Date Archives March 2010

God, schmod, I want my monkey man!



I spent Thursday morning lounging around and reading Geek Love, a book I’d unsuccessfully tried to mooch on BookMooch for going on three months (I honestly don’t know why I keep trying, every experience I’ve had with that site makes me loathe it and humanity more) and eventually broke down and purchased after bringing terror down on a Barnes & Noble bathroom one afternoon. Around noon, when my camera battery was fully charged, I walked the three miles to Balboa Park to see what I could see.

The first area that I wandered around was the artists’ gallery, where visitors can observe craftspeople at work, purchase their work, and occasionally also take classes in the trade. I didn’t see many artists at work, and the area was mostly quiet save for the classical guitarist sitting in the middle of the venue.


After I had seen what there was to see in the artists’ gallery, I walked to the cactus and rose garden areas of the park. I actually expected to prefer the rose gardens, but was struck by the variety of cactus species and the way they were arranged; the cacti were in a more natural arrangement which gave the area a power that the bricked-off roses did not have. Equally amazing was how quickly the power and beauty of the area was sapped when some douchebag decided to bring a boombox and blast Bon Jovi. Go ride your steel horse into traffic, cowboy.

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I was really saddened and disappointed to see that people had taken it upon themselves to carve their names into the cacti, to rip up the dedication plates on the benches in the rose pavillion and to tag the hell out of the benches and pavillion itself. What did they get out of it, besides ruining something nice for other people? When I mentioned this to my dad later, he said that one of his recurring fantasies is to just appear out of nowhere with a baseball bat when people like this are tagging, break their legs, and disappear into the night; a different sort of batman. I am pretty much my father’s daughter.

I wandered around the park proper for a while, people-watching. The botanical gardens were closed, which was a little disappointing, as I’ve enjoyed that area in the past.

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After a time, I went into the Timken Museum of Art, and while I shouldn’t complain about a free museum, I’m going to do so regardless. The staff loomed unpleasantly at every room entrance, and it’s hard to focus on art when you can feel eyeballs boring holes into your back. What’s worse, though, and any decent curator should know this, is that very reflective paintings were displayed high on the walls near the light source, rendering them impossible to see. What, exactly, is the point of having a museum where you cannot actually see the works of art?

After the disappointment of the Timken, I washed the taste out of my mouth with one of the pay museums–the Museum of Man, which was currently running three exhibits: one on ancient South American Indian civilizations, one on the evolution of man, and one on the Egyptians and mummification, all of which are right up my alley.


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This is Gigantopithecus, the largest known primate. No, they did not have a stuffed Bigfoot inside the museum.

Here they showed a series of related primates:




Here I just wanted to take a picture of some caveman wang:




Not all robot feet look like that. This display is discriminatory against robots, I feel. Also, my feet are much daintier than any of those.

Then I got to play dig site, which didn’t really have any relevance to anything else in the museum, but what the hell:


After I’d finished with the Museum of Man, it was just about time to walk back and meet my dad for dinner. We ended up going to El Indio, which is one of my favorite Mexican places ever even though I get the totally gringo white trash trailer park of taste California burrito (carne asada, cheese, and french fries all wrapped in a flour tortilla. Yeah, you read that correctly.) and a mysterious beverage called ‘BANG!’.


After dinner, we walked down the street and bought some gelato, and I brought up the idea of going to school for makeup special effects. I did not expect my dad to be supportive of the idea at ALL as he’s always discouraged me when I looked at ‘arty’ careers, so I was floored when he said he thought that sort of career would be a perfect fit for me and that I should definitely go for it. So far I’m still looking at schools, but it’s nice to feel like I’ve got a path in front of me and that I’m not in it alone.

My Thoughts On Avatar

Obviously, I’m late to the party on this, but when has timeliness or lack thereof ever stopped me from writing a blog post before?

Given that the movie was such a phenomeon, and certain people kept riding my case about not having seen it yet, and stories started cropping up about people being severely depressed after seeing the movie because they were longing to visit Pandora, and then there’s the epic crazy of people who believe they were Na’vi in a past life, I became intrigued and decided I ought to at least see the movie and discover firsthand what all of the fuss was about.

I also decided to hedge my bets by sucking down a couple martinis beforehand.

…I didn’t drink enough. I hated this movie. Loathed it. Involuntarily rolled my eyes, huffed, and squirmed in my seat like a three-year-old for at least the last hour and a half.

I don’t even begin to be qualified to talk about race as it pertains to this movie, save for the way it was handled made me feel unsettled, blah blah blah, shameful caricature of native peoples, blah blah blah, so smart but too stupid to save themselves and need a white man to do it but in every other respect they’re better than evil white people, blah blah blah anti-colonialism, blah blah blah, so everything I touch on is going to be purely superficial.

First things first: All of you people who are depressed after watching this movie, detached from reality, considering suicide, all because you cannot experience Pandora firsthand–allow me to rear my hand back and slap you with the fury of a thousand burning suns. Do you really feel lost, depressed, deeply sad because you won’t wake up some morning in a nightmare world where everything wants to kill you? Is all you need to be happy just some shit that lights up? Listen up, assholes: There’s nothing on Pandora that you can’t get with $50 and a trip to Spencer Gifts.

  4455536976_12f380e303_o Holy shit, it’s like I’m on Pandora!

Now, let’s take a peek into James Cameron’s brain.

“Hmm. The last really big overblown movie I made that sold a shitload of tickets involved a jillion dollars worth of CGI, had an obnoxious on-again off-again romance, had something REALLY big that got destroyed in a vast expanse of terrain inhospitable to human life that allowed for no outsider rescue, and ran about an hour longer than any other movie in the theater. What if I did that again, only in outer space? Outer space is also vast. And included a reprisal role for Paul Reiser’s character in ‘Aliens’, the evil one who was only interested in profit and military benefits, regardless of human cost? Hmm. What else could be really, really big? Pseudo-environmentalism is pretty hot, what about a really big blade of grass? No, that’s not right, too ‘Honey I Shrunk The Kids’. A big meadow? No, too ‘Little House on the Prairie’. Wait. Yes. A BIG TREE. Lord of the Rings had big trees and made an asston of money. People like big trees. The Giving Tree, now that’s a tree with staying power. A big tree that’s also an ecosystem and here comes Paul Reiser in the vast expanse of space to destroy this really big tree in the name of profits and break up the romance. Making this movie will cost at least a jillion and a half dollars in CGI and can’t be cut much below three hours. I also want to include a strong anti-corporate message. Can we get Coke and McDonalds on the phone for sponsorship dollars? God, I am such a genius. I bet I can get people to buy the same movie over and over again forever.”

4454758193_c4e6c42728_o James Cameron’s next project: Clifford The Big Red Dog Gets Killed

For as ‘advanced’ and in tune with nature as the Na’vi are supposed to be, women are portrayed to be as shallow as ever. Ladies, is your intended a pretty ugly dude? It’s perfectly fine to pair up with a more attractive guy especially if your excuse is that you see a person’s soul. We all know that attractive people have the most attractive souls, even when they’re double-crossing liars with bad intentions. Whoops, I guess you’re not as good at soul-soothsaying as you thought! You should cast this beautiful man away until he pimps his ride, at which point it’s acceptable to take him back because you want to be seen riding bitch on that impressive vehicle.

4455537078_b6eeb26d7d_o “Yeaaaaah, holla atcha boy!”

Speaking of the ladies, why do non-mammalian creatures have breasts? What must their function be? Wouldn’t they get in the way of all the bow-hunting they do, especially if they’re merely decorative? There’s a lesson to learn in this: Even if you hate everything, you don’t hate boobies. Or hula hoops.

4454797785_4e45d460d4 I got nothin. Did you really think I was going to google image search boobs for you?

Verdict: Predictable, boring, too long, but it does have boobs. D+

An Open Letter to Skechers

This is the fax that I actually sent to Skechers Customer Service today. Any bets on whether I get a pair of replacement shoes?

To whom it may concern,

I purchased a pair of D’lite Raptures (Style#11469) on December 19th, 2009. They quickly became my daily-wear shoe, as I find them light and comfortable, which is important as I average five miles of walking per day. However, within the last week, one of the shoes has developed an enormous hole on the upper stitching along a seam, a hole so gargantuan that it can easily accommodate two fingers, though three are as of yet right out. I know what you must be thinking, that surely my monstrous gorilla feet caused undue pressure on the sides of the shoe and thus the seam had no choice but to burst open—a five pound sack of shoe with ten pounds of foot crammed into it, a veritable thunder lizard foot packed into an airy shoe, and that the outcome was as inevitable as taxes and even death, should science fail and robot bodies not become readily available by the time the cheese eventually settles into my heart. I assure you this is not the case. My feet have been described as dainty, petite, and even smelling of a spring morn. Sonnets may have been composed about my feet; I’m unsure as I’m not around other people twenty-four hours a day and it is possible that someone has dedicated a portion of their off time thoughtfully considering my feet and their place in the universe. I do know that someone on Myspace has offered me one hundred dollars American in the hopes of having a ‘go’ at my feet, and although my disgust at the offer is palpable as I would never defile my delicate tootsies in that manner, I do believe it speaks volumes about their general appeal. My feet would be the superstars of the foot world if only they weren’t hopelessly attached to an unattractive cankle. Therefore, the trouble must indeed lie with the shoe.

Is it reasonable for a shoe to wear out in under three months? Are these shoes perhaps designed for someone with a more sedentary lifestyle, as foot accessories, akin to a tiny dog in a purse (It is my understanding that those, too, wear out during walking)?

If you should read this letter and feel compassion for my wonderful feet attached to the unattractive cankle attached to the bloated calf attached to the dimpled knee (the picture only gets worse as you look higher, like staring at a hideous burning sun) and want to replace their beloved D’lite Raptures, they wear a size 5.5 and would be ever so grateful.

Thank you most sincerely for your time,


Mellzah Dildarian (address here)

I also included a picture of the damaged shoe and the attractive, sad foot, as demonstrated by a sadface drawn in MS paint and the word ‘NOOOOOOO!’ circling its head. *I* would give me a new pair of shoes. Maybe even twelve pair.



Update: It has been four years and still no response. I haven’t given up waiting, though. Surely those shoes are coming any day now.

Do you take each other to fight zombies?

Compounded by the loss of an hour due to daylight savings, a group of friends awoke extra early on Sunday morning to drive to Chehalis for a friend’s wedding. It took me a while to get ready, as I have two basic modes of dress: schlub and whore. Now, when one is attending a wedding, dressing like a schlub is not acceptable, so whore it would have to be. I’m jealous of the girls who can do casual dresses, who can dress nicely without looking too dressed up–it’s a skill that I simply do not have. I ended up wearing this dress with some heels, the girls I went with were a little more casual.

The theme of the wedding: zombies. The ceremony was short and sweet, sans the metaphors about love and marriage which the bride and groom did not want, referencing lovecraftian horror and asking them to fight the zombies of daily life as tattooed hero and heroine, and aiding one another in not becoming zombies by taking the time to have joy in the small things.






It was after the wedding that the trouble started–for me, anyway. That’s when my latent freak magnet powers kicked in.

She approached me from across the room; hair bleached to within an inch of screaming and falling out, skin tanned into crocodile leather, voice gravelly from years of smoking, drinking, and gargling rocks. She complimented me, saying I looked beautiful, and I felt badly for judging her mere moments before. She then inquired if I was married, and I told her I wasn’t. When will I learn that the answer is ALWAYS yes? Yes, I have a husband! Yes, I have a boyfriend! Yes, I already have plans for that day! Yes, I’ve already eaten! Yes, I am familiar with whatever story you are going to tell!

But no, I had to answer in the negative. I am a fool, a moron, a wretch incapable of learning, and the next lesson was soon to begin as she grabbed my wrist in her steely talon and dragged me over toward two single relatives. “Boys, this is Melissa. She is single and SEXY.” One look at their faces and it was evident that they were not in agreement with The Claw about my perceived level of attractiveness, and they weren’t even going to attempt to fake it for politeness’ sake. It was clear from my posture, from my facial expressions, from the very awkward small talk I was trying to make with The Claw standing over my shoulder that I had not put her up to this introduction, that I was not looking to trap them into InstaMarriage or leap on them and crush them with my monstrous thighs while making wildebeest noises, but still they wanted to take no chances by interacting with me.

My eyes widened into those of a trapped animal as she then grabbed the wrist she was still clasping in iron fingers and forced it up to shake the reluctant hand of one of the pair. The other, who clearly did not get the memo that ‘schlub’ was not appropriate wedding attire, made a face, rolled his eyes at me, grabbed his beer, and walked away without speaking a single word to me. My friends all stood, watching this exchange in increasing horror: I was now a spectacle. The single saving grace was that The Claw had released me when I shook Remaining Douchebag’s hand, and after thirty more seconds of the most stilted conversation in the history of man, moreso than even those had by the progenitors of language when both participants did not know the same words, I was able to flee back to the people who witnessed the entire awful scene.

We eventually decided to go outside and visit with the bride’s dogs, who were shut in the room underneath the porch. A child watched us go in and started insistently banging on the door and peering through a crack at us, demanding to be let in. Someone told him there were no children allowed–when he asked why, I told him it was because children are stinky. We collapsed into laughter and he ran off indignantly, only to return a minute later with the withering comeback of “No! YOU are stinky!”. He then ran off to tell his mom on us, returned again and shouted “HEY! I have something to tell you! Kids don’t stink no worser than adults do!” and THEN his mom attempted to peer in through the crack, demanding to know who was inside.

…as it turned out, his mom was the wedding guest whom we had come to refer to as the Cave Troll—the one with the permastoned face and carabiners hanging in her ears with plastic skulls dangling from said carabiners, what looked like a butt tattooed on her back dangling from a pentagram, vomit tattooed on her right upper arm, knee-high buckled boots straight out of Hot Topic paired with a sequined dress so tacky it had to have shipped from the Pyramid collection…and who REEKED of B.O. No, child, it is my sad duty to inform you that not all adults stink–just your mom. And hobos.

“Did that guy just say he had a stromboli in his pants?”

On Saturday, I met up with girlpirate, mystikdragon7, and rfjason to attend Emerald City Comic Con: The Dorkening. When I texted Kiki to let her know I’d arrived, she responded that it was insanely busy and they were headed over to Gameworks to get some food and see if the crowds would die down a bit. I decided to go in and grab my badge before heading over to Gameworks, and immediately saw what she meant, and felt it. The hall was so full of people, my claustro-people-phobia kicked in almost immediately. I’m mostly good in enclosed spaces, but when it comes to spaces crammed full of people, I am not so good. I get a little panicky and feel a lot like nerd-punching. There, in a sentence, why I am not interested in attending PAX pretty much ever again.

Luckily, before I punched any nerds, I ran into evillin, who defused my crowd rage by ranting about slow-moving crowds herself. Soon after, I swapped my ticket for a badge and rushed back out into the fresh air.

Gameworks was fairly empty, so much so that they were not serving entire sections of tables, only not informing customers of that fact who were patiently waiting for booze. Jason called out that I should flash my tits at the bartender to get him up to their table, and while I wasn’t at whip ’em out stage just yet, I did manage to get him to tell us where we actually SHOULD sit in order to be served.

While we waited approximately a year and six days for them to make three orders of fries and a hot dog, we played with action figures and watched Iron Man on Jason’s phone. This one is entitled “Eat me like a rancor”.


After sating our hunger (or in my case, covering myself in an insulating layer of a 25oz, eight dollar beer), we were prepared to face the crowds again, which had actually gone down significantly to a much more manageable level.

We then proceeded to mock people. Look at this guy’s pants. Can anyone tell me what’s going on with this guy’s pants? It’s sweatpants tucked into socks with shorts worn over the whole mess. Is this a thing now?


I would also like to know what’s going on with purple wig over the ponytail girl.


I had a horrible, horrible moment when I saw the guy facing the camera in the righthand corner of the purple wig photo. He looked shockingly like an ex of mine, also known as The Worst Person Alive, and I wondered if I was going to have to kill a man with a plastic lightsaber to the throat. Luckily, it was just a resemblance and no murders had to go down. Also, it was not my lightsaber, so there’s that, too. There’s only so much you can get away with, covered in blood and screaming “JEDI BUSINESS!”

People I ran into at the con: evillin, ravenmimura, goosezilla, strand, amazoni + husband, and Amber + Greg.

I also ran into His Hotness, Aaron Douglas. A couple of years ago, Kiki and I both paid for pictures with Jamie Bamber, but paying for photos and autographs was not in the budget this year. Aaron is still my faaavorite, though, and I saw he’d stepped away from his booth and I ambushed the poor man, starting off the conversation with the eloquent and tactful “*GASP* HI YOU’RE MY FAAAVORITE!!!”

He smiled and introduced himself, shook my hand, and I asked him if he remembered taking a picture with Tonya last year and resting his face on her chest. “Like…a shelf of boobs? Oh yeah, I remember those–uh, her!” I then inquired if the only way to get a picture with him was through, uh, official channels, and he smiled and immediately posed with me for a photo in his manly, manly arms. And at that moment, I died a little. With happiness. My faaaaaavorite.


Kiki then asked for a picture, threatening to cry if she did not get one, and he complied. I am glad to live in a world where obliging men will take photographs with fawning ladies and not ask for their money.

I then took an unauthorized photo of Leonard Nimoy, causing one frazzled security guard to plead and cry. Cry on, crybaby, if Spock is allergic to photographs that don’t cost $60, you should really enclose him in an area that’s not accessible by the general public.


We saw that people were going through the line and NOT getting autographs, just saying hi, and we figured there was no reason we couldn’t do the same. The woman collecting money asked each person in line for said monies, and my response was “I am of the lower class and would just like to meet and greet” and she waved me through. Then, for a brief moment, I held Leonard Nimoy’s hand in mine, and stole his powers. Just long enough to be uncomfortable, but not long enough for him to have to ask for it back. Just at that awkward level at which I consistently operate. I guess at least I didn’t squeal “You’re my faaaaaavorite!!” this time, which is progress.

One person I would’ve liked to meet but did not want to wait in the hours-long line was Jhonen Vasquez. Had I met him, I suppose our conversation would have been “OH MY GOD YOU ARE LIKE TOTALLY AWESOME AND UH LIKE WOW…UH…BYE” so neither he nor I missed much and he was probably better spared.

Some dude was wandering around with a camcorder, asking people “Wil Wheaton or Sheldon Cooper?” Apparently, I was the only person to make a face and answer “I DON’T CARE.” Good luck in your dork wars, boys.

After Kiki picked up her rad commission from Hijinks Ensue (which they are totally selling on their website now), we were pretty well done for the day. Next year: so much Jedi business in more senses than you could even imagine possible.

Festivus Pole Part II

The Angriest Person Alive is at it again, AND has spread his/her turf:









I must admit, ‘Faggod’ made me laugh. But seriously, pole-writer, have you considered atheism? Then you might be able to stop feeling all this anger and a lack of control over your own existence. Just a suggestion.


Oh my god, Deep Blue Sea is on TV tonight. To imagine my level of surprised delight, it’s pretty much equivalent to telling a five year old that Santa is making an extra-special stop at their house, just because.

I love that it has sharks the size of a room and yet they can swim in about a foot of water. I love that it’s basically set at Alcatraz for sharks. I love that the scientists that are working with the sharks “FOR SCIENCE!!!” are consistently surprised that sharks behave like sharks, and that the suuuuuper smart sharks they engineered do super-smart things.

Just watch this and you’ll see why it’s pretty much one of the greatest schlocky movies ever:

The only reason I’ve never purchased this cinematic masterpiece is that I’m afraid its glory might be diminished with repeated watchings. And believe me, it is glorious.

*edit* LOL, due to the tv edits, the characters are swearing using the phrase ‘gal-darn’.

An Open Letter to Bananas

Dear Bananas,

I’m breaking up with you. I just can’t take the abuse anymore. You remember our morning tryst a few weeks ago? All day I was miserable, focused on my pain, like someone with enormous hands was reaching inside my torso and forciby twisting my guts. But I didn’t blame you, Bananas. I blamed Pizza, with whom I’d had a short fling the evening prior. Everyone said you were so good for me, Bananas, that you made me a better person by enriching my life. How could I blame you?

Well, this morning, I’m sure you remember that we did our thing again, and since we were exclusive, I have no one else to blame for the pain I currently feel. The pain that makes me clutch my stomach and pray for death. How could you do this to me? I loved you!

Fuck you, Bananas. We are breaking up forever. Your yellow skin and rich potassium content hold no allure for me. I will also ignore your contributions to one of the finest sandwiches ever created. Don’t call me anymore. Especially not on the fucking Bananaphone.

No love,

Mellzah Dildarian

I ain’t a winner, got a hot hand–place your bets, ladies & gentlemen!

Wake up, wake up, nothing could be worse, oh yeah! -Imarobot

9am came entirely too early on Sunday. I rolled out of bed, eyes bleary and red, face even puffier than normal, hair whipped up in a frenzy like it had self-styled in a tribute to the bride of Frankenstein, mouth like the Sahara (and I suppose it’s possible that at some point during the previous evening I actually DID lick something at the Sahara), and still I needed to get my stuff back in order and get out of the room before eleven. I drifted back and forth across the room, eventually collecting everything together or at least I think I did, stumbled to the elevator, made my way to the ABC store and croaked that I needed water or I was going to die. I then proceeded to chug an entire liter in front of the clerk who I believe attempted not to openly laugh at my clear dysfunctionality.

Semi-rehydrated, I plodded from the tower I was staying in to the front desk, stopping to press a penny along the way, as I cannot pass a penny-pressing machine without checking in every single pocket for the appropriate change or demanding it from the people around me. I have handfuls of elongated pennies and while I have no idea what I will actually do with them besides have them, their procurement is important to me. To this day, I’m disappointed that I didn’t have change when I went to the Oregon Vortex to use their penny machine. That was six years ago.


After checkout, I walked to the monorail and made my way back to Bally’s, where Kirsti and Matt were beginning to stir. Our collective hearts went out to Jason, who must have had enough time after he’d gotten back to his hotel to just sit on his bed for thirty minutes before he had to catch his flight out. The rest of us had a few hours to hang out before my mom was scheduled to come and pick me up, and we spent the majority of it just hanging out in their room, talking. We eventually headed downstairs to the casino to see if there were cheaper blackjack tables, given that it was a Sunday afternoon as opposed to Saturday evening, and lo and behold, we found a $5 minimum table. Matt and I sat down; I’m familiar with blackjack but had never played in a casino before and stumbled through some of the learning process. The dealer was surprisingly patient with me, my hand-motion idiocy, and my inability to add while hungover, even giving me advice when I was about to do something stupid, and I ended up having quite a bit of fun at the table. I even got blackjack two hands in a row!


After we played, it was pretty well time for me to leave, so they both walked me to the pick-up/drop-off area and waited for my mom. On our way to get some food, my mom told me that she was dating a magician and I choked on my snort of laughter. EVERYTHING about that scenario is funny to me. I keep thinking about him pulling scarves out of his wallet when going to pay for a movie, or ‘finding’ money behind my mom’s ear or whipping flowers out of his pants and I just want to die laughing. No one even wants to think about their parents having sex and yet I swear to you throwing a magician in there makes the idea of that funny as well. Seriously, a magician? What, a rodeo clown wasn’t available? No Elvis impersonators on the market?

At the airport, they announced that the flight was completely full and they were offering bumps. I tried to get on the list as I would have liked to spend another day; I didn’t get to spend any time with Frank over the weekend as he was busy with other stuff, and I was hoping to get to go with him to shoot automatic weapons, but it just wasn’t meant to be.

Until next time, Vegas. You stay classy!