Firstly, the important stuff: How to help Typhoon Haiyan survivors.

NC Comicon last weekend turned out to be a lot of fun!  I thoroughly enjoyed wandering around, browsing the stalls, and checking out all of the amazing costumes.  Everyone was quite friendly, and for a girl who isn’t a massive comic book fan, I ended up purchasing more than anticipated.  Danielle very wisely recommended checking out Cursed Pirate Girl and Mouse Guard, and I adored the artwork.  I discovered a few creations that I’d like to explore further too (Son of SedoniaDeath Elf and Woose, and Shattered with Curve of Horn).  Anne Elisabeth did a neat little write-up of the experience over at her blog, and I put up a public (for now, at least) album on Facebook, including some photos of my costume.

My plan to come up behind everyone dressed as the Doctor and purr, “Hello, sweetie,” in my best River Song voice did not, alas, pan out, due to circumstances beyond my control.  The first Doctor I met was a girl, the second was older than my father, and the third was there with his mother.  I am incapable of doing anything even mildly flirtatious in front of someone’s mother.  The fourth was the father of the third, so, nope.  I did run across one last teenager in a fez who looked like he was probably a home schooler (I can say that since I was one, right?), so I gave it a shot as I walked by.  Three other guys turned around to look immediately, but he didn’t look up until a second later with a deer-in-the-headlights expression, and by then it was just awkward, so I beat a hasty retreat.  I’ll have to work up some more gumption for the Doctor Who Anniversary screening on the 25th and give it another go.

I’m off to the Carolina Renaissance Festival on Sunday, in spite of my car possibly being in its death throes.  So far my strategy of topping off the coolant and hoping for the best before every drive has so far been successful, so I’m feeling moderately confident about my plan.  If you see me by the side of the road next to a fiery Ford inferno, however, do stop by for some roasted marshmallows.  (I’m serious.  They’re in my trunk.)  I took the poor baby into the shop this week, but the price tag ($1200) and time required (2 days) to fix it were such that I had to wait until Monday to let them tear it apart.  Cross your fingers, kids.  I did have a lovely conversation about Ray Bradbury with an older gentleman in the waiting room at AAA, though, so the day wasn’t a total wash.

Fascinating:

Hilarity:

Geekery:

Music:

Books: I read Goddess Tithe, a novella by my friend Anne Elisabeth, in a couple quick gulps.  Maritime fantasy is pretty much guaranteed to make me happy, and this little fellow was no exception.  The novella covers an untold chapter in AE’s second book, Veiled Rose, so if you like what you read here, check out the rest of the series.

I was reading Let’s Kill Constance by Ray Bradbury in the AAA office, which is what sparked the conversation with the other poor car-less soul.  He hadn’t heard of this one, and I only recently did myself.  It’s the third in a loose detective story trilogy even more loosely based on Bradbury’s experiences working as a writer at a film story.  Even bad Bradbury is usually pretty good, but this trilogy drives me a little nuts.  Behold, to illustrate, here is an excerpt of an old man talking about the title character:

“Here are six different address in twelve different summers.  Maybe she drowned in deep grass.  Years are a great hiding place.  God hides  you.  Duck!  What’s my name?!”

He did a flip-flop cartwheel across the room.  I heard his old bones scream.

“Ta-ta!” He grinned in pain.

“Mr. Metaphor!”

“You got it!” He dropped cold.

I leaned over him, terrified.  He popped one eye wide.

“That was a close one.  Prop me up.”

It does not make any more sense in context, I assure you.  Did he have a heart attack?  Is he just a crazy old man?  Who knows!  There are the usual excellent Bradburian turns of phrase and the occasional flash of insight, but the rest is just complete pandemonium.  I have vague ideas about what happened, but I still don’t know how much of it was real.  It wouldn’t greatly surprise me to hear that Bradbury wrote this trilogy while under the influence of something or other, possibly drunk on his own creativity.

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