Defending Geekiness

I was recently the subject of some (friendly--at least I hope so) ribbing by some family members for my alleged "geekiness", which I put in quotation marks because their definition of being a geek is the fact that I was incredibly excited for the latest episode of The Walking Dead, which if you have to read that link to know what it is, I'm sorry, but I am just baffled as to how you even found this blog, but I digress. In any case, the plebeians don't know just how deep the geek goes, but in any case, one of the words thrown around was "pathetic", which just for context you should know that this family event took place during the Eagles' bi-week, which means our home team wasn't playing that day, and it was specifically set up that way, and also the cousin who called me pathetic didn't know that Italy was shaped like a boot.

I internalize damn near everything I hear, which yes, I know I shouldn't, but it stuck in my craw, this allegation of being "pathetic". Sometimes I think the only things that stick are the ones I suspect, or fear, are true. Society has long regarded the attendees of Comic-Con as geeks who live in their mothers' basements and lost their virginity somewhere around never. Even though superhero movies, comic books, sci-fi, fantasy, and other media and genres of that ilk are enjoying a mainstream run right now, and a non-too-shabby take at the box office, there's a definite line in the sand between the regular audiences, who are enjoying what's being presented to them, and the geeks, who seek out the new, the cool, the weird, and who take to message boards to pick apart the lastest episode or installment of whatever it is that they love best. Geekdom is enjoying a heyday, and heydays, as they are wont to do, end. Don't know when or why, but being a geek will fall out of fashion as swiftly as it fell in. Most people will move on to whatever the next cool thing is, and the geeks will still be blogging about who would win in a fight between Batman and Iron Man. It's what we do.

So, is the fact that we still mourn Firefly a testament to our tenacity or evidence that we can't move on from something as inconsequential as a tv show? Are we above the mainstream who follow trends like sheep, or are we stubbornly refusing to evolve? Are geeks pathetic?

I've thought long and hard over that question and the answer I came up with is a resounding maybe. Maybe the fact that I took a day off work to meet my favorite author and drove all the way to the great back ass of nowhere because God forbid he do a reading in an easily accessible place in a major city does smack of sadness, even if I don't regret doing it for one second and I got his autograph TWICE, so that makes the harrowing drive on a highway that terrifies me totally worth it. Maybe the fact that a new album, or a new movie, or hell, even a new episode of something I love gets me excited to the point that my squealing hurts my dog's ears makes me a sad sack.

But I don't care. Maybe a new book or upcoming concert is a stupid reason to get myself excited, but I have something to look forward to almost every day. There is always something to be excited about, and even after I've seen/heard/experienced it, I can go over and over the nuances ad infinitum. I'm proud that I can keep the entire cast of Game of Thrones straight without double checking or referring to the complicated addenda in the books (which I did read anyway). While everyone in my house is half-watching the latest episodes, I'm fully engaged in a medieval world that has fucking dragons. While my cousins roll their eyes and tell me I'm pathetic, they're bored out of their skulls and I'm gleefully anticipating how Daryl and Merle are going to reunite, and I'm loving every minute of it. And unlike the Eagles, who are frankly a source of near-constant disappointment, nothing in my geek menagerie topples my good mood, even when favorite characters die or story lines bulldoze through previously established plots.

Maybe I'm weird and maybe I have a distorted sense of reality, but I'm also damn happy, and I think I speak for all geeks, whether they love movies, comics, TV, books, social media, music, tech, or some combination thereof, when I say I feel sorry for anyone who doesn't get wildly enthusiastic as regularly as we do.

Life's too short to be disaffected.

Seeking Myself

I like to pride myself on being highly self-aware, and if I actually were, that would be a hell of a thing to take pride in. But, I'm not. The only way I know of to gauge how I'm feeling is open an extra tab on my laptop while I'm working and search for songs. I don't know what kind of mood I'm in until I hear what I've selected for myself.

Something Corporate or New Found Glory: nostalgic for my teen years

My Chemical Romance or Green Day: either melancholy or exuberant--they have a wide range

The Beatles or Queen: nostalgic for my childhood

Beyonce/Lady Gaga/P!nk/Katy Perry: amped up and vaguely pissed at the male gender. Tends to occur once a month.

Broadway tunes: highly energetic. Often involves dancing. It's rarely, if ever, pretty

Avenged Sevenfold: angry

Celtic Woman: Irish (yes, Irish is a mood)

As special as I like to believe I am, I wonder if I'm the only one who gauges their own mood by the choices they subconsciously make. Feel free to comment if you do the same, and with what.

Why "The Walking Dead" is Different from Other Shows

What I do in preparation for other season premiers:
Rewatch the previous season's finale
(Re)read the source material, if it exists
Set my DVR

And that's pretty much it. If I could, I'd organize a watch party with my friends, but since all my favorite shows air on Sunday nights and I have to wake at the ass-crack of dawn to go to work, I generally watch alone and text my friends during the show. And then we get on with our lives. Which we have, despite all evidence to the contrary.

What I do to prepare for the Walking Dead
Gas up and change the oil in my car
Go to the drugstore and refill my first aid kit
Target shooting with my dad
Rewatch both previous seasons in their entirety (Don't judge me! AMC was running a marathon and my pajamas are really comfortable)
Reread the comic
Watched about a dozen interviews
Set my DVR
Reread my first aid manual

Now, in all fairness, I am retaking my CPR certification for work this week, and I've had to change my oil since about May, so this weekend was not only an exercise in anticipation for more zombie-killing goodness (and Michonne! Yay, Michonne!), but also shit I had to get done anyway.

Doesn't change the fact that I know how far I have to drive to find redneck country (half an hour north and half an hour east. The joys of living in suburban Pennsylvania!). Rednecks, as TWD has taught me, are primed to handle the apocalypse. I doubt any of the real life rednecks I'll have to team up with will look like Daryl Dixon, but in the event of a national disaster I'll take my chances with the uggos.

Also doesn't change the fact that I know where the nearest prison is located and three different ways to get there.

As for going shooting with my dad?

That's just fun.

Vampire Sex Novels

I'm currently reading about 16 different books, one of which is Deborah Harkness' Shadow of Night. It's basically Twilight for people who don't congratulate themselves on knowing who Shakespeare is but are overwhelmingly impressed with their knowledge of Christopher Marlowe's existence. For the purposes of this post knowing that the female protagonist, Diana Bishop, is an author insert if ever there was one and the love interest is Matthew, a millenia-old vampire of unspeakable beauty who is hopelessly smitten with said protagonist due to....reasons, is already more than you need to know.

It isn't my place or right to criticize another writer, especially one who can, you know, finish a book, which already makes her way more talented and accomplished than me, but I do have a question for anyone, Harkness, Meyer, all their ilk who write romance novels with a vampire as the hero. Exactly why must they all have cold skin?

Every vampire romance novel I've heard of in recent years has made a point of describing the vampires as having skin as cold and pale as snow. They linger lovingly over this detail, and remind the reader of it at least once per chapter, lest we forget how ethereally unhuman they are. And that's fine. I get why a creature who avoids sunlight and is essentially a perfectly preserved corpse is cold and white. There's a logic in that. And if those descriptions went only that far, I could live with it. But these are romance novels, so we know at one point in the series, if not the individual story, we are getting a sex scene. And at some point, that scene is going to mention again how cold a vampire's skin is.
ALL. OF. THEIR. SKIN.

It doesn't take a discerning reader to realize that these sex scenes are blatant culminations of a fantasy wherein a gorgeous man/rakish bad boy who has dodged love and commitment for centuries consummates his love with the self-appointed Plain Jane who has reformed him from his wicked ways because she and her love are just so indefinably "special". Clearly they are designed to titillate the reader, who is at this point picturing herself as the heroine, having wild, biologically impossible, endlessly thrilling sex.

With a dicksicle.

The most egregious thing is that these novels are written, for the most part, by women. Women, who are tapping out their fantasy sex lives on gorgeous antique typewriters like real authors use, and the thing they apparently all crave in bed is a popsicle shoved up their hoo-has.

I must ask all female readers and writers alike, when did this become a thing? These books sell like hotcakes and 99 times out of a hundred it's not due to the elegant prose or rich plots, so am I now in the minority because I don't want to flash freeze my lady parts?

I'm not saying I don't get the appeal of ice cubes during funtimes...especially in the summer when the air conditioner is broken. But they are supposed to stay out of the main event. I don't know what woman went to the gynecologist for her annual check-up and decided she wanted to enjoy the fun an icy speculum brings to the party on a regular basis, but I do want to know why she decided to tell the world that she was not alone in her frozen fetish.

And I'd also like to point out that she's a liar and a gross minority before the trend escalates and guys start taking ice showers before sex in a sweet but wildly misguided attempt to please their partners. Please don't do that.

At least not without asking.

Heroes

Recently The Bloggess posted a blog about how you should not meet your heroes, except you should, because meeting Neil Gaiman was as awesome as she'd built it up to be in her head. She then demanded to know who all of our (the readers) heroes were, whether we wanted to meet them, if we already had, and was it good for us (heh heh). I started to respond, but then realized I was at work, and am not paid to blog (I know, I think I should be too). In any case, that was several days ago, and now not only does she have almost 1,500 replies, but I've missed the contest she was running, although since she already autographed her book for me, in person, I don't really care. Also, I've met a lot of people, and I want to meet a lot more, so this post is gonna be long. I felt she should have the option of ignoring it, although I'm tweeting it to her as soon as I'm done (because she follows me on Twitter, y'all), and also because she is a hero of mine, and I did meet her.

She was AWESOME! She was as funny and self-deprecating in person as she is on her blog, she totally fangirled over Rosie O'Donnell, even though she brought her, who introduced her to all of us salivating fans. Incidentally, Rosie likes my metal chicken. At this point I will point out that Ke$ha (the chicken) was a gift from ArchaeoloChick, because she's awesome and if I don't mention it, she'll give Guinea Pig a box of firecrackers and tell him to throw them at me when I take him to school, and his aim is painfully good. But back to the Bloggess, whose real name is Jenny Lawson. She delightedly signed both my book and my chicken, and she loved the rooster-shaped martini shaker ArchaeoloChick  and I gave her. The reason she's a hero is her ability to see the funny side of life, even when life is profoundly unfunny. She never makes it look effortless, either. She's frank and honest about the things she struggles with, which makes her even more heroic, because someone who has to pick themselves up time and again and keeps on doing so is made of stronger stuff than the one who never falters.

Other Heroes I've Met:

My Chemical Romance

Specifically, Gerard Way, Mikey Way, Ray Toro, and Frank Iero. I got to meet them last time they were in Philadelphia. They did a studio session for a small group of fans, during which they were unfailingly polite (Ray even tossed out a humble "aw, thanks guys" in between songs), each member of the band made a point to shake hands with and greet everyone after the set, despite the radio station employees hustling everyone out like the place was on fire. I managed to babble to Gerard a very strangled, high-pitched, English/howler monkey language hybrid how grateful I'd been to the band for writing the song "Helena", a tribute to the Way brothers' late grandmother, which was released during the same time my own grandmother was living with me during the final stages of a terminal illness. That song may have been the one thing that helped me cope during that time, and Gerard's response was (in non-strangled, low-pitched, fully decipherable English) "I'm glad we were able to help you." Then our brief interaction was over, with Frank reaching out to shake my hand because he hadn't had the chance to do so when I'd said hello to Ray, Mikey, and Gerard (see, polite). They've been my favorite band for a long time, and I don't see that changing--ever, really--but "Helena" is the one thing they've done that I'm beyond fangirling and appreciation for. The gratitude hasn't faltered at all, and I'm lucky that I got the chance to thank them in person.

Christopher Moore

I've done something for Christopher Moore that I've not done before or since. The closest he came to my neck of the woods on his most recent book tour was West Chester, PA, which if you're familiar at all with Pennsylvania, you'll know is located in the great back-ass of fucking nowhere! And since the whole of the state has a public transit system that covers about five miles, the only way to get there was by highway, upon which driving is my second-favorite activity, assuming my favorite is stumbling into a three-story wasps' nest and being stung to a puffy death. I will do almost anything on Earth to avoid driving on a highway, yet if I wanted to meet Mr. Moore, the highway was the only way to go. An hour out and an hour back, the most petrifying two hours of my life (and I've seen From Justin to Kelly). He held court for over an hour, telling us his inspiration and fielding questions with all manner of respect and courtesy, even though some of them were quite frankly stupid, all in all giving everyone present a night of grace and humor. He even staggered the autograph line so that those who had the longest to travel were the first to get autographs and go (note, AnthropoloChick and I were not even close to being the weariest travelers). The first book I ever read that I truly laughed out loud at was Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal, a copy I'd found by accident at a closeout sale. I was inspired to learn more and research more through his absurdist humor in all of his novels about such varied subjects as Shakespeare, religion, cargo cults, and marine biology, than I was ever taught as a kid.

Heroes I'd like to meet:

Tom Hiddleston, who may literally be not only the nicest actor on the planet, but the nicest person

Jessicka Addams, wildly gifted artist and thought-provoking feminist

Brianna Karp, writer and homeless advocate, who lived her subject with dignity and strength

Temple Grandin, animal husbandry expert and autism advocate, who used her autism to revolutionize her industry

Daniel Tammet, linguist, mathematician, certified genius, who takes a unique approach to expanding the human mind

Hero I'd have liked to meet:

Maeve Binchy, recently deceased writer who made modern Ireland come alive for me with just words on a page. Even if I never get to go, I can still see it in my eyes, brimming with rich history and characters.

Favorite Heroes:

Stop reading now.

Seriously, it's nauseating.

You don't want to read what I'm about to say, it's cloying and cliche and trite.

You're gonna hurl all over your keyboard. Or your phone. Or your tablet. I don't really know what you're reading this on. Except you. Yeah, you. We both know you're procrastinating, so quit wasting time on this and get your shit done.

Why are you still reading? Do you like to puke?

I fully absolve myself of any up-chucking that may result from reading this.

Fine. You asked for it.

My parents are my heroes. I told you it was cliche and nauseating. But it's a cliche for a reason. I firmly believe that everyone should consider their parents heroes. If you don't, there's something either very wrong with you or with them. If the former, seek help, if the latter, I'm truly sorry that you missed out. And before anyone goes accusing me of currying favor with them by adding them, you should know that if it's not bloopers on YouTube on my dad's iPad, my mom can't find it online. My dad is slightly more proficient, because he can check his email and download the Big Bang Theory whip app onto his phone. It's safe to say they won't read this anytime soon, possibly ever. But despite their flaws in understanding the technology that they can't blame on their age because they are the exact same age as Bill Gates and the late Steve Jobs, and William Shatner is 81 and knows how to use fucking Twitter, seriously why can't they ever remember their passwords?!, I find the ability to live with someone for almost thirty years and still be in love with each other (not just loving each other, which is important, but being honest to god in love) pretty heroic. There are places in my life where I always have to be something, some little pieces of me that I have to display and others that I have to hide. At home I can be whatever. I can be tired, or bitchy, or ditzy, or geeky, without fear of censure. Making a safe place for your kids is pretty damn heroic. Dealing with life in general is heroic, and it's more heroic when you have to deal with it in front of someone, day in, day out, letting them see all the cracks and failures. Our public heroes can serve as inspirations and guides, but just like anyone else, we only see what they allow us to see. Even when they discourse about their failings, it's after the fact, once the storm has passed. It's brave and honest to do that, but it's even braver when you let people see you in the middle. It's a silent, suffering way to show the people who idolize you that as bad as it is right now, as bad as it will be again, this is life, and this is how you deal with it. And it will get better.

Moral of the story: Meet the shit out of your heroes. You run the risk that they will disappoint you, but the giddy feeling that you get when they prove themselves worthy of the title is unbelievably good. Like wine without the hangover or chocolate without the weight gain.

Science Corner with Todd Akin, or Why You're a Rapist

According to Todd Akin, women do not get pregnant from "legitimate rape" because our vaginas, ovaries, thingermabobs, whatchacallits, pupillary sphincters, or whatever all that mess we have down there has a barrier that distinguishes between good guy welcome sperm and bad guy rapist sperm, so women can only get pregnant when they want to (which is good news for women suffering from infertility--more on that later)

Akin, of course, is attempting to claim that abortion isn't "justified" in cases of rape, because from what he knows from doctors, not only is pregnancy from rape rare, but the female body has ways to shut that down.

It's at this point I'd wonder if these doctor friends of Akin, assuming they live in this universe and outside the funhouse in his head, are actually eccentrics whose parents gave them the first name "Doctor" and raised them on a commune in the desert before releasing them into the mainstream world, having them stumble into the sci-fi section of a local bookstore and taking what they found as fact, but I've never read sci-fi about magic, rape-rejecting vaginas, so presumably these are real doctors, and the general public has been kept in the dark about the all-encompassing power of lady parts.

Since this discovery, the shocking and tragic fact is, due to the discriminatory nature of girly whozeewhatsis, we the general public are forced to acknowledge that any sperm deposited in an unprotected hoo-ha (one without a condom, birth control pill, or enchanted copper tree blocking the womb from achieving it's natural pregnant state) that doesn't yield a baby was left there by a foul, dirty rapist.

This dismaying news that every man who hooked up with a girl without a condom, every guy who had an oopsie with his girlfriend that didn't bear fruit, every man who took more than one try to impregnate his wife is a rapist, while devastating, is great news for our legal system. No longer will judges and juries be burdened with things like "testimony", "evidence of assault or intoxication", "victims who said 'no'", they can simply haul every instance of unprotected sex in front of the judge, give the girl a bottle of water and a pee stick, and three minutes later extend a hearty congratulations to the parents-to-be, or toss a young man in prison and ship the protesting woman off to counseling to deal with the trauma she doesn't even know she's experiencing.

Thanks for the salvation, Representative Akin. Our women, our legal system, and society at large are eternally grateful.

Thank You, Gabrielle Donnelly

Occasionally, when I'm nostalgic for my youth, I will pull out one of the three Little Women novels, and lose myself in it. Louisa May Alcott shaped the literary landscape of my childhood, and I was a more voracious reader in those days, devouring what she'd written so I could move on to the next one.

I learned temperance as an adult. I remember trying to pace myself when I read the seventh Harry Potter book, losing myself in the story while fully conscious of the fact that it was the last time I'd ever read a new Harry Potter for the first time--ever.

I wish I'd had the wherewithal to temper myself when I was younger. I sped through Alcott's work with ferocity, and while I can't ever get tired of reading those beloved stories, it has the value of thumbing through old photographs, reminiscing about the past, watching Jo grow from a fifteen-year-old girl to a wife, mother, writer, and teacher over and over and over. It is comforting, alluring, and satisfying, but it isn't fresh, and I wish I'd savored the story more when it was.

So I have a debt of gratitude to author Gabrielle Donnelly, who wrote the charming Little Women Letters. I normally don't like updated adaptations of classics, neither do I typically write reviews of other writer's work (mainly because I'm afraid it won't be flattering and I will get karmically bitch-slapped for being a snot-nosed critic before I've summoned the gumption to write something of my own), however Donnelly's work is so incredibly worthy of being a successor to Alcott's that I can't view as separate from the canon.


The setting is modern-day London, the characters the great-great-granddaughters of Josephine March Bhaer and the various friends and relations that turn up during the slice of their lives that Donnelly shares with us (I was waiting for the girls to realize that their Grandma Jo is the Jo March, until it dawned on me that within the frame of the story, Louisa May Alcott and her iconic characters don't exist--rather, the characters are people. However, there's a brief mention of Anne of Green Gables, aka, the Canadian counterpart to Little Women, which made me smile), and the letters are missives between Jo, Meg, Beth, and Amy that are accidentally discovered in the attic.

The best thing about Donnelly's work is that though her characters are expies of the three surviving March sisters (I appreciated not having a modern-day counterpart to Beth. I felt her death as keenly as a real person's when I first read Little Women, and would be unprepared to watch her descendant suffer the same fate.), the storyline twists and veers enough that the reader can't predict the ending point for each girl. Rather, the spirit of the March sisters is alive and well in the characters conceived by Donnelly, the language is lush and descriptive (having the characters be the daughters of an ex-pat American allows for delightful English idiom to complement the perfectly pitched histrionics of the New England letters, something that would've sounded stilted and old-fashioned had the story been set in the States), and the daily intricacies of modern life are woven beautifully and tied up neatly in an ending worthy of Alcott herself.

Little Women Letters functions less as an adaptation and more as equal parts homage and continuation. I  bought it thinking it would be cute, and instead fell in love with a new generation of Little Women. And for a moment, I was 11 again.

And I savored it.