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I’m beginning to think I should recommend convention-going as a good form of exercise. At this size convention, anyway. Not only do you get winded just traveling between panels (which comes standard at just about every con I’ve been to, since they all go overtime and the next one you want is always at the opposite end of the place), but there’s the opportunity for climbing multiple flights of stairs, the walk to and from your car is a great hike, and the food at the convention center is expensive enough to keep your caloric intake down. Also, the dealers’ room is sort of like an Olympic-sized crowd-weaving practice ground. Fun if you’re me, not so fun if you’re trying to follow me.

The other thing about cons that makes me want to exercise is seeing how the medians of the demographics play out. You have the younger contingent, who are mostly good-looking and relatively thin. You have the really old people, who are using hand-carved canes and usually there because they’re connected with actually producing something, and who are generally moving pretty well. Then you have two basic groups of middle-aged fans: the ones who are really skinny and nerdy-looking still, and the ones who put the “middle” in “middle-aged.” It’s wonderful motivation to lose weight when you see a forty-year-old Arwen on a Lark. (Please understand that I’m not trying for a cheap shot. I consider myself lucky that I’m able to lose weight when I want to, and I wish everybody were that fortunate. It’s just kind of heartbreaking in a weird empathetic way.)

So I’ve been on a real veggie kick the last couple of days, and I only just figured out what was up with that this afternoon at Subway. (Found out they’ll give you spinach on your sandwich if you ask nicely. Score!) And all things considered, it could be worse. I could be on a steak kick in the middle of India.

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I don’t usually post in this category, but the latest Nigerian clone to hit my inbox was worth it. It claimed to be from a British barrister, acting on behalf of a recently deceased French national, attempting to relocate funds from Saudi Arabia. The contact information was an email address as “Barrister Lindsay Smith” was currently in Ireland. I think this one’s winning the “Most Countries Invoked in a Single Spam” award so far as my inbox goes.

On a side note, the only information requested was a name, address, and phone/fax number–not a bank account or credit card or anything of the sort. Maybe the spammers are figuring that asking for financial info is rapidly becoming suicide. Or maybe they think it’ll work better if you establish a rapport first?

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1. Obtain a gun.

2. Provide ammunition.

3. Vote to pull the trigger.

BANG.

And the Democratic party drops off the House floor.

At least, I wouldn’t be surprised if it did. If I lived in Nuñez’s district, I’d be royally pissed that I voted for him (because I probably would’ve) and would be willing to sign any paper that would kick his ass. Democratic party leaders don’t seem to realize that they’re in danger of dying out without this kind of stunt. If you’re going to assert your belief in balance and diversity, you better damn well show it, because it isn’t just voters who write letters to congresspeople.

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Today’s recipe:

LIVERWURST PATE

1 lb liverwurst
1/2 t basil
1/4 c minced onion
1 (8 oz) pkg cream cheese
1/8 t red pepper sauce
1 t mayonnaise
red or black anchovy paste
salt and pepper to taste
2 cloves garlic, crushed (keep cloves separate)
parsley

Mash liverwurst with fork. Add 1 clove garlic, basil, onion, salt and pepper. Mix thoroughly. Mound into an igloo shape on plate. Cover and chill. Blend together cream cheese, 1 clove garlic, red pepper sauce and mayonnaise. Spread over liverwurst. Refrigerate for 8 hours. Spread with anchovy paste right before serving and garnish with parsley. Serves about 15.

*******

Typist’s note: I actually like liverwurst, but this sounds disgusting. I assume there are people who would beg to differ, but I don’t know any.

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I am thoroughly sick of the phenomenon I call the Draco Malfoy Effect. This is the process by which young (and not-so-young) women become convinced that not only are evil bad-boy types desirable, but completely reformable. Liking the maverick is nothing new for the Hollywood-hypnotized masses, especially seeing as how he’s so often played by a desirable star. However, liking the villain–the kind who has not yet been definitively shown to possess a heart–to the point that you believe he can be saved through sex with either a) you, b) your Mary Sue, or c) the ingenue of the cast is, to my thinking, simply bizarre.

I’d love to have a discussion on this. Please comment. (Even if you think I’m the one with her head on crooked.)

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I realized this morning what struck me as odd about the original crew of Moya: they’re not a crew, they’re a D&D party. Two warriors, a priest, a thief, and Ordinary Guy (who’d probably be classed as a bard). We started trying to categorize everyone else who shows up and realized that we’d need to know all the kits and extra subclasses to do it right. Then I thought of trying to determine alignments and couldn’t decide whether to use the D&D system or the TMNT system (which I barely know but seems to work better for actual people). It was at that point that Kelson said, “You know, it’d be easier to sort them into Hogwarts houses.” So we did. Continue reading →