Right before I went to Stargate Con, I stopped at a place in my neighborhood to get my nails filled, because sweetie, celebs don't need to notice outright that I wear acrylic nails, and that much space between enhancement and cuticle is a dead giveaway.
So, after I get outta Magic Nail, and am walking back to my car, some old dude stops me and asks what my t-shirt says.
Now, dig this: I'm wearing my hair up in a touseled blonde faux-hawk, I've got girly accessories and blingy whatnot, pink mirror shades, and I'm wearing low-rise cropped Levi's and a concert tee. Total rockstar.
He nods.
More nodding. "Do you know the pink building?"
Nods and smiles. "I've lived there for quite a while. This is a great neighborhood."
"I'm a professor at the Art Institute."
"Oh, okay. Have a nice day," he says, waving vaguely in my direction. "It was a pleasure to meet you."
*****
Only much later did I realize that Posey had peed in the laundry basket, and had mildly odorized the seat of said Levi's. No one else noticed, but I was painfully aware that my ass smelled like cat piss all night.
And, perhaps unrelatedly, it was decided among a broad spectrum of people that I was the prettiest chick at the convention, which is pretty sad for a gathering that size. I'm used to being cute, and sometimes the cutest, but prettier than all other females present? That's unnatural.
Stargate seems to primarily attract older, overweight women with little to no fashion sense, and often a mullet of some sort. And young, plain teen girls with a encyclopedic knowledge of every freaking thing that has ever had anything to do with the show, ancillary things like books about the show, and even fiction novels based on the show.
Both subsets of womanhood seem to be somewhat rabid, as well.
Believe me, I like the show, but not enough to drop a coupla grand to visit Vancouver for the Con there, and pony up $200 extra to take a tour bus through sets and other places that they've filmed the show.
I got stuck looking at a photo album that belonged to one older woman who was a fine candidate to represent her kind, and I recognized only the Camelot sets, photo-documented in explicitly detailed shots, bit by bit, every cobble stone and wooden joist accounted for.
I wisely tuned out the narrative that went along with the pictures, just nodding regularly and saying, "Uh-huh" or "Mm-hmm" a lot.
So, after I get outta Magic Nail, and am walking back to my car, some old dude stops me and asks what my t-shirt says.
Now, dig this: I'm wearing my hair up in a touseled blonde faux-hawk, I've got girly accessories and blingy whatnot, pink mirror shades, and I'm wearing low-rise cropped Levi's and a concert tee. Total rockstar.
"It says, 'hooray for boobies!"
He nods.
"Most people parse it as either Barbies or babies, but it's just an old concert tee."
More nodding. "Do you know the pink building?"
I point eastward towards the very visible pink building. "Yes, the one right there."
Nods and smiles. "I've lived there for quite a while. This is a great neighborhood."
"Yes, I like it, too. That's why I live in it."
"I'm a professor at the Art Institute."
"Um, that's nice, but there's my car and I am running late."
"Oh, okay. Have a nice day," he says, waving vaguely in my direction. "It was a pleasure to meet you."
"Yeah, thanks." Run away run away.
*****
Only much later did I realize that Posey had peed in the laundry basket, and had mildly odorized the seat of said Levi's. No one else noticed, but I was painfully aware that my ass smelled like cat piss all night.
And, perhaps unrelatedly, it was decided among a broad spectrum of people that I was the prettiest chick at the convention, which is pretty sad for a gathering that size. I'm used to being cute, and sometimes the cutest, but prettier than all other females present? That's unnatural.
Stargate seems to primarily attract older, overweight women with little to no fashion sense, and often a mullet of some sort. And young, plain teen girls with a encyclopedic knowledge of every freaking thing that has ever had anything to do with the show, ancillary things like books about the show, and even fiction novels based on the show.
Both subsets of womanhood seem to be somewhat rabid, as well.
Believe me, I like the show, but not enough to drop a coupla grand to visit Vancouver for the Con there, and pony up $200 extra to take a tour bus through sets and other places that they've filmed the show.
I got stuck looking at a photo album that belonged to one older woman who was a fine candidate to represent her kind, and I recognized only the Camelot sets, photo-documented in explicitly detailed shots, bit by bit, every cobble stone and wooden joist accounted for.
I wisely tuned out the narrative that went along with the pictures, just nodding regularly and saying, "Uh-huh" or "Mm-hmm" a lot.
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