Hi, remember me? My name’s Loba and I’m the purveyor of filth and folly here at the lair. Long time no read, right? Right.
Sorry about that, denizens. I hate just ducking out like I did. Didn’t even leave a note saying I’d call or a rose on your pillow or anything. To say that my life has been in a constant state of ma-HU-ssive upheaval feels like both an understatement and a lame excuse after the fact. I can assure you all, however, that I have been going at several notches above my normal baud rate for the past month and things definitely tripped into overdrive toward the end of March.
Things are still orbiting Planet Crazy at the moment, but at least I’m able to breathe. And think about all of you. I’ve missed you. And I know I have a lot of ‘splainin’ to do. So I start here, with a small gift: a rare moment of photo complacency from the elusive White Wolf. I hate being photographed, especially if it’s a photo of me doing something questionable. However, I do make exceptions. And, really, I can’t resist the opportunity to say that this is a photo of me getting ready to lei someone (this is also a big clue about part of what’s been occupying my time as of late…more on that to come very soon):
I was actually going to name this post “Random Task” and include a photo of said character from the first Austin Powers movie. Then I read this article and…well, yeah.
Pardon my French for a moment, but what the fuck is wrong with people? And this article is more than 2 years old, which makes me even angrier that I have quoted his character during that time, while completely oblivious to the fact that he was part of such a heinous crime.
Can’t blame the character or the movie…but still.
I’m rambling now. I feel rambly and random (thus why I thought invoking Random Task would be funny). Last week was a blur of travel and work that has left me feeling quite off-kilter and extremely tired. It didn’t help much that we lost an hour of sleep this weekend, thanks to Daylight Savings Time. The good thing? Evening walks are now coming back into play. I’ve missed walking. I’ve missed the rhythmic movement, the welcome ache, the inevitable numbness.
I miss a lot of things. I miss being able to come here on a regular basis. Work has been a hot mess lately, though…not in a bad way. Just in a busy way. Busy is good. But I miss the lair.
I miss being able to come up with poignant posts. I feel as though I’ve lost something, some intrinsic ability to write more than surface-level mediocrity. I don’t feel invested enough in anything to reach a more meaningful depth of analysis or intricacy.
Okay, that’s not completely true. I did write this a while ago, about the young man arrested for shooting Gabrielle Giffords:
Alleged Tucson gunman Jared Loughner has mental problems.
Problem.
He was a source of perplexity, distress, or vexation. He was an intricate, unsettled question. He apparently required a solution.
The only problem I see is with the use of a poorly chosen, and consequently damaging, turn of phrase.
See, contrary to the belief of some who have spoken about the recent tragic events in Tucson, I believe very strongly in the power of words. After all, if we don’t invest in the strength and meaning of words, how else do we communicate our beliefs, desires, needs, aspirations? What happens when words lose all meaning?
Words have unlimited power. The power to heal. The power to wound. The power to label erroneously. Jared Loughner did not have mental problems. Jared Loughner was fracturing right before the eyes of friends and family from the unrelenting pressure of mental illness.
Illness. An unhealthy condition of body or mind. Synonyms include disorder, disease, malady, sickness. Trouble.
Jared Loughner was falling deeper into trouble of a plainly identifiable kind. If only more people were paying attention. If only those who were paying attention had done more to help him.
But his was a problem instead of an illness. He required a solution rather than treatment. The solution was to ignore him. Ostracize him to the fantasy world that was spiraling out before him in a discordant diaspora of disconnectedness, isolation, and obsession.
It’s so much easier when the signs of illness are physical, tangible, visible. High fever. Flushed skin. The diabetic sweetness of breath or the sickly stench of gangrenous flesh. Milky opaqueness of cataracts, paralysis. These things we believe because our senses never lie.
There is no tangible evidence of actual mental illness, nothing we can hold up to the light and nod in confirmation and say decisively, “Yes, look right here, his mind is broken. We’ve found the problem.”
The brain is a complexity that we will never understand. Whether you believe it is a gift from a higher power or an evolutionary marvel, there is no denying that we are not our hair or eyes or mouths or limbs. We are our brains. We reside in the tangle of synapses that fire away, generating our opinions, our personalities, our beliefs, our fears.
Damage all else, but I am still me. Damage my brain and who was I? And who will I become?
Something misfired in Loughner’s brain and he began to transform. Had his metamorphosis been more Kafka-esque, more might have been done to help him.
This is not the first time a mental illness has been allowed to spiral into a tragic and irreversible melee. And, sadly, I do not believe it will be the last. Why? Because we shun what we do not understand. And we do not like to take on problems that we cannot solve.
Instead, we vilify. We emblazon Loughner’s disturbing mug shot across front pages and television screens and comment about how “Hannibal Lecter takes a better mugshot.” We ascribe hatred and vitriol to our opinions of him.
And in our responses, we fail him. We fail those he killed. We fail those he injured.
We fail.
In his speech at yesterday’s memorial gathering, President Obama said that these shootings had opened up a national conversation on “everything from the merits of gun safety laws to the adequacy of our mental health systems.”
Has it really? Perhaps. Or is it instead a conversation that flares and fades in the spark of a gunshot, swallowed by the ephemera once the eulogies for the latest round of victims have ended and the judgments have been cast?
Six people died and 13 people were injured. A congresswoman continues to struggle to come back from the precipice of a bullet through her brain. We cannot let this be yet another incident in a long trail of violence attributed to minds allowed to shatter without intercession.
We must do better for those who are mentally ill. Not problems. Ill. Jared Loughner gave all the indications that those around him needed, to know that something was going horribly wrong within his mind. Instead of trying to reach out to him, people instead withdrew from him. Feared him.
Playwright David Henry Hwang wrote in M. Butterfly, “Now I see — we are always most revolted by the things hidden within us.” We look into the eyes of madness and we see what could happen to us…and we loathe it. We loathe that our brains, these magnificent, complex machines, could betray us so easily, so inexplicably…so unstoppably. We cannot explain it. We cannot stop it. We cannot reverse it.
These are things we don’t wish to see. And so we look away. We ignore the obvious…and then we find ourselves right back where we have stood far too many times before.
I really hope that President Obama was serious about restarting the national conversation about mental health issues in this country. I hope that this is the lesson that will finally penetrate through the layers of hatred and divisiveness that have permeated American politics in recent years. That this will be the moment of clarity that we need to finally move forward in reaching out to each other with open hands rather than with fists clenched around pistols.
Why didn’t I post this when I wrote it? I’m not even sure anymore. Maybe because it felt too raw, too personal. Too empty. Too much. Too little. Never enough.
I’m not making much sense now, though. But I do miss coming here. I do have things to write, things to post. Not a lot of depth probably…but that’s okay, right? At least for right now.
“I’m not going to lay down in words the lure of this place. Every great writer in the land, from Faulkner to Twain to Rice to Ford, has tried to do it and fallen short. It is impossible to capture the essence, tolerance, and spirit of south Louisiana in words and to try is to roll down a road of clichés, bouncing over beignets and beads and brass bands and it just is what it is.
It is home.”
—Chris Rose
New Orleans is a city haunted. Not by the Gothic vampires of Anne Rice’s devising, who slither through the shadows of a long forgotten (if ever existent) French Quarter. Not with the tall tales told by tour guides, who give tourists all the voodoo and mystery they suspect we seek.
These are the ghosts of decadence and impropriety, purged a million times over from the hearts of those who still teem to the Big Easy, looking for bliss in the bottom of shots of whatever is the cheapest path to total inebriation…clinging to strings of plastic beads, hoping to entice a slip of skin, a naked curve…pressing into the myriad packed bars, the surge and throb of music as inescapable as the heat and humidity that drips from the tips of your hair and makes grinding against a total stranger a slick, sticky encounter most likely forgotten by the time the diffused gray mist of morning light slips quietly down Bourbon Street.
Laissez les bons temps rouler.
These are the ghosts of sorrow and loss—the ghosts of miseries borne on shoulders that sink from ineffable sadness but still carry on. They haunt your thoughts as you walk the claustrophobic streets, the whisper of wrought iron slithering across edifices crumbled by time and tempest. They mingle with the tantalizing scents of Cajun and Creole cuisine that blessedly hold back the unpleasant undertones of Bourbon Street’s unseemly stench, rising from mysterious pools that slough down cracked and shifting sidewalks.
They come to you in visions of New Orleans under siege, under water.
Apres moi, le deluge.
You find yourself looking for the scars, wondering where the wounds were deepest. It’s a sick curiosity, but one that seeps in slowly, subconsciously: as you wipe away powdered sugar from your lips, the heat and grease of that last beignetstill staining your fingertips; as you stroll Le Rue Royale, perusing galleries filled with local artistry that leaves you breathless from its beauty; as you slip from that last bar, the bitter tang of Sazerac expelled from your lips with each exhalation.
You remember the images. You remember the stories. The loss. The chaos and devastation. How could this city survive? How could it continue on?
New Orleans is a city haunted. But New Orleans is not a city dead.
Its life comes from its people. For many, to be from New Orleans means to be New Orleans. The Mississippi flows through their veins, strong as a chicory brew, and there is no home for them beyond this Crescent City.
Katrina may have displaced them briefly, but their migration home was as miraculous and meant to be as the swallows’ annual arrival at Capistrano. Some returned before the waters had finished receding. Some never left. All have sworn fealty.
New Orleans is a living, breathing entity. It wraps you in its history, its charms, its decadence. Its soul is Cajun hot and jazz blue, with a zing of zydeco on the side. If it seems weary at times, it’s because this is the city that never sleeps. It is constantly alive, constantly awake, constantly singing, dancing, drinking, swearing, loving, screaming, smoking, driving, pulsing, moving, rolling ever onward. Perpetual as the tides, unceasing as the universe itself.
As I previously mentioned, our drive along California Highway 1 was a little bit of a wash-out. The rain started early and streamed down unrelentingly for a good portion of our journey.
However, as we continued south toward Big Sur, the damask of drizzle finally shook free, and we saw the faintest line of orange break through the steely gray horizon, pushing its warm glow further and further outward each passing mile.
I pulled over a few times, trying to capture the sense of transcendent joy that overwhelmed us at the appearance of sunlight, even if only for the briefest of performances. Ironically, however, one of my favorite shots from these stops was one that shows no sign of sunshine at all:
There’s such a palpable undercurrent of desolation to this photo. Honestly, I keep expecting to catch a glimpse of plastic wrapping and Laura Palmer’s water-soaked curls just out of view behind one of those rocks.
Don’t cry, Andy. It’ll be all right.
Needless to say, this image greatly appeals to my darker sensibilities.
We continued a little further past this point, the sunshine strangely growing in intensity the further south we traveled, yet gloriously diffused by tendrils of mist that slipped along the mountainous crags with sultry ease.
Our final destination was Nepenthe, a restaurant that received convincing enough praise from the folks at Lonely Planet that I figured it would be a lovely end to a long drive. It was here that the sun made its final bid at breathtaking before dipping back to bed:
I do believe this might be what is known as “the money shot.” It’s certainly one of my favorite non-aquarium photos from the day.
As for Nepenthe, if you ever find yourself wandering the edges of California’s coast around Big Sur, you should definitely keep this place in mind. It’s a delightful stop, perched precariously above the water’s edge and providing views that were breathtaking even in the midst of misty gloom. Add to this a roaring fire at the heart of the dining area, cozy cushioned seating with pillows and candles galore, wonderfully bohemian wait staff, and simple yet simply delicious meals, it was indeed worth the drive.
That’s much better. I do have a soft spot in my heart for the Black Crowes. Why? There are some things that Loba needs to keep to herself. Let’s just say that their cover of “Hard to Handle” can make me smile like a fool every time I hear it. Ah, high school.
But this weekend has been all about remedies. Seems Loba is not as invincible as she would like others to think she is (although other Internet PersonalitiesTM still retain the rights to this particular claim). Seems someone decided to share germs with me. I have the usual suspects in the line-up for this crime, although I’m almost positive I know the prime suspect…even without Helen Mirren’s help.
The cold kicked into effect Tuesday evening, but being the stubborn wolf that I am, I refused to take any time off from responsibilities, either of the work or fun varieties. I detest being sick. I detest the impudence of germs thinking that they can best me, take me down, make me relinquish my duties. Plus, I hate how being sick turns me into a mouth-breathing medicine-addled moron and leaves me waking up with a grungy, phlegmy tongue that feels like I spent the previous evening licking sidewalks in Times Square.
My, that was vivid, wasn’t it, denizens?
So I dragged myself to work the rest of last week, forcing myself to wade through the growing internal maelstrom of germs and cold medicine as they did their war dance through my veins. I pulled it off relatively convincingly by popping pills, drinking copious amounts of hot tea to flush out my system, blowing my nose as discreetly but as often as I could, and going through an entire bottle of Purell. Some people didn’t even realize I was sick, which left me feeling a sense of victory that only someone who once boasted having gone 9 years in a row at school with perfect attendance could possibly appreciate.
The down side of this? Saturday morning, the germs realized that I was no longer bound by workday obligations. I was released from that routine…and they were released from my persistent resistance.
Yes, Seven, resistance is futile.
Other than walking outside to get the mail this afternoon, I haven’t left the lair since I came home Friday afternoon. More to the point, I haven’t really left the couch since I woke up Saturday morning to a renewed raspiness in my throat, a throbbing headache, and a constant pressure on my sinuses that felt like several pachyderms had packed into the space right between my eyes. Yesterday was spent medicating myself,literally and geekily. Big Trouble in Little China is a must for the healing process. That’s what ole Jack Burton says anyway. So, too, are the special features from my Scream trilogy box set. And fan fiction. Lots and lots of fan fiction. All things designed to delight my inner geek while not really requiring any real mental effort of any kind…or requiring that I remain conscious the entire time. Just what I needed.
This morning I woke up feeling a little better…and a little weirded out as well. Seems that all the cold meds decided to wreak royal havoc with my dreams last night. Or at least with the one dream that I can remember. Seems that on the rare occasion when I remember a dream, it’s only one and that’s the one that I’m having right when I wake up. This is, of course, a huge improvement over all the years I spent not being able to remember any dreams. Except for that extremely vivid one I had in high school in which I was Dr. Crusher.
Yeah. Maybe it’s better if I don’t remember my dreams.
So this dream from last night…or rather this morning involved me stuck inside a lighthouse that didn’t work, a remnant, I’m assuming, from the fanfic I read last night that was loosely based on the horror movie El Orfanato. It was storming outside, the intermittent lightning providing the only light within the structure. I was there because I was looking for someone (another remnant from the same fanfic; yeah, I know…that’s some severe stream-crossing going on there, Dr. Spengler), but the rain had forced me to take shelter.
However, the lighthouse was next to a river instead of an ocean, nestled down low enough that the waters flowed right past one side of the structure, and the bottom level was composed of glass, allowing me to see what was floating past.
Suddenly, this enormous fish swam into view. I’m talking enormous, large enough that it was longer than the river was wide. As it came up parallel to the lighthouse, it began to swim in slow circles, looking almost like an ichthyian ouroboros. It was mesmerizing and I remember being drawn into the river, which was now suddenly inside the lighthouse. There was a calming, somewhat anthropomorphic quality to the fish that entranced me for many moments before I had this stunning epiphany that I needed to photograph the fish.
I began to slowly ease away from the fish, back to the river’s edge. A voice from behind and slightly above me caused me finally look away. It was Sara Sidle, descending the spiral staircase of the lighthouse. She was wearing her CSI vest with the stitched name tag and the reflective tape on each side, and a pair of black leather gloves. All she said was, “If you leave now, you won’t see her again.”
I stopped for a moment, looking back at the fish, still circling. But I am apparently as stubborn in lucidity as I am in reality. I climbed back onto the shore and ran as quickly as I could to get my camera.
I returned to the shore and the fish was gone. So, too, was the elusive CSI. The river was no longer flowing, instead turning to solid ice as I watched. I looked around, trying to find someone…anyone who could help me. But I was alone. I turned back to the freezing waters, and the last thing I remember before waking up was this intense need to dive beneath the ice and find the fish.
I’ve revisited this dream several times throughout the day, examining and analyzing all that I can remember. I’ve come to certain opinions about what it all means, and I’ve decided that sometimes the way my brain works scares even me.
Needless to say, today has been another one for relaxing on the couch, reading an actual book this time and watching movies that don’t involve Kurt Russell shaking the pillars of Heaven. And this evening has kicked off with watching an Encore special called Industrial Light & Magic: Creating the Impossible. I learned a few things that I didn’t already know (since it is the law that one must know the history of ILM as part of the bargain of keeping their geek cred in tact). Most interesting tidbit? Everyone keeps making a big deal about how Ryan Reynolds’ Green Lantern costume is all CGI. Well guess what? It’s not the first time this has occurred. Robert Downey, Jr. detested the physical Ironman costume they built for him to wear so much that the ILM crew finally told him to take it off and not worry about it…they’d take care of it. So take that, Reynolds. Take it all the way back to Canada. I also received proof that my initial opinion of J.J. Abrams as a massive douchewanger is even truer than I originally thought. Oh, and he definitely doesn’t deserve the right to have anything to do with Star Trek.
And now it’s time for dinner. Homemade pizza. Yes, my prime suspect may have shared these accursed germs with me in the first place, but said suspect has also made sure I have been well fed throughout my convalescence. Prophets know I’m awful when it comes to knowing what to make myself when I’m well. Had I been left to my own devices, I probably would have survived on tea, toast, and Twizzlers.
So there you have it, denizens. Loba has been taken down, but not out. Like the Phoenix, I shall rise (hopefully, though, someone will stop me before I turn all Dark Phoenix and try to take over the world). And thankfully, I have tomorrow off. And Spike is running an all-day CSI marathon. Bonus!
Oh, and bonus for you, too. Here’s another Black Crowes video. Hope it makes you smile even half as much as it does me…
Okay, so Kirk and Spock didn’t actually go to the Monterey Bay Aquarium to find George and Gracie, the whales that would save humanity from that giant…cylinder of lead. They went to the “Sausalito Cetacean Institute,” a magical place right on the outskirts of San Francisco. (We went to Sausalito. There were no whales there. No nuclear wessels either. Groovy T-shirt shop though.)
And, yeah yeah, there weren’t any actual whales at the Monterey Bay Aquarium (other than the giant humpback whale sculpture suspended from the ceiling near the aquarium entrance). However, how could I not jump at the chance to visit the place where Spock swam with George and Gracie?
I do believe, in fact, that this was the tank into which Leonard Nimoy made his Vulcan plunge:
(Not that difficult a guess, really…this is pretty much the warp core of the aquarium. And, yes, I am going to milk this Trekkiness for as much as I can.)
So, yeah, Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home was in the back of my mind the entire time we were at the aquarium. It is, after all, one of my three favorites of the Star Trek movie franchise. On a really nostalgic day? It might actually be my favorite. After all, it was the first Trek movie I ever saw. We always have a special place in our hearts for our firsts, eh? Besides, it’s funny, silly, and utterly quotable. My favorite TOS character, Dr. McCoy, in fact delivered the lines that never fail to make me laugh out loud each time I hear them:
McCoy: My God, man. Do you want an acute case on your hands? This woman has immediate postprandial, upper-abdominal distention. Now, out of the way! Get out of the way! [They enter the operating room] Kirk: What did you say she has? McCoy: Cramps.
Seriously, nails me every time. Wow, but I love DeForest Kelley.
But this isn’t about Star Trek (Really? Could have fooled us, Loba. Shut up.). This is about the Monterey Bay Aquarium. Yes, it’s a bit of a haul from San Francisco, but it’s totally worth the drive, especially if you choose to go there via California State Route 1. What a gorgeous stretch of road! I’ve wanted to drive along Highway 1 for years. My only regret is that it was utterly dismal weather the day we drove along this beautiful stretch of California coastline: dark, thunderous skies; torrential rainfall; and a constant, chilling wind.
However, none of this had much impact on the aquarium experience (although the poor little sea otters were stuck out in it all day). Here, then, are my favorite shots from the aquarium:
I wish I could have gotten some better shots of the sea otters, as they were the “stars” I most wanted to see. However, the murky skies and the steady rain played quite a downer of a role in setting up pretty shots. Plus, the sea otters seemed a bit off that day (gee, wonder why?). I’m just glad I got even these semi-salvageable shots. Yeah, it is blurry and a bit dark, but how cute is that pic of the sea otter snout zooming toward me?
That was the other thing that I learned while at the aquarium: I still have quite a bit to learn about taking photos with my Big Girl camera. While I confess that some of the blurring in these photos was intentional (I love the simulation of motion in photos sometimes), some of it was simply user error that worked to my advantage…sometimes. Those photos that don’t fall into the category of “sometimes” shall remain far, far away from the lair…
And so a new year has begun. Better yet, a new decade has begun. I must admit, denizens, I’m at a bit of a loss as to where the “Noughties” went. Y2K still seems like it was “just last year”…although perhaps I’ve been circling about in that causality loop a lot longer than I thought. If only Dr. Crusher had spent less time drinking hot toddies with the Captain and more time paying attention to all those clues around her, maybe I wouldn’t have lost an entire decade…
(Seriously, did you think that I could start the new year without some kind of geek reference?)
Things have been noticeably quiet here at the lair as of late. I’m sure those who are regular visitors can guess as to why. But I’m not in a guessing mood, so let’s just name this black-cloaked elephant that has parked its ginormous tuchus in the middle of my lair and my life for far too long. The past year decade has been a bit of a rough one. Starting in 2001, Death decided that he wanted to hang out and be best buds with my family for a while. We lost 9 members of my family from 2001-2010…actually, 11 if you count my dog Jodie and my cat Data, which I do. They were as much a part of my heart as any human could be…and if I’m completely honest right now, they were closer to me than I allow most humans to ever become.
This was an equal opportunity culling, with Death sampling from both sides of my family. It was such a frequent sampling that I feel as though I’ve earned my very own Ph.D. in the subject. In some ways, I feel as though all of this loss somehow defines me now, which is silly considering the fact that most people don’t even know about all this. I keep so much inside that I’m willing to bet most of the people reading this right now had no idea about the extent of my familial losses.
Of course, keeping so much inside has its side effects. Since May of last year, I’ve gone through a bit of major shrinkage. Back then, I was at the outer reaches of a size 12. My jeans are now crazy 8s. It’s not as if I’m skipping meals or purging or anything morbid like that. I still eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I still drink (although prophets help me if I try to drink as much as I used to; apparently my fat was my “girdle of strength” in regard to my superhero-sized tolerance). I just…lost interest in food after my mom died.
Instead, I found myself wantingneeding to constantly be on the move. I needed to walk. Walk after dinner. Walk on the weekends. Walk at the park. Walk in the neighborhood. Walk until my eyes burned from the sweat and my legs ached and I couldn’t concentrate on anything beyond these physical discomforts. Because then? Then, I couldn’t think. Then I could only collapse on the couch and let my brain lapse into the silence of exhaustion.
People who don’t know about my mother keep asking me what I’ve been doing and telling me that I look great. Truth be told, physically I feel great. I have never been this in-shape in my entire adult life, and I confess that I like it (yes, Mr. Pacino, vanity is apparently my favorite sin as well). I just wish I had been more aware that it was happening. I completely tuned myself out for a while, though. Next thing I know, I’m standing up from my desk chair at work, stepping on the hem of a pant leg, and defrocking myself in my office. Thank the prophets my office mate wasn’t there that day. And don’t worry, denizens…I’ve made sure to replace those pants with ones that aren’t so easy to lose. There will be no unintended moonings here at the lair. I can’t make any promises about intentional ones, however.
As for how I feel in other ways? There is a rawness inside me that I still cannot fathom facing. I just don’t know how. “Unfinished business” of the permanent variety is a horrible sensation, and I feel as if it’s the label of shame I now carry in regard to my relationship with my mom. My very own scarlet “A”…for what? Absent? Annoyed? Arrogant? Asinine? These are all self-imposed labels and feelings, I suppose. Then again, she’s not here anymore to tell me that I shouldn’t feel this way. And that’s what I’m having the most trouble handling. She’s gone and I feel as though I played every hand wrong while she was here.
So, for now, I keep walking. If I can’t exorcise my demons, I’ll at least exercise the hell out of them. Sooner or later I’m bound to stop, right? Besides, I can’t imagine I can shrink much more before someone straps me down and starts force-feeding me candy corn and Cheetos.
Mmm.
But was this past decade a complete bust? No. Through all of the losses that my family has endured, I’ve learned that resilience is an amazing parlor trick of the heart and those who love you never completely leave you. I’ve learned that people really do live on through our memories and even the ugliest of souls have lessons to teach.
I’ve learned that what’s meant to be cannot be stopped, only sidetracked temporarily. But it will find its way eventually.
I’ve learned that, if I wasn’t so daft at math, I think that being a Crime Scene Investigator would have been a perfect fit for my anal-retentive, puzzle-solving, obsessive-compulsive, über-organizational personality. Either that or I really need to stop watching so much CSI.
I’ve learned that, even without being a CSI, I can love what I do for a living and have fun doing it.
I’ve learned that my geekery cannot be tamed, but when channeled properly, it can be a force used for good. Or at least for good entertainment.
I’ve learned that I love being a Synner.
I’ve learned that being very vague is very fun.
I’ve also learned that I’ve got a helluva lot left to learn. And a helluva lot left to blather on about here at the lair. More books to read, more DVDs to review, more geekery to spread like a sweaty, smelly virus that’s bound to drive Agent Smith back to standing in a frock on a rock with General Zod and Alexander Hartdegen, which would be such a drag. And, dear denizens, if any of you followed this last sentence from start to finish and got what I was talking about, my heart is most assuredly yours.
So there you have it: That’s me, wrapping up my state of mind from this past year/decade in thick plastic sheeting and dumping it for Pete Martell to find when he heads out for his morning fishing sabbatical. Don’t let Andy see. His tears will muck things up for Agent Cooper. And bring me some more of that damn fine coffee, Norma. I’m having another outbreak of Lynchian insanity. Backwards. With little people.
The owls really are never what they seem. And neither is the lair. But face it, denizens…this is why you keep coming back. At least I hope so. Just remember: The rest is yet to come…
We heard you wanted to report a 459…burglary. What’s missing? Milk and cookies, you say? Oh, that’s all right. That was just ole St. Nick, making his annual rounds. Other than the milk and cookies, I bet he didn’t take anything, right? Bet he even left something behind…that’s his MO, you know. We’ve been processing his scenes for years.
We’ll go ahead and send over our best CSI (Christmas Scene Investigator, of course), Santa Sidle. She can be a little rough around the edges sometimes, but she gets the job done…
Yeah, this year I decided to give the sci-fi scions of my life a little break and go with another of my loves for my holiday card…CSI. I considered using Nick Stokes, since his name was the most appropriate for this particular holiday (St. Nicky)…but I had to go with my favorite: the dark, damaged, dentally diastemic one. Besides, if anyone needs a little holiday cheer in their lives, I think Sara Sidle comes at the top of that list. Plus, she wears that Santa hat well, no?
And, of course, I wish you all the merriest of holidays, whether you celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, or the Blessed Solstice. And I thank you. This has been a year of slippery slopes for me, but I have found solace and unexpected smiles from so many of you. I know I kid about having “ImagiFriendsTM,” but the truth is…you are my friends. I just haven’t met some of you IRL…yet. You have made my days brighter, my laughter stronger, and my mind filthier (you know which ones of you I’m talking about…).
Enough sentimentality. Break out the rum and let’s get this investigation under way! I’ll be over here, helping to print the reindeer…
The theme for our division’s door-decorating extravaganza this year was “gingerbread men.” Most people in the division went the traditional route, gumdrop buttons at all.
Most people in the division aren’t raging geeks. Thank the prophets I am. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have…”The Gingerbread Man Trap”:
It’s not nearly as detailed as the OCD/anal-retentive part of me would like, but it’ll do.
Not that long ago, I lamented that I would probably never see a photo of my grandmother in her WAVES uniform. I’ve been searching through every stash of family photos and papers that I can get my hands on for several years now, trying to locate such a photo, but to no avail.
This weekend, while visiting my dad, I came across a container I’d never seen before, sitting on the floor next to his computer. Inside the container were stacks of family photos. Buried deep in one of those stacks was this:
It’s blurry and badly damaged (someone ripped half the photo away at some point, so I have no idea who she’s saluting…although in my mind I’ve decided she’s saluting Yeoman Prince) and in desperate need of some PhotoShop love…but all that is incidental. This is my grandmother, our family’s very own Wonder Woman…only she never had to spin in place to show us the powers she possessed. She was gracious and kind-hearted, erudite and whimsical, always the magnetic core of any room she entered.
