In Greece, people use large wooden horse to get into Troy. In Michigan they use horse to get out.

The world of Detroit is akin to a planetary nebula. That's where a star about the size of our sun goes through its final death throws, expands to the size of a red giant, kicks off a ring of gas and dust and then finally collapses into its final form, a white dwarf. White dwarfs are cold and dim(relatively) remnants of extremely dense matter (they're the size of the earth with the mass of the sun) that no longer work as nuclear furnace. For all intents and purposes they're corpses that have retained some body heat. Detroit is like this. I think. Detroit, burned bright for most of the last century and now it's a remnant. While the suburbs seem to expand outwards forever. But it all looks about the same. Cookie cutter extruded mass of suburbia. It is a strange thing, we in America consider ours to be a melting pot culture. We are a microcosm of humanity. But when you get down to it, any city built in the last fifty years looks exactly the same as all of the others. Block after block, this maze runs. If you were to fall asleep in one of the suburbs of Detroit and awake in the outskirts of Indianapolis, I doubt that you would notice. We are diverse homogeneity, and I hate it. Our cities tend to grow more and more uninteresting with each passing decade. What brings this on? I got to spend the weekend in Troy Michigan, doing Data Entry for a pharmacy that was switching software. I spent 17 hours transferring patient records by hand from the old system to the new. Then afterwards I got to see a little of Troy. Worst Vacation Ever. The Onion has a wonderful story titled something like 'College Senior hopes she can turn love of Data Entry into Career in Data Entry.' Wonderful Satire. But for anyone who doesn't know, data entry is simply taking information from one source and inputing it into a computer database. It can be described in a word, Tedious. If I had to look forward to a future of Data Entry, I think I would open my own veins. If I had to The pharmacy was an interesting place, as these things go. They seem to have moved recently and were in a rather disorganized state. Fine, that makes the environs that much more interesting. A bit of clutter is nice and homey. Even if such isn't the ideal way to run a business. But as the weekend passed, the crew got things slowly squared away. It is a strange thing to drive two hundred miles and find things are similar to my own corner of the state. The Pharmacy in Troy seems to use the same distributor as does the two I've worked at here in town. So they have the same stickers on the same medication bottles. The drugs arrive from the distributor in the same dark blue, light blue, green and grey bins. One difference was somewhat cultural. On the west side of the state, it's a haven for Conservative Religious folk endemic in our nation. Christians mostly. Where they have religion at all, most are protestant. Black, white and brown seem to be the most prominent groups. The Troy Pharmacy was mostly, as was implied earlier, of folks who hailed form the Mid East. English and Arabic seemed to flow together, just like with Spanglish. Evil made the statement that it is disconcerting to hear a sentence almost entirely of one language that seems to flow around a single word from the other. They are like tantalizing scraps for an outsider to try to piece together the conversation from the bits and pieces that you understand. But anyone has heard Spanglish is familiar with the concept. Fascinating how two languages seem to inhabit the mind together. As someone who is unilingual, I wonder how multi-lingual folk engaged in the exchange decide when to flit back and forth. When do you decide that the German word for Panties isn't good enough, so you have to drudge up the Swahili equivalent? I would love to know how these choices are made and how conscious they are. But as someone who absolutely sucks at memorizing (I'm lazy and a language is made up of tons of sounds and their meanings that need to be memorized), I doubt I shall ever have the experience myself. Back to the office. It was a basement, a dungeon. Large and spacious, but lacking windows. I do love having natural light, it makes me feel human. I was lead to a cubical, mostly empty except for a chair and a computer. With a brief description of what I needed to do, I was left alone with a stack of papers. Behind me was a fellow who was listening to what seemed to be a religious broadcast. About Jesus and Islam. I'm not sure if it was pro-Christian, or trying to get Christians and Muslims to work together. From what I heard, it sounded like a little of A, while maybe trying to convert Muslims. The Preacher was performing a monologue about how important the prophet Jesus is to Islam, and how many Muslim kids are named after him, and maybe how the grass is greener over in Christianity. Has anyone else had an experience like this? Luckily I had my iPod. Oh iPod, you are one of the greatest inventions that humanity has yet devised! So, Data entry is how I spent my days in Troy. With a bit of religiosity and Metallica smattered within. How about the evening? We had a fine dinner of Olive Garden. I forswore the never ending pasta bowl, or whatever they call it. The food is of course tasty. But you can get it anywhere. According to Google there are at least three in the city where I reside. It'd be like visiting New York and patronizing Pizza Hut. Just get out, walk down the block, and find a good local restaurant! Though, I have no clue what sort of food Troy/Detroit might be famous for. There are a lot of Middle-Eastern folk, so Mediterranean food and Indian are my best guesses. - In our defense though, We're cheap and we had a gift card for Olive Garden. Free food isn't something Evil or I often turn down. Evil and I stayed at a place called the Candlewood Suites. Which was both awesome and lame. It's a hotel aimed at long term guests, and comes with a full kitchen, living area, and bedroom in each suite. Pretty damn cool, if somewhat old. Our suite had an aged television and a video-dvd player, which I expect is about par for the course. The kitchen is fully stocked with utensils and the inn offers a washing service gratis, as well as the free video lending library. But at the same time they seem to be rather laid back. Kind of how I would imagine a youth Hostel to be. I visited the video library, an eclectic collection of dvds and vhs tapes. I don't know who put it together, but they REALLY liked Steven Seagal. Vern has nothing on these folks, Though mostly it was Golden Era Steven Seagal. And I had already seen all the movies. Then there were the mysterious Bollywood tapes. They were encased in a plain white cardboard slip-case and had equally plain text on some tape denoting the name of the film and the major players. Tempting as these mysteries were to explore, I ended up folding to my inner historian and choosing The Assassination of Jesse James ETCETERA, a historical docudrama about said man and event. Three hours long it was, so I never got to the part about the assassination. Only that James and the people around him were fucking dicks. That was enough for me to hope that the Yankees would come back through and put a torch to that part of Missouri. Sunday saw more data entry – followed by pay and release. Freedom to leave Detroit. Judging by the traffic flowing out from the city, I am not alone in that sentiment. Most people were flying out of the city, like it was infested with zombies and on fire to boot. 80MPH+. Swerving like mad. One fellow we saw barely slowed down when they got off the highway and onto a ramp. It was good to be free of the city and on our way back home. Next week, Travers City Michigan.

Beer Fest!

Beerfest. Where people drink beer and listen to bands play. A straight-forward and simple plan of action one would be compelled to believe. And they would be right. That's all a beerfest really is. Founders seems to draw two types in particular. The Bros – as there is beer, add that to the fact that there are other Bros to rape, and you get a feeding frenzy. Group two is the Hipsters. Since the festival seemed to be infested with non-hipsters(the Bros as well as others) I'm wondering if the Hipsters are only showing up out of a sense of irony.

I don't know if I've mentioned it, but I don't drink. No reason why, I just don't. And I don't have a passion for music. I like music, even love it at times. But there's no burning desire to ensconce myself in front of a stage and press my head against the loudspeaker until my ears bleed. I'm perfectly content with canned music since, unless I'm dumb it doesn't damage what little I still have left of my hearing.

The bands ranged from OK to interesting, what I could hear. Eventually the music was droned out by the noise of conversation. There's that buzz that it becomes when hundreds of people are talking at once and the sounds cease to be meaningless and become noise. Often background noise. When I notice the buzz, it begins to freak me out. The hum is unescapable and wears at my fragile mind.

The noise makes even brief attempts at conversations rather self-defeating, which kills the mental stimulation that I need. Something to think about please. So, I begin to daydream about seeing epic Street Fighter style battles between the Bros and Hipsters. It's great. Just imagine seeing a Hipster yell Haduken! And throwing a ball of energy at a Bro. Fun times.

So, the concept on most levels is rather dull for a non-drinking hermit like myself. The only real draw? People watching. And a truer definition: Oggling Girls in their summer clothes. As I recall, scantily clad members of the female sex is a regular theme here on this blog. Comic con? Girls cosplaying. Rennfest? Girls cosplaying. I am a broken record. But as a creepy old shut-in, girls in revealing outfits are rare indeed in my usual domain. I'm forced to head out into the world to see them in their natural habitat.

This is worth the venture.

Note: Leering and drooling, are not socially acceptable behavior. Just passing on the hard won wisdom.

What else is there to say? The attention whores show up in droves to these events. Much like the cosplayers at nerdier events. Actually, exactly like cosplayers. The most notable was the Ent. See pic below. But others were the hula-hoopers. Dunno how they fit in, but there was a booth renting/selling hula hoops, so it can't be a new phenomenon. Founders Fest was a strange sight, and I am on the fence whether or not I enjoyed it fully.

On The mean streets of GR.

Today, while walking the streets of Grand Rapids, I met Tony. Tony Indoctrinated me on the Secret Handshake in the midst of informing me that he liked me and that I had nice shoes. Tony Is from GR and I should tell them that. Yes Tony, my folks are doing just fine.

It was, needless to say, a strange experience. And one that I quickly moved away from, before Tony decided he wanted my shoes, or that I would make the prefect sex zombie to keep in his closet. What I'm really hoping though that Tony isn't actually a member of the resistance. A soldier dedicated to fighting the alien invasion. That might prove awkward, especially after the big attack when I decide to join the underground to avenge my slain parents.

Now don't get me wrong. I appreciate Captain Tony's dedication to freeing us from the oppressive yoke of the Glort Collective. But why couldn't it have been the cute blond with the bodonkadonk who introduced herself, groped me and pointed out my finer qualities?

Needless to say, I'm avoiding that street from here on out. Don't want to give Tony any ideas. Like that I'm stalking him. Or that I'm gathering intelligence for the High Inquisitor Gr'lvlclh'gnt to crush the resistance.

Motor City Madness 2010.

I suppose that everyone likes to create and abide by meaningful traditions. Holidays and get-togethers and the like. Spending a Saturday in May in Novi Michigan surrounded by hundreds of fellow dorks, seems to be fast becoming one of ours. Welcome brethren the High Holidays of Nerddom. Where our people gather and celebrate.

There were a number of differences between this year and last, most minor. First we attended on a Saturday, second we didn't get there right as they opened, third there wasn't any particular celebrity that I really wanted to meet - not since a certain someone broke my heart last year. Why Taimak? Why? I just wanted to get my copy of Last Dragon signed. Anyhow, the later show time meant that the convention center and parking lot were both rather on the full side. The party was already in full swing. Shazam!

*I should have gone as a pirate!I should have gone as a pirate!I should have gone as a pirate!*

Oh and the best part... There was a gun show going on in the room next door. Think of it, curmudgeonly old second-amendmenters thrown together with a bunch of Geekkin on a gloriously beautiful Saturday in May. Clearly, nothing happened, but in my mind I see the nerds and militiamen squaring off, while my people rely on knowledge gleaned from a decade of playing World War 2 games and MMORPGS to try and take down a squad of grizzled Vietnam Vets. The enthusiasm. The slaughter. The getting banned from the Novi Convention Center. That'd be a spectacle worth telling the neighbor's grandkids about.

There are, I think, four interlocking reasons to come to a comic convention. The first and most blatantly stated of the lot is obviously the swag. The comics/games/toys/videos/shirts/swords that the vendors come to pawn and geeks of all shapes and sizes(but mostly of the male mold) come to collect. It is a material celebration of our various obsessive passions. We can pay our $25 for the privilege of collecting nicknacks and ever increase our pile of useless stuff that our moms will have to donate to Goodwill when we move out of our parents' basement (which for most of us will be about three days after we die of a massive cheeseburger, Mountain Dew and pocky induced coronary at the age of fifty when they have to chainsaw our hairy, pimply corpses in half to get us out of the house).

*Oh Mal, Jayne, you've really let yourselves go!*

Honestly, reason one doesn't much appeal to me. I am that special combination of poor and cheap. I don't have a special love of comic books or toys. If I'm going to buy a sword, I want it to be functional damn it, not a decorative piece of over-priced stainless steel to mount on my walls. They go in the same bin as the toys. My collective addiction lends itself to books that I'll probably never read. I have those by the bookcase here in FunkyTown. That about just leaves the shirts. Maybe one day. When I have extra money to spend. On the other hand, I can get all those shirts on the web somewhere... so why bother?

Attraction number two? Meeting the artists of you favorite comics(and others you've never heard of). There are some amazingly talented people that show up to these events. They come to sell their art and interact with their fans. Or if they haven't got many fans yet, to try and establish a base. One way or another, there they all are, sitting and waiting for three days as hundreds of dorks pass them by. The wonderful thing is, these people tend to be friendly and engaging for anyone who approaches their booths. They want to sell art. and I would guess, make a connection and build a community as well. Last year I bought two small prints from RAK , Two dollars worth of art, and he smiled and shook my hand as if I had spent a thousand instead. That's pretty damn cool there. No pretensions, just fans and artists connecting.

*Ghostbusters. San Fransisco branch.*

Three. The Larch. Oh, and Celebrities. Calling these people at times "Celebrities" is definitely stretching the definition of the term a bit. Sure, you get Shatner and Adam West, Tom Savini and Sandahl Bergmen. The various great idols of nerd culture. A handful of well known names(At the bigger conventions). The rest of the stock run the gamut of the semi-well known to the absolutely obscure. Hey, did you want to meet the third Nameless Storm Trooper to die in the famous opening assault scene from Star Wars: A New Hope? Well here's your chance! And for an extra ten dollars you can even get his signature! I am not shitting you! It'll only cost you an hour or two at your crappy minimum wage job to cover it!

Who does that appeal to? A line of ink on a slip of paper? You can't eat it, and the signature doesn't improve any tangible aspect of the product that you're having signed. I like Tom Savini's work (The man looks extraordinarily uncomfortable and a bit bored when dealing with his fans, I don't blame him), but I don't think I want to give him a portrait of Andrew Jackson so that I might have him scribble on my copy of Dawn of the Dead. I can see wanting to meet and chat with an admired star. I personally would to meet the Dead Gentlemen. And then Frolic hand-in-hand through a sunlit meadow with Emily Olson and Don Early. Don't judge me. I admire their work, and like to frolic through sunlit meadows. Why not combine these two interests?

*At one point, the Joker there had a harem of four girls in costume. Batgirl there is proving her metal by actually making eye-contact with a nerd at a comic con. That is courage.*

For me, the fourth and most interesting aspect of Conventions, and the reason that I keep going back, is the fellow attendees. I've mentioned this before, and am probably beating a dead horse on the subject. The same goes for Renn Fests as well. Folk of varying fame are all well and good, but really, so what? They're here because this is a job, a source of income. Mayhaps they enjoyed playing those characters that we so delight in - the actors I think would prefer to lead us through our little fantasies rather than partake of the feast with us. When I was eight, after seeing all their movies, I thought that Sly and Arnie would make the best soldiers in the world, my Dad voiced the opinion that they might rather prefer to pretend being super-soldiers. Dad was right.

Still, there is that connection, between the creator and the admirer that is difficult to break. And the celebs are here, hob-nobbing (from behind a table) with the masses. My friends the Fat Man and Dutch went as Silent Bob and Jay respectively. Their shining moment was when one of the actresses from the movie Clerks pulled them aside to get a picture with the two of them. I got to take that picture for them. Here is a clear example of the bond between guest and attendee.

*Where does Jesus usually fit in to these? Is he here as a zombie hunter? Pope Comics features Jesus Christ Zombie Slayer!*

But the other fans. They pay to be there. A comic con is almost like a rave for my people. Where we turn over our money for a chance to rub shoulders with our fellows. Sadly, around 90% of our fellows are dudes. With geek chicks being rare, and cute geek chicks rarer still. The prize being the cute geek chick in the revealing costume. I'm left wondering though, how many of the Batgirls and Slave Leias are actually fellow fans. And how many are just there as exhibitionists. The optimist in me hums rather loudly and states that most of the girlfolk about are a combination of the two. They're fans, who also like to bait their male counterparts.




*Speaking of Zombie-hunting*

Because this is a half-assed adventure, I will tell of the trip back.

Since I was 14 or so I've wanted to visit Hell Michigan. Cool name huh? It's up there with Climax and Spread Eagle Wisconsin. Maybe almost as epic as lake Titicaca. Who wouldn't want to visit? I was personally curious to see what drove this town to give such a definite name to their little burg. And it was on the way back home. So why not? Dutch and the Fat Man were down. Evil One was a bit skeptical.

What we expected was a sad little podunk in the middle of the country decked out to take advantage of the name. Devils, and painted flames and all that. That was what we got.

*Wait. No Booze in Hell? Satan, you're a dick.*

Sort of.

To call Hell a town would be a gross exaggeration. No. A blatant lie. Village? Hamlet? No. Tourist Trap? Bingo. Hell consists of a souvenir stand/restaurant/convinience store rolled up into one. A bar. An icecream parlor. And a place to play mini-golf.

That is all.

The town doesn't exactly live up to it's name. Though it seems to be rather popular with Bikers - as there was a gang/convention in town. They might have been there for the wedding reception. Yes. There was a wedding reception going on, In Hell, that very day. I have to wonder what the theme of that wedding was to lead to Hell for the reception. All of them reverberate with an original proclamation of 'No' as a central core.

*Now you've seen Hell Michigan. All of it.*

No post office, or school or video rental store. Hell isn't really a failed town trying to hold onto whatever it might have been. It's just a speck out in the middle of nowhere with a cool name. A speck that is trying to market that name for money. It's the American way.

Getting past that, the food was a pleasant surprise. It was damn good, plentiful and inexpensive. After last year, with the creepy waitress at the greasy spoon diner sporting unappealing fare, this was a change for the better. Vastly. The employees seemed to enjoy throwing hell around, have a helluva good day, what the hell, and that sort of thing. What did you expect? It was part of the experience.

Finally, the four of us left Hell behind by paths unknown, leaving Dutch's GPS device to lead the way. I think that thing is possessed by a demon as it drove us directly through the heart of Banjo-Rape country. Along a gravel road and past forgotten farms.

*Ya'll ever seen Deliverance? Me neither. But I've heard enough to know that this is a bad place to be.*