Getchur Geek On

I cannot believe I have not written about New York Comic Con yet!

It's been four whole days since I was there, and yet my blog remains void of any mention of NYCC. For shame, self.

So, er, on Sunday, my brother Mr. Funny, and I went to New York Comic Con 2011. It was awesomesauce, or whatever the kids are saying these days. We would have liked to have gone all four days of the con - as we geeks in the know call conventions - but alas, he had work and I have a three year old who naps in the middle of the day and also isn't as into the Star Wars movies as his cousin Rudy, Jr. is. (I'm not saying I feel competitive with my cousin Rudy over this or anything, but when his little boy - who is the same age as my son, the Juban Princeling - referred to "Empire Strikes Back" as "The Ton-Ton Movie," I seethed with envy. Now, my son is my son and I love him as-is, but I'll admit here that I might love him slightly more if he did something adorable and geeky like that and just once asked to watch "The Ton-Ton Movie" instead of "Yo Gabba Gabba.")

Also, cons cost money, both to attend, and while you are there. The Jacob K. Javitz Center here in New York, which plays host to NYCC, charges an arm, a leg, and a kidney for the grub in the food court (no joke: my lunch of 3 chicken fingers plus a handful of sad french fries, plus a small soda and a mini chocolate bar, came out to $15 and change), and then there's all the geek crap you have to buy. YES, YOU HAVE TO BUY GEEK CRAP. YOU JUST DO, OK? Mr. Funny walked out of that con $50 poorer, but the proud owner of a Mr. Spock-inspired bathrobe. It's about quality of life, people. Try to keep up.

We chose to go on Sunday because there were two panels I wanted to attend: the Geek Parenting Panel, and We're No Angels: Leading Ladies of SF/F. Actually, honestly, I felt like I had to attend the Leading Ladies panel because it featured Patricia Briggs and Kim Harrison, both of whom I've read and both of whom I adore and want to stalk a little bit. 

When we got to the con, my brother made a comment to the effect of, seeing people in costumes we don't recognize makes us feel less geeky. And that's pretty much how I felt at the Geek Parenting panel. It was good times for sure, and gave me lots of food for thought - I'll never buy a pre-packaged costume for the Princeling again, I promise - but I went in thinking we were all going to discuss methods of slipping more Star Wars-themed media into our children's lives, and whether or not we should show the series to them in order of when the movies were released versus their chronological order (I vote the former). Alas, silly Mer. That's not what the Geek Parenting panel was about at all. Most of the other geek parents in the room - the overwhelming majority, in fact - were avid comic book readers and/or role-play-gamers, or RPGs. I...have never picked up a comic in my life, except for when I dated that idiot in college who read them and I had to step over them to get into his room. I've also never played an RPG. Once in a while when we're watching "The Guild," my husband will causally suggest we try out World of Warcraft, to which I respond it's not like I've got tons of free time on my hands and need something new to occupy my life. Besides, thanks to "The Guild" we know how real gamers feel about "casuals," which is pretty much all we could be.

So, I felt slightly inadequate at that panel, geek-wise, but at least I learned that certain RPGs are actually good for kids and help children and teens build worlds and tell stories, so that once day if the Princeling decides he's into it, I'll be prepared.

The Leading Ladies panel was also informative, for wholly different reasons. As a writer, getting to hear Patty & Co. wax eloquent on subjects like writing discipline, world-building, faith in yourself as a writer, and publishing myths, made me want to come home, lock myself in a room, and finish my damn novel already. Which I've been mostly doing all week, when I'm not picking my son up from school, spending quality time with him so he doesn't turn into a recluse, feeding myself and/or my family, seeing a chiropractor for my sciatica pain, or sleeping. And, I'm pleased as punch to report that I managed to finally break away from my habit of acting like a total jackass in front of famous people I love, and actually said hello to Patricia Briggs and told her what a fan I am, and she did not seem scared or weirded out by me. That's progress.

My inspiration.
Photo copyright: http://mimg.ugo.com/200902/20522/alien.jpg

Mr. Funny, for once, did not attend the con in costume, but I did. I needed something to go with my pregnancy, and there's not a whole heck of a lot out there in genre-land. The night before the con my husband and I worked on attaching the head, arms, and upper torso of an alien from the "Alien" movies onto either my baby bump or a t-shirt, but the thing was just too damn heavy and kept flopping down. And here I bought an ounce of stage blood for it and everything. Instead, I put on one of my husband's grey undershirts, and then one of his black tank tops, and my army green cargo pants, and went as Sharon from "Battlestar Galactica." I kept rubbing my belly at the con hoping someone would get it, but no one did. Sad face. And it wasn't until the Leading Ladies panel that I even saw another BSGer. We gave each other mutual props. 

What I actually went as. Or, tried to. Not shown: Sharon's baby bump.
Photo copyright: http://www.thescifiworld.net/interviews/grace_park_01.htm

In all, the con was amazing, and I'm glad we went. Maybe next year we'll go for two days so we have time to go to more panels.

I came home with a bag full of swag, including a Lego Transformer for the Princeling, courtesy of the Geek Parenting panel, a Peter Parker/Spiderman mask he hates, and a Stormtrooper coloring sheet he ignored. But I also spent $8 to buy him a little plush Ewok - shut up, my son is 3, I'm not about to buy him pointy-toothed Chewbacca - which he LOVES. He's been a little scared of monsters lately, so I told him the Ewok is a protective Ewok that will look after him when he sleeps. He even asked me to tell him a story about the Ewok, so I did:

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, there was a place called Endor. And in that place lived the Ewoks. And they were furry and small and sweet and wore clothes. So once day, some monsters came and wanted to build a weapons system on Endor, [Princeling: "What's that?" Me: *ignoring and continuing*] but the Rebels, lead by Luke and Leia, went to Endor to fight the monsters. And the Ewoks helped the rebels! They helped protect Luke and Leia and the other Rebels! That's what Ewoks do, they help people against the monsters. And so the Rebels won and the monsters ran away and everyone was super happy. The end.

We may not read comics or play RPGs, and my son may not know his TIE-fighters ("twin ionic engine," don't test me) from his X-Wings just yet, but that kid loves him some protective little Ewok toy. It's a start.

NOT the Juban Princeling Photo of the Week: 7/30/11

Instead, this week I bring you Mr. Funny and I at the Star Trek con in Parsippany, NJ, June 26:

Photo Credit: Chris Schmelke


Mr. Funny being charming, Nichelle Nichols being amazing, and me being a drooling idiot.

Forgiving Brent Spiner

For seventeen years now my family has been deeply devoted to an angry - and mostly* one-sided - feud with Brent Spiner, "Star Trek: The Next Generation"'s Lt. Cmdr. Data.

It all started 17 years ago when my then-14 year old brother, Mr. Funny, went to a Star Trek convention in Miami dressed as Data. It being 1994 and me being a high school senior, I had nothing better to do that weekend than apply my brother's makeup for him. Brent Spiner spoke at this particular con, and called my brother up for an impromptu photo op, because there's nothing cuter than a pup-sized fan in cosplay. He promised that if Mr. Funny sent him the photo, he would autograph it and send it back. A nice fan took my brother's address and sent him an 8 x 10 color photo:

Makeup courtesy of Meredith Morgenstern's Fantastic
Sci-Fi Makeup Studio. Brent Spiner's pants courtesy of a
serious Fashion Don't.

My brother sent it on to Brent Spiner.

Who never sent it back, autographed or otherwise.

I realize that Brent Spiner was at the pinnacle of his "ST:TNG" career at the time, but really? REALLY? He didn't have two seconds to autograph this photo, which he promised he'd do, and then have one of his assistants mail it to us? Did he think we'd be impressed by that, like all, "Ooooh, that Brent Spiner! He's too busy and cool and douchey to keep his promise to a little fanboy! We love him and should name our guinea pigs after him!"

Well, Brent Spiner, WE WERE NOT IMPRESSED.

Ever since, my family has collectively shaken our fist at the Heavens and spat curses upon the name Brent Spiner.

Fast forward several years, through Lewinskygate, Y2K, the 2000 Subway World Series, 9/11, a new Pope, Hurricane Katrina, the rebooting of the Batman franchise, and the 2008 Presidential Elections, to 2011. Like the Montagues and the Capulets at the end of "Romeo and Juliet,"** our long-standing, multi-generational feud has come to an end, albeit one a little happier than those stupid Renaissance teenagers.

A friend of my brother's - by way of their wives, who are friends - happens to live in Ye Olde England, which is why I'm going to call him Sir Brit. Sir Brit recently attended a major sci-fi con over there across the pond, where a certain Brent Spiner happened to be speaking and giving autographs. Sir Brit, knowing the sad saga of my brother's failed attempt to get his own photo signed by Brent Spiner, acquired himself a standard-issue publicity photo. But here's the best part:

Sir Brit told Brent Spiner the story, and Brent Spiner not only autographed the publicity shot for my brother, but he apologized!

Seventeen years in the making.

But, as Inigo Montoya famously said at the end of "The Princess Bride" (greatest movie ever ever ever ever EVER***), "I've been in the revenge business so long, I don't know what to do with the rest of my life." Now that we are no longer coming together as a family over our hatred of Brent Spiner, what do we do with ourselves? Find someone new to collectively hate? To whom will my poor mother spew her venom now? What will my brother long wistfully for at each upcoming Star Trek con? Whose pants can I make fun of now? Won't someone please think of the children???

Sir Brit also (very nicely) sent me an autographed photo of Alex Kingston as River Song in the most recent season of "Doctor Who." But she autographed it as Alex Kingston, not River Song. Maybe I can hate her for that? No? Oy.

*completely

**if the Capulets had no idea the Montagues even existed

***that is, the greatest STAND-ALONE movie ever ever ever ever ever EVER. Of course, "Star Wars" wins greatest series of movies ever ever ever ever EVER.

Writing Exercises in Real Life

Example:
"Is there coffee?" my husband asked.
"No, sorry, I forgot to set it yesterday," I replied.
"So, is the coffee in there and you just didn't turn it on?" he asked.
"I didn't set it. So no. There's no coffee in there, dumbass." I snarked.
"I'm not a dumbass, you jerk." He made a nasty face at me. "Setting it, and turning it on are two different things."


Better:
"Is there coffee?" My husband blinked in the sudden light of the kitchen and waved a hand in the general direction of our coffee maker.
"Of course, sir." Martha, our devoted housekeeper of many years handed him a steaming cup of fresh roasted brew.
"Did you sleep well, my love?" I stretched out of Warrior II pose and into Triangle Pose.
My husband walked over and kissed the top of my head. "Of course, darling. You are a heavy sleeper who absolutely does not snore. You?"
I smiled up at him and held his gaze. "Of course. You don't snore either, and you absolutely do not sleep with a sharp, bent elbow in my face."
"Excuse me, Madame." Our nanny's familiar voice crackled over the intercom from the Nursery Wing of the mansion. "Your son is awake. Shall I give him his morning apple juice, freshly pressed from apples picked out of your family orchard in your luscious, twenty-acre backyard?"
"Yes, Gertrude. Thank you." I slid easily into Plank Pose and my arms did not wobble even a little bit.


Example:
"Uhhhhhhhhh. UUUUUHHHHHH!" whined my son.
"What? What is it you want?" I tried not to snap at him.
"Want vitamin."
"No," I snapped anyway. "You had one this morning. You only get one per day or you'll die of a toxic vitamin overdose."
He threw his toy across the room. "WANT! VITAMIN! NOW!!!"
"That's it," I said. I grabbed his elbow and dragged him to his room. "Time out for whining and for throwing and for yelling at Mommy." I slammed the door shut, but it failed to drown out his screams of rage.

Better:
The closing credits to "Star Wars" rolled onto the screen. Next to me my son, who had been silent and still all through the movie, sighed with contentment. He leaned into me. "I love you, Mommy."
I put an arm around him and kissed his forehead. "I love you too, Juban Princeling."
"Can we watch the next one now? 'Empire Strikes Back?'"
A giggle bubbled up from my soul. My arm tightened around him just a little bit. "Of course!"
He stayed quiet and still all through that one, too. After the movie he asked, "Can we have Mommy-Princeling Star Wars Day again tomorrow?"
I tickled him a little bit. "Whatever you want, my sweetheart."


Example:
"Blah blah blah mayor stuff blah blah blah," said New York City Mayor Mike Bloomberg.

Better:
"Meredith, I honestly don't know how this city ever survived without you." Mayor Bloomberg shook his head in disbelief as he wrote me a check for a million dollars.


Example:
"My job is killing me," one of my Hottie friends said.
"Mine too. Been working late, plus my dog is sick," said another one.
"My kid won't sleep," said a third Hottie.
"My husband is being a jerk," said another one.
"My mother-in-law treats us like garbage," said yet another.

Better:
"I'm glad we finally did this." I stretched out on the plush lounge chair. Behind me one of the DJCs - Derek Jeter Clones - fanned me gently with a giant palm frond. A second DJC gave me an expert foot massage, making the money I spent to send him to massage therapy school worth every penny.
"Oh yes, me too." One of my Hottie sisters lifted a frozen margarita off a tray proffered by a bartender DJC. "Cheers!"
"L'chaim!" I said, lifting my own frozen margarita because I was not pregnant and could drink alcohol.
A cool ocean breeze blew across our private Hottie Caribbean island.
"Pink, or red?" A third Hottie sister asked no one in particular as one of her own DJCs filed her nails.
"Red!" All seven of us laughed in unison.
"I hope our husbands are doing all right back home." Hottie Beatrix Potter dug into her calorie- and fat-free, yet still delicious, hot fudge brownie sundae, which was designed by a specialty DJC chef to not aggravate her migraines.
"I'm sure they're fine," another Hottie said.
"Can we stay on Hottie Island forever?" I asked.
"Of course we can!" My soul sisters all laughed. "We have no responsibilities back home! Let's stay here and eat what we want and drink alcohol and enjoy our private island! Now, take off your shirts, DJCs!"
And they did.


Example:
"I have an audition tomorrow," my brother told me. "I probably won't get it, and it's for an extras part, but I have to try."

Better:
"Hey Sis, I told Jessie J what a huge fan you are, and she invited you to go shopping with her tomorrow." There were many perks of my brother's job as head writer and featured player on Saturday Night Live. Getting to hang out with my favorite celebrities was just one of them. "And by the way," he added, picking up the check for lunch at Le Cirque. "Thank you so much for suggesting all those jokes and funny stories. I used them in my stand-up act the other night and they killed. They absolutely killed! And please, keep them coming. I am not at all annoyed when people suggest funny things I should include in my high-paying professional comedy career, especially when you text message it to me out of context and I have no idea what you're talking about and your text is full of typos and weird auto-corrects so that it reads like you let your 2-year old mash the keypad before you hit 'Send.' That is not annoying AT ALL."

I smiled. "I do what I can to help those I love."

The Trekkin' Siblings

Yesterday my brother, Mr. Funny, and I totally got our geek on at a Star Trek Convention in Parsippany, New Jersey. We had the honor of hearing the lovely and superawesome Nichelle Nichols speak, and she was so amazing and incredible that it made our entire 2+ hour trek worth it.

Hailing frequencies open!
(Photo from classictvbeauties.com)

Because New Jersey is the suck of America.

And we're from Florida, are Mr. Funny and I. We know from states that suck.

The road system in New Jersey appears to have been designed by M.C. Escher. Somehow it took us two hours to get from Brooklyn to Parsippany, with only 40 minutes stuck in traffic, but coming home took 1/3 that time. (And then we got stuck in Staten Island's permatraffic. More on that later.) I half expected David Bowie and his hair (which would have been totally appropriate for New Jersey) to pop up and try to steal my little brother, something Mr. Funny was actually afraid of when we were kids. Believe me, if Mr. Funny never got kidnapped by the Goblin King it wasn't for my lack of trying. Though now he's 31 and less likely to be Goblin King fodder, I guess.

"Do I remind you of the babe? The babe with the power?"
(Photo from morethings.com)

Part of the problem of driving in New Jersey is that every street, highway, and dirt path has at least four names, so that by the time Mr. Funny read the actual direction in its entirety we were pretty much past where we needed to be.

Me: Which way do I go here?
Him: "Take 440 north - slash - 278 west - slash - NCC1701 - slash - Beetlejuice Nebula - slash - Burt Reynolds Highway Northwest South."
Me: Too late. I think we're in Delaware.

Actually, we didn't get lost. But we did end up in some horrendous traffic out in the middle of nowhere that I can only attribute to New Jersey's natural tendency to have flash traffic jams, like sandstorms in the desert.

Two hours and a whole lot of making fun of our spouses later, we arrived in Parsippany (motto: "If You Can Get Here, We'll Show You Nichelle Nichols") for the convention.

Now, Mr. Funny and I are not Star Trek Con virgins, as evidenced by my use of the word "con." We've been to cons. I ONCE GOT TO SHAKE HANDS WITH TASHA YAR. GO AHEAD AND PUKE WITH JEALOUSY.

Another time, when he was but a wee Trekker, my brother got to meet Brent Spiner, who promised him an autographed photo and never sent it.

"Hi, I'm Brent Spiner and I like to make promises
that I don't keep and break the hearts of little boys.
Bwahahahahaha! And also? My pants are stupid."

So we went to hear Nichelle Nichols, aka Uhura, who is so awesome it makes my skin glow. Seriously. Her greatness is so vast it actually exfoliates my skin.

Behold. Your pores are now clear and tiny.
(Photo from uhura.com)

She, of course, told the famous Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. story, which our mother recites like Scripture. And then she patiently sat through about 10 kajillion fan photos and had the good grace to make small talk with each and every one of us.

I am super lame, though. I get starstruck. Once, when I met Spike Lee, I had this whole speech in my head about how important "Do the Right Thing" is in the canon of American film. A whole speech. What I said when I shook his hand was this: "I love you." Another time I stood in line to have Hillary Clinton sign her latest book, and again, I had a whole speech in my head about how she is a feminist icon and a role model, and that I've been a supporter of hers since 1992, and how I think it's great that she's always fought for better health care in America. What I said when my turn finally came around was this: "I'm a feminist." She gave me a thumbs-up and then pressed the hidden Secret Service button to have me forcibly removed from the Columbus Circle Borders Book Shop.

So, I'm not great when it comes to meeting famous people, despite living in New York City for 15 years, where we treat celebs like they are somewhere between a crime scene and a unicorn: we acknowledge them out of the corners of our eyes, confirm with our fellow citizens, and then move on. Once, I got hit on in an elevator by Colin Quinn, only I didn't know it was him, and I got annoyed. Mr. Funny still has not forgiven me for not somehow magically whipping his headshot out of thin air and passing it on.

Long story short, there I am, in the presence of NICHELLE NICHOLS, who is arguably one of the most important women in Sci-Fi, and certainly is a geek feminist icon, and I was all ready to say to her, "You're an inspiration!"

What I said was this: "....."

Nothing. Not a damn thing. I froze up and smiled like the village idiot I am.

Thankfully my brother saved the day with something like, "You are fantastic."

This is why my husband says I should never go into politics. I blank out in front of people I admire. I imagine if Barack Obama ever accepted my invitation to come over for gluten-free pasta and Tasti-D-Lite, I'd probably just drool and pee. God forbid I ever get to meet the Dalai Lama. My skin will probably melt off and my eyeballs will pop out of their sockets.

So, it was a successful con in that I made a total ass of myself in front of Lt. Uhura. Which, really, is all I ask of life. I'm a woman with simple needs.

On the way home, the 2+ hour drive suddenly morphed into 35 minutes to get from Parsippany to the Goethels Bridge, which attaches New Jersey to Staten Island like a dirty cop handcuffing two criminals together. Staten Island has a giant highway running down its middle like someone's trying to cut it open, and that highway has permatraffic. There's no other way to describe it. Day or night, weekend or weekday, there's traffic. It kind of reminds me of that episode from Season 3 of Doctor Who.

Thankfully, Bon Jovi came on the radio while we were still in New Jersey, because by law you cannot leave New Jersey without hearing either the Jovi or Bruce Springsteen. The rest of the radio was devoted to Michael Jackson's yartzheit, which got annoying after a while because when you're on the tail end of something like that you are just plain not going to hear the good songs like "Billy Jean" or "Black and White" - you're going to hear the lesser known crap that is lesser known for a reason.

But, again, all worth it for Nichelle Nichols.

Mr. Funny: Maybe you can write her a letter with all the things you didn't say when we had our photo with her.
Me: Yeah, that's not going to happen.

Instead I did what any good 21st century chick would do. I "liked" her Facebook page and posted it on her wall.

You're next, Hillary.

"Get this crazy chick away from me."
(Photo from news.antiwar.com)

I Wasn't, Actually...

...saved by the bell, that is.

This seems to pop up every once in a while in my life. Somehow, my brother Mr. Funny and I seem to be the only people who were raised in America in the 80s who did NOT watch Saved By the Bell. Why not? Who knows? Who cares? We went to play outside; we used our imaginations instead; it was stupid and we knew it; we were working on our dissertations. Whatever. We just didn't, OK????