I am so very tired.
JournalCon has thoroughly kicked my ass. I’ve somehow resprained my ankle. None of my pants are staying up anymore. I feel as though I’ve been beaten by a group of toddlers wielding pillowcases filled with pennies. Gah.
Too tired from her vacation, poor Weetabix! It just makes your heart bleed, non?
So JournalCon.
We ate dinner on Friday at the Golden Phoenix. That’s probably why I’m so tired because dinner took no less than three weeks, during which time Chauffi and I spent being extraordinarily snarky to each other and defying etiquette (Bev wrote about it best here, and yes, Chauffi and I would be the people who refused to ‘eat it like a taco’, although I think the fault really lies to Chauffi there. Because’. Just because he’s so evil. No, he isn’t really. Wait. Yes. Yes, he is.) Oh, that’s Eleanor wearing the Official Best Shirt at JournalCon2002. I hope I can be like Eleanor when I grow up. Or at least dress as well as she does.
As evidence to my incredible stamina, I did manage to socialize after dinner at the Irish Bank until roughly 10:01 pm (which, to be fair, WAS after midnight on my internal clock and quite impressive when you consider that I was up at 3:30 Friday morning.)
Wrote the previous really awful entry because my mind was reeling from the day’s events and then passed out in a food coma.
Screw the ‘chicken in every pot’, I want a Starbucks on every street corner!
On Saturday morning, I skipped down the block to Starbucks (god, I NEED a Starbucks nary a block from my home! My life would be so much more vibrant, let me tell you!) and then attended some of the incredible journaling panels. Poor Sars had had a nasty experience the night (I’ll let her tell you about it, though) so I gave her some Playdoh. She smiled. In that moment, all of the schlepping, the scheming and hauling 43 pounds of Weetadoh around various airports were worth it because it made her smile, despite a truly horrible evening.
Never underestimate the power of Doh.
After the panels and a quick lunch with several notables from the Journaling community at the mall adjacent to the hotel, Chauffi and I visited the Castro and then went to visit the hippy Mecca, Haight Asbury. It was very very cool. It reminded me of Madison, only without the cheese factor. This was legit quirkiness all rolled up in a Grateful Dead poncho with no apologies for being Midwestern. I did a little shopping, broke from Operation Hottie to enjoy a Chocolate Peanut Butter Truffle ice cream from Ben & Jerry’s (shockingly I’ve never been to a B&J’s, so it was a day of firsts) on the famous corner of Haight and Asbury. We also visited a leather store and got squicked out when we saw a case of scary metal implements. I recognized the speculum, as they visit me in my nightmares on a fairly regular basis, but there were some wiggy metal hook things that we just didn’t want to even KNOW what they might be for, therefore we fled with our modicum of innocence still intact.
Then we went to a store which I’ve forgotten the name, but it could very well be my favorite store in the world, full of eclectic retro kitsch and goofiness. Upon entering the store, I saw some bowling bag purses. $19. I started to walk past them because I’m a marinator when I shop. I don’t instantly grab things I want. But these purses. Oh the purses. They were incredible. I instantly fell in love and grabbed a light pink one. Because it was the best. Then, strangely enough, I found myself attracted to a wall display of retro refrigerator magnets. Not that I need refrigerator magnets, not that ANYONE needs refrigerator magnets, but these were very cool.
I ended up with a set of four photos of vintage business signs. It wasn’t until I was back in the car and taking a closer look that I realized one of the signs in the retro magnet pack is actually the sign for a motel in Green Bay which I pass every morning on my way to work. It’s sad that I buy a souvenir from Haight Asbury and it ends up being a picture of something in Green Bay. Sad but funny. By the way, the strange picture to the left is the INSIDE of the world’s cutest purse. My digital camera decided that you needed to see that.
(I’m writing this on the plane and the stewardess just offered me wine and then apologetically said ‘You’re 21, right? You look very young.’ I started to laugh and said ‘I’m 31.’ And her eyebrows shot up and she said ‘Wow! I was thinking maybe 22 or 23.’ While she’s probably simply myopic or just outright lying, it still rocked my world. And the strange thing is that I have this incredible urge to catalog those little events, as they become fewer and fewer. Each time, I think ‘that one might be the last time’ and savor it. Girls are silly. Girls afraid of looking old are even sillier. I used to laugh at those Estee Lauder products that declared youth in a bottle for the low price of $59, but now I’m starting to think that suspending the process, if not only by a few precious years, isn’t such a bad idea. But perhaps that’s because I spent the last 73 hours in a very shallow town, staring at women on the street who probably weigh in the same as a healthy eight-year-old.)
Chauffi and I had a fabulous dinner near Union Square. We split an incredible bacon and Gorgonzola salad and a wild mushroom pizza. I guzzled two Cosmopolitans in short order. Then we apparently encountered a cultural gap between the Midwesterners and West Coasters. When Chauffi asked for our bill, I whipped out my credit card to hand it to the waiter. A look of horror passed over both their faces. It was almost as though I had whipped out a decapitated head of a cocker spaniel puppy. It seems as though there is a bill ritual that must be followed in California. They must examine. Perhaps they mull over the philosophical ramifications and the class distinctions between themselves and the service industry. In the Midwest, or at very least in Green Bay, we are uncomfortable with acknowledging that we are not eating in a friend’s home and are actually paying for the food. We want it over as quickly as possible. We don’t examine the check. We pay it and then try to put it behind us, as one would with the flush of a toilet.
I’d like to teach the world to sing’ in perfectly awful harmony
We went to Karaoke in Japantown. We were the first wave of JournalConvicts to hit the Laser Karaoke bar and were a bit dismayed to find the karaoke songbooks filled with Japanese songs. Not just Japanese songs, the titles themselves were written IN JAPANESE. After scouring the book, we discovered four songs in English. An Aerosmith, a Janet Jackson, a Debbie Gibson (‘Lost in your eyes’, if you must know) and something by Faith Hill. The name of that one was in Japanese, but the artist was Faith Hill, so I’m not entirely certain which particular brand of Faith Hill putrescence it was. My best friend MoPie (not to be confused with my sister Mo) led the second wave and quickly procured us the English Song Books. I was very pleased to discover that there was extremely little country karaoke, my most hated of things. Chauffi explained that Californians hate country music, which made me love California instantly. They eat like me, they have cute stores and merchandise, and they hate country music. Now if only they’d embrace the kind of women who can actually menstruate, let alone have a non-angular body, I might consider moving.
The bar had a two-drink minimum. I ordered a Blind Russian, which confused the Japanese middle-aged lady bartender.
‘White Russian?’
‘BLIND Russian.’
‘Brind Russian? That like White Russian?’
‘No, not quite. Instead of cream in the White Russian, you put in Bailey’s Irish Cream.’
‘OooooooOOOOOOOOOoooooooh!’ Obviously she was quite impressed with the magic that was the Brind Russian.
We learned that it would cost $2 a song to do Karaoke. That shocked me. You have to pay to sing? I sincerely hope this does not trend to the Cute Boy bar or the Ass Splinter bar, because I will be quite put out.
John Scalzi, who has a name that just rolls off your tongue like the finest poetry, showed up with the third wave of diarists and graciously paid for the first 10 songs, leading with the first song. Chauffi sang and incredible rendition of ‘Playmate of the Year’, dedicated to MoPie. The bar was so very small that you could just sing without the microphone, so he actually serenaded her at one point from the middle of the bar. It was a bit of magic that will likely go down in the JournalCon annals, if there is such a thing. He should consider a lounge act in Vegas. It could be big, I’m telling you, baby! HUGE!
Chauffi, Lisa, John Scalzi and I performed ‘Dancing Queen’, complete with ABBA-esque choreography. My pants kept falling off my ass. Gah. I can’t wait to see the pictures. I realize that it’s very difficult to hear the sarcastic tone of voice there, but believe me, that sentence is so dripping with it that you may want to take a squeegee to your monitor. I’m just saying. Scalzi then treated us to an incredible rendition of George Micheal’s ‘Faith’, complete with bootie-shaking. Of course, I snapped the picture for posterior’ er, posterity.
(Mmmmm’ they just served the freshly baked still warm chocolate chip cookies. You’ve just gotta love Midwest Express.)
Most Surreal Moment
I stopped by Glitter and Kymm’s hotel room, right across the hall from my own and invited them to dinner, Kymm perked up and pointed at my necklace.
‘Oooooh, are those the Ass Splinter pearls?!?!’
They were indeed. Had this come from someone else, I might have been squicked. But I wasn’t. Instead, it was just surreal.
That having been said, I must clarify that there was no dorkiness from Karen when we met at all. She’s the portrait of style and casual grace. Don’t believe her for a second.
Sunday’s At 7
On Sunday morning, I woke up nice and early and went out in search of coffee and Band-Aids with Chauffi as my sneakers had been unkind to my feet. After sucking down our caffeine and finding the Walgreen’s near the hotel closed, we walked down a few blocks to another Walgreen’s, passing no less than four more Starbucks along the way. I love the way they think in California. It’s almost as though someone read my mind when they designed that city. No, I lie. If they had, there would be fewer freaking hills. Hills’Gah. Perhaps cliffs and precipices would be more accurate. I’m used to gentle, rolling glacially smoothed hills. The streets of San Francisco are angry. They obviously have issues with the people walking on them. They want them to pass out and perhaps even die.
How Many Diarists does it take to Confuse the Elevators?
The elevators at the Galleria were strange. First of all, they were covered in a rather hot pink fabric. Secondly, they had rather amorphous music piped into them, music which very possibly could be the soundtrack to Hell. And finally, they were the most temperamental pieces of machinery I’ve ever seen. We watched as a gaggle of senior citizens stuffed themselves into the elevator, ignoring the sign which stated that there was a limit of four people in the elevator. Not only was there a limit, but if you stepped rather jubilantly into the elevator, it wouldn’t budge. You had to then dance with it, sending members of the party off the elevator and then back on. Mo set off the alarm at one point, undoubtedly shocking Pigwidgeon into a quick recovery. The seven senior citizens simply stood in the elevator, scratching their heads, then arguing about who should get out of the elevator. Meanwhile, it blithely played a lovely piece of endless Muzak which apparently was priced by the note, as it was a tune made up of only C, B flat and G. I think it was to lull you into a false sense of security.
On Monday morning, I waited for the elevator to take me down from the seventh floor. And waited. And waited. Finally, I decided that I could walk down, and in doing so, passed little groups of confused older folks who persisted in waiting for elevators which would never open. When I passed the third floor, the alarms started to go off, signaling that folks were trapped in both the elevators. I can think of no worse punishment’ that glaring pink fabric.
I really ache for the person who wrote that music, although I suspect he’s one of those self-righteous folks in high school who was adored by teachers, always wore gym socks with black loafers, and now lived in a meticulously clean little anal-retentive home, writes these horrible bits of mediocrity on a Casio keyboard in a walk-in closet that he calls his ‘studio’ and still wears gym socks with black loafers. But maybe I’m being too harsh.
No, But I’m Flattered. Really.
This conversation took place, in one form or another, no fewer than five times over the weekend:
‘Are you the Poundy Wendy?’
‘No, I’m the Weetabix.Diaryland.com Wendy.’
‘Are you sure you’re not Wendy from Poundy?’
‘No, I’m a different fat girl named Wendy.’
I thought it was funny, but it was likely very off-putting. Chauffi is right. I really am a bitch sometimes.
Further Proof that the Galleria Park Hotel might have been the inspiration for The Shining
After some more incredible panels, Chauffi and I went to the rooftop garden to practice our readings, ignoring the sign which said that the garden was closed on Sundays because the door was unlocked, so hey, must be a lie. We sat up in the lovely garden and laughed in all the right places at each other’s pieces. Feeling satisfied that we would not give an ass-like reading, we tried to leave the garden.
Locked. But wait, I had the key! The key that would have led us to freedom if the door had not been deadbolted from the other side.
We tried to be creative and find an alternate route of escape. Nothing. They were locked as well. Chauffi, being all James Bond and clever, whipped out his cellphone and called the front desk and someone rescued us, after admonishing us for ignoring the sign. But perhaps the blame should go to the person who had obviously deadbolted the door without checking to see if anyone was outside, hmmm?
Mind if I stalk you?
We then decided to do Dim Sum for lunch, but since Dim Sum comes in fours, we would see if any of our new friends wanted to join us. We went into the main conference room and schmoozed.
Selilavie has applied to be my stalker. We’ve got many applicants (oh golly, this cracked me up), so we’ll keep her resume for consideration. It can be a very hard job, as I live in a cold climate and it requires many hours standing outside my window and tracking my movements, but it is very upwardly mobile. After all, look what it has done for Chauffi, who is now my PA.
Oh, and I talked to Pamie.
EEEEEEEEEEEE!
She’s very nice and simply oozes a sense of something I can only describe as ‘approachable cool.’ And she said she has actually visited this page, which almost made me stop breathing because I always feel like apologizing whenever I meet anyone who reads this thing. Hez assures me that I didn’t make a complete spaz of myself and there was only a tiny bit of effusive fawning. And then I talked with the very lovely AB who should be a politician or something because it’s simply impossible not to fall immediately in love with her. She told me that Jelias told her to say hi to me, which is actually the same message I was going to pass onto her from Jelias as well, so it was opportune that we could pass along the mutual ‘hello’s from our friend Jelias.
Chauffi, Hez and I then scootled (and yes ‘scootled’ is SO a word so just hush!) to a great place for Dim Sum, but found it missing in action. I whined about the trek back to Chinatown so we hopped a cable car (Rice A Roni, the San Francisco treat! Ding Ding!). Chauffi hung off the side, because he is brave and young and has complete disregard for the angry streets of San Francisco. We had lunch at a place that claimed they had Dim Sum, but really they only had appetizers that they called Dim Sum. It wasn’t the Dim Sum experience of many steaming carts of strange dumplings and ground unidentifiable meats. Even still, it was incredible. We split a chicken salad, a huge caldron of hot & sour soup, an order of the plate of pseudo-Dim Sum, and an order of lemon chicken, which sadly did not come with the parsley that made it taste so yummy at the Golden Phoenix on Friday night. It was still the best Chinese food I’ve had in, oh, centuries. I’m beginning to realize that the Chinese food we have in Wisconsin is to Chinese food as Taco Bell is to Mexican food. Gah.
(The pilot just told us that we’re flying over South Dakota. If you’re reading from South Dakota, I just waved at you.)
We went back to give our readings. Chauffi brought down the house with his reading of his Zen and Dip A Chip, which is one of my favorites of his diary. Kymm had a very humorous entry about Vincent D’Onofrio’s poor choices in movies and sweaters. And then I read the original Uterus entry, with a little help from MoPie, who read the Weetabix lines, and I those of the reproductive organ. It was fun.
And then JournalCon 2002 was officially concluded.
Sniffle.
Promise to write?
We all settled in the leather chair and fireplace area of the lobby and chatted with Glitter, (about my visit with BadSnake), MoPie, Jen, and JenFu, who enjoyed swatting me with a fly swatter from Mighty Kymm.Chauffi fell asleep on the chair, echoing the sentiments of all of us. JenFu was giving neck massages.
It was all very ‘last day of summer camp’ and poignant, as most folks were leaving right away. I had this urge to give out friendship bracelets that I made in Arts & Crafts. Luckily, we all work in this incredible medium which allows us to preserve parts of ourselves for all to see (which is something that Pamie talked about in her panel’ she’s so incredibly philosophical and yet kicks ass so entirely much! I’m not going to’.wait, one last time’ EEEEEE!) so it’s not the end, just a lesser level. And then I said adieu to Chauffi and embarrassed him with my Midwestern sentimentalities. I can’t help it. Sometimes I’m a complete and utter sap.
All by Mysellllllllllllllf
Then I went up to my hotel room and took a brief nap, until my growling tummy woke me up. I went for a walk with my Canon, loaded with black and white film, in Chinatown, where I scored some cheapass trinkets for the folks back home, including a Gundam Wing lunch box for Esteban. I snapped a few b&w’s and missed an excellent shot of a little girl wearing a plaid skirt doing Irish dancing illuminated by a single floodlight in the doorway of a shop where everything was lettered in Chinese. Her parents admonished her for causing a racket and gave me a harsh glance. They probably thought I was some freak, trying to whip out my big awkward lens and then wait for the perfect moment when cars weren’t zooming into the shot. Ah well.
I walked until I was tired again and then headed back to the hotel, still hungry. There, I made further friends with the men working the front desk. One of them ran down to bring me soda from their staff room because it was only fifty cents down there. They were ordering Italian, so they asked if I wanted to piggyback my order onto theirs, or I could order wherever and they would get it delivered. I took their recommendation and ordered lasagna and a side Caesar salad. Again, I screwed up the money thing, as I tried to give it to the desk guy and he got all nervous about it. Damn me and my midwestern faux pas! I’m plagued by Wisconsin. Or as we in Wisconsin apparently would say ‘wisCAHNsin’. Anywhoo, the food from the Italian place was divine, although apparently I should have specified a PIECE of lasagna and not the entire pan of lasagna, Even though I was absolutely famished, I could only muster through half the order before I surrendered the leftovers to the trash. I drank my two sodas with Absolut (drinking alone in a hotel room, my drunken mama would be so very proud) and then crashed into a lovely vodka coma.
This morning was filled with packing and tying up loose ends. I went to Jamba Juice and got a veritable bucket of orange juice (LOVE the Jamba!!! Need one of those in Green Bay too, preferably right next door to my house) and an egg, spinach and havarti English muffin. Then I walked along with Hez and her mom to a ‘new’ Starbucks (one I had not yet been to), nary one block in a different direction from our hotel. It was so comforting to know that if I ever got lost in that city, I would never be more than a hundred yards from a steaming nonfat venti vanilla mocha. This time, however, I got some juice (because I had hoped to sleep on the plane, although I seem to be just spending my in-air time writing this entry) and a mini angel food cake to nibble upon while we chatted. Then back to the hotel, said goodbye to Hez and then walked for a big bottle of water at the corner store. I’ve been seriously low on fluids this weekend. I haven’t been drinking even close to my normal 1.5 gallons of water and after each of our treks through the angry streets, have been sweating more than Trading Spaces Frank in a room full of broken ceiling fans.
And then there was one’.
On my final descent in the wacked elevators, I got my first chance to talk with Steve (who takes some INCREDIBLE photos, by the way, and I strongly urge you to check them out). He told me that Chuck said hi and was disappointed that he couldn’t make it. (Hi right back at you Chuck! I’m sorry you couldn’t make it either and would have loved to have said hi in person). Steve was the JournalCon Survivor, being the last remaining Journalist, leaving around 3:00, beating out Amanda and bumping me down to the Rudy position of third place. Amanda and I shared a Lincoln Town Car (hey, go out in STYLE, baybee!) to the airport. She’s a sweetheart. Love her. But I do fear her musk candy.
I’m struck by something one of my coworkers said to me the day before I left, as she accused me of always jetting off everywhere (so not true, by the way’ the last time I was on a plane was in January 2001). She said ‘It’s just that’ your life is so’. Very. It’s just that. Very.’ My life is indeed very. And I really like it that way.
Anywhoo, my laptop is growing dim, we’re going to be landing soon, and airplane tards keep walking to the bathroom and bumping the seat ahead of me into the monitor, which pisses me off to no end, so I’m outtie.
