyline not only could have been salvaged, but done in such a way that they could have even made sense out of that whole blond hair/blue eye bullshiggidy. In fact, I once had a notion to write fanfic that would explain that Sela was actually Tasha Yar, captured from the alternate timeline, reprogrammed to believe she was this Romulan/Human hybrid, and kept in cryo-stasis until the Romulans could unleash her on her former crewmates. Hmm, maybe that can be my big writing project in 2010! No. No more living in other people's worlds, remember? Besides, Ro might become irritated if you start invading her territory. And you know what happens when Ro gets testy...]

And Beverly. Beverly didn’t survive beyond the first season either. At least they didn’t kill her as well. The mystery behind why Gates McFadden wasn’t asked to return for the second season continues, as McFadden has never said anything more than “The producers wanted to go a different direction with the doctor character.” I’d love to know the truth, but I respect that it’s her truth to reveal or keep.

Dr. Crusher may not have remained on the NCC-1701-D when it fired up its warp drive for Season Two, but her son did. Yes, Wesley Crusher, eternal nerd king supreme, got to stay on board while his mom “went back to head Starfleet Medical.” Really? Way to undermine Dr. Crusher not only as a character but as a parent. (I can’t help but ask at this point: If “Wesley” had remained “Leslie” as the character was first intended to be, would she have been kept on board? Hmmm…)

But it kind of makes you wonder, what was Dr. Crusher’s greatest contribution to Trek lore? Her dedication as a doctor? Her Southern charm? Her wizened platitudes and her pithy catch phrase?

Nope. It was Wesley. She gave birth to her greatest contribution, just as Tasha, for better or for worse, gave birth to hers. Heck, even Deanna got in on the baby-making, giving birth to the horrible recycled Star Trek: Phase II plot originally meant for Decker and Baldy. Er Ilia.

And it wasn’t just the main female characters. Guest stars got in on the placental frenzy, too! Look at K’Ehleyr. Portrayed by the ever lovely, ever vivacious, ever delightful Suzie Plakson, K’Ehleyr was the Klingon/Human hybrid betrothed to Mr. Woof. She was strong. She was opinionated. She was feisty. She broke bones and drew blood when mating. And she color-coordinated like a fashion fiend.

And then they brought her back. With child. Oh, what a horrible child. Which was worse: Alexander or Sela? I’m going to choose Alexander, simply because they kept insisting on bringing him back to the party. They at least had the decency to let Sela slink into the shadows of non-canonical book plots.

But hold on! K’Ehleyr’s story isn’t over yet!

Oh, wait. Yeah it is. This delightfully entertaining character was Klingoned to death as a way to move along a dull Klingon plot and leave dull Worf stuck with a dull child and a dull “unintentional parent” plot that should have been killed instead of K’Ehleyr.

Omnipotent? Or omnipregnant?

But, fear not, Suzie fans! Suzie Plakson did get to return to the Trek universe. Her return didn’t come until Voyager, but she got to come back, prosthetic-free AND as a member of the most powerful alien race to exist in the Trek universe! Yes! She comes back as a Q! She gets to be snide. She gets to pout. She gets to deliver some Class-A omnipotent zingers to the Voyager crew.

Plakson rocked this guest spot like no one’s business, easily stepping into the imposing shoes of this omnipotent species and keeping up with the High Q-ness himself, John de Lancie. And what was the end result? She got to give birth. Again. This time to John de Lancie’s actual son, Keegan. All this happens off-screen, of course. We never see Suzie Q again. Personally, I think this is one of the biggest crimes of Voyager.

So, what’s the point of all this? I don’t really know. I guess I just think it’s a bit crazy and totally pathetic that this franchise that continues to be heralded as forward-thinking and trail-blazing was so chained to the weight of the female-as-babymaker stereotype. That doesn’t mean that I think women shouldn’t be portrayed as mothers in the future. But, really, if you think about it…they weren’t portrayed as mothers on Trek. They were portrayed only as having given birth. Suzie Q gave birth to Keegan Q, but they never interacted. K’Ehleyr may have been Alexander’s mother for the first three years of his life, but we never saw any of that. Tasha? Same thing with Sela.

And Beverly? Wil Wheaton recently made this comment about his memories of the TNG third season episode, “Evolution”:

Some memories (of the Future, durr) were crystal clear: how great it was to have Gates back, how excited I was to have an episode where Wesley wasn’t a weenie, and how cool it was to finally have scenes together where we interacted as mother and son in a believable way. [bold emphasis mine]

When even the Wunderkind recognizes that he didn’t really have much of a relationship with his mom, you know you’ve got a problem.

There were actually lots of problems with almost every single female character ever written for the Trek universe. This is just one of the many that’s been irking me as of late. And it all started when I saw that wonderful, sad photo at the very top of this post.

I really do love that photo. I love it because of how amazing they all look in their skinny spandex spacesuits. I love it for Gates’s big 80s “future” hair and Jonathan’s baby face and adorable chin dimple. And I love it for the promise that was broken before it was ever made. The promise that this Trek was going to be even more groundbreaking than its predecessor…was going to give us women on board who did more than answer the phone and bring the captain his coffee. These women grew up to be doctors and security chiefs and…Deanna. They were supposed to change the world, or at least the world view of women and their roles, both in the future and in the now.

I guess I’m still trying to figure out where it all went wrong.

With all my griping about special effects taking the originality and complexity out of movies, even I know that sometimes it’s all about the lightsabers. Especially when it’s geeky fanboys in an empty parking garage, dorking out with a wickedly choreographed lightsaber duel.

Epic make-believe geekery, FTW.

I usually don’t read Gene Weingarten, WaPo’s version of Dave Barry. I know there are plenty of people out there who find him funny. I’m sure that many of these people aren’t even related to him. However, the only thing I typically find about his prose is that it is consistently inconsistent. Sometimes it’s uproariously funny. Sometimes it’s horrifically bad. Most of the time it lands soundly in the tepid waters of “meh.”

However, this week’s column struck a particularly loud chord with me. Titled “Special defects: Gene gives movie technology a digital salute,” it’s all about Weingarten’s frustration over how Hollywood has seemingly abandoned decent storytelling for some flashy special effects and CGI Smurfs. Yep, that’s pretty much how I feel about a lot of these big-budget, “blow your mind,” effects-heavy movies. I think Weingarten summed it up perfectly with this line:

The problem is that when absolutely anything is possible, absolutely nothing is special.

It might not be funny, but it’s totally true.

A little late on posting this one. I actually finished this book almost a week ago, and I started writing this review around the same time. I don’t know why I’ve had such a block when it comes to finishing it though.

So, Neverwhere, Neil Gaiman’s 1996 story of the events that take place in “London Below.” Apparently, this was a companion piece to a television series of the same name, released by the BBC. I’ve never seen it, obviously, since I didn’t even know it existed until about 5 minutes ago when I saw the DVDs on Amazon.com.

This is the story of Richard Mayhew, a rather unassuming young man who leaves his home in Scotland to move to jolly old Londontown to seek his fortune. He finds a job he doesn’t like all that much and a girlfriend who doesn’t really like him all that much. Otherwise, his is a life less extraordinary. Until the day he stumbles (literally) upon a mysterious young woman named Door, badly injured and in need of help.

Ever hear the saying “No good deed goes unpunished”? Richard learns the true extent of this phrase after he takes Door back to his apartment and tends to her injuries. See, she’s from London Below, a strange realm that exists beneath London as we know it. Most of the time, those from this realm can pass among the people of London Above without being noticed. The fact that Richard can see Door is a blessing to her, but definitely a curse to him. Suddenly, he begins to attract more and more attention from residents of London Below, including a pair of the creepiest assassins in the history of creepy. Even worse, his existence in London Above becomes increasingly tenuous. His girlfriend has forgotten him, his job shows no records of him, his friends don’t even acknowledge him.

What to do? Go Below. Help Door discover who killed her family and why, dodge the assassins Croup and Vandemar, get drunk with an angel, flirt with Hunter, and maybe just maybe figure out how to get back to the life he once knew in London Above.

This is where Gaiman truly shines, creating a fantastical world of sights, sounds, and extraordinary characters. The journey our heroes must travel is rather Ozian by way of Edward Gorey, and the richness of Gaiman’s world is both thorough and stunning. All that aside, there was something about the story itself that never really reeled me in. I never felt enraptured. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the story. There are elements to this tale that I absolutely loved. Holistically, however, I felt that it was a pretty run-of-the-mill tale embedded into another of Gaiman’s wonderfully imagined worlds.

Final Verdict: I have a surprising degree of ambiguity about whether or not I want to hold on to this book (which actually tips the scales in favor of letting it go). It was a present, but it was purchased because I asked for it, not because someone thought I might like it. And while I do love Neil Gaiman and I did think this was a relatively enjoyable read, I’m hard-pressed to think of any occasion in which I’d want to go back and read this one again. So, I suppose that means I’m releasing it keeping it releasing it. This is definitely a book that I would recommend to those who are fans of fantasy tales, especially those written by someone as talented as Gaiman. However, I would recommend borrowing this one from the library or picking it up for cheap at a used book store or thrift store. Hey, one in my area will be selling a practically unused copy soon enough

This is one of those flashbacks that I’ve been carrying around in my noggin almost since the beginning of this series. I haven’t written about it until now because I couldn’t remember exactly what it was called (you know, because it has such a difficult name to remember) and so I couldn’t locate any information on it. Plus, I was too busy unlocking my inner Trek geek that I couldn’t be bothered to figure it out.

Then I just happened to type in “pour colored sand into water” in Google and bam…or rather WHAM-O. I found my flashback! Magic Sand!!

Wham-O, the company most famous in my mind for their Frisbees, marketed Magic Sand back in the early 1980s. According to this Neatorama.com page:

Magic Sand is ordinary beach sand coated with tiny particles of pure silica, then exposing them to vapors of a silicon compound called trimethylhydroxysilane. The result is a hydrophobic or water-hating sand: when exposed to water, the sand would “stick” to each other rather than to the water, and therefore remain dry.

Originally created as a means of trapping oil spills (so sayeth Wikipedia), this hydrophobic sand was deemed too expensive to produce for such a namby-pamby tree-hugger purpose. So the capitalists got hold of it and turned it into a financial bonanza aimed at the most awesomest marketing group imaginable: kids! After all, what parent can withstand the repetitive torture of a kid who reallyreallyreallyreally wants something?

I remember loving my Magic Sand. I received the kit one Christmas, so I had all four colors: red, yellow, green, and blue. The anal-retentive side of me prevented me from mixing the colors at first. Yes, I was a Magic Sand segregationist. For about a minute. It was just too much fun mixing and swirling the colors to keep them separated for long. It was also too difficult to keep them in their respective bottles. I mean, look at that design! Great for squirting the sand into the water…not so great when antsy little hands are trying to get the sand back in. After a while, all four colors of Magic Sand ended up in one big Ziploc baggie.

I wish I could remember what happened to my Magic Sand. It was such a cool thing for an introverted only child…I loved building little underground cities or strange abstract designs. It was one of those great “quiet time” activities that would keep me occupied for hours. At this point in my life, Magic Sand sounds like it would hold quite the relaxing Zen quality to it. I could pull out a bottle during staff meetings and just squirt my way to serenity.

Wait. That sounded really bad.

I just did a search on Amazon.com for Magic Sand. Apparently, it’s now being marketed as “Aqua Sand,” “Mars Sand,” or “Space Sand.” Whatever they’re calling it now, I’m quite surprised and admittedly a little excited to see that it’s still on the market. I might just have to treat myself to some. I did get an Amazon gift card for Christmas that I’ve yet to use…

Yes, that is Cindy McCain. Yes, that Cindy McCain. The one so many (myself included) referred to as John McCain’s Stepford Wife.

I officially take that back.

A major representative from the Republican party, coming out (haha) against California’s Proposition 8 ban on gay marriage? This is HUGE. Even bigger than when Laura Bush stated in a 2006 interview with Faux News that she didn’t think gay marriage should be used as a political tool. She went on to say, “It requires a lot of sensitivity to just talk about the issue – a lot of sensitivity.”

[Okay, is it just me, or did she pretty much sound like she was implying in that statement that her husband obviously wasn't the Mr. Sensitivity in question? I always loved that quote...]

Cindy McCain is not the first in her family to support NOH8. Daughter Meghan posed last summer:

Meghan goes into detail in this article for The Daily Beast about why she posed. Papa John continues to toe the GOP line of marriage equals one man and one woman. I’m guessing family gatherings at the McCains can get pretty testy sometimes.

It’s too bad the Republican party doesn’t really take women seriously. This double strike by the McCain women might have actually done something good. Although, they are both attractive, and Sarah Palin has proven that GOPers will pay attention to a pretty face. Of course, she also proves that no one really pays attention to what that pretty face is saying…

[Yep, still poking that bear...what are you going to do?]

Either way, I have to confess I was absolutely stunned when I saw this photo of Cindy McCain. It takes a lot of courage to stand for your convictions when all those around you are in opposition. She proves there is most definitely truth in the phrase “Those who ignore an angry shout may strain to hear a whisper.”

Cindy, I think your wordless stance is screaming volumes right now. I hope your party is listening.

Pimpin' ain't easy, Dawg

Don’t you just hate it when you finally make your millions and you’re all set to settle down with a gorgeous gold digger but you simply haven’t got the time (or personality) to go out there and snag one for yourself?

Have no fear! For a hefty fee, you can hire Bravo’s latest reality star, Patti Stanger (and her bodacious and completely real ta-tas), otherwise known as the Millionaire Matchmaker. What does she do for that fee? Verbally abuses a bunch of rich douchebags who typically have nothing else going for them beyond the fact that they have a million+ in their bank accounts, finds out what they’re looking for, and then berates them for their tastes.

She then gathers together a bunch of girls looking to bag themselves a rich douchebag, tosses out any girl who fails to pass her physical appraisal (but not before berating them for being too fat, too frumpy, too tacky, too manly, too matronly, too stupid, too whatever it is that she can find wrong with them), keeps the ones who look “exotic” or “classy” (which are apparently Stanger’s code word for “silicone tits” or “Botox Barbie”), and verbally abuses them as well as a means of coaching them in how they need to look and dress if they want to snag the millionaire in question (because who cares what you’re like on the inside?).

Then Stanger and her staff hold a little soiree in which the millionaire gets to mingle with Stanger’s herd of call girls, picks a couple they find the most aesthetically schwinging, does “mini dates,” and then narrows the choice down to one. The rich douchebag then gets verbally abused by Stanger some more before taking their choice on the “big date” to find out if it’s really a match made in heaven Beverly Hills.

What this show should really be called is I Pimp for Rich Douchebags.

Could you imagine the uproar that this show would have caused if, instead of Stanger, the Millionaire Matchmaker was a guy? Yet, because it’s a woman doing the pimping, that somehow makes it better? I don’t know. I don’t really feel all that much better or particularly empowered watching a woman berate other women because of how they look as she selects millionaire-grade breeding stock. Should I? Should I be rooting for these women, hoping that they can bag the millionaire and secure a life of luxury (or at least secure a few awesome dates in which they fly off in his personal jet for a picnic in Maui)? Is this the ultimate victory of all that bra burning and marching done by our predecessors in the fight for women’s rights? The right to unabashedly pimp your own for a massive fee?

True, sometimes the millionaires are women. But they are few and far between. And it doesn’t really make me feel any better knowing that there are just as many men as there are women who will gladly line up for Stanger’s pimp call. This isn’t the equality I was hoping to see in my lifetime.

This show actually makes me root for the recession, if only to diminish the number of people who can join Stanger’s “Millionaire Club”…which, in turn, would diminish her clientele and get her off the television that much faster.