Oddiculosis

I am full of weirdness.  Just found out from LTGW that he used the Thousand Sided Dice to come up with his twitter name!  He was thrilled with it… I’m just glad it’s Substantially Complete.

Paul’s Birthday celebration is tomorrow.  I took the liberty of inviting half a dozen people to it… also, I’m thawing salmon, always a good idea for a bbq.  Sadly, all the cherry wood charcoal is gone, so we’ll have to suffer without it.

I am having to deal with the stupidity of the UPS store Beacon gets photocopying done at.  I FraCKING HATE BEING TREASURER.  I’m going to run away to Courtenay, see if I don’t.  Actually, Jeff and I very briefly discussed this and whether it really happens will be in the lap of the gods.

Okay, back to contending with busy people who don’t keep good records.

Patricia and Damian get married.

My friend Patricia married her sweetie Damian last night on the rooftop of the Loden hotel.  The bride was radiant in a simple cream gown, the groom beaming with happiness, the weather was glorious, the bar was open (I drank two tiny glasses of champagne and three beers over 6 hours; by the time I got to Edmonds Station I was ), the om nom noms were choice (including a blowout of Levnichocolate.com, OMG, as the proprietor Paul Dincer was an attendee), and it was an Australian-Canadian dance-off with the best wedding DJ I’ve ever heard. Dude could sync beats like a shaman.  Folks from Melbourne sure know how to party!  And the dresses!  Damian’s sister was wearing the most brilliantly coloured and celebratory dress evah.  I got to sing the couple “The Happily Married Song” which I have sung for a number of couples now, (they asked me for the lyrics, w00t!) I danced like a fool, and the civil ceremony was so touching, and so mercifully brief, that those raised on Irish Catholic weddings were all “yes, this.”  Two families were blended in what I will recollect as being the most auspicious start to married life I’ve ever witnessed. Mazel tov!

a little bit of ever’ting

It was a solstice party (1 pagan in attendance, check), a housefilk (whenever two or more of you are gathered together in the name of the typo, amen), a hootenanny (small children running around and massacring harmonicas and tambourines while Tapioca is cooked), a religious/cultural interpersonal therapy session as we sang the hums of our people (Falling Free, Frobisher Bay among others), an impromptu poly gathering (6 people in attendance openly poly, plus lurkers), a-a-a-and a shameless attempt on my part to get everybody to compliment me on my sheer good sense for buying Otto.  Who is a boy, Katie K confirmed it.  She also arrived with a housemate in tow and La Merveilleuse Tillie‘s fraking awesome rosemary infused vodka/vermouth libation, which despite the no drinking rule I tasted cause I had to.  And I ain’t sad to.  I’m glad to.  Still a taste left, if ScaryClown comes over tomorrow I’ll feed him some.  Stayed away from the beer, but Mike left 3 in the fridge, so at least I haz some to offer guests. Day before yesterday I made biscotti, and then shared them out liberally at the party, sending some home with the LET’S SING SONGS ABOUT DEATH (literally her first words when she unpacked the bass) Peggy  and the ever useful and opinionated Tom. Also dispensed biscotti to Mike, who sang The Weight (ah, the piercing harmonies!) and Tomorrow Wendy,  and to Rozo, who spectated with that sleepy and mischievous smile I’ve gotten so fond of.  The glorious and unabridgedly awesome Cindy added that special soupçon of harmonious madness without which no housefilk can be characterized as ‘good’.  Or is housefilk like sex and pizza?  ah, erm.  Anyway, we sang zombie songs (dead people), Frobisher Bay (freezing to death), Tomorrow Wendy (which has lots of death in it), Dead Flowers (roses on your grave), and really really kept the theme of somgs about death on track more or less by accident.  Paul sang Last Page and Cindy sang Runtime Error, Type Mismatch so Lady Miss B was there toooooo. Although regrettably not in person, possibly because I neglected to invite her?  Duh.

I cleaned my house and wrote a song yesterday, and people came over and we laughed and chatted and sang and played.  Success!  My brother has been feeling meh but not enough to crimp fun (he slept in the guest room, but Eddie the wonderkitty kept him company).

Due to overwhelming popular demand (two facebutt friends), I will be setting words to my new song, which is the third I’ve written in the Game of Thrones universe.  My Needle and I, and Funeral March of Lord Tywin (instrumental) were the first two.  This one is called The Maid of Tarth.  Oh Otto, you are demanding instrument, but I will rise to the challenge.  And now I realize that it’s 4 GoT songs, I forgot about Sam the Slayer.  When I get into a Universe I seriously fracking commit.

Now…. how do I keep my house clean enough so I actually throw housefilks more than twice a year? I mean apart from a chartreuse flamethrower and a tank of oxygen….

ten good things

Ten great things about my mother’s day. 1. Not calling my mother and not feeling guilty about it (after all I call her three times a week these days). 2. Katie calling to wish me a happy mother’s day. 3. Paul coming over and cooking me dinner and bringing Keith. 4. Still not drinking even though Paul brought some of my fave beer. I amazes me how little I miss it. 5. The weather. Let me tu…rn that up! THE WEATHER. 6. Practicing on the Octave Mando 7 Paul and Jeff putting up the awning in time for dinner. 8. Don Hauka’s amazing Mother’s Day Service. 9. Wonderful coming of age ceremony for one of the church youth; yes I know I’m sentimental but it made me cry. 10. On the third book of the Song of Ice and Fire – go Mother of Dragons, go!

I have had a very restful and yet sociable weekend.

This is a lovely combinertation in my view.

 

(Excerpt from The Warlord’s Cook)

I had this story from my mother.  She said it was from a book that was burned, but she read the book many times before she was fifteen and swears this is how it went.

Once upon a time, there was a man seeking employment speaking gibberish.  He could have gone into guild politics, and it would have been easier yet to go into religion.  He was an honest speaker of gibberish, nothing more, and he asked only that he be given an opportunity to practice his trade.

It was his job to hang around a certain rich man (actually, it was a group of rich guys who took him on as a kind of time share court jester but that only becomes relevant in a different story)- and while he was hanging around a certain rich guy, he was brought into the company of those who, for whatever reason, the rich guy wanted to mock and bewilder and otherwise mentally mess about with.

In those days – which weren’t that long ago, truth be told, although how far away it seems now for those of us too young to have been there – the rich man would have business meetings and the man who spoke gibberish would sit in a corner of the room, out of the way, and occasionally say something quietly but clearly in gibberish, and the rich man would pause, and say, “I will definitely have to consider that.”  The negotiations, of whatever form, would stagger along for a few moments and then there would be another outburst from the corner.  The rich man would pause, and say something soothing again. The fourth time this happened the rich man looked at him and paused long enough to eat a whole nut, and then said,

“Now Blib, you’re disturbing the work we’re doing. You’ve given me enough advice for tonight.”

Glaring (he had a ghost white face and big googly eyes) Blib would leave the room, looking like he was ready to kill someone.

“I hope he doesn’t mean to come back,” the rich man would say and then only the strongest minded individual would be able to continue along the path he had set for himself prior to the meeting.

Blib had similar sorts of jobs with other rich men, and he would sometimes pretend to be a soup-spilling waiter who also spoke gibberish, which caused no end of hijinks.

Abruptly one day the rich men all decided they wanted to spend the same amount of money for different things.  Blib had no work. One by one each of them turned to paying someone else to amuse them.  One preferred sex with men, one sex with women, one took up exotic drugs, one consumed more alcohol, and the last became depraved in the company of sheep. The moral of this story is very simple.

Depending on rich people is like building on sand.

 

If I think the warlord is being an ass I tell him one of my mother’s Blib stories.  She had a lot of them and they all ended the same way, hell for Blib.  He always managed to get another job though; Blib had a facility for survival that I always admired.

 

One think and another

I just messaged one of my coworkers and instead of a cute little caffeine deficient owl I sent him a photoshopped bodybuilder which is candidly a very disturbing pic.

Yesterday’s homily went great – it was sparsely attended but I must not have been doing a good job of making it a worshipful experience because there was applause at the end (this is NOT a good thing in homiletics – respectful and silent attentiveness is de rigueur.) It’s posted on this site now.  Ralph came up to me, twinkling, afterwards and said, “I was going to tell you what a nice homily that was but I figured you’d kill me”.  I heart Ralph and Ivy so much.

Katie K, Lard be praised, came along (she may have attended one other, I can’t remember, but my friends never come so it was a red letter day!) and since I didn’t have the car we jumped on the Skytrain and went to International Village for lunch.  We wound up at Kentizen, which for $16 tax in provides a lunch buffet reminiscent of the lamentably fallen off but still extant Grand Buffet. There was loads of nice sushi and acceptably acceptable Chinese food, although the reviewer who says you can get Chinese food like that in a small town in rural BC is a moonbat.  I love the decor and ambiance for a Chinese restaurant and it was a welcome respite from the wall to wall noise in the Village concourse.  We shot the breeze in a most delightful fashion and she toddled off to Metrotown to hang with her daughter.  What a GLORIOUS day it was yesterday, the weather couldn’t have been improved on.

Then to Imaginarius Fantasticus, from whence, 300 dollars poorer, I emerged.  I bought two pieces of steampunk jewellery, an additional cambric top, a pink and black confection of a corset for daugher Katie (I had taken her measurements so her absence wasn’t an issue, and it did fit her – and corsets were $60 on special, so ya can’t beat that with a stick and I was so happy that my evil plan to pick her up a nice and relatively inexpensive corset worked), a BEAUTIFUL dark blue half circle Regency style cloak with ribbon closure and the most AWESOME hood (it is so flattering it’s amazing), a bunch of ceramic nametags (hey, they had Allegra, Tish, Terry, Hank and Katie so I bought them) and I came THIS CLOSE to buying Paul the Spock costume from The Voyage Home, which he would have looked f*cking awesome in.  Man, so so tempted.

There were carnivorous plants, and Viking (no, really, antique) belt buckles, and medieval armor demos and evil female pirates and kids dressed up like fairy princesses.  And aura readers.  I would have preferred a steampunk tarot reading, but ya can’t have everything….

Keith and Paul ran into Mike and Rozo at the Quay about the same time I was releasing the last of my money into the wild, so we all had quite the nice day…and then Lost Girl, which was okay, and now work….

I am settled into my room at the Double Tree Worthington

Cindy will arrive shortly and go straight to sleep in my room. I will find something to do with myself while she kips and waits for her room to be ready – I am thinking I might like to go look at the enslaved animals, if only in remembrance of the other Ohio animals who didn’t make it.  Besides, they have bonobos, and I ain’t never seen any.  Or I could wander down to the “German Village” room (!?) and see if anybody is filking yet.  Or maybe I’ll say fuck it and go to Macy’s.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Starbucks coffee is nauseatingly bad.  They may be proud to serve it but I’m a fool to drink it.

Gadhafi’s STILL dead, sic semper tyrannis.

So far, except for the coffee, I am loving this hotel.  The staff are really, really professional, friendly and courteous.  Room was supposed to be non-smoking, when I bleated they fixed it without a hiccup.

Weather’s like Vancouver, but windy.

I got selected for ‘special screening’ yesterday.  O goody.  I also got yelled at by every single one of the ‘security theatre’ staff, to the point that I would say “Please don’t yell at me,” not that it helped.  Note to self – travel in slip-ons next time.

“Miles Vorkosigan’s” filk of Lady Miss Banjola’s “Wreck of the Crash” MUST GET LYRICS and sing for my pOp.

It’s about the legal repercussions of losing your hotel room key, and it, like the song it’s based on is bloody hilarious.  YES there was filking last night and it was still going on when I went to bed at midnight local time.

octopi vancouver

Care package for the demo.  2 blankies, including a hand made quilt donated  mOm; batteries, a drum and a penny whistle and an egg shaker; two pairs of socks, a complete rain outfit men’s medium, a yoga mat, reusable tie wraps, a metal portable desk with paper, a granola bar, a nice name tag, and some other little things.

Brilliant day of sunshine!  Jeff’s coming too.

VCon roundup

VCon vignettes: Getting asked by a new to filk fan if we “Had any Star Trek songs?” causing Creede and Shaddyr and I to look at each other wildly and flip the book open to Banned From Argo. Great concert by Creede and Shaddyr and I ran through our OVFF song list which was also well received. Songwriting panel I was on was attended by two very shy teenaged girls. Larry Niven was EVERYWHERE; saw him in the hall, the filkroom, the art show, the dealer’s room. The very model of an affable and approachable GOH. Dropped ludicrous amounts of money on clothing, including a sick confection of a steampunk hat, two corsets, skirt, buffalo belted purse, froofy blouse and bi-coloured leather wrist band with steampunk details and an alien glass eye on the top. Outfit is supposed to cross filk, steampunk and Browncoat fandoms. Shout out to foxipher – can’t wait for Conflikt ! Shout out to Casey Wolf. Saw the Best Assassin’s Creed costume EVAR; anytime the wearer passed somebody in period costume he’d go into the ‘blend’ posture which caused me to howl with laughter. There were half a dozen excellent Dr. Whos, the best Stormtrooper costume I’ve been up close to, and there was one poor chica who was the living model for Venus and Mars and had to change her costume every two hours as a walking billboard. Which she very much resembled as she was wearing the tallest platforms imaginable outside a KISS concert. Ran into various former coworkers and friends and friends of friends and had some lovely conversations and some long overdue catching up. Also, given that VCon is a smallish Gencon with about 1000 members, the art room was nothing short of spectacular. There were at least 10 items I wanted to buy and even the stuff I didn’t like was well done. And my costume was so cool (I changed into it as I was buying it, to the amusement of the dealers) I had requests for pictures. No VCon for me today as I am opening church and have life maintenance. But even so I call it an unqualified success.

Various thoughts.

Anarchism is now a thoughtcrime in England.  Have to wonder when that will happen here too.  The shellacking of free speech continues throughout the naughtily monikered ‘free world’.  I can just HEAR John on the subject.

I came back from Katie’s place last night after I took her shopping and took Government Rd, because that tunnel of trees reminds me of coming back from Jericho on a warm summer night on the back of John’s scooter.  Christ, I miss him.  I keep waiting for it to go away, but grief mocks timetables and stalwart resolutions with a cascade of neurotransmitters.

One of my longest term friends and noted poet Lucile Barker recently came up with these two gems: “Intermiliating…an experience that is simultaneously humiliating and interesting.
Entermiliating…when it happens to someone else.”

I’ve been worrying and fussing over Pride day, off and on the last little while, but I finally put all my errant thoughts together after posting this to facebook :

After participating in half a dozen Pride parades in Vancouver, I’m starting to feel very conflicted about it.  It’s not that I think that there isn’t more to be done to encourage love and understanding for the genderqueer, non-normative folks among us and inside us, or that we can’t do more to support young people coming out, it’s that I’m starting to feel less celebratory.

I’m having a hard time with how awkward the massive influx of sponsorship cash makes me feel when Ugandan gays are getting killed.  I’m dying a little inside about how transgendered people get treated as they get lumped in with the gay spectrum, and dumped on by “women born women” (I’m still recovering from that disgusting tshirt that was on sale at the michfest) while fending off queries as to whether they have a website nudge nudge wink wink….  I’m not saying that queer bashing in Vancouver is dead or that hosanna sexism stepped out for a beer, or that white and other interlocking  privileges have quit working their evil magic on everything. We all know that’s bs.  The millennium came and went and things have improved in quanta and fractions and lumpy little increments.  I see more freedom on the horizon, and I don’t want it sponsored by a fucking brewer, thanks.  I want to be part of a human movement powered by human love, human dreams, human actions, not a pasted on smile that gets cleaned up by the sanitation department later that day.

Of course we need to celebrate victories and agitate for better and fewer laws.  But I’m not feeling celebratory.  I am mourning for the person I used to be, believing that Pride was a sign of how advanced we are.  I’ve watched the banks and breweries opt in, and that’s the point at which I want to opt out.  It felt transgressive, asskickingly, gloriously transgressive and liberating, to participate in years past.  Now it feels like a chore, so that I, a nominally straight woman and Unitarian, can have some street cred.

This weekend I’ll try to unpack a little more of my invisible knapsack; I’ll try to engage straight people I know in that discussion; I’ll find a queer charity in town to support.  But I’m not going to Pride.  It feels like someone else’s party now, and I don’t want be the jerk that crashes it for the cachet of saying I was there.

And so since my irritation right now is directed towards oppression of transgender people, I’ve been wracking my brains for a charitable organization I can give money to that will express my values.  And all of a sudden it occurred to me that the answer has been staring me in the face.

Purpose.

Which school in the lower mainland supports TG kids the most?  Purpose!  How do I know?  Because I was at a graduation and heard it from the mouth of a TG kid (FTM) that he never would have made it without Purpose.  And because, without education, a TG kid can’t escape the employment ghetto and build himself a life of meaningful independence.  Because I know from my kids that they can be out and proud at school and their teachers, support staff and principal will raise hell if they are bullied or maltreated.  So I will support education, transgender rights and young people with one donation, and now I can feel like my Pride weekend has actually meant something.  I feel better!

We celebrated Jeff’s bday with takeout Schnitzel and the final episode of Season One from Breaking Bad.  What a hell of a show.