I’m in San Diego for the weekend, reporting on panels for the wonderful Comic Book Resources. Check out my BBC panel reviews here and here, and come say hello if you are in SD.

Cozy out.

Hey kids and kidettes, check out my latest article on that fabulous Hollywood blog,  Key PA!

Hey guys, in Rockville at the moment, but if you’re in LA, check out my latest blog for KeyPA.Net!

A new question is sweeping the nation, a new development in the normal list of inquiries asked while making small talk. Being asked by family, co-workers, employers, and people at parties, I find myself having troubles coming up with an answer. The dasterdly query?

“What do you do for fun?”

With that, I’m immediately sucked back to Elementary school, feeling like I did when my teachers would ask a no-brainer and I’d go blank trying to answer. What color is the little red school house? Uh…

“Fun stuff?” I weakly answer. The quentioner is still looking at me. That must not have been the right response. “Nothing!” I try again. The questioner looks at me once more, though in an entierely new way. That is not what they are looking for either.

The problem is, what I consider fun others consider boring. I usually give that standard  answer, “I watch movies and TV,” and we talk about the latest episode of Glee. But the truth is: my favorite pastime in the world is reading books.

And not just any books…encyclopedias.

Encyclopedias! I can’t tell you when this passion began, but it was early on. I blame my mother for giving me an illustrated dictionary when I was four. If it had just been pictures of cows and dishes and aardvarks I’d be fine, but the makers of THIS dictionary opened every alphabetical section with a brief illustrated history of the letter. Looking at the scrawl on the page I’d watch it transform from culture to culture, from runes to Greek, to Latin, to Arabic, to Old English, and finally into recognizable modern English, ending as the letter A. I was fascinated.

“What is she reading?” visitors would ask. “She’s really into it!”

My mother would look over. “B.”

That dictionary opened the floodgates. If the letter A was once a squiggle, what about the people who wrote it that way? What were they like? Tugging the giant blue encyclopedia from the shelf, my father helped me look up the Greeks, and then from there the Trojan War, and then from there the entry on Aesthetics. Soon I was reading it all by myself, jumping from entry to entry as if following links on a web-page (I invented the internet!). As I got older, my need to know didn’t go away but increased; after a hard day, there was nothing more relaxing than sitting down with a glass of milk and the estimated death toll from the first French Revolution.

For some reason my ability to recite every major battle of the Thirty Years War did not make me the most popular girl in school. While my classmates also read the dictionary, it was to look up dirty words.

“Oh my god, it says dam!” they’d shriek, and collapse into giggles.

“You know that’s the one associated with holding water?” I’d say, looking at the entry.

“Look!” someone else would cry. “Butt!”

Soon enough I learned that, though I longed for the complete set of the Encyclopedia Britannica, most girls longed for the complete set of Cabbage Patch Kids. Or those dolls that you filled with water until they peed themselves. I never understood why you’d want a peeing doll. I feel pretty confidant in saying I think whoever came up with the idea was on a much weirder level than my Webster’s-loving 8-year-old self.

Yeah, I will take the OED over Patty Wets Herself any day, thank you.

But I slowly became accustomed to giving the normal response–”What do I like? I like to watch TV and movies.” I kept my love of random information alive, but unmentioned to those who wouldn’t understand. Which, when you’re a weird kid, is generally everybody.

However, the internet and Wikipedia have opened new doors in my obsessive fact-checking fixations. We live in a joyous age where it’s acceptable to spend hours online, pouring over insignificant material and committing it to memory! No longer will anyone have to endure the stares of incomprehension in this new age of iPhone checking and Googling!

“What do you do for fun?” they ask!

“I look up random entries on Wikipedia and then cross-check them in a encyclopedia!” I proclaim!

They stare at me blankly. “You…that’s what you do for fun? You look up stuff in a hardcover encyclopedia?”

“Uh…sorta.”

They roll their eyes. “Why don’t you just Google the answer?” they ask. “That’s what we do.”

And then they are off, talking to others about current events, checking and double-checking dates and facts and definitions on their iPhones while I watch from my corner by the bookshelf, containing one very dusty copy of the Britannica, entries A to CH.s

Remember when I posted about our friends, the spiders? Though I did the humane thing and immediately filled my car with so much raid I could have knocked out a dog (by humane I mean good for me, the human) it appears our ooky brethren are not finished with me.

Only this time, it’s not our friend the spider. It’s our  frenemy the cockroach.

Ah, the cockraoch! Eating our food, living in our bathrooms and fridges, leaving their filthy trails over everything we own like a relative who won’t go home and is impervious to most poisons! Unfortinately, for some reason people now think its ok to like our indestructible foe.

“It’s like you’re Wall-E!” my boyfriend declared, upon watching a roach scurry into a drain.

Remember that adorable scene in Wall-E where we think Wall-E squished his pet roach but then it pops up again unscathed? Imagine that scene now in your kitchen. With an army of the roaches. While you try to make a bagel.

“Hey!” my friend exclaimed as I futilely stomped on the ground. “It’s like that thing from Wall-E!”

While the Wall-E pro-roach propaganda machine may have suckered others in, it didn’t get me. Raid, roach bait, visits from the exterminator–all were utilized. I became the Jigsaw of the Periplaneta americana world, laying trap after trap after trap for them (you know its good writing when you reference “Saw”). And I did research on my own into how you can kill them.

You can’t! The best you can do is spray and hope that the Cockroach Gods are merciful and leave to pester your neighbors. They leave trails like ants, they swarm like bees, and are more impervious to death than a blockbuster action hero.

Oh, and they also used to be GIANT.

There’s a light at the end of the tunnel, though. I know there’s life without roaches because I’ve lived that life, known that dream. I’m talking fumigation with the exterminator now, and I hope those assholes of the Order Blattaria understand that I’m coming for them. And when the day comes that I can put food back in my fridge, when I can eat off countertops, when I can open a drawer without fearing the sight of a scurrying shadow, on that day I will look down upon my foe and they will know:

This is not Wall-E.

Current Mood:  weird

As a girl, I prided myself on my reasoned, logical responses to things deemed icky by the rest of my peers. Lizards, snakes, spiders–especially spiders–fascinated me. I knew from nature programs that they were our friends, eating the bad bugs and vermin we hated and generally avoiding humans at all costs.

“Spiderspiderspiderspiderspider!” the other girls would scream, pointing to the arachnid on our woodpile.

“Ho ho ho,” I’d chortle, perching jauntily next to it. “Don’t you know? Spiders are our friends!”

No, spiders outside did not bother me–nature was a thing to admire and lord over your more squeamish friends. So I was completely prepared when, as I was driving down the freeway, I looked down at the steering wheel to see a giant, giant spider staring back at me.

Ah! I thought to myself. Our friend the spider! Eater of bugs and other vermin we don’t like! Sitting on my steering wheel! Right next to my hand! Logical, rational part of my brain, tell me what I should do in this situation!

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! replied my brain.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” I screamed as I hit the emergency blinker, alternately swerving to exit the highway and staring at my hand where the spider was inching ever closer. “Spiderspiderspiderspiderspider!”

To be fair, this wasn’t some delightful woodpile spider. This was an albino monster, looking basically like this:

So this clearly wasn’t going to end well.

I finally made it to a side road where I parked, jumped in the backseat of my car, and began throwing trash at it in a futile attempt to make it leave or die. All that accomplished was to make it crawl into my A/C vent on one side of the car and exit out the A/C vent on the other side. The one closer to me.

Of course.

After a fun half-hour of watching it crawl into the vent, blasting the hot air to make it come out, miss it entirely with my shoe, and watch it crawl back in, I finally succeeded. Springing forward, the battle cry of “spiderspiderspiderspider” on my lips, I managed to smush it flat with a handful of gas receipts. But just as I was about to throw it into the trash, I stopped. My adversary who looked so mutantly large while menacing my hand, now, flattened like a pancake, looked no larger than a pinprick. It was no threat, just a misplaced creature, our friend whose whole existence did nothing but make mine more pleasant and bug-free. In my panic I had reduced it to the two-dimensional monster image I scorned in my youth; in my panic, I had reduced myself to the two-dimensional role, the icked-out girl, that I thought myself above.

I was quiet as I picked up a friend later that night, deep in thought about the matter. Suddenly, my friend pointed at the windshield.

“Oh, cool!” he said.

“What?” I replied.

“There’s a giant spider on the outside of the glass! I think it crawled out of that air vent there! Man, there’s another one! Isn’t that neat?”

The moral of this story is don’t turn on the A/C in my car, because I’ve sprayed as much raid as possible into the vents and it’ll probably poison you if you turn it on. Also, I need a ride.

I cannot pull a practical joke to save my life. My mind just doesn’t work that way. Not that it’s not devious–its totally devious. Like a bear trap disguised as a sandwich, this mind. And that analogy should tell you all you need to know about my inability to comprehend the level of deviousness needed to pull off an April Fool’s Day prank.

To be fair, there is a measure of reserve involved in planning an April 1st prank, which I also lack. I can’t hit that perfect middle ground where the joke is annoying to the one joked upon, but not physically or emotionally scarring. If asked what we should do to a friend as a prank, my first response will be “shoot him.” When  others tell me they don’t think that is funny or appropriate, I usually fall back on ” then let’s call him Ted for a day” and then give up.

However, over the years I’ve learned to compensate for my disability. Much as a blind person learns to navigate by memorizing every object and landmark in her home and then never leaves her home (this is how the blind do it, right?) I have come up with a list of stock pranks to pull. I am aware of these pranks mainly because they have been pulled on me. So if you want to know what prank I will try today, your options may include:

• Changing the language on your phone
• Moving every object in your room slightly to the left so when you wake up you become disturbingly confused
• Nuggeting.

The last one is my favorite as apparently no one outside of Rockville High School knows what it is. You want me to tell you, but I won’t. That is my ace in the hole. All I’ll say is–OH MY! Look behind you! SOMEONE turned your backpack inside out, placed all your books inside it, then zippered it from the inside, making it impossible to pick up and carry and also making it look like…a chicken nugget.

Bam! Nugget!! HA!!! I’ve got a gun!!! Take that Ted!!!! BAM!!!

APRIL FOOL’S!!!!!!!!!!!!

But seriously, I have a gun. Start dialing 911 now–your phone is in Armenian and it will take a while.

I got really excited when I heard there was a coup to oust the standing President of Madagascar. This is not because I am a fan of coups, or military intervention, or, really, Madagascar (until last week I had thought the island’s population comprised entirely of lemurs). No, what sparked my interest was who the military was going to install.

A 34 year-old DJ.

“DJ PRESIDENT!” I yelled as I walked around the office. “DJ PRESIDENT!” I enthusiastically screamed at friends. “DJ PRESIDENT!” I crowed at perfect strangers, the maniacal drool frothing from my mouth and dropping on the ground to  form the words “DJ President.”

DJ President tickled my fancy the way no political leader or movement has. Young, hip, and armed with mad skillz, I was certain this island nation was on to something wonderful. Our president may be the subject of hipster street art and can make fun of the disabled, but I have no doubt he would be decimated in a one-on-one scratch battle. His street cred has been tacked on by the media, paling in comparison–our Ringo to their Lennon, our Brown to their Sarkozy.

Unfortunately, I did research, AKA read more than just the headline of the BBC article on Madagascar. Apparently DJ President is a horrible man who is destroying the foundation of Madagascar’s democracy, and his rise to power is greatly feared. It was hard to hold enthusiasm after reading comments left by Madagascarians which amounted to “Help, our government is being shut down,” and ” Yes we know he’s a DJ–that doesn’t mean he gets to take away our rights.”

If only DJ President weren’t a force for evil!

Imagine the good he could do, besides make people aware that there were more than lemurs on Madagascar. I see DJ President not as a man but as a movement–a record player in every home, a stereo system in every garage. Mandatory sound experimentation classes, programs devoted to sending other nations the People’s Mix Tapes, wrapped in their homemade Zines. A haven for skinny jeans and headphones, a place where everyone would belong except those who have shitty taste in music. And maybe a man who’d finally rid Madagascar’s of it’s 70% poverty rate!

Unfortunately, such things will never be. I just hope the rest of the world supports Africa in its universal condemnation of his actions–and perhaps this will finally tear the blinders off the UN when it comes to its neglect of humanity’s homeland.

DJ Dictator…to you I dedicate this post.

[SinglePic not found]“Why?” you ask upon reading the title. “Your cat is cute, fluffy, and curls up in laps in a most adorable manner.” Yes, she does all these things and in general is a very good cat. But she has one giant strike against her–she has made me terrifyingly aware of the world of the undead.

Now, I was blissfully ignorant of the fact our reality sat on the precipice of madness until the cat started freaking out at nothing. I thought it was more adorable cuteness, and pointed it out to a friend.

“Well,” he chortled,  ”You know it’s been proven that cats are extra-sensitive, so when they freak they’re actually reacting to things we can’t see or sense!”

“What?” I said. Lightning flashed outside the window. Thunder rolled.

“Yup, they’re sensing some malevolent force we can’t,” my friend confirmed. “Well, time to go now and leave you all alone! Goodnight!” He slams the door behind him.

I look at the cat. The cat looks at me. Then the cat looks at a point right behind me, screams like a human, and runs to cower under the sink.

Ok, I think, everything is ok. My roommate will be home in 20 minutes. Just to make sure, I give her a call. “Liz,” I say calmly, “Do you know, perchance, what time you will be home?”

“What?” she responds. “Josie, I can’t hear you when you’re hysterically whimpering. Speaking of, do you know that cats can sense forces beyond human comprehension?

Reading, I think as I hang up. Reading will take my mind off this. I look at my shelves, where I have the complete works of H.P. Lovecraft open. TV I think, turning it on to the middle of the “Ghost Hunters” marathon I was recording. Internet, I think, and up pops Hulu, frozen in the middle of a grisly murder scene from “The Dresden Files.” 

“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?” I demand to know as the cat runs out screaming again.

In about 20 minutes my roommate walks in. The lights are off, the blinds drawn, the Ouija Board is smashed to pieces, and there’s a candlelit evil eye on the coffee table. “Josie?” Liz asks, peering under my bed.

I slide the cat out fom under the bed. It hisses. I slide it back in.

“Nope,” I say, and reach for the holy water.

Today President Obama announced that the United States and the UK had a “special relationship.”

Affirming their relationship, Obama told reporters not only was it important to him, but it was important to “the American people.” He then went on to say that the relationship will “only get stronger” despite what others countries, neighbors, and their parents may say. Naysayers and the BBC doubt the “relationship” will last, though the US insists it will as it is based on “shared values,” and “a love those narrow-minded individuals will never understand.” Experts revealed the “special relationship” began when the US and UK met at the Avalon. They bonded over looking for a “partnership” founded on “determination” and “dancing.” One month, two days and three trips to Fire Island later,  the US and UK are openly saying the relationship is “special AND strong.”  The Church has refused to comment on the “specialness” of the partnership; the “special relationship” will financially benefit the two, though social security pensions will still be a major issue. 

The US and UK’s “special relationship” is not recognized in several states.