A Taste of Colorado and Geezer-hood

I know many things about myself (more than most do I expect) and one of my defining traits is a general intolerance of crowds. The bemusing thing is that I occasionally feel the need to test this aversion by attending events that will be filled with mindless herds of people...more evidence for a masochistic alter-ego nesting in my subconscious. This weekend's attempt was the Taste of Colorado, an annual community celebration in downtown Denver featuring every restaurant and cuisine that has made a name for itself in this mountain city.

As my friend, Andrea, and I walked through the festival flags, I was pleased to see that the hippie-handicrafts had come out to play, too. The streets were wedged full of heavily-scented, superfluous sashes, candles, jewelry, and cultural artifacts. Streams of people flowed through the corridors creating a human current that would involve way too much personal-space-violation to swim against. We floated toward the food stalls. Naturally, everything was over-priced but it was interesting to see the bustle of preparation. For some reason, food is more appetizing when watching its development; in the same way that it is dangerous to watch the food network or grocery-shop when hungry, spectating the street kitchens made it inevitable that I buy something. A HUGE yellow banner in the distance decided it for me: TURKEY LEGS! Long had I heard legends of turkey-leg deliciousness from renaissance-going friends but I had never had the opportunity to try one myself. My mission became clear: acquire turkey leg at all costs.

Beyond fulfilling a life-long dream in greasy fashion, I also developed the unique ability to inspire love in all canines; they followed me like I was a donut in fat camp, though with slightly less drool. It was about this time that I realized exactly how intolerable this situation was: blubbery arms brushed mine, smells of a non-culinary nature permeated my nose, and micro-bursts of rage at insignificant things began popping in my head. When you're 3 this means nap-time; at 25, it meant our adventure downtown was over. So I fled from the hordes of people to the safety and splendid isolation of my couch and it is from this safe distance that I will relish my turkey-leg victory until I next feel the need to torture myself.

Why Characters are Better Than Actors

It's an argument as classic and pointless as cat vs. dog, but I firmly believe that book vs. movie is a no-contest affair. The standard advantage of books is that they have greater depth and detail than movies (being more a collaboration of your own imagination with the author's guiding words); whereas movies are inescapably structured but instantly gratifying. Yet, beyond all the surface comparisons, what struck me the other day was how dangerous actors are to a movie, and all it took was a drag queen.

The great advantage of characters in a book is that they are unique to their tale. Sure, there are stereotypes (the wizard, the old wise man, the young and stupid protagonist) but even a line-up of blond cheerleaders can be differentiated in some way! So you never see a book-character outside of their world and they stay pure. This is most definitely not the case with actors who change costumes and stories with each new gig. Hurray, for them! They are employed! But what are the consequences?!

• Oskar Schindler gives up his whore-mongering ways to become a rogue Jedi-master; then, years later, starts exploring his sexuality under the name Dr. Alfred Kinsey....Qui-Gon, noooooo! (This awkward transition brought to you by Liam Neeson)
  
• A bi-curious, Australian drag queen morphs into a sentinel in the sham of life that is the matrix and then escapes said matrix to rule over Rivendale as Elrond. (Agent Smith's got some nice gams! Thanks, Hugo Weaving.)
• After successfully winning a film award for a failed amateur porn movie, Andy Sargentee transforms into a giant, surfing penguin who loves clams...I saw those in reverse order but the whole porn movie had me thinking of penguins. (Jeff Bridges)

So when watching a movie you get story-line backwash from other parts the actor has played and that can interfere with the story itself. Especially for movies based off of books, I think no-name actors should be cast so that I'm watching the character and not the career.

Maybe I shouldn't complain, though, because this way I get to enjoy the characters on a whole new level. Afterall, once you've seen Hugo Weaving in fishnets you can spot something almost sassy in the way he plays Agent Smith...and who can gripe about that? ;-)

Prehensile Giraffe Tongues, Depressed Wallabies, & Chipmunks

A high-pitch noise erupted from my friend, Andrea, that could mean several things: a large bull was charging her down, an axe-murderer had begun stabbing her, or a bird had landed on her head. Needless to say, when I spun around I expected her to be facing down a terror, and there, crouched before her (battle-ready!) was a chipmunk. Aside from their unarguably fearsome aspect, chipmunks also were the most numerous of creatures at the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo in Colorado Springs; they were in every enclosure: gorillas...chipmunks, tapirs...chipmunks, penguins...you get the idea.

One of the great lures of the zoo was its wallaby enclosure. We had spent happy hours in Australian zoos petting their marsupial cousins - the kangaroos - and had high hopes for this one. What we found was an enclosure filled with a lazy, sparse population, hand sanitizers, and a general sense of hands-off (rather museum-like, really). And while we tried to enjoy what we could of it, the contrasts between American and Australian outlooks were undeniable. The over-protective, rule-centric petting enclosure seemed to speak of an American paranoia that taxes even the most innocent of activities. I felt a wave of regretful nostalgia as I looked at those sloth-like wallabies, so distant from their Aussie relatives.

One herd that was not depressing, though, was the giraffe herd. Cheyenne Zoo is actually renown for its sizable and healthy giraffes. Their scientific name, Giraffa camelopardalis reticulata, means "camel-leopard-like one who walks swiftly"; they had an unnatural fascination with licking the wooden poles and concrete walls (even though crackers were being proffered); and they smelled like musky hay. We bought crackers that seemed more like cardboard to me and feed them to the eel-ish prehensile tongues sticking through the fence posts. One of the other girls feeding them scolded, "That's no way to proposition a lady!"...but I really think it depends on the lady ;-)

It was overall a lovely day filled with animal shenanigans and remembrance, but, most of all, chipmunks. Vicious, photogenic, little chipmunks.

Nesting...

It has come to my attention that I am in love with my new home. It's smaller than the old one, yes, but cozy and complete with pool, fitness center, and a patio/psuedo-balcony overlooking a retirement home's public pool. (*shudder) It's also cheaper than my old ghetto-hole of an apartment which was the main lure in the first place. (FYI, I hear financial prudence is the new black!) The entire place just has a homey feel to it that I delight in. I even sleep better, no longer plagued by reality-dreams and now firmly back into WTF-zone where people are plants and I'm a turtle-princess.

What amuses me about my own fondness is that it displays a tendency found in other aspects of life. A decision was made based on what was practical and logical and love blossomed afterward. It's almost as if my heart needed the go-ahead from my brain before it merrily saluted and exploded all over the newly cherished apartment. I wonder if it's actually a form of rationalization or coping...something to make people happier with what they need to do.

I truly doubt it will ever extend to my current career situation though - I've been stewing a delicious sense of injustice over that for 10 months and I think it's just about ready for eating. Something I did notice with my new second job in play is a Stockholm-Syndrome-like sense of loss over Microcenter. Call me crazy but, on some level, I miss the place. Until this weekend, my computer-store love!

So, in conclusion, life is weird, I love odd but highly sensible things, and my true nature is that of a turtle princess which I think we all knew. Bow! - - - - - Slowly.

Pirates? In Colorado? Society's to Blame.

Ahoy, mateys! This weekend brought about one of the most nerdish rituals I have ever taken part in: I attended Baron's War with SCA. SCA is better known as the Society for Creative Anachronism and is essentially a role-playing renaissance fair in which everyone is a player. My friend Andrea and her family have been involved in this organization for about the length of her life. Baron's War was my second event and brought its own unique flavor to an otherwise drab weekend.

First thing we had to do was get to Cripple Creek, which is deeper into the heart of Colorado than one would normally venture, about 101 miles away. On the way we stopped by two llama farms (within .5 miles of each other) and tried to lure them to the fence by imitating their angry-baby-like cries. Andrea insisted they were territorial creatures but I found their long-lashed eyes and small faces reminiscent of Betty Boop; instead I experienced the much more territorial attentions of the small red ants whose hill I was standing on. Our girly bug dance seemed to amuse the llamas at least.

When we arrived at the Lost Burro campground the sun was just setting. The camp was full of contradiction! Top-of-the-line campers sat next to viking tents; people wearing medieval garb drove cars; golf-carts whizzed down the paths bearing pirate flags and water pistols...all nested beneath a beautiful cliff face at a cozy 9,500 ft. The first order of business was to change from tanks & tees into more lady-like garb.

The first night was a low-grade kegger with fire-lit jousting and much roasting of marshmallows. Even though we wore the flowing gowns of ladies our slack, staring faces were those of our generation...it was the end of a long day. Let me just say here that sleeping with Andrea is never without risk - it carries dangers of disturbance, assault, and unwanted spooning - that night though it was just terribly cold. Cold sweat sleep is one of the worst aspects of camping.

Another horrid aspect is waking up with the first idiot early-bird who wants everyone to experience the frigid morning air. Day two was filled with sun-soaked lounging, more jousting-watching, and freak rainstorms which induced a lovely nap nestled in the loft of a cabin. Just as well, really, because that was the night of the pirate party!

Andrea and I became bar wenches and served up a horrendous, rainbow concoction of rum and sugar drink. Got to say it was definitely the pirate party where the sense of unreality disappeared. Call me crazy but people wearing pirate clothes and drinking heavily seems almost natural...must be left-over college vibes. Of course more happened but what happens among the llamas stays there ;-)

(If you can't tell by the photo I am supposed to be a naughty pirate...I've been told that underwear on the outside of my clothes is a good look for me. Something to keep in mind for sure!)

If you can't tell by the photo I am supposed to be a naughty pirate...I've been told that underwear on the outside of my clothes is a good look for me. Something to keep in mind for sure!

The Quest for Gratitude: A Fool's Errand

One of the mantras I have formed since graduating college is: Don't do anything expecting gratitude. It is not the most poetic of phrases, to be sure, but it rings through my head with its importance. An action done purely in the pursuit of another's gratitude is doomed from the start; it relies on the most finicky of things - human feeling. If you've missed your mark you are left with nothing, and if, by chance, you succeed "thanks" is a fading reward. The main issue is that if you work for gratitude you are working for outside approval, when you really should be laboring to please yourself. But, the concept extends further now - beyond favors and surprises to basic self-worth.

So many in the world are constantly seeking approval for what they know themselves to be. The intelligent strive to have their wit acknowledged; the beautiful bask in the light of admiration; even the strong must lift the little to prove a point. I wonder what brings about this need for public acclaim...it's rather like the tree-falling-in-the-forest quandary: Does a beauty unseen still glow? Does a joke unheard lose its laughter?

One of my greatest goals right now is to separate myself from this destructive tendency. I will not act for gratitude and I will learn to value my positives without the need of an outside harrumph.

...HARRUMPH!

Loose First Names - How Scandalous!

I've come to the realization that I am famous. You're shocked. Don't worry, it took me time to get used to too. It seems like everywhere I go people know my name: Walmart, grocery stores, even the library! How did I achieve such world-renown? I blame society and a horrible practice among retailers to steal my name from any proffered plastic payment method.

Any retail experience nowadays is marred with what I view as an act of over-familiarity. I know these cashiers are only implementing a company policy, but I question the larger motive. This effort to personalize the shopping experience is a cheat: ignore the prices and services because we are your friends! I do not enjoy being addressed by my first name by strangers. If you consider how little first names are used even among familiars, it really is a remarkable breach.

But it works the other way too, with customers taking advantage of name tags to violate this boundary. Actually, I consider this a tad more unforgivable because of three things: 1) The name-tags are mandated and not a personal choice, 2) the customers are doing it by their own free will and not because of any job requirement, and 3) I am the constant victim of it! AGH!

The only solution seems to be changing my name to an expression of outrage beyond the bounds of modern spelling!