And the Award Goes To...

If you are reading this, it probably means that it's finally happened.  I've finally achieved my (literally) life-long dream of getting a Darwin Award.  I've taken the liberty of writing a speech--obviously one of you dear readers will need to read it for me at the ceremony.  (I've included some notes on delivery.)

First of all, I'd like to thank my mom and my maternal grandmother, who showed me how to bear clumsiness with dignity if not grace.  Pause for laughter.

Thanks also to my dad and My Sister the Lawyer for teaching me that gracelessness is best when the amusement is shared.  And to my friend Seven, because sometimes, that amusement needs to be shared with a sharp jab to someone's kidney.  Pause for laughter.

To the members of the swing dancing club (If you put air quotes around the word "swing," I will personally come back from hell to haunt your ass.) I was part of in college:  I owe you so much.  Not only did your lessons help me learn to at least not embarrass myself (so much) dancing, they also taught me to walk without running into walls.  Mostly.  And that's probably what kept me alive for so long.  And to all the leads who partnered me:  Despite all the times I stepped on your feet, elbowed you in the gut, and once head-butted you during an aerial in a place that could constitute sexual harassment, you never once gave up on me.  Or filed charges.  Thank you.  And I'm really glad your insurance company ended up covering that procedure after all.

Finally, I know I didn't likely die in a dignified manner.  I quite possibly didn't have pants on.  But please, if you could, remember me just like I was that one time in that photo taken in 2006, where I don't look like a complete derp with stupid hair.  Yes, I know that memory will be false, but it's my last wish.  Not my dying wish, obviously, because I'm already dead, but my last, post-mortem wish.  Or I guess it could be my first post-mortem wish, if one of you develops an affinity for ouija boards. 

If you try to contact me by ouija board, I will totally just make "your mom" jokes.  So, yeah.  (Please stop reading now.  I've clearly derailed.)





Via



(True:  This is not an attempt to fake my own death.  Just to be clear.)

Read This! ArchEnemy by Frank Beddor

Via

My friend Seven originally introduced me to The Looking Glass Wars several years ago, and I owe him big for that. 

ArchEnemy is the last installment of the epic dark fantasy/political thriller/fairy tale, and it's pretty damn amazing.  Queen Alyss (whom we Earth-dwellers have mistakenly misnamed Alice of Alice in Wonderland fame--way to mess it all up, Lewis Carroll) has put on hold her war with her evil aunt, Queen Redd, because King Arch of the neighboring nomadic kingdom has invaded Wonderland and seized that queendom for himself, endangering not only Wonderland, but the magic of Imagination throughout all the worlds--including ours.  (Been feeling dull lately?  Arch's fault.)

Beddor doesn't waste a lot of time rehashing characters and plots fleshed out in previous books, so I probably wouldn't recommend this one as an introduction to the series.  And if you haven't read the other books, I don't want to give too too many spoilers.

Alyss and her friend/guard/ought-to-be-lover Dodge butt heads some more against their better judgement.  What romance is in this series is both compelling and refreshing.  These people are dealing with some heavy stuff--loved ones have died, battling forces of good and evil, scary guys whose touch can blister you to death, fate of all the worlds...  There are important decisions to be made that will affect pretty much everyone in existence, and it was nice (though not always pretty) to see Alyss and Dodge disagree pretty vehemently about the way some things should be handled.  Sometimes, they even disappoint each other.  (That right there pretty much cements this series as unique.)

If you have read previous books (don't bother looking, I haven't reviewed those--it's been a while since I've read them myself), then you know that Hatter Maddigan--Alice's Mad Hatter turned Alyss's most famous member of the Military Millinery with a bad-ass hat that can slice your head off--has been dealing with some personal stuff.  And for a guy who has always put duty first, having to make the personal stuff a priority is more than a little difficult.  I dare you not to have a bookcrush on Hatter.

Oh, have I not convinced you to read this series yet?  Then how about this?  Queen Redd wears a dress of roses that can eat you.  And the cute kitten from Alice in Wonderland?  Actually an assassin.

Rating:  Kick Ass+



(True:  Chuck Roven, producer of The Dark Knight, has apparently signed on to the movie version of The Looking Glass Wars.  Hurry up and make this film, Hollywood!)

The State of Florida is None the Worse for Wear

Despite my having been there.  I did get up to plenty of hijinks, most of which I can't tell you.  (I'd have to kill you.  And hunting you down is just too much work.)

Ah, the sunny, sunny heat.  I am a heat monger in the worst way, and 86 and humid is just my style.  So, I spent most of Friday and Saturday slathered in sunscreen and snoozing on the beach.  It was awesome.

What wasn't awesome was the fact that I forgot to slather the SPF on my neck and chest on Friday.  Everywhere else, I developed a nice glow.  There, I fried.  When I woke up and headed inside, it was pink.  Later that night, it turned bright red.  By morning, it had a lovely purple tinge and swear-to-god, had turned crispy.    The best part is that I've got one white spot by my collarbone where I apparently wiped the last of the sunscreen on my fingers.  Knowing me, I meant to get more sunscreen and finish, but then just didn't.  The remainder of the weekend consisted of locals asking, "You aren't from around here, are you?"

Awesome.  I'm that guy.  (The photographer took pictures of most of the guests, but I hear he mistook me for a tomato and moved on.)

"Fried Egg on the Plate Without the Plate" by Salvador Dali.  AKA, "An Accurate Depiction of How I Feel Right Now."

I was travelling with my best friend Seven, as his plus one to the wedding of a friend of ours from high school.  He and I actually make good travelling companions.  I've got a fair bit of experience flying, but he's the one who is organized enough to keep track of things like what gate we're flying out of and where I've left the GodPod.  We like the same kinds of food (which we ate a ton of), and he's a good sport about me geeking out and dragging him to places like the Dali Museum (more on that to come).
 
Seven and I first became friends when a guy in our algebra II class asked if we were siblings.  We don't look much alike, but we do have that kind of relationship.  As in, we tease each other pretty mercilessly.  (Okay, I'm merciless.  Seven just holds on for the ride.) 

For example, we rented a car.  And by we, I mean Seven, because I'm too disorganized to manage something like that and also I'm a terrible driver.  He asks me which of the several cars we can choose from I prefer, and I tell him I don't have an opinion.  Then, no sooner than he signs the paperwork and we load our crap into the trunk of a white Mazda 6, I say we should have gotten the red one.  Which I proceeded to tell everyone throughout the trip.  Not that I actually cared.  I meant it when I said I didn't have a preference--it's just so fun to see Seven take the bait.  Every.  Single.  Time. 

Cracks me up.


(True:  Just after the wedding, during the official serious professional photography time, a parasailer's kite very nearly took out the bride, guaranteeing that this is one wedding we'll never forget--love you, Kate!)

I Am a Walking Slapstick Routine

Or a limping one, really.

I broke my little toe last night, and you know how I did it?  Walking.  Honestly, in a world of "survival of the fittest," how am I still drawing breath?  It's shocking really that I haven't asphyxiated on my own tongue, much less that I drive cars without incident on a regular basis.

Aaaand now I won't be able to wear the awesome pumps I was planning on for the wedding I'm going to next week.  Which means I'll need to find another suitable, open-toed pair in my closet or buy some.  Which frankly I don't want to do. 

(By the way, I may well go M.I.A late next week.  I'll be in Florida, vacationing with Seven and attending a mutual friend's awesome wedding.)

This Karma is too sweet to suggest I deserved it.

Everybody Should Have One - Or Seven

In case you've lost your calendar or are just resurfacing from a several week-long WoW marathon, tomorrow is Thanksgiving.  That makes this my semi-obligatory "what I'm thankful for" post, so I'm just going to pause my attempts to be amusing for a bit.


Most women have two men in their lives:  their dad, and their squeeze.  (Happy birthday, Dad!)  I've got those, and they are pretty much the shit.  I am lucky enough to have a third man in my life as well:  my best friend, Seven.  I said once before I'd explain why I call him that.  So, without further ado:

Everbody Should Have One - Or Seven



I call this a big pile o' awesome.


The story is called "Snow White and the Seven Dwarves."  It's notably not called "Snow White's Evil Step-Mother Tries to Kill Her A Lot" or "Prince Charming Mauls Snow White in Her Sleep, the Perv."  Nope, it's the dwarves who snag a title role.

Now, I'm not knocking Prince Charming (much).  He does save her at the end, which is sort of important.  And, they live happily ever after, which is nothing to sneer at.*  However, the Seven Dwarves save her an awful lot first.  They are the ones who cut off her killing underwear and make her stop combing her hair with poison.  They have undoubtedly had Snow White snot all over them while she's crying over some sappy movie.  They're friends, sure--but more than that, they are family.

So you don't really think Snow White really rode off with Prince Charming into the sunset and dumped the dwarves, do you?

Hardly.

And that's why I call my best friend Seven.**

*Yes, I know I started that sentence with a concuntion and ended it with a preposition.  I have a fancy degree saying I know exactly what rules I'm breaking.
**I make no claims to being princessy, myself.  Prissy would probably be as close as I'm getting.



(True:  I have a very deep resentment towards the movie When Harry Met Sally.)


Have some Noodles with your turkey!

The Strangest Day

Scene:  Home from college for the summer, I visit my best friend; who I will call Seven.  (Story to follow.)  We are in his backyard with several other friends, all of us jumping about on Seven's giant trampoline.

Me:  Ow!  Ow!  Seven, you stepped on me!

Seven:  Oh, whoops.

Me:  Everybody, stop jumping for a minute; I need to get off the trampoline.

Seven:  Are you okay?

Me:  I'll be fine.  I just need to walk it off.

(I walk a few steps.)

Me:  Oh my god.  Half my foot just shifted to the left.  I think I just broke my foot.

Seven:  Well, that's not good.

Seven's Mom (from the back door):  Dana?  You have a phone call.

Me:  On your home phone?  Is it my parents?

Seven's Mom:  No.  (She hands me the phone.)

Me (on the phone):  Hello?

Voice:  Hey.  It's your ex-boyfriend you haven't heard from in over a year, who treated you like crap to the point of being run from town by your friends and family.  Even your teachers helped.  How are you?

Me:  Why are you calling me?  Why are you calling me here?!  Never mind, I just broke my foot.  I need to go to the emergency room now.

Author's Note:  Voice didn't really say all that.  He just said something like, "Uh, hey, it's, like, me.  How are you?"  But that doesn't have the same impact.  Too many commas.


(True:  I once went out with a guy who was a priest, and then a soldier, and then an alcoholic.  One of those that go to college and party for the next seven years.  I'm short.  He was four inches shorter.  I have a colorful dating history.)