It doesn’t help that today has been a bit stressful. Like the phones won’t stop ringing, I’m having trouble meeting a homework deadline, and someone backed into my love’s brand-new car kind of stressful.

What’s necessary is a trip to the gym - I’m already in my workout clothes - followed by a green chile bacon cheeseburger (no bun - we’re back on plan, after all), a beer, TV viewing, and an early bedtime.

Tomorrow, as they say, is another day.

One of only 358 to go.

Sharing a ladies room with Summer Glau.

Bob & Carl: Dragon*Con janitors.

Milton the Monster.

Walking up to anyone dressed as a video game character and asking if they’ve ever LOST THE GAME.

Chimay in the bottle.

Discovering the handsome hunk of a man who plays Lafayette on True Blood isn’t really gay. *hooray* And he went to Julliard. *HOORAY* And he’s married with kids. *awww maaaaaaan*

The Flying Spaghetti Monster.

Seeing Dr. Sperry’s tattoos.

The Mach One, a full pirate ship, and the Mad Max desert vehicle with people tied to the front of it (all in the parade).

Re: Your Brains.

Bringing together Denver, Oakland, Orlando and Chicago and feeling like they’re all just old friends from forever ago.

Finding out CosPlayDeviants.com exists.

It’s Tough to Be a Bird.

Telling Billy West I’ve loved his work since Ren & Stimpy, but I just have to go with a signed photo of Zap Branigan above all others.

“Have you seen Kyle? He’s about this tall … ”

The music of the one, the only, Unknown Hinson.

Dana Snyder doing a live version of Granny from Squidbillies … with a puppet.

Hearing the lawyer at the EFF panel explain that sharing videos from YouTube to a blog probably – probably – doesn’t violate copyright.

“What are you dressed as?”
“I’m a sexy Darth Vader!”
“No, that’s not it. But I’ve seen it before …”
“Sexy Darth Vader!”
“I got it! You’re dressed like a WHORE.”
“No I’m not!”
“Sure you are … I paid extra for that once. It’s called ‘cosplay’.”

Sharing a flight (for the second year in a row) with Richard Hatch.

Staying “on plan” until faced with the delicious spinach and artichoke dip at Velocity bar, which took approximately 5 minutes.

The kid holding the “I just lost the game” sign at the entrance to the vendor area.

Hugging a giant, politically-incorrect, and possibly felonious bear.

THE FINAL COUNTDOWN! Doo-doo-doo-doooo, doo-doo-doo-doo-doooo, doo-doo-doo-doooo …

The special Squidbillies animation, made especially for Dragon*Con.

Watching the three hot people at the upstairs bar for a time, then having them join us for a drink. And by hot, I mean HOT. (I’m talking to you, red, blue, and black. Maybe next year.)

Seeing that Marc Singer is aging very gracefully. So is Kevin Sorbo. Gil Gerard, not so much.

Running out of hotel room “supplies” … twice.

Code Monkey.

A live read of an upcoming Aqua Teen Hunger Force episode.

Flirting with Phil LaMarr while he signed an 8×10 of Samurai Jack for me.

The new walkway between the Hyatt and the Marriott (which, other than for registration, negates any need to go outside during con at all).

“It’s not gay if he calls it ‘the front hole’.”

Yeungling on tap.

Cthuhulu in curlers.

Watching Dr. Sperry’s videos of the Tri-County crematorium case.

Sprites in glass boxes, pinned like insects on display.

Chatting with Dean Stockwell and trying to figure out if he was tired, grumpy, or was just hating being there entirely.

Missing the DJ sets because we had MUCH better plans.

Talking back to hotel security, with whom I actually agreed with completely, but who came at the situation with nothing but prickitude for everyone involved. (Yes, I made that word up just for you, DICK.)

Wondering when the whole steampunk thing will die off.

“I’ve got your spine, Steve!”

Back in Black in cans.

Telling cops and firemen, “Hey – nice costume, dude!”

“What are you dressed as?”
“I’m a sexy Stormtrooper!”
“I’m pretty sure they didn’t wear fishnets.”
“I’m a sexy Stormtrooper!”
“Nah. You’re dressed like a WHORE. I know ‘cause I paid extra for that once.”

The Eel Man.

Wearing a costume late Monday or on Tuesday at all = TOO LATE.

Using Monday night to make our reservation at the Hilton for next year. (The Marriott is taking reservations October 1, while the Hyatt will open up October 15.)

Get your own links … or go next year.

You knew the event ’twas upon us!

Two waist-cincher corsets.

Silk blouse, silk and lace halter top, and matching long silk skirt - all black.

Four-cup drip machine and a full pound of Sumatran beans, ground.

Three pairs of black pants, four black t-shirts.

One hot pink t-shirt, Marie Curie design.

Two pairs of boots (dress lace and industrial).

Special contact lenses - black and wild animal blue.

One bottle of scotch, one bourbon, and one spiced rum.

Two punk style belts, one with handcuffs.

Double fangs, freshly-brushed.

One long black dress, 1930s draping.

Black leggings, black keyhole shirt

Panic soon.

I’m looking forward to reading the various opinions of columnists and professional writers (read: those actually paid by the Post or other news agency). That said, I am not relishing the idea of building an essay based on their work and the letters received by the paper about the original editorial.

This is because I think about 80% of people who bother to write letters to newspapers are idiots.

Not that people’s opinions don’t matter, mind you, but letters to the editor usually serve the purpose of a) preaching to the choir (what I call the “kudos” letter), b) attempting to change the hearts and minds of the opposition (the “beating your head against a wall” letter), or c) writing the same thing over and over - usually in relation to the reason in b) here - and expecting a different result each time (the “very definition of insanity” letter).

Most don’t make sense to me based on the above. It’s a waste of your time to write it and my time to read it, so why bother? To see your name? Anyone can do that these days.

This very website is a testament to the concept.

Worse, however, are the comments in the online forums for the editorials page, “conversations” which sometimes devolve quickly into name-calling and outright rancor. I’ve purposely avoided getting involved in such discussions for years, mainly because I witnessed (and was involved in, I’m embarrassed to say) more than a few “flame wars” in the early BBS days. I learned quickly that even the most adult debate, on the most innocuous topic, can and will degenerate into what amounts to a junior high school-level verbal war.

As a result, I rarely read blogs (unless something is just so good a friend posts a link to Facebook) and I rarely, if ever, respond or comment. The only exception to this rule is when I personally know the writer.

I also worked at a newspaper once upon a time, at the front desk, and had to deal with the opinionated morons who called to bitch or worse, came in to drop off their letters. I saw one so often I didn’t have to refer to him in e-mail as more than * (inside joke from Breakfast of Champions, which you really need to read if you haven’t already).

No, I prefer to leave the opinion writing to the professionals, because even if I totally disagree with them, they usually present a considered argument wrapped in a well-written piece.

The letters of * and others? Not so much.

Opinions are like assholes …

He brings home the bacon, sure … or as I prefer to say it, he “keeps me in the manner to which I have become accustomed.” He also handles all mechanical problems, like cars and garbage disposals, and he is the one responsible for our lovely lawn and garden. I do the bookkeeping for the company, clean the house, go to school, and handle all aspects of our social activities, including dinners, special events, concerts, and travel planning.

I know, I know: I’m starting to sound like a 1960s housewife here when our duties are really about 50-50. But when I am forced to wait to get out the door for one flexible appointment (the gym) so we can get home in time for me to accomplish a few tasks before we head out to the inflexible appointment (the Denver Modernism Show) … well, I just feel like my time isn’t treated as important.

At all.

This is not whining, by the way. Whining would mean I had no way to deal with the issue and that I am simply writing this to complain. Not so in this case - I am going to have a chat with him about it, and soon, because the mad rush I’ll find myself in later will require I say something.

Girls expect their men to read their minds and get cranky when they don’t; women speak up because we’re not psychic, either.

W-OOOOO-M-A-N (say it again).

Speaking of Skepchick, they’re offering pertussis (whopping cough) vaccinations at Dragon*Con this year. I’ve already written what I think of the people who believe childhood vaccinations cause autism, but now I’ve gone one step further and am getting adult vaccines. I’m telling you, too: Get your own vaccinations updated, even as an adult. The pandemic resulting from all those idiot parents is coming - the worst pertussis outbreak they’ve seen in 50 years has already hit California.

And if you’re one of the morons who believes the vaccination-autism link, open your mind a bit and please, Please, PLEASE watch this followed closely by this.

Science eleventy-billion, Jenny McCarthy 0.

Think you have rights against such a thing?

Not if you live in 8 western states, including California.

Start writing letters, kids.

This.

Oh, and this.

[Added 8/26/10]: And this.

It’s like the Dark Ages never ended.

On his parents’ deaths, Martin once remarked, “I never looked at it as if it was a tragedy — that I didn’t have them my whole life. You learn some sense of priorities. Our whole family took the attitude that if you have wonderful moments, don’t second-guess them, just enjoy them.”

Short’s wife of 30 years, Nancy Dolman, died today.

Don’t second guess the moments.

Just enjoy them.