Wondercon 2016

The timing worked out in a bizarre fashion. As it does for many of our exploits...

I finished telling my mother that a trip to Phoenix during my spring break would be a little too much work. It was funny: she wasn't expecting us to come and I wasn't really prepared to go, but Corrie wasn't sure what the last word had been between us (my mom and me) and that I should figure it out. Anyway, it got figured out, and we stayed put.

It was that next day at work when someone asked me if I was going to go to Wondercon this year. Hmm, I thought. My eyebrows shifted up and I asked, "Uhh, what's Wondercon?" Wondercon is the name given to the ComicCon conglomerate's convention in Los Angeles. The conglomerate operates the world's largest pop-culture conference in San Diego, and the one here in LA is smaller (barely), and far easier to get to during spring break--thanks Blue Line! No driving necessary.

I went the Long Beach Comic Convention back in 2012, but that was mainly because I heard about it the day before, I was out of work, and I could walk over to it, living less than a mile away from the convention center. It was nerd-heavy.

This was something else entirely.

When I saw the dates (3/25 to 3/27, Friday to Sunday) and the location (the LA convention center--right off the Blue Line, our train here in LB) and the price of a single day ticket, a single Friday ticket since I wanted to hang out with Corrie on Saturday, I was almost sold. When I saw that a company I care about was releasing a special edition that you could only get at Wondercon, I was closer to the sale. I've never gotten any cool comics that were special editions available only at shows, mostly because I don't really go to these kinds of shows.

It was when I saw the Ralph Steadman-inspired special edition cover that I decided to go for Friday, get my special book, and close out spring break with a Wondercon Experience. Here's the cover that inspired me:

This book, issue number one of "The Adventures of Archer and Armstrong", is not a title I would generally read. I love the idea, and the execution, I just don't have the time and energy. This is a buddy title: Armstrong is a seven-thousand year-old immortal who's only interest is to get loaded and get laid, which sounds like some folks I know had they been immortal. Archer is teenager raised in a strict bible-thumping household, and wasn't exposed to pop-culture during his militaristic training to fight the devil incarnate. It's a strange team-up and the concept, like many from this company, I'm into, but I don't really have time and resources for the books themselves.

Anyway, the availability of this copy, and the experience of going to a comic convention was too much to pass up. I purchased a single-day, Friday only pass, and planned to catch the train to downtown LA.

The train was faster than I had planned, but I was later getting to it that I had planned, so that was mostly a wash. Upon arrival I followed the crowd around the plaza to get my badge. Having purchased the ticket meant you get a QR code printout, and you were supposed to bring this to the place and pick up the badge. The badge had a tapping technology so you could come and go with just a tap of your lanyard card. That was nice. The stream of people on their way to get their badges was thick but moving swiftly. We cruised into a large mustering room that eventually led to the badge pickup. Here's the room:

I guess they were expecting a ton of people for this line over this and the next two days, but on this day at this time it wan't necessary. I walked by slower walking folks to get to an open badge guy, and he got me my gear quickly.

From there--picking up the badge and booklet (that had maps and goings on), I tried to find the main exhibition hall. The maps sucked. I asked around, finally, and the lady told me the way: "Outside, turn left, and look for the building."

She should have said "look for the line," since it was already thousands of people long. It was twenty-to-noon by this time, and it sounded like noon was the time that the main exhibition was opening, and standing in the sun, surrounded by awesome geeks, felt longer than it transpired in reality.

The line grew and grew behind, and eventually started moving. Twenty-thousand people in line, and I was the nicest dressed person there.

I only mention it because it will come into play later. This was a comic-book convention, with the vast majority of people wearing at least some form of nerdy t-shirt, if not a full on costume, which was being worn by between five and ten percent of the people. I wore a pair of gray slacks with my all-black Chucks (which look dressy from a distance) and a nice polo shirt. I was a little out of place, unless I was standing with a panel of creators.

Also, with the vast amount of young people around, I went into Mr. Sherwood mode right away. So I was dressed relatively nice and walking around with authority.

Anyway, the line moved quickly and we made it inside the exhibition hall a few minutes before noon. I raced over to the Valiant booth and was likely the first person to buy the copy from above. And here I was nervous it would be gone. As the time passed, the exhibition hall filled up, with both customers and vendors. Here's a blurry shot from early on, before it got too crazy:

When should I mention the fine chocolate bar I took along with me? Now? Later? Anyway, I halved it and ate each half at different times, which added to the wonder of this year's Wondercon. For me, anyway.

After I picked up the copy I wanted, I meandered about for a while. Valiant was giving a talk at 1:30, and I wanted to check it out, and that gave me a while to explore.

At conferences, like this one and the LB Comic Con back in 2012, I realized I take the time to learn about other companies, super tiny companies living on the margin, for whom selling a book at this spot is far more meaningful than for others.

It was during this time---after getting the Valiant special copy and before their talk---that I found a few super-tiny publishers to support. The first was a collection of aboriginal-American artists, Native stories with Native themes...mostly I got this as a gift for a baby that is very important to me, that is as yet unborn. It will have native blood, and this was for it. The second thing I bought was from a trio of girls, the creators and publishers of a magic infused universe. This wasn't any book I would read on my own, ever, but I liked the idea of a tiny company made up of flirty girls, girls who live in LA, and may be amenable to coming to my work and giving a talk. See how that works?

Eventually I made it to my Valiant talk, which was touted as a way to get introduced to the stables of titles. It just so happened that everyone in the room was a die-hard fan. There just weren't that many of us:

I only read two comics regularly, and one of them is from this company. On the powerpoint projection display above is X-O Manowar, their flagship character. He's their sci-fi title: a Visigoth abducted by aliens, ends up with an alien suit of armor, breaks free and returns to Earth two thousand years after he left, everybody he knew is dead, and he's the most powerful human. Half the aliens chasing him think he's their savior, the other half are hunting him as a sacrilege. I like the idea, but I don't read it.

I read their espionage title, which is the most complex narrative in comic form I've ever seen.

Anyway, they talked about their titles for a while, and ended with a giveaway: Go to the booth and use the code-word "X-O Manowar", and you will get a Gold copy of a title. The tiny crowd let out an audible murmur. Gold issue? Free?

I've never gotten my hands on a gold copy of anything before, but now looked like the time. I applauded when it was appropriate, and got up, determined to make it to the booth and get that gold issue, I took off. I was afraid there would be a run on it, but as I returned to the stream of comic con denizens, I realized there would be so few people showing up to grab the gold copy that I'm sure I could get mine.

I did, stammering the password like a buzzed imbecile, but still...It was the regular cover to the Archer and Armstrong #1, but this time with gold accents. Here it is with the other A&A#1:

It was around here that I decided it would be okay to leave. The chocolate bar was running strong and I had a cup of coffee and decided to look at the schedule. There was going to be a Bob's Burgers panel at 4pm, which was in a while. I enjoy Bob's Burgers and see it as the spiritual successor to the Simpsons. I started to feel a kinship for the tens of thousands of nerds I  was surrounded by and figured I should do my part to be at this panel.

I found the room it was in, and, in the room next to it, when I looked more than an hour ahead of time, was a panel discussion about DC Comics and Hannah Barbera. I figured it would be a talk about the "Super Friends" cartoon.

It turned out to be about how DC Comics was updating and making new comics based on the Flintstones and Scooby Doo (et al). I had a seat near the front, and really enjoyed myself during the question and answer portion. The second person to ask questions was a walking stereotype: Asian, super-duper nerd, started his chance with, "So I have only two stupid questions..." He went on with a six minute soliloquy framed on the superiority of a TV show from the late 90s that they should be making comics about instead of the ones they chose. I think Jim Lee himself was there---he had no knowledge of this particular show and said as much. Awkward laughter before the dude goes on but doesn't get to question two before they gently forced him away.

The rest was similar fan love and fan-care-too-deeply-about. Once it finished, I headed to the can and then next door, to the show that on before the Bob's Burgers deal. There was a steady stream heading into this room that I caught the tail end of and created some separation from the crowd behind. The ushers were saying, "This is it, man, we gotta close that," but because of that separation, I sashayed in right as they said it but before they closed a huge door behind me.

The huge room was dark, save the stage with a standing moderator and four sitters. The people in ahead of me in line moments before dispersed to the right, deeper into the crowd. I followed the wall on the left, towards the stage. Far ahead, up near the front, on the aisle itself, was an open chair. I strolled right up to the front row, where the stage was almost too far to see clearly, but the video feed screen was dominating the landscape.

As I got closer, the person in the next seat over came into view. Long hair, feminine shape; blond hair, age unknown; wait...late twenties, and they were hard OR early forties and you keep fit. I sat and she smiled: long lashes and, yep: age.

There was a security guy a few feet from the seat. An older black man, he nodded as I sat, saying, "How do, how do..." I nodded back with a quiet, "Sir." The chick pulled out her phone.

I started to listen to the program, trying to figure out what it was. It seemed too much of a hassle at the time to try and pull out the booklet and search in the dark for the title. I just listened.

The panel consisted of four creatives types being asked questions by a horny nerd-chick who ran a popular web-site that sponsored many of the events this weekend. Two guys wrote for Scorpion, one wrote for Elementary, and the last was a showrunner for Limitless. At some point I was sure one of the Scorpion guys was staring at me, giving me the evil eye.

Did I sit next to his girl?

Staring at the screen in front of us I saw four heads: three staring straight ahead with three-quarter squints because of the lights and one staring off to his right, across the table and some where else. Check out some footage of comic-con panels and you'll see the same style footage: four people sitting at a table with mics in front squinting at the lights.

Only this guy was staring at me. I would look from the projection screen over to the stage, close by but off in the distance, and it appeared---every time I checked---that he was mugging me.

The questions ended, so did the show, and eventually the lights came up. I liked my seat and planned on staying there for the Bob's Burger deal. The girls next to me stood as the house lights came up. Production assistants and other show-biz back-stage folks came out the runway that turned out to be right next to my seat. The talent was heading back as the producers congealed to have a mini-meeting and touch base. The girls disappeared as I looked around.

RESERVED

That's what the cover said on the seat I was in. I looked down the row. Five RESERVE seats to my right. The entire row behind; the two tiny, fractional rows in front. All RESERVED.

A meeting was happening to my left, nearly in my lap. They all looked at me like, WTF? I didn't get up, I didn't say anything. I drank some water. They finished their shit and went backstage. I stayed put.

An announcement was made saying that there were passes at the door if you need to go to the bathroom, passes that you can use to return to the room, which was looking like it would be at capacity for the Bob's Burger panel.

This sounded good, but being by myself meant holding my spot would be more difficult. I decided to ask the security guy right there, "Sir, if I leave some stuff to go to the can, will it be okay right here?" He said, "Oh sure. No problem."

No problem. "Thank you, sir."

Being dressed nice worked out pretty well. Nobody bothered me and it seemed like I belonged. As the time passed, after I'd returned from the bathroom, I figured I'd answer any questions with, "Hey, I'm a Rookie of the Year and that guy told me to have a seat down here." No questions ever came.

As the time drew nearer, they asked the crowd to "raise your hand if you have an empty seat next to you." This put me in a strange position, seeing as how I knew nothing about the seats. But I raised my hand anyway.

A guy behind me called out, "Well, those seats are probably being saved for something, right?"

I turned and smiled at him. "Right? I dunno...." A guy with a head set on came over. "Raise you hand if you're next to open seats," he said into a mic.

I raised my hand again, having putting it down a moment before. "Even these seats?" the guy behind me asked, pointing to "my" seats.

"Even those," the guy said, as some high school kids came and sat down. Pretty sweet for them, I thought: barely get in the door, run around until the last second and get a front row seat. The guy behind was pissed, having been there from before I sat down during the last talk. His seat said RESERVED too. He shouldn't have been that pissed...

We got to see the voice talent of Louise, Tina, Linda, Teddy, and Gretchen. Linda, Bob's wife, is John Roberts' impression of his Bensonhurst-raised mother. Kristen Schaal plays Louise and Dan Mintz plays Tina, both with their regular voices.

A nugget of truth in that last sentence is that Dan Mintz, a dark haired man thirty-five years of age has a regular voice that is also the voice of Tina Belcher from "Bob's Burgers". The crowd went crazy hearing him say anything really. It got him flummoxed as well, that his voice caused such a reaction in the crowd. A grown man saying, "Well, uhh, it was mostly a group effort..." in a voice identical to that of a (beloved) teenage girl character...the crowd would go crazy, he would try to find something new to say...they would go crazy...on it went.

The majority of the questions went for Kristen Schaal. A fan-girl even had plush dolls she'd woven just for them, Schaal and Mintz, to which John Roberts (Linda) got rather irritated. These guys had more fun with, and used sharper tongues with, the questioners than the DC/Hannah Barbera group.

They showed clips to adoring fans and answered questions for longer than they talked. All in all it was pretty sweet.

Afterward I concluded that the I'd had the full Wondercon Experience and elected for the train ride back to Long Beach. All in all, it was a very cool Friday and a nice end to a nice Spring Break Week.

I got the special edition comic; I got the free super-edition comic; I saw the ultra nerd asking embarassing questions; I saw more Rey Skywalkers per capita than I was expecting; I saw the pop-TV-show cast of the day; and I got to support tiny random artistic ventures.

I even got a picture of someone levitating:

Here are some crowd shots to end it:

The Lovely Hotel Iris

This is the final, follow-up post to an earlier one, about how conferences are vacations that aren't. Nw that I'm actually on vacation, I can return to this idea and finish this endeavor, unlike older ideas that still need to be worked up.

Anyway, in the aftermath of the weekend, and the shenanigans associated with our stay at the Iris, in San Diego, the bile was up a little and annoyance was the main feeling, and of course time has softened that up.

The lady at work who did the booking showed me the photos on offer on line of the Hotel Iris. It looked all sorts of modern, and I thought that it looked like something has found in the past in both Seattle and Portland, so I agreed without question. It was a good price to boot.

I wasn't privy to the issues this coworker was having as the weekend approached. They'd lost the reservation; no wait, they had it on the wrong day; no wait, they'd lost the office credit card number; no wait...

In California there aren't access roads next to the freeways like there are in Texas (and other places). But on the stretch of Interstate 8 where the Iris resides there are. As we approached the hotel, some of the history of the area started to tell its story to us silently.

The Hotel Iris sits on the access road named "Hotel Circle". It is a classic, fifties (or earlier) era "motoring hotel", or, motel. Two structures separated by a driving lane and each structure has two levels with room entrances on the outside. It looks old school, and like it was the very first hotel in this area. It is currently surrounded by far newer, far flashier hotels, like the tiny home of the older person who wouldn't sell surrounded by new development.

The photos of the renovation that were online were probably the best looking room. ut I'm getting ahead of myself.

When we arrived, on a Friday night, there was one girl working the counter. There was a line, there were phones ringing off the hook, and the person directly in front of me had a television remote that didn't work.

I heard the girl tell one phone customer that they were full, and that in a few hours they may be able accommodate them after they get a sense of who has not shown up. Another call came in while she was trying to figure out our reservation; it was from in house. It went something like this: "Front desk, how can I help you?" (Darting eyes) "Um, after work?" (Eye roll) "Well, I'll be hanging out with my boyfriend, that's what I'll be doing...Yeah. Thanks anyway."

I chuckled and said, "Really?" She sighed and said, "Every weekend I get asked out by somebody." She was cute and young, and had the punk rocker look with a third of her head shaved and her remaining hair was hot pink.

Apparently the reservation was moved to a dummy room because the card didn't go through. The office card. How is that possible, I thought. They worked it out and got us into a room, eventually. I was never upset with the young lady at the desk--whatever issue there was wasn't her fault.

We could barely get the door open, but when we did the smell of the room was overwhelming. It was like the cigar convention finished up a half-hour before we arrived. It was so bad that every piece of laundry needed to be washed when we got home, but not because of being sweaty.

The room had been updated, but this particular room was haphazardly renovated at best. The paint was poorly applied, the moldings were poorly entered, and the stickers were still on the sink. The faucets at that sink and in the shower were too big and clunky to be really effective. The shower-head had a stream shooting directly perpendicular to the normal flow, and this stream went over the shower-curtain and onto the door and floor.

I emailed the lady at work and updated her to the situation. I used my own card for the room, and figured we could get it figured out later.

When I awoke one morning I saw I had five emails on my phone. They were all angry messages from the lady at work to the hotel management sent between 3 and 4 am. She was fired up. I didn't read them all, I just got ready and went to the conference.

When I checked out on the last day it was an older guy at the desk. He was very apologetic and promised to get to the bottom of what had happened with the reservation. Frankly, I didn't really care. The place stunk, sure, and the roar from the freeway nearly drowned out the television, but that's to be expected when you arrive. I treated it like a learning experience.

The only truly annoying thing was that our next door neighbor's door creaked when it opened, and it sounded like our door was slowly being opened. That wouldn't seem like a real shitty thing until I mention that from 8 pm until I fell asleep at midnight, there was a quiet tapping on the door---like someone using keys---and the door being opened slowly, every ten minutes. For that entire time.

Tap tap tap, creeeeeaaak, muffled dialogue.Tap tap tap, creeeeeaaak, muffled dialogue.Tap tap tap, creeeeeaaak, muffled dialogue.Tap tap tap, creeeeeaaak, muffled dialogue.

I'm convinced they were selling meth.

In the last email I sent to my coworker, I mentioned that the Hotel Iris may not be ideal for people more uptight than me, and that we should decide in the future to go in another direction.

We've definitely stayed in worse conditions, but time is such that we can learn from these experiences and choose differently moving forward.

Nearly Jeffery Albertson

I've been visiting a local comic book store recently as my reentry into the medium continues. The other day something amusing and oddly familiar happened. By "amusing" I mean that uncomfortable mix of humor and awkward meanness that nerds perpetrate onto each other.

Raise you hand if you're familiar with "Jefferey Albertson?" A photo may help:

Jeff Albertson is the name of Springfield's Comic Book Guy. He is a sarcastic and generally mean spirited intellectual who runs the Android's Dungeon, Bart and Milhouse's favorite comic shop.

If we were to describe this fictional character's appearance, the most flattering way may be to say that he's "unfit."

The other day at the local comic shop, on my way out I spotted a stack of nice looking copies of a thick, trade-paperback styled publication. Slick and of high quality, my eyes found the key to this unfolding story in the upper left hand corner. Observe:

Do you see it? It says "FREE". Hmm, I thought, and picked it up. Thumbing through informs the reader that it is a catalog of sorts, with a discussion of the graphic novel history, DC Comics' place in that history, and then lists out essential reading for every main character, and even those who are gaining preeminence due to successful television launches (iZombie, Green Arrow, and Jesse Custer's Preacher among others).

I came to the front and told the girl behind the counter that I was gonna take this catalog deal, and asked if she needed to scan it for their records. She was incredulous at first. "It does say FREE right there, I mean..." I said with a shrug.

She turned back to the guy who I have recognized during my visits as the owner of the joint, an "unfit", sarcastic, generally mean spirited intellectual, and asked What're we doing with these?

This gentleman, who I must say has been nothing but respectful to me, visibly tensed his face muscles and with a tone of voice so sharp that it surprised me, said: "What does it say on there? On the cover? What's the price?" Just typing it deflates the anger and hostility in his tone. He wasn't yelling, but it was serious.

She was shrinking before my eyes. "Well, I just..."

"Maybe we just give 'em out? Right?"

I was like Slater from "Dazed and Confused" after he asks the kid if he's cool, and the kid says, Like how? and Slater replies: "Ohhhhh-kaaaay."

I'm sure the pressure of owning a comic shop is indeed high, as the rents increase and the margins reduce to razor thin, and, of course, I don't work there so I'm not privy to whether or not this young lady is competent, which could exacerbate the relationship between the two.

Anyway, I like my local shop, and recognize a stereotype for what it is: the occasional nugget of truth.

Also: Jeffery Albertson is your trivia fix for the day.

Happy St. Paddy's 2016

Happy Irish Day!

I tried to explain to my wards about pinching, the imbibing habits of many an adult, and the history of the most famous patron saint of Ireland. It was a good day.

I also had a funny exchange at the comic-book store that I'll have to share soon. That was yesterday.

The brisket has been on for the last two-and-a-half hours, and we're looking at another thirty minutes, or so. Five pounds of salted goodness.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

"The Stations of the Beer Baron" in the Medium of Meme

In honor of St. Patrick's Day, and after a few years, I'm here to present a project idea I've finally been able to finish: The Stations of the Beer Baron

My medium for this project turned out to be memes. This would have been totally impossible if not for Frinkiac.com, a Simpsons-based meme creator.

The idea I always had for this project was to take lines from the episode "Homer Versus the Eighteenth Amendment" and pair them with a prescient video clip from the same episode. I can say that I'm nearly satisfied with this endeavor. There were some images I couldn't get, or maybe didn't get, but for the most part, this was a pretty decent first attempt.

Another thing: I was originally looking to do fourteen stations. I actually have twelve. Upon closer inspection, as I put these together the other night it seemed ridiculous to have at least fourteen (or twelve) distinct moments from a twenty-two minute show.

Jam packed with jokes, I suppose.

So, here we go, the not-yet-perfected "Stations of the Beer Baron:"

1

I remember the first moment I saw this episode, and noticing the weirdness of the gray sky before Bart calls out Lisa's "stupid green dress." I perked up: the only time I remembered anyone ever caring about wearing green in elementary school was St. Paddy's, but how could anyone outside of Lichen Elementary or Sacramento know about that?

See? This show opened my world pretty deeply, and I was in high school at the time, even as pinching was still the tradition. When Nelson looks over his shoulder with the shamrock emblazoned bowler, my eyes widened.

It was twenty years ago and I still remember how my eyes widened and the glee inside rose. Ten seconds in, maybe?

2

This was our mantra for years in college, all those times waiting in line for McCarthy's to open. Corrie and I visited last summer to the new McCarthy's and met some Poly grads who were so young that to them it was "McCarthy's and the Old McCarthy's" instead of "McCarthy's and the New McCarthy's".

Time rolls on. I'm not at this spot anymore for sure, but it occupies a fond spot in the memory banks.

3

Great line, great Harry Shearer read. Always makes me laugh...

4

I really wanted a shot of drunken Bart walking along the street with his buddies cheering, but this was a limitation to be bested in due time. Still cracks me up.

5

Love this image and word combo. An OG meme. Also, a fantastic example of how the Irish don't complain about how they're portrayed in various media.

6

I prefer the line following this, from Bart: "The beer in the barrels is gone, Beer Baron, we're outta business."

7

I wanted a shot of Homer crushing the gravestone, but that seemed too morbid.

8

Classic line.

9

Marge joining in? Always liked the look.

 10

A line used regularly around these quarters.

11

"...and I've decided to quit."

12

One of the greatest memes from the pre-meme era.

**

The cops getting bribed, or machine gunning the beer barrels, or Rex Banner trying to laugh, or Wiggum lamenting his having to sell his trigger to feed his family, or the crowd at the "best damn pet store in town" hiding their beers behind their backs were all desired, but hard to find with the awesome Frinkiac.com.

Also, the spinning newspapers sub articles: "Bums Threaten to Leave Town" and, the possibly funnier, "Bums Extend Deadline" are visual gags left out by the great resource.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Happy Pi Day 2016

Recognition of this nerdly day grows each year. Good stuff.

Again, this time of year I have a brisket corning, just waiting to be boiled to death and grubbed upon:

(The cans and salt container in the back are weights.)

I'm planning on getting to the notes on the wonderful Hotel Iris in San Diego...

Here's a link to last year's post about Pi Day; it has links to all other past Pi Day posts (as ridiculous as that sounds).

I appreciate anything that brings attention to math, so...

Happy Pi Day!

RIP Pat Conroy: A Personal Writing History

News came yesterday, March 5th, of the passing of Pat Conroy, author of popular fiction that many times were made into popular movies like "The Prince of Tides." Conroy was 70

Many years ago, when I was a fresh-faced freshman at university my very first English class during that first quarter, ENG 114, was held at night (my first night class). We had a basketball player in class, a tall and witty white kid, who started each class by asking our teacher, Karen Widemann, about the rumor he'd heard that class would be let out early. We'd all have a laugh, and get to it.

Karen Widemann, I learned later, was one of Poly's English grad students, and like me and the college Algebra classes, they gave their grad students the frosh classes. I remember the moment when I realized that the silly-hot blond chick was the teacher and not an overdressed classmate: "I'm supposed to pay attention to class now?"

Fully engaged as I was with the class, I did my best on my assignments, and as the partying started to rear up, I still made sure I stayed on top of my work for ENG 114. I figured out how to put feeling into my assignments, and even got a written note on one of my papers from Ms Widemann that said: "When you write a book one day, I will proudly tell people I was your teacher." Pretty inspiring stuff for a rarely sober and horny kid. Looking back, I sometimes wonder if she had ulterior motives with some of those comments. She talked about her Navy SEAL fiancee enough, though, that none of us fellas were bold enough even make insinuative jokes.

This was the class where we were assigned as the final project ANYthing we wanted. It was a pretty silly assignment from someone who had just learned her thesis had been accepted and she'd be graduating with her MA--she was kinda checked out.

Our group did a literary analysis of Dr. Seuss projects. It turned out we were the only group that actually aspired to do something class-work-like. I have a funny story about that as well for some day.

One of the books that Ms. Widemann assigned to us to read was Conroy's The Great Santini.

Still have the copy...

I remember being maybe twenty pages in and thinking, "This doesn't seem like a book you'd read for school," and I think that's still a fair assessment. It certainly didn't, at the time, have a literary fiction feel, or timbre, and it was easy to read and kinda melodramatic. But I didn't know that Karen was a grad student with pretty much free reign over what to teach and how to teach it---that she got away with it makes much more sense after my own understanding of how Cal Poly's Teaching Associate program works.

Anyway, the picture of Bull Meecham that comes out during the course of the seems familiar, although only from stories. This guy sounds very similar to the stories I've heard of my own grandfather. I remembered to make a note of it and bring it up whenever I saw the fam again and ask if they'd heard of this book.

Months go by, projects go by, I had a few drinks in the interim, and eventually I found myself at my Auntie Peg's in Santa Monica for Christmas, with very little recollection of discussion topics beyond, "Yes please, more wine would be great," and, "No I'm not drunk...you should see drunk..."

On a bookshelf I noticed a dogeared copy of The Great Santini. I made a surprised sound effect and pulled it out. "We read this for class this past quarter..." and before I could elaborate on the similarity between Bull Meecham and Grandpa Tom, I heard my mom from behind me:

"Yeah, we all have a copy of it. Recognize anyone?"

It was then I realized the full power of writing---the ability to tap in to something real, to be able to project that real-ness out and possibly do good for others. I imagined all the household's around the country that had their own Bull Meechams, their own looming specters that for whom nothing is ever good enough, their own perpetually angry and disappointed patriarchs, and about how those household's could find some solace in this "Bull Meecham" character, maybe find some peace in knowing they are not alone.

It was a realization that I recognize now is an infant writer's first steps. Pat Conroy's The Great Santini will always, for me, represent a point in my writerly development: a point where I recognized that there is a line between literary fiction and genre fiction, AND that even genre fiction has the power of Art (with the capital A) and what that Art can resemble.

**

We decided to end our Dr. Seuss project with a discussion of "The Butter Battle Book" and it's obvious connection to the Cold War. Whatever awesome weapon one side developed, upon deployment it was realized that the enemy had likewise developed the exact same awesome weapon. Eventually they realized that the differences that started the fight were ridiculous in the first place and make peace.

But once we heard that they had made a "Butter Battle Book" cartoon, and it was available at the local video store, we were sold. I remember asking the dude (initials RW) if we could borrow his car: we had to get to the video store and rent a Dr. Seuss tape.

I'm not even sure how we found out about the cassette. This was the days before you would assume the Internet could help with this kind of thing. Besides, very few of us had it in our rooms. It was also before DVDs, and way before YouTube, so the cassette was all we could get our hands on.

We watched it in someone's room while we attended to the festivities of the evening. We were able to take notes and prepare the ending of our project, showing the clip at the end of the cassette.

The next night, the last night of class before finals (when we were to perform a perfunctory assignment), our group was the last to go. We discussed our parameters and theses. Most students were interested, if only because we were taking the assignment far more seriously than anyone else (I thought we were going too far in a non-serious direction. Silly me.).

Eventually the time was right to hit Play on the VCR. The scene unfolded...the dialogue crept on, and the conclusion phrasing we thought would be there was slow to unpack itself. I whispered to one of my groupmates, Leslie (also a pal from The Steps), "Do you remember this part of the cartoon?" 

But before I even finished my whisper question, the characters in the cartoon started singing and dancing, and our group all started to make raised-eye-brow eye-contact with each other: nobody remembered there being a song; the previous night's festivities had seen a more concise version of "The Butter Battle Book" video. We swear.

**

Thanks Pat Conroy. A slice of my life was effected by him in a fashion unlike many other authors along my development line. The memories connected to "Pat Conroy" and his Marine fighter-pilot book occupy a very sacred place in my memory banks. 

They've been revived are kept alive by his passing.

Also: Love Robert Duval, but he's not massive enough to play Bull Meecham. Am I right?

Conferences: Vacations that Aren't

It all sounded pretty good: get off for Friday and head to San Diego, just me and Corrie, company sponsored hotel, and spend the weekend at a conference at the "majestic" Catamaran Hotel.

I do like my job, surely more now than in careers past, and I am generally loathe to miss days, but a Friday? In San Diego? All weekend? (Most) expenses paid?

Sounded pretty good.

Still does.

But the conference started at 8 each morning and ran until 6, except Friday in which it started at 2 pm and went until after 8. So now it's been kinda like kitchen work, as in working a dozen days in a row without a break.

Anyway, the conference was about Mindfulness, a discipline and topic I'm actually very interested in despite the misgivings I have about the name. Too much Gilbert Ryle's discussion about the Cartesian duality being both incorrect and dangerous and the mis-use of the word "mind". Notice how little I use the word "mind" during the eight years I've been keeping this blog---I even use my own creation "brainally" instead of "mentally."

Anywho...this was the fifth annual Bridging the Hearts and Minds (d'oh!) of Youth conference. It brought together the leading folks in the movement with us practitioners, we educators, shrinks, yoga teachers, and social workers.

I heard a very many definitions of the term "Mindfulness", nearly all of which I won't bore you with here. It's basically the combination of meditation and "I (Heart) Huckabees" Pure Being (the ball thing). We learned about breathing techniques and centering techniques and calming notions and all about self compassion. I'm a proponent, fully (I've seen the benefits with youth firsthand), but I was probably the edgiest, lets-crank-the-rage-Against-the-Machine-or-Primus-and-mosh kinda guy in attendance, and that was noticeable.

Being outnumbered thirty-to-one by yoga chicks was also pretty noticeable.

There were some good stories heard and useful practices learned and glad-handing that was accomplished. I met folks from Nebraska, Wisconsin, rural Pennsylvania, New York, as well as some San Diego locals. LA was very well represented.

For the folks from further afield, 68 degrees in February on the beach is pretty damn awesome and novel, but we live at the beach and are duly spoiled.

The Catamaran Hotel is in the Pacific Beach region of San Diego, itself a strange collection of hills, lagoons, bays and harbors. Pacific Beach, or colloquially PB, is on a spit of sand between the surf on the Pacific Ocean and the far more calm Mission Bay to the east. At night, the muggy fog that hung in the air salted your lips, reminding you where to avoid during a tsunami.

Imagine the rundown beach towns from the north coast. The shabby eateries, the houses disintegrating in the flavored air, the sad plumbing in nearly all commercial places. Some of those north coast locals are a odd form of trashy--I've met a share (far fewer than Norm, of course), and I don't even know what I really mean, but not really "trashy" in a disparaging way. It's a kind of small town blissful ignorance blended with a smugness that develops when that kind of ignorance is surrounded by breathtaking beauty witnessed routinely.

Now take that tiny rundown town and stretch it to three miles long by a half-mile wide, triple the prices for things, warm up the air, bring in the frightening proximity to serious international debauchery, and take that mostly fake trashiness and replace it with mostly real trashiness supplied by Bakersfield mentalities and you have Pacific Beach.

The internet tells me it is one of the pulsating centers for nightlife in San Diego proper. In the fifties and sixties when surfers and fisherman were the only inhabitants, and all the coats of paint were fresh, I'm sure it had some charm. And I guess it's not without charm, and maybe I'm being far too harsh---like I said only yesterday: I wanted to like it---you know how much I love a dive! And an entire divey neighborhood? On the beach? Why was I so annoyed?

Maybe because I live on the beach in a community that somehow exists nicely in establishments that aren't falling apart surrounded by a nice buffer zone of murderous 'hood keeping out the really rich folks. That, and downtown Long Beach is far more urban that Pacific Beach. Pacific Beach is what you'd get if you doubled the population but shrank the area of Crescent City, and then put it in southern California a half-hour from Mexico.

For Jimmy's bachelor party we did some downtown San Diego stuff, and that zone is certainly more urban than anywhere in Long Beach. It was pretty nice for what it's worth.

Back to the Vacation that Wasn't...

I had realized before that, sure, while we were away from home and in "tropical San Diego", I would be busy for most of the time, and getting to play shmoopy snuggle-games with Corrie would likely not be how the majority of the time would be spent.

And of course, that's how it played out.

The Catamaran Hotel is a themed resort hotel from those days in the fifties and sixties when only surfers, fishermen, and tourists came to the PB region of SD. Outside, as I mentioned earlier, was a breezy and crisp 68---if such a thing exists---but once inside the lobby, guests are treated to a little slice of Hawai'i:

There is a rocky waterfall right inside the lobby, complete with a coy fish pond and actually blooming orchids. The temperature is held steady between 78 and 82 with rather solid humidity. Outside there is a secluded duck pond with separate species of ducks as well as some caged tropical birds on the offer for gawking. The decorations are all Polynesian or Hawai'ian or some other Australnesian language family identifier who would be upset that I didn't name them accurately. The conference rooms had names like "Kon Tiki Hall", "Macaw" and "Toucan." It seemed shabby and rundown also, but only mildly so compared with the surroundings.

We stayed not at the Catamaran but, because of when we got the okay for the funding and had to wait to book, at the lovely Hotel Iris, a few miles away on I-8. The Interweb photos were pretty neat--it looked like the place we stayed in in Portland...or Seattle...maybe it just brought up those memories for me, and since I wasn't paying, I didn't really do due diligence on it.

I'll have a separate post about the Iris coming up, as I've already gone on longer than planned.

Long story short: it was a nice learning experience in both subject matter and beach-village-living (despite what I said), it was a nice getaway, and it turns out Corrie and I are notoriously hard to impress with beach communities in southern California.