Lost Weekend. Also, the Glamorous Life of the Debut Novelist, Part III

Not really. No alcoholic fugues or anything, just a long one. But tons to report.

Saturday was Crypticon, which was fun though woefully underattended. Doubly sad, because for the horror fan, it was a cornucopia of movie stars, or at the very least, solar flares.

I didn't really know what to expect, the cons I've attended so far have been of the large scale variety and the last time I was at the Doubletree in Seatac was Norwescon. That con topped out at 3000 attendees at last count and the halls were packed with people.

Crypticon? Not so much. In fact, when we showed up, the place was empty and about 5 people were in line at registration. Spoiled, as I am, I skipped the line and asked a staffer where "pro check-in was". She just stared and pointed at the line. Which was quick and everyone was very nice, just new at the whole thing (like me). The panel I'd prepared so hard for, The Year in Horror (yes, I actually prepared this time) was listed in the program as TBD. An insert listed it correctly but didn't identify the location. I know. I know. Growing pains. First year of the con. Got it.

While we waited for the panel at noon, we toured the expo area. Dear God. I hate to say it, because they were all very nice people, but it was like a celebrity hospice center. I can't be certain but the only person in there with an active career was Tony Todd (Candyman, Chuck). Again, I could be wrong.

Now, that said. I, much like cmpriest, was a bit gaga over William Davis (the Cigarette Smoking Man from the X-files) and Ashley Laurence (Hellraiser) is stunning in person, absolutely beautiful. But I was most excited about the ladies from Friday the 13th. So much so that I reverted to awkward teen years and walked right on by without saying a word. Pathetic.

So, it was 11:30 and time to find the room. When I asked where it was at the info/registration desk, they had to look it up. None of them knew. Bad sign. When I got there, it was a huge room, capable of accomodating an easy 150 member audience. Here I am riveting the crowd with all my internet-derived horror knowledge...


How impressed are you?

Had a good time talking with Michael Montoure, my co-panelist, and Caroline provided for our heckling needs. So it wasn't a total loss.

Went antique shopping, after. Seattle has this massive warehouse antique store by Safeco Field (the Mariner's stadium) and we're always looking for more of our china, which is old and rare (which says less about our taste and comportment than it does about our luck, since we found a setting for 4 for dirt cheap and haven't seen another plate since). Anyway--what would one of my posts be without some potty experience--I had to pee, so I was directed to a bathroom in the auction house. I knew I was in trouble when I opened the door and a blast of noxious gas raped my nasal passages.

There was only one way to describe it: old man shit. It's distinctive; It's deadly.

I gagged. Literally gagged. It got so bad I had visions of Caroline busting into the room and finding me curled up fetal and rocking under the sink.

But enough about near death experiences, because the rest of the night was awesome. Dinner with friends and their cranky new baby, who hummed and snarled but didn't cry (bonus!); then Ladytron and Datarock at the Showbox.

I didn't know much about Datarock. Listened to them a bit on youtube and didn't care for them, so I was pleasantly surprised that they were really entertaining and pumped up the crowd. Loud as hell, though. Ladytron took the stage and were amazing. Songs that I was lukewarm about on the album absolutely rocked live. Plus, there was this couple--actually I think they were friends of different sexual orientation, by which I mean gay speaker dancer and his frankenstein-shoed hag (I say it with love, so it's okay)--that were so entertaining, not since Elaine on Seinfeld have I seen such spectacularly ill-conceived moves. We loved them. We didn't love the princesses with cell phones and no boundaries. Here's Ladytron's latest video, so you can feel like you were a part of it all (except for the fabu dancing, sorry)...



As we were leaving, we noticed the Lusty Lady--our favorite adult movie theater (notable for their fun marquees)--was showing INDIANA MOANS AND THE TEMPLE OF POON. Come on. How can you not love that?

And Damn. I'm going to have to break this post up. I thought for sure I'd be able to get it all in, but my fingers are tired and I still have to go grocery shopping.

Wait 'til you hear about Sunday (with pictures of Mrs. Voorhees!)

Another Tool for Procrastination

Harrrummmmpppph!

I've succumbed to laziness.

After two weekends of yardwork, aching muscles and finally getting the front in some kind of order, it was time to consider the backyard. It's been left to its own defenses since I started writing seriously two years ago. It was once a prideful thing and we recieved mucho complementos. Now? Not so much...

So, the landscaper, Dario just left after giving me an estimate and a time frame that I can live with. It's still a ton of money ($800) but to weed, haul, widen the beds, spread beauty bark and even get rid of the scotchbroom behind the fence, I think it's fair. It may not look like much in the pictures but it's going to take a crew of three guys, two days to get it done and maybe another, two is the estimate.

Now, I'm off to track down 8 square yards of beauty bark for delivery.

See what happens when I get paid?

Oh...and there's this...

New Interview Up

Donut Post...or Doughnut, For That Matter

Which is it "donut" or "doughnut?" After all, it is made out of dough, so the latter seems likely. But they aren't nuts, per se. So maybe it's all just nonsense. Anyway, I'm done worrying about it and the research would bore me to tears. So let's get on with the post.

I've been to donut Mecca.

I've seen God.

I was chatting about this with my Yahoo group awhile back, as I'm wont to do. But here's the story for all of you. Last week, when I accompanied Richelle and Caitlin to their reading/signing at Powell's--if those two don't need a chaperone, no one does--I was firmly mid-Atkin's induction and thus carbs were a no-no. But being out of state, one loses a bit of motivation. Alcohol does not help the situation.

Well, on many occasions, I've sought out the comfort of a warm donut (I probably should have used the other spelling for that sentence, lest I give the wrong impression). And in Portland, there is a place. A place where the icing flows like manna from heaven onto bulbous pastry so tender you'd sock your moms. What's even better? The recipes seem culled from the depths of MADNESS!

The place is Voodoo Doughnut.

I've attempted to make my acquaintance with this locale many times, always to be denied. I didn't think this particular night would be any different. So, to my surprise, following much debauchery at a Portland pool hall, my companions and I were driven to Voodoo Doughnut. Which was open (as it is 24 hours a day, unless you're really jonesin' or are me--in many cases-- and then it will be closed mysteriously).

Under the cruller chandelier we made our selections.

Mine...


The Cap'n Crunch--though it could have easily been called the Cap'n Crunchberry. Dear God what diet could survive in the presence of such glory? It was delicious. Raised and fluffy and covered a thick slathering of pink icing and an avalanche of forbidden breakfast treats. Ummm.

I just gave myself shivers.

Caitlin opted for the Double Bubble (not pictured). A decision, she insisted, made entirely based on the Double Bubble gum protruding from the center of the delicacy. I don't know much about the flavor, but her jaws were smacking, so I'm certain it was a success.

Richelle had to be dirty and ordered herself a Dirty Snowball...


I'll have you know, the woman ordered that one sight unseen. I was half expecting something yellow to pop out but the donut turned out to be far more enigmatic (yes, I think that's a dollop of gooey peanut butter protruding from the hole, if you catch my meaning.

I'm not saying there's a sexual connotation to the name "Dirty Snowball" but there is another donut that might clear up the issue...


Do we need to even continue this line of discussion?

There were so many weird donut varieties, I thought I'd have an aneurysm, or maybe, someone has jammed the pretzel into the voodoo doughnut's head...


It could happen, you know? Anyway--and I can't stress this enough--the next time you're in Portland, do yourself a favor and cheat on your diet at Voodoo Doughnut. You'll be happy you did...and bloated.

Sick as Shit and Busy

Those two shouldn't go together, ever. But I'm following through with my stuff. So what you get is...


...and the book club for Stacia's Personal Demons is up and running. Also, the winner of the missing League member has been announced. To prove it wasn't me and because I was goaded, here's my uncensored shot.

Feel free to make fun.

I Want One!

I saw this clip and couldn't stop wondering: Where do I get me a murderously intelligent, sensually self-programmed non-being?



It also reminded me of Trent's Demon Seed from the new NIN album (free here).



Oh...and I've done my weekly post over at the League!