All opinions expressed in this LJ are mine, unless otherwise indicated. They are certainly not those of my employer(s). They are also not the opinions of LiveJournal; I just volunteer here.

thefourthvine is thinking about Major Fannish Events she wishes she'd seen. This is my story.


My high school best friend and I had already seen the re-releases of the original Star Wars trilogy in the theatres, and we'd had a blast, and we'd watched tiny children have lightsabre fights in the aisles before the show, and we'd had our own, and we'd waved hello to the TA from our fencing class.

So we were primed for the new movie. I didn't have a TV then either, so I was pretty well insulated from spoilers. We decided to go all out. Shawn (my then best friend) had just had a hair disaster. I helped him shave off the frizzled remains, then he took spray paint to his dome and I helped with the detailing, and soon he became R2D2. We stopped by my parents' house, and I soon became Leia (white gown, black yarn rats to fill up the crazy enormous buns), and Rocki borrowed my Yoda shirt. (For all I know, he still has it.)

There was a news crew there. First they interviewed the guy in a full Darth Maul costume. (I didn't know who Darth Maul was, from not having been spoiled at all.) They had a few words with Shawn, who was notable for being over six feet and having the top of his head painted like R2D2. I was in the background; I hoped they'd ask who did the painting, but no such luck.

We watched the movie. Unless a movie is absolute shit, I am not much for criticism after I've watched it. I came out utterly high and determined that someday I would have enough hair to replicate some of the effects that Queen Amidala had going on.

I got sucked into the Sith Academy after that. Movie was cheesy? Midichlorians? No problem. Let's write crackfic. Let's introduce Miss Lunatic to slash for the first time (and make her like it). Let's make her wish she didn't live in Alaska. Let's contribute to compulsory "SITH LORDS KICK ASS!!" here and there. Let's give a fangirl her wings and teach her to fly.

(The Bujold List was my nest. Sith Academy was my launchpad.)

Once upon a time when I was in high school, Shawn demonstrated why he shouldn't be left alone with a cordless phone or a microwave.

I wrote this one up for helpful context in metaquotes a while ago.

We were chatting on the phone. I heard the telltale signs of him getting bored. Him bored is dangerous. Him bored while stoned is even more so. He'd already slammed his nose in the door several times -- the first time by accident, the subsequent times to see if it would hurt any less. (It didn't.)

Him: "I wonder what would happen if I put this phone in the microwave."
Me: "Don't."
Microwave door: *slams shut*
Microwave: *beep beep beep HUMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM*
Me: "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, YOU IDIOT?"
Phone: *sizzle crackle*
Me: "STOP IT, YOU IDIOT!!!"
Microwave: *HUMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM*
Phone: *SZZCCHHHTTT POP SCCHCHCHTTHZZT POP POP HSSSST SZZZCTH*
Me: "YOU ARE NOT ACTUALLY DOING THIS!!!!!!!!!"
Phone: *SZT ZZZT HCCCT SZZT SZZT!* *OMINOUS SILENCE*
My phone: "If you'd like to make a call..."
Weird Al: "In Allllllbuquerque!"
Me: "He didn't. He didn't. Oh, god, he did." *facepalm*
My phone: *rings*
Him: *subdued* "That's my third phone today."
Me: ...

brimtoast requested a bedtime story tonight in chat. The Green Plastic Bucket story sounded so innocent, and she wanted to discover the hidden mischief! So!


Once upon a time (in 1996), my then-best-friend That Idiot Shawn went from staying with his mother in Alaska to staying with his father (and stepmother, and three half-brothers) in Colorado.

Shawn was the oldest, at 16. All of his half-brothers were younger, ranging from middle school to elementary school to preschool.

One day, Shawn's father, stepmother, oldest half-brother, and youngest half-brother all went somewhere, leaving Shawn home to keep an eye on his middle half-brother, who had a summer reading assignment of some sort. Shawn's middle half-brother was not all about the reading, but Shawn banished him to the living room until such time as the reading was done.

This left Shawn on the phone with me (I believe in the kitchen). I was having a lovely lazy summer afternoon and was enjoying my talk with him.

"I have a green plastic bucket!" Shawn said. I did not doubt this. He had a good number of things around, and sometimes chose to amuse himself with them. "Listen to this sound it makes!" he said.

I heard a tik tik tik noise. Shawn's voice sounded hollow all of a sudden, also. Echoing!

I was not a dumb girl. I concluded that the bucket was now on his head! I told him of my conclusions! He was surprised that I could hear this! The bucket was, in fact, on his head.

( Oh, Shawn. )

So I dreamed.

Underwater photography -- there was a great big cruise ship docked near the shore, and people were swimming around and I had a camera or something, and there was a flag on the ship with all sorts of flags on it, going from an international one to a national and state one, and below that things like the skirt of Draco Malfoy, and other essential fandom properties.

Said essential fandom properties were the property of D, who began taking them down from the line and stuffing them in a laundry sack (a nice heavy-duty naval laundry sack of canvas with grommets and rope and about human-sized) in preparation to go ashore.

Going ashore evidently meant flinging the laundry sack off the side of the boat with a rope tether, and then going down a rope ladder into the sea (which was nice and warm). In the sea, I could look at the moon. From under water, I could see lights on the moon.

I flagged down someone (I knew them in the dream, and I am sure I knew them in real life somewhere in my past; it may have been my elementary schoolmate Galadriel?) and tried to point out this thing. It was not really pointable, but each time I went underwater it was getting more and more brilliantly lit up, with patterns sort of like a biohazard symbol. However, this may have been just a side effect from the water and my binocular vision. I had a digital camera that I had been using on the foliage at the water's edge (from in the water) but I could not take it underwater. I begged my companion's camera, which was film, and tried to snap the moon from under the water, but it was not showing up so well, and the angle was wrong due to the changing time of day. I was frustrated, but OMG, it was gorgeous, and I wondered what/who was on the moon -- not so much OMG ALIENS or OMG COLONISTS but I DID NOT THINK THAT WE WERE UP THERE YET IN SUCH LARGE NUMBERS?!

The scene shifted, and I was trying to take photographs of plants and such, seemingly-casual shots that were part of a larger session, with a couple and perhaps berries? or were they flowers? In any case, their hands and the plants and their faces and all such lovely artlessly artful moments.

And that shifted into a street corner (near the shore) and this gang headed up by Shawn (the high school best friend, not to be confused with my current best friend) was leading a crew, and I dropped back into the Shawn's-Secretary position I'd held so many years, and we went to a Halloween shop for proper makeup, decorations, and costuming, and somehow the shopkeeper and Shawn decided that they wanted to see me in a blonde wig, blonde like Joni Mitchell, but there were no wigs of that sort, just white and yellow. So I wound up wearing a blue wig (it was a string wig, of fine navy blue string) and it looked awesome on me, almost indistinguishable from my own hair (in the dream) except blue, like my hair was streaked, not like I was wearing a wig.

I'm sure there were other bits after this, but that's all I can remember at this point.

ursamajor picked the following interests of mine to ask about:

poodle! stop humping!, yeeth, Cordelia Vorkosigan, duct tape sword guys, ectogenesis, egyptian fayoumi, Liquid Satan, Malkavian

She mentioned that most* of them sounded as if they were fantasy-related. In actual practice, the links are often tenuous at best.

( Read more... )

Curious about some of my other interests? Ask away! Want to have something to write about? Say the word, and I'll pick a handful of yours for you to post about.

My favorite is chocolate-covered cherries, which are not strictly holiday-specific, but they tend to pop up around Christmas and St. Valentine's Day, and be unavailable the rest of the year.

The particular kind I'm most fond of are the Cella's brand, which are not the rock-bottom cheapest ones, but still pretty cheap all things being equal, and have a little cherry floating in syrup inside a molded chocolate shell.


Once upon a time, sometime in the 1998/1999 winter, I was hanging out with Good Ol' Shawn. We had occasion to wind up at the convenience store on the corner of College and University. They had foil-wrapped chocolate-covered cherries for a quarter apiece! I got two of them, and absent-mindedly tucked them in one of the zippered hand-pockets of my winter jacket. (The teal one, rather than the forest green one, for those familiar with my jackets at the time.)

Later on, perhaps that very same night, we wound up at Shawn's girlfriend's apartment. Everyone was exhausted, and it was really too late, so Shawn and his girlfriend and I all attempted to sleep on the bed. It was a full-size bed, not a king or queen (and thankfully, not a twin). This resulted in me being sort of diagonal near the foot, possibly with someone's legs draped over me. I rolled up my coat and used it as a pillow.

The following morning, I realized the error of my ways: I had managed to squish the remaining chocolate-covered cherry inside the pocket of the coat. The pocket was stuck together, with bits of foil, chocolate, syrup, and cherry forming a gluey mess. For weeks after that, I would tug little bits of foil out of the inside of the jacket pocket.

It was finally washed in the spring, so no physical evidence of my folly remains, but Cella's chocolate-covered cherries will always remind me of that sleepless, awkward night.

1999:
( Heavy angst, and anger. )

2007: (also by me)

I stand strong; I stand alone.

There's this knot inside my soul, behind the wall,
and I know my inner child is screaming and crying,
but I,
I am an adult,
and I stand,
and I stand strong,
and I stand alone.

It would be too easy to double over crying,
but I'm driving, and I can't look away from the road,
and I'll have to drive an hour before I get home. So I stand. I look.
I don't look behind, not really,
just glances back into the rearview,
watching for hazards about to overtake me.

The end of the world doesn't come
in claustrophobic screaming hysterics half in the dark
like the end of the last world did.
This world ended with the sky as witness,
kind and close and clouded
and so impersonal and unfair.

I kneel;
I gather myself to my feet;
I stand tall with my chin up high and refuse to beg.
I stand. I stand.
I stand alone.

I went to go watch M*A*S*H tonight and encountered a resistance. I'm bad about watching movies and things. I'll go out and see movies in the theatres. I'll buy DVDs. I'll watch movies with friends. I just don't sit down and watch a movie by myself.

Tonight I realized what this was.

Back in 1998, during my first (failed) attempt at college, I had a nasty little depressive episode. It was the sort where I was up all night because I couldn't sleep, and then asleep all day because I was up all night, sleeping for nearly twelve hours a day, feeling generally disoriented, and completely unable to recover myself from the nasty little emotional shock that had set it off.

I don't like to dwell on it. The past is always the past, but some of my past is an open book, and some is a closed book. That part of the past is not only closed, but locked as tightly as I can bear to keep it. There are some parts that were good, but the rest -- I describe it as "a black cloud" when I look back on the depressions. It's like walking through ice-fog in the dark, with no streetlamps to make it glow and provide illumination, just a darkness with occasional flashes of illumination. (I could probably have used this book then; I was certainly flailing about ever more wildly in my knowledge that I hurt enough to want to die but I didn't actually want to die die, just wanted the hurting to stop.)

I did have some emergency measures. When I knew I was on the edge of seriously falling apart, I had a temporary measure that would fix me up good as new and get me through the night unless something worse happened. I would take .75 liters of Jolt (I got it in the liter bottles from the little dorm store, and one time I wanted to know exactly how much it did take to get me out of the dangerous frame of mind) to artificially elevate my mood to the point where I could be made to laugh, and apply a comedy. Any comedy. It didn't matter which one, so long as it would make me laugh. Laughing would get me the rest of the way out of danger for the night, and I'd be decently all right. So I'd sit by myself in my room and watch a movie. Company would have been better, but bad company was more dangerous than no company at all.

150 mg of caffeine + 1 comedy = the ability to live until morning.

Needless to say, I don't ever want to go there again. And something small inside me still doesn't feel quite safe watching a movie by myself unless absolutely necessary to save what's left of sanity in order to save our life.

Once upon a time in high school, I had this best friend.

( Brazen stupidity of the genius IQ type involving electrical weaponry, do-it-yourself-ish-ness, and the public school system. )

Once upon a time in high school, I had this best friend. We'd spend hours on the phone, because that's the sort of friends we were. And he'd get himself in alarming trouble, because that's the sort of guy he was.

One day, while we were on the phone, he found himself standing behind the couch (he may have been lounging on the back of the couch? Or something?) with a need to get out.

So he tried sidling out. This did not work, as the couch was pushed up tightly against the wall; the reason he could be where he was standing was because there was a window behind the couch, and that created enough space for him to stand. So he tried pushing the couch.

This was even less successful. As he probably should have already known, but discovered loudly right in my ear, the windowsill behind him housed his mother and stepfather's reasonably impressive collection of potted cacti. Pushing the couch forward meant pushing his bottom backward, and behind him was not open air, but a tasteful selection of succulents with thorns.

Of course, neither of his parents were home to push the couch to let him out. He was stuck.

After I stopped giggling at his expense, I suggested that he fall forward, letting his torso down onto the couch, and his feet would follow, and all would be good. He argued with me a little, and continued in his fruitless attempts to push the couch forward for a bit (spearing himself on the cacti behind every time) but after he got tired of playing pincushion with his butt, he followed my advice and escaped.

So, back in high school, I had this best friend. That Idiot Shawn.

( It always goes downhill after this point. )

Poll #163899 Shawn Stories
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 7

I have heard the "That Idiot Shawn" stories about:

I would like to hear (or hear again) the "That Idiot Shawn" stories about:

Last night at work, votania cheered up a lady who was having a grumpy day by telling her the tale of Oscar the Iguana and That Idiot Shawn.

Shawn was going to his dad's house for the summer, and was bringing his pet iguana Oscar (a very new pet) and didn't want Oscar to be riding down with the luggage, because hello, iguana, cold-blooded, need good climate control.

So he stuck Oscar in an empty duffel bag and decided to carry him on the plane. Like, in his lap or something.

So he went through Security with Oscar in the duffel bag, and told them, you know, to not put it through the X-Ray machine, as he was an iguana, see? The security checkpoint people being much less vigilant in those days, unlike the guards from the youth of Miles who would have disintegrated the iguana on the spot and then sifted through its remains for bombs, bugs, and the like, let Shawn, and the iguana, pass through.

Shawn got on the plane and got settled down, and then the plane was boarded by some people who did not look like they had much of a sense of humor, and they told Shawn that no, his iguana did not belong on the airplane with the passengers. In vain, Shawn argued that the iguana would be very good and would stay inside his bag. The officials said no, that he would have to check Oscar or leave him behind.

Shawn's mother, who fortunately hadn't departed the airport, was called into the negotiations, and wound up taking Oscar home with her for the summer.

So.

My good old high school best friend That Idiot Shawn (now known as Fuzzy) broke my heart once, or twice, or a dozen times. I stuttered for years as a direct result of events that were deliberately caused by him and deliberately shared with me by him.

Finally, though, I have forgiven him.

But not before some very tasty revenge.

It so happened that he was getting married, and I was invited to the wedding. I attended, wearing my most formal outfit (the fact that it was all black was incidental). As his bride walked down the aisle and past me, I tossed off a covert gesture behind the pew.

His little brother noticed, and giggled, and told me that Mrs. Fuzzy had obviously seen it, because of the glare she'd given me. The memory kept me warm for several years.


Fast-forward.

Fuzzy and I are chatting online, and the topic of embarrassing/worst sex stories in the forum he frequents comes up. He invites me to go, take a look, and contribute. I do so. I share my worst sex story, which happens to feature him and his wife, and ends with my lovely gesture of "Fuck You!" at her, just before she took her vows.


Fuzzy was dumbfounded. I have never heard him quite so incoherent before. It was priceless.

Ahh, sweet revenge. Sweet, sweet revenge.

Once upon a time, I had a high school best friend. His current online nickname is Fuzzy Modem, and he hangs out at this spacebattles board a lot.

One day, he and I were on the phone. This happened a lot. He got hungry, and decided to make himself something to eat. Mindful of the past debacle with a can of beans, I made sure that he'd cooked it correctly (open can, put in frying pan).

He walked into the living room with the pan of beans and sat down at the table to eat it.

Somewhere in there, he stood at the door for a long time, calling the dog in. He was barefoot.

He ate until he was full, and then reflected that his feet were cold. He noticed that the substantial leftovers from his lunch were warm, even hot.

The only logical thing to do was, of course, stick his feet in the pan of beans to warm them up. Not surprisingly, it worked.

We chatted for a while. He mentioned how nice and warm the beans were between his toes. He noticed that they were growing cold, and decided it was probably a good time to get his feet out of the beans and go into the kitchen and... shit.

His feet were all covered with beans. He was sitting in the carpeted living room.

He decided to take care of things. He called the dog. When she finally wandered over, sled-dog ears perking at him, he pointed her to his bean-covered feet and ordered her to lick. She gave his feet a few swipes with her tongue, which made him giggle at the tickling, but she found the beans not interesting, and wandered off about her own business.

He eventually crawled into the kitchen, washed his feet off, and retrieved the pan of beans, now with footprints. He seriously considered finishing it off. Disgusted, I hung up on him.

[Edit: "HSBF" is better known as That Idiot Shawn.]

Once upon a time, when I was way the fuck too young and stupid, I had the honor to be a guest at one of my high school best friend's parties, this one to be afterwards known as "the ill-fated orgy." I was a freshman at the University of Alaska Fairbanks, and the year was 1998.

The guests at this party were as follows:

J*, a very sweet girl, the best friend of my college roommate
M*, my college roommate
Poppa Smurf, a guy who was only 18 like most of the rest of us, but looked overage
HSBF, that idiot my high school best friend
C*, HSBF's girlfriend
T*, a friend of J* and C*, very detached from the whole thing
G*, this chick
Tomcat, G*'s fuck of the moment, a very sweet guy
R*, HSBF's best male friend, dating/fucking J*
Mel, the ditzy chick from a few doors down on my floor in the dorms, fired from her job as a student police officer, turned down by the paramedics as a volunteer

...and me.


Everybody showed up at some point or other. There was drinking, laughing, loud music, talking, gossip, smoking weed. I did not participate in that very much, if at all. I can't remember. Poppa Smurf drank some hydrogen peroxide because we'd hidden the booze from him (he was totally plastered and hitting on J* invasively) and got extremely sick. Mel and M* left with him, leaving:

J* and R*;
HSBF and C*;
G* and Tomcat
T*, and me.

Naturally, one would think that in a situation where people were getting naked and stuff like that, that the uncoupled people, seeing as one was male and the other female, would couple up together. Not so. I had really no attraction towards T*, and he had none toward me; we were in perfect agreement on that score. T* left.

The girls in the group, myself included, were by this time very drunk, and we decided to make it a chicks' night out, and piled into the computer room with J*'s massage lotions, and all stripped down and gave each other backrubs, no guys allowed. I did one of those tearful "I'm so glad for the two of you" Drunken True Confessions to C*, saying I was cool with whatever she and HSBF did as long as he was happy. R* leaned on the door and wanted to come in. We said: "No men allowed."

"But what if I cross-dress?" R* wanted to know.

So R* became Roxie, and entered. Tomcat became ... umm, Tonya, I think. HSBF wanted to enter, but refused to take on a female persona, and was barred from entering. He got mad, punched out the door, and went out to his car to sulk. I sent C* after him to cheer him up, which she did quite well.

It eventually turned out that everyone else, all the couples, went into the bedroom and fucked. A fucking orgy. I was left out. Pissed me off to no end, even through the alcohol, and *nothing* disturbs me when I'm drunk. They were in there for what seemed like hours.

I know I'm screwing up the chronology of this, because I know that T* was there while the orgy was happening, and so was Poppa Smurf, because he was standing on his head against the computer room door, talking to the cat, and writing very bad poetry in a notebook I happened to have with me. So the orgy must have happened before Mel and M* got there. Ah, I love chronology.

But I was pissy. I drank a total of five shots of whiskey that night. I'd only ever drunk a bit of rum in soda before, so I was totally drunk. Apparently at some point M* advised me against drinking that fifth shot. I drank it anyway, nothing to take away the burning down my throat.

The night is a blur. I do remember that at one point I walked out to the outhouse (Alaskan plumbing, don't you love it?) totally stark naked, this in the middle of winter, except for my shoes, and found it very funny that I was doing so. I wobbled and stumbled, but didn't fall, not even once.

There was another cute moment with three redheads in one bed -- J*, C*, and G*. My hair wasn't red at this point.

I didn't get laid. I had a very bad time. Poppa Smurf and I didn't talk to each other much after the event, not that we'd talked to each other much before. J* and I were still friends. C* and I.... well, the less said there the better.

yes, this is a very disorganized post. I defy you to remember anything that happened under the same sort of circumstances, given that HSBF was Prime Candidate #1 for marriage, way back when, and he'd even made some comments to that effect in my presence...