I missed about 98% of JournalCon. I only went to one panel and that's because I was speaking on it. I had a total of three drinks the entire time I was there, which, after reading other people's accounts of their time there, was well below the average drinking level. Not once did I sing my satanic rendition of "Candy Man."
But I still had a grand time.
For all those people that are not even remotely interested in JournalCon or what the hell my opinion may be about it, continue reading as I'm sure that you've talked to someone about something you were enthused about and they were bored shitless. Think of this entry as balancing out your boring karma factor.
Right off the bat, my Honda Civic Hot Rod was not really being the cool ride it usually is. It must be going through automotive menopause as it seems to be having hot flashes. The engine temp just shot out of the roof over the weekend and driving it for over 5 minutes made me a risk-taker. Lipman, whom I'm not allowed to write about unless it's in the flattering sense, flexed his big manly muscles and with his good looks, smart brain, and flaxin' waxin' hair got under the hood and replaced a hose.
This seemed to fix all problems in my Honda Hot Rod Civic for about 45 minutes. Enough time to drive to the glorious Omni Downtown Hotel and get my Con El Journal on.
I didn't put much thought into what I was going to wear. I didn't put much thought into what I was going to say to people when I met them. I didn't put much thought into anything related to JournalCon. The only thing I was concerned about was the possibility that I may spend the majority of the time at the Omni inside of a luxurious bathroom stall.
"What? Bathroom humor? Are we really going to go in this direction LadeeLeroy?"
Yes. Yes we are.
I had the nervous shits. The kind where you get so nervouse that your brain sends out a signal to the rest of your body that something is wrong. Your eyes don't freak out because they can see that nothing is wrong. Your skin doesn't freak out because it can feel that nothing is wrong. Your breasts don't start producing milk because they know better. Your stomach? Your stomach don't know nothing. It just gets the "FREAK OUT" signal and starts churning.
I was nervous. Nervous about not knowing my lines for the show I was going to do in 3 hours. Nervous about not reading as many online journals as I should. Nervous about Weetabix maybe coming to hunt my ass down and pummel it nemsisissisiss style.
However. The minute I saw Omar I felt okay. The shits subsided.
"Omar. I don't have the show memorized and I didn't bring the CD I need to use and my car overheated on the way here and I don't know anyone except you and I like your shirt and um where am I supposed to go and can I buy you a drink?"
Omar's nothing but the picture of calm and collected.
"I didn't sleep at all last night Leroy because I kept thinking about the show and what we needed and the video isn't here yet and don't worry about not knowing your lines, it's cool and we drank a crap load of vodka in the first morning panel and my fiance is in bed right now taking a nap and holy jeez I'm so tired let's go to the bar."
I agreed. On the way out someone said to Omar, "Hey. Weetabix lost her nametag."
The liquid shit alert came on.
"Oh. No big deal. We'll just make her another one. Come on, Leroy you can meet Weetabix."
We walk out to the lobby and this person, this normal person without numchucks or a sword sheathed on her Levi's approaches.
"Weet, this is Ladee Leroy."
Her eye contact went to lazer mode as she honed in. My defense shields went to "Rock N' Roll" as I went into my best "Let's Rock" stance. Our hands met. Our eyes locked. The smell of blood was in the air.
"Hey. Nice to meet you."
"Awesome. Nice to meet you as well."
"We'll throw down later."
And that was that. Brief. Unviolent. No ass kicking what so ever. Perhaps I am not her arch nemsisisis after all. Perhaps I am just a metaphoric representation of Weetabix's. What sort of representation? I don't know. But it must be of the metaphoric deep sense. Or maybe I took this arch nemisisissis too personally. Damn me for forgetting the four agreements: "Agreement #4: Don't take it personally when someone says they will kick your ass. This is their problem, not yours."
So, the nervous shits subsided as I walked into the lobby bar with Omar.
Everyone was smoking. I mean, hardcore chain smoking. Ashtrays overflowed, lighters moved back and forth. Amazing.
I was accosted by the awesome TranceJen , the Louisiananer Angeline, the lovely Biensoul, and some other people as I entered the bar area. I think I stammered out salutations and said some other stuff that apparently was not incredibly horrific because they were smiling the entire time. Maybe it's because they all thought I was Beck.
I also saw the guy who played Booger in Revenge of The Nerds sitting and making notes to himself. He totally checked me out. He probably thought I was Beck, too.
Two Jack and Cokes and a strange grapefruit concoction for Omar later, I headed to the panel that I was assigned to participate in.
When I entered the room, it was full of people. On-line journal type people. Not that I'm stereotyping or anything, but there was something about us. The smell perhaps. The hung over look in everyone's eyes. The need to expose everything about oneself in some form or fashion was hidden behind each person's otherwise innocent gaze.
I walked to the front where I was told to sit. And that's when I saw Sundry . Sundry is adorable. Not in the Precious Moment figurine sort of way, but in the flowery blouse, bed room eyes, hard core tats peeking out from under ruffles sort of way. We exchanged greetings of the nervous variety and before I could delve into her inner thinkings, I was told to sit down and the panel started.
The panel went well. The only part I regret was the drug-use metaphors I used to describe my reason for writing on line. I'm not a drug addict, but for some reason all the words that came out of my mouth were things like "my vice," "it's like having a big pile of coke in front of a coke addict," and "I take showers in my car." While I spoke I couldn't stop my foot from shaking or from folding and unfolding a piece of paper I found in my pocket or trying to take a last sip from my drink even though it had been emptied long ago. The person moderating the panel was a psychotherapist. She kept glancing at me in this manner that made me feel like she was going to turn the panel discussion into an intervention.
Luckily she didn't have a chance to as a debate over something about something being something or other broke out and I stopped listening and began making a snail out of a straw stirrer thingy.
After the panel, peeps went to the Iron Cactus. I had a neon green drink thing and ate Thea's cheese dip while we chatted it up about Louisiana, kids, and what not. Cowgirl Funk came over and filled me in on our 6 degrees of separation. Omar then told me that we had to go set up for the show so we left.
The show goes over well. Omar pronounced my name as "Ladee La Roy." I told him that he should call his page "Terri Blay Hopp Ay." I get on the stage, the lights go out and the show starts. People laughed. I felt all right about everything, even the parts when I forgot where I was and started making stuff up. After it's over the peeps give me nothing but love in applause form. It was awesome and I felt guilty about leaving right afterwards. But it was Lipman's birthday and when you date a hot stud like Lipman, you have to set your priorities.
And that, my friends, was that.
Now for those of you who are still with me, you may cut out the coupon below to use when you are forced to listen to someone's stroy about something you are not interested in. Use it wisely.