Yeah. That goober there in the picture with the chibi eyes and the face of a Muppet. The one and only Alethea Madeleine Kontis, a.k.a Princess Alethea. Moi. Yes, Alethea is my real, mom-and-dad given name. The Princess title was inevitable...like a freight train down the track, it was simply a long time coming. Contrary to popular belief, I never wanted to be a princess growing up. I wanted to be an actress and a writer...both of whom were free to dress like a gypsy and run around the yard speaking in a British accent.
Mostly I blame my current Princesshood on Jill Conner Browne who, during a visit to Ingram in March of 2007, bestowed upon me a Big Ass Tiara and proclaimed me Princess of Ingram. When I signed up for LJ they told me I couldn't use my own name as someone had already syndicated it, so I had to come up with something else. BAM. At my best friend Devin's wedding a year later, I made up nametags for Devin's sister, my sister, and myself, declaring that we were Princess Megan, Princess Soteria, and Princess Alethea. I left it stuck on my laptop for a very long time. When I was asked to come up with a title for my review column at Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show, what name could have been better than Princess Alethea's Magical Elixir? Similarly, when the sideshow idea for Dragon*Con sprang to life like Athena from my cranium...well, you see where this insanity has led.
Type in www.princessalethea.com. Yeah, I went there. Figured if I was gonna do it, I was gonna own it. I took physics -- that freight train has a lot more inertia than I do, and it would be futile to stop it. A lot less fun, too.
Ultimately, I've found it's easier for people to call me "Princess" than remember how to pronounce Uh-LEE-thee-uh, and I'm totally okay with that. If we only see each other at the odd convention, you really shouldn't have to work that hard. We're there to have fun, not embarrass each other.
Now, according to my magic mirror (which I sometimes refer to as "Google Alert"), there are two other Princess Aletheas on these here intarwebs. One is a Princess in the SCA (Alethea Eastriding, Crown Princess and one-time Queen of the East), and the other is a fan fiction writer. I should not be confused with either of these women -- who I'm sure are very much fabulous in their own special ways.
But let's be clear -- like it says up there at the top -- all the ways about here belong to me.
Also, I'm in the thick of novel revisions/rewrites. Your regularly scheduled blog will return...um...yeah. And it's not like I'm not constantly on Twitter or anything. I'm still alive and kicking. And beautiful. And caught in a storm...
Meeting Paul McGillion
(or: Earth to Atlantis; come in Atlantis)
I mentioned earlier that due to my busy schedule I didn’t have many celebrity sightings this year – celebrity, of course, being someone of esteem that I don’t already have in my phone or on my Christmas card list. The two folks I caught a glimpse of who qualified were Anthony Daniels (C3PO from Star Wars) and Paul McGillion (from Stargate: Atlantis).
Now, there’s a whole story that revolves around the crew of Stargate: Atlantis, a story I promise to tell on the day I meet Jason Momoa and not before. Suffice it to say that it culminated in Janet’s and my hard & fast goal to introduce ourselves to every celebrity within arm’s length, no matter how intimidated, scared, or fangirl we might be.
So there we were in the Green Room. It was late. I was getting punchy. Everyone else was well on their way to being several sheets into the wind. Carl--the Green Room’s very tall bouncer whose job it is to bellow “Last call!” to no objections—offered me some high-octane vanilla cognac from his private flask. Not sure what Mike Lee was drinking, but he was loving the world and tipping well, so it must have been good...but not so good he wasn’t jealous of Carl’s favoritism toward women in low-cut dresses.
I had befriended a fabulous artist named Marrus (pictured right), whose friend explained how creeped out he was that I looked just like Marrus twenty years ago...and still looked quite a bit like her now, plus a few pounds and inches, and minus the frosted hair. We laughed and joked and carried on and yelled plans for the future in each other’s ears. See, once it gets packed and the evening wears on, the Green Room isn’t so much a haven as it is a really crowded bar with great snacks and free drinks. At first you only have to talk above the background music, the beer pong game, and the masquerade...later you have to yell above all the other people trying to be heard above all those other things too.
I followed Mike to the bar the first time as an excuse to walk by Paul McGillion. After like the sixth or seventh time, as folks were starting to head to other parties in anticipation of getting kicked out, I hooked Mike’s arm and dragged him slowly toward the door. I swear he said goodbye to everyone—which included bestowing a giant hug on Paul McGillion. Now, I had no idea Mike knew Paul. For all I know he probably doesn’t. But I stood there and smiled, and courteously after Mike said goodbye, Paul turned to me. And this is what happened.
Lee: (sticks out her hand & shouts) I’m Alethea Kontis! It’s nice to meet you!
Paul: (cups his ear) What!?
Lee: (leans in) ALETHEA KONTIS!
Paul: (smiles) Thank you! Thank you very much!
I tried to say something else just as he tried to say something else, and we both leaned in to scream it again in each other’s ears only to stand there in awkward silence. Paul then kissed me on both cheeks and said, “Have a good night!” Embarrassed, and feeling like I had just had a conversation with someone via tin can and string, I dragged Mike out the door after Janet, Leanna, and Chris.
WHAT had just happened? I touched my cheek. Paul McGillion had kissed me. Does it matter what happened?
The next day I stopped by the Sherrilyn Kenyon booth to tell my story to Eddie and Erin. They were just as confused as I was abou8t what had transpired. “What exactly did you say again?” Eddie asked.
“I just introduced myself,” I said, “and he said ‘Thank you.’”
“What exactly did you say?” said Eddie.
“I’m Alethea Kontis,” I said slowly, enunciating every syllable. There was a pause, and then we all started laughing. My cheeks flushed all over again. “He thought I was saying, ‘I love you,’ didn’t he?”
“That, and he probably thought you were very drunk,” said Erin.
I sighed. Not exactly that ‘meeting of soul mates’ moment that everyone wishes to have when introducing themselves to celebrities they admire. Then again—what is it I say?—some things are meant to be, and some things are meant to be great stories.
The next time we meet, I have a feeling Paul will get a kick out of this one.
Assimilating the Twitterverse
Twitter existed last Labor Day weekend, but it was about as prevalent then as the iPhone. Now that most of the appleminded have wised up and we're all jacked in, the Twitterverse was alive and well in the fourth dimension. I tagged all my own tweets with the #dragoncon hashtag, and in the wee insomniac hours before my roommates rose from the dead, I would click on #dragoncon to see what everyone else was saying and doing.
What parties had just ended? What concerts were going on tonight? What cool costumes were floating around? What great panels had I missed? How many people had already stopped at Starbucks and were sitting in the Shatner/Nimoy line? What time were the Thriller dance rehearsals? How much was it to get Patrick Stewart's autograph? Getting to experience the convention through so may other people's eyes WHILE CURRENTLY EXPERIENCING IT MYSELF was a bit mind-blowing. And excessively cool.
Before I knew it, I was responding to the tweets of perfect strangers. One girl mentioned that she was dressing up as Rose from the 60's episode -- I asked her if she'd worn the same thing to the parade yesterday because I'd noticed that costume. Turns out...it was her! I complimented her on the pink dress, and we commiserated about how we don't get to watch the parade anymore now that we're in it. One guy boasted about being part of the Crazy 88s that poured down the escalator during the sold-out Steampunk Ball and entertained everyone who couldn't get in. I had ordered Kit to take a picture of the group -- they looked spectacular, and I told my new friend Will so. He invited me to get in the picture next year, and I took him up on the offer.
The thing was, these weren't perfect strangers. At any other convention, these would probably have been the folks I found myself hanging out in the lobby with until 2am. Thanks to Twitter, I got to spend my free time seeing the convention through their eyes. I got to make friends with people I might have bumped into many times over the last thirteen years--people who might have been across town...or in the very next room.
We live in an age where people are almost afraid to walk down the street and meet their neighbors...but there are people out there--kind, like-minded people--just waiting to be met. Despite the alien disguises we might don, we're all human. And, as Twitter only further proves, at Dragon*Con, we're family.
I was thinking about it the other day -- I can't actually remember a time when I didn't know how to read. I knew the alphabet at eighteen months. At three, I was reading the TV Guide. Mom got me into Kindergarten at four, where a teacher's assistant told my father, "Alethea can spell words I don't even know." By the time I was five I was reading myself sick. There's photographic evidence. My library card was smoking. I never checked out less than 20 books every two weeks (20 was the limit) -- I started at the Juvenile section of the Richland County Public Library and worked my way through. My parents went to almost every single Friends of the Library book sale they could find...in every town we ever visited.
So, yeah. I read a lot. I read some really good books that are still around and some really obscure books you might never have heard of that are long out of print. Every time I think of one of these books I don't have, I send it to my mother to add to her list. Every holiday I receive a blast from the past, as my mother pieces together the favorite library of my childhood. Some books, the cherished ones, I've kept from way back when.
So what am I going to do with all these books?
Well, I've decided to start a new section on this blog called BOOKS ON THE BED (an homage to that 5-year-old with one serious addiction). I hope to remind you of some old books and possibly introduce you to some gems you've never heard of to keep an eye out for at your next Friends of the Library book sale. If you have kids, they'll thank you. If you are still a kid like me...you're welcome.
Title: They Call me Boober Fraggle
Author: Michaela Muntean
Pub date: 1983
Status: Out of Print
Boober was always my favorite. He was the Eeyore of Fraggle Rock, always worrying about this thing or that. In this little hardcover given to me in 1984 and inscribed by my grandmother, Boober worries about what exactly makes him special. All of his friends have something special: Gobo is adventurous, Wembley is happy and easygoing (and essentially Wash from Firefly), Mokey is the poet, and Red is the life of the party. But what--other than socks and laundry--is Boober good for?
I have a special place in my heart for books that force kids to do a little soul searching. What exactly is it that makes YOU unique? Because you are, you know. Unique and special and awesome. Just like Boober.
[Edit: Apparently, I'm not the only one who's realized this. But it's Wembley pictured here, not Boober.]
I about lost my Zen this morning.
I wrote a whole big post about it and just deleted it because it was rambly and kind of pointless. I don't like to whine. But I do like to share with my friends amusing tidbits of information...like when my GP, after realizing I had a handle on the whole migraine situation, asked me if my current vision problems were "something I could live with." Yes. She really did.
It was one of those moments where I realize the stupidity of the world and just lean back in my chair and let it whiz by. Only it didn't whiz by. It hung around.
"Okay," said the doctor. "Well, I'll get the nurse in here to take your temperature since you said you had a fever last week, and I'll refer you to an opthamologist."
I grit my teeth. I'd said I had a fever two months ago, when I had food poisoning. I had a temperature of 102 and was effectively blind for a whole day. It was part of the reason I was there. I don't have a fever now. Know how I know? Because I can see you. But whatever. Take my temperature. Fine. And while you're at it...
"Is someone going to take some blood?" I asked before she got all the way out the door. There was a banana burning a hole in my purse, and the thought of it was burning a hole in my stomach. "I was told to fast this morning so you could take a blood sugar test."
"Why would we do that?" she asked.
Mmm-hmm.
I told Gail Vinett I liked seeing this doctor because everybody there knows who I am. "You want people to know who you are at church," she said. "You want your doctor to be smart."
Guess I'll be finding a new GP.
For me, 2008 was The Year of Getting Better. (Like Tomo would say: Bad Breakup was bad.) I took the first six months off to wallow in self-pity and nurse my wounded pride. By Mo*Con, I was ready to come back into the world and my friends welcomed me with open arms. I spent the rest of the year back in the seat of the Incredible Whirlwind...and true to the form of that Whirly Girl of Beauty & Dynamite, I overdid it. After traveling and writing and editing myself into almost a week of pain and torture and sleepless nights, I caved and made my very first physical therapy appointment. The therapist's office was 5 minutes from work -- just past the Starbucks and across the street, beside the new Stonecrest hospital. The therapist was a lovely, soft spoken gentleman with a new baby (to whom, of course, I signed a copy of AlphaOops). This was a new experience for me: spending an hour being physically touched by a nice man whose sole purpose was the improvement of my well-being, without any conditions or expectations. When the hour was over, I thanked him, put my silver-Sharpie-decorated wrist brace back on, made an appointment for the following week, and left the office.
I made it to the elevator before the tears came. Then I sat in my car and openly sobbed for a good five minutes.
I've heard that PT can affect people this way -- I just never understood why until then. And like hell I was going to go straight back to the office looking like I'd been on the receiving end of a thorough pepper spraying. I had to pass back by the Starbucks, didn't I? Perfect. This seemed exactly the sort of problem that might best be solved with a healthy dose of whipped cream.
I love the Starbucks by work. The staff there is nice without being overly pretentious. Olivia, who used to work down at the Espresso Joe's moved up to work there. She's a sweetie. I usually go inside to soak in the good juju. This time, it was all I could do to take off my sunglasses as I pulled around the drive-thru after ordering my big fat frappuccino. (I feel rude wearing sunglasses at the drive-thru. Not sure why.)
When that window opened, it was like someone had pulled back the curtains and let in the sunshine. Her name was Hannah. The best way I can describe it is "kindred spirit at first sight." I felt like I had just run into an old best friend, only I'd never met this smiling young woman before in my life. She asked me how I was. I said "Crappy." She saw my brace and asked what happened. "Too much writing," I told her. I explained about my double-life. She told me her favorite book was The Blue Castle by L.M. Montgomery. As much as I love Anne of Green Gables, I really need to read that one. I admitted as much.
We talked about books and relationships (I congratulated her on her own recent Bad Breakup) and shoes and ships and sealing wax and the price of tea in China. Thank god nobody was behind me...though what felt like hours was in fact all the time it took to make a grande caramel frappucino. I reluctantly paid and drove away, smiling like I hadn't smiled since Indianapolis, like I knew I'd be able to smile again someday. I guess that day was someday.
A couple weeks later, I stopped in to give Hannah a copy of AlphaOops. She was over the moon about it. Really, it was the least I could do. How do you repay someone for changing your outlook so completely? Unfortunately, Hannah worked the day shift. As many times as I frequented the Sam Ridley Starbucks, she was never there. I figured she'd moved on, moved away, or that some enterprising entrepreneur had snapped her up and was paying her millions of dollars a year for the use of that edgy, sunshiny magic. But I still looked every time.
Wednesday, on the way back from lunch, Yolanda asked Patty to stop by the Starbucks. We swung through the drive-thru. Thanks to being spoiled by Dunkin Donuts in Rhode Island during Necon last weekend, I ordered an iced coffee. When the window opened and the barrista appeared, the only thing I could see from the passenger's seat was HANNAH written in black Sharpie across her green apron. I squealed just like the inner me squealed when I met Neil Gaiman. And so did she.
Hannah's still there, and she still works the day shifts. But as it turns out, she'll be performing at an open mic night at the Starbucks in Murfreesboro (S. Rutherford Blvd, across from the Wal-Mart) tonight somewhere between 7 and 10pm. I'm super excited about seeing her. Patty's going to come and drag her son along. If you're in the area, I hope you'll join us!
And if you happen to stop by the Sam Ridley Starbucks in the morning, be sure to tell her I said hi.
I barely slept the night before my first 5K...you know how it is. I was up at 3am and 4am, worried that I'd sleep through my 5am alarm -- especially since I was in the middle of a writing retreat at Sherrilyn Kenyon's cabin (which was closer to the race than my house). For all that I had prepared I had forgotten both the shirt I had planned to wear and my hair sticks (notice I have one hair stick and one Papermate pen) and the chain for wearing my car key around my neck (thank heavens for sports bars), but I remembered my shoes and my iPod, and that was the important part. I was crazy early and got a good parking spot, found the bathroom, checked out the YMCA, and walked in circles around the parking lot to warm up while I waited for everybody to show. All the Ingram folks were to meet at the big sign at 6:30 (the race started at 7:00). Kevin found me first, so we hung out at the sign and chatted as Sam and Alison, Robin & Amy and their husbands, and Ben trickled in.
I kept doing stupid stretches to a.) look like a big shot and b.) keep myself from fidgeting and c.) because I probably needed it. So I'm folded in half touching my toes by the sign, and I notice that there's quite a bit of clover interspersed with the grass. Back In The Vermont Days, I used to spend hours in the field across the street from our house searching for four-leaf clovers. "Wouldn't it be funny," I thought, "if I found a four-leaf clover right now?" And then I did. Within like 30 seconds. I'm not kidding. It's pinned to the top left corner of my number in that picture. I pressed it when I got back to the cabin. Are your surprised? Me neither.
I took a friend's advice and started the race way in the back, so I wouldn't be run over by the Serious Athletes. (Instead I got run over by ladies with baby carriages.) So I didn't cross the START line the minute the gun went off, but I had a nifty chip on my shoe that would mark my time from the point that I did, which was cool.
My only goal was 45:00. I figured it would be a miracle if I finished that fast. For the last half of the race I think I joggled my iPod between the Beach Boys' "Surfin' USA" and "Let's Start a Riot" by 3 Doors Down. The former was my running song; the latter was my walking song. I just kept at it, back and forth. I skipped the water when it was offered (it was really a beautiful day and not nearly as hot as it should have been), and it was nice to be cheered on by perfect strangers. Kevin was waiting for me at the FINISH line with a bottle of water and a smile. The time on the big clock said 46:09. I figured I was maybe a minute back at the START line...I could maybe pull off beating 45 minutes. So when the times were posted and it said 43:53 by my name, I had to read it three times before it sunk in. WOOHOO!!!
I was the slowest person on my team and at the bottom of the list in my age group, but I totally don't care. I did something I never thought I'd do, and I had a great time. Even better -- I'm totally looking forward to the Christie Cookie 5K in September. I can't wait to kick my own butt.
My first 5K is this Saturday. Wish me luck!
Feliz Cuatro de Julio!
Stephanie & Lee -- Ingram's Angels
And this one:
Beau Ordoyne is not your lover.
Saw this on the way to work this morning. I still want to ride in a hot-air balloon someday.
My BFF Casey recently tagged me on a Facebook meme, listing her "15 most influential books." I was intrigued. Bands get asked who their influences are all the time. What about authors? Think for a minute...which books were your most influential books? And I don't just mean ones that you enjoyed, but ones that resonated with you so deeply that you remember them--you still have them on your shelves and can probably quote them--to this day. My list started with eight and almost immediately expanded to well over fifteen. I'm pretty satisfied at twenty-one, though. Consider yourself tagged -- which are your most influential books, and why?
( MY LJ peeps can find the list behind this cut. )
~Anne of Green Gables, by L.M. Montgomery
Blush and Bashful, a.k.a "Pink & Pink"
Sunday, May 31, 2009
My feet were killing me. I lost a ridiculous amount of sleep because my left ankle in particular kept waking me up. Mary had fixed me a cold, Epsom salt foot bath when we'd gotten home from dinner with Ellen and Esther, but instead of dumping it out I had left it by the bedside. I soaked my feet when I woke up at 3am, and then again at 7am. I needed to make a decision -- sneakers with arch and ankle support...or the fancy dress and cute shoes I had planned on? I was still doing business -- Brooke and Tim at Dorchester had invited me to brunch that day. I know they love me no matter what I'm wearing...but if I was going to show up at the convention, I needed to Own It. I had packed the dress and the shoes. I could carry my sneakers in a tote in case of dire emergency. I could do this. I could hack it.
I walked as little of the floor as I could, saying my goodbyes...but I didn't last very long. Finally I splurged on a seven-dollar frappuccino and sat down at the large tables by the door. I texted Tim to confess my surrender, in case they wanted to head out early. Even sitting still I managed to run into a friend who plopped down beside me and helped me pass the time. Brooke and Tim breezed up and I introduced them. Tim promised me a cab to Times Square. I love that man. Brooke sort of winced slightly, and I braced myself for her news.
"I hope you don't mind...we've invited someone along to brunch."
I smiled in that oh sh*t, stay beautiful way I've mastered.
"Remember that author we were talking about for a Genre Chicks interview? Leanna Renee Hieber? I sold you her book The Strangely Beutiful Tale of Miss Percy Parker." I did remember. I really love that title. "I didn't think you'd mind -- you'll totally love her. She's just like you."
I'm not sure about you, but I hear this sort of thing a lot. Sometimes it turns out to be true. Sometimes it doesn't. Brooke knows me pretty darn well, so I can trust her judgment. But she's also a pretty darn good saleswoman, which left wiggle room for doubt. Either way, there was no way I was changing into those sneakers any time soon. I was walking back into the windy NYC spring day with my silky Marilyn Monroe handkerchief skirt, and I was going to remain "on" for a few more hours. I could hack it. Besides. This Leanna chick could turn out to be cool.
Three-quarters of the way into one of the most amazing brunches of all time, Leanna and I had made it through Goth-wear, Harry Potter, our mutual affection for Alan Rickman and Zachary Quinto, some OMG DOCTOR WHO! fangirl squeeing over David Tennant, comic books, and the Nick Cave anthology. We even exchanged websites for quality bookmark printing. Sometime in the middle of dissecting Star Trek 2009 (which we'd both seen twice), we started finishing each other's sentences. There weren't a whole lot of breaths taken, unless we were stuffing our faces with the delicious offerings from Ruby Foo's. Tim and Brooke spent most of the brunch watching our rapid-fire discourse with fascination.
Tim leaned in to Brooke. "I think maybe we did a little too well."
We ordered dessert, despite being stuffed, because hello, it's dessert. Brooke and I opted to share some kind of rhubarb crumble, Tim got a big fat chocolate cake (Tim doesn't like to share), and Leanna went with the pineapple sorbet. So when the waiter brought a huge slice of Red Velvet cake to the table, we all looked a little confused. He apologized, and then brought the correct desserts. After we'd been served, he brought the slice of Red Velvet back over.
"My mistake," he said. "Since it's already been plated, you're welcome to it." He slid it onto the table between me and Brooke.
"Go on, then," Leanna drawled. "Pass me some of that bleeding armadillo groom's cake."
From Doctor Who to Steel Magnolias in under 10 seconds, and we never missed a beat. That's when I knew...it was true love.
****************************************
Leanna's website: click here.
Follow Leanna on Twitter: click here.
Preorder The Strangely Beautiful Take of Miss Percy Parker: click here
Check out the book's trailer:
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The Friendly Skies
Monday June 1, 2009
It's been said -- and I've mentioned it before myself -- that "the point of the journey is not to arrive." Well...that's crap, really, isn't it? Of course the point of the journey is your destination, or there wouldn't have been a journey in the first place. Arrival is simply the period at the end of the sentence. But if all you're concentrating on is the punctuation, you've definitely missed something.
While in Charleston with my sister over Memorial Day weekend, Sami and I did a spot of shopping -- just enough to make it worth our while but not completely nauseous (a distaste for so-called "retail therapy" is genetic, apparently). See...now that I'm brazen enough to slap pictures of myself all over the internet, I feel pressured to constantly add to my wardrobe to prevent all of you from suffering from the crazy delusion that I'm a Smurfette with only one nice dress. So I bought some fun things--a few you'll see in the BEA pics, a couple you'll see during Hypericon, and one I've saved for when I get nominated for an Oscar.
I also purchased what quickly became my new favorite shirt: a brown babydoll tee that reads: "faith hope love" in gold across the chest. (This has a point, I promise. It's not just 3000 words about clothes. Bear with me.) This shirt cried out to me, appealing to my inner six-year-old, the one who used to lock herself in the bathroom with a tape recorder and give inspirational speeches that begged everyone in the world to love each other, be happy, and "ho, mo, and grow" (I still haven't decided what "ho, mo, and grow" means, but it was important enough for me to repeat. A lot).
While at BEA, I picked up a button that said "HAPPY" and wore it on my badge until I lost it. Some people wear their heart on their sleeves; I suppose I have a tendency to wear my feelings on my chest.
As those of you who follow my FB/Twitter already know, I opted for the pretty dress/cute shoes every day of BEA weekend -- and I'm currently wearing the band-aids to prove it. By the time Monday rolled around, I was overjoyed to slide into my crumpled jeans and that soft brown t-shirt. (I am now compelled to find a button that says "OVERJOYED.") Mary and I went for a walk around the Upper West Side, stopped for breakfast, and dropped far too much cash at Bank Street Books. (One of my favorite children's authors is Arnold Lobel. Not only did Bank Street have some of the Frog and Toad books in hardcover, they had Frog and Toad in PLUSH. How was I supposed to pass that up? Exactly.)
Mary's done her share of traveling, so she knew right where and when I needed to catch the M60 bus back to Laguardia in time to check myself in and get settled. My suitcase full of books managed to squeak by just under the weight limit (yes!) and there was zero line at security, so I had plenty of time to sit back and relax before flying back to Nashville (via Charlotte again). I wandered over and bought a Snapple and some dark chocolate with almonds, found a comfy spot in front of the window, and cracked open Frog and Toad Are Friends.
Okay, yeah. I suppose any thirtysomething girl with braided pigtails and a cute hat sitting crosslegged at the end of a row of chairs eating chocolate and giggling into a Caldecott Honor book is just asking to be approached. When some guy tapped me on the shoulder, I turned and smiled at him...mostly because he had had the courtesy to let me finish reading my book before he interrupted me.
"Hi, sorry," he said. "This may sound a little strange but...well, I noticed your shirt....and it looks like you enjoy books, and reading..."
( (Okay....this essay's getting a bit long -- but I promise, it's totally worth it. For LJ folks, the rest is behind the cut.) )
In the spirit of "Keep Moving Forward", I bring you this classic tidbit from Aztec Camera (thank you, Hugh).
( My Bio, Behind the Cut )
You can get Zebra, Croc, Pig, and Rat for only about $6 apiece, and shipping's pretty decent...especially if you're getting all four, like me. And Tracy. And Jenny.
Come on. How can you resist that face?
One of my favorite strips (aka: Why Lee is Going To Hell):
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