Photo Host of the Damned

Ordinarily I have wonderful luck and success with Flickr, but for the last few days it’s been so b0rked that I can’t do a damn thing with it. Therefore, I still can’t show you my collection of Brightly Colored Fog Pictures taken at the Sisters of Mercy show; nor do I feel like wrestling my way through the LiveJournal photo galleries in order to show you my new glasses. Instead, you’ll have to settle for a text update, for which I do apologize.

Orycon: Because I could not remember my WordPress login and I didn’t feel like looking it up, all convention updates occurred over here on my LJ. Click any link if you didn’t catch them the first time around. All updates are brief, as updates posted from the midst of a convention tend to be.

The Sisters of Mercy concert: This was easily the most “grown-up” show I’ve ever attended. Maybe it’s just that the fans are aging, or the band is aging — and everybody wanted to be in bed at a reasonable hour; but the concert started at the crack of its scheduled time, and it ended not a moment earlier nor later that it was intended to. We were back at the hotel by midnight, which was a little bit hilarious if not particularly hardcore.

It’s difficult to say that we actually saw them play, because of the giant fog machine that ran for the first hour and a half of the show. We’re talking a 1000-person venue, here — not some massive auditorium wherein such fog might sprawl out and lie prettily along the floor … oh no. It was like trying to watch a concert through a John Carpenter movie. Towards the end of the evening, I could quite literally scarcely see my hand in front of my face; and people were whipping out Zippos and pocket flash lights to try and stumble their way to the restrooms or merchandise table.

Imagine, if you will, the precision and joy of trying to pick out which black tee shirt you want, in the dark, through a thick screen of fog. It’s a wonder I didn’t end up accidentally buying pair of leg warmers and a puppy.

I took oodles of pictures, though. After awhile it became a game — like camping out in the woods and trying to steal a shot of Sasquatch, except all my pictures just look like pretty pictures of a room stuffed with a blue cloud, a red cloud, a purple cloud, an orange cloud, etcetera. One or two are kind of groovy, though; you can see Andrew outlined by a light behind him, and it looks weirdly iconic and spectral. Of course, those pictures were snapped early in the evening, before the fog machine had gotten a chance to really wreak its magic.

But for what it’s worth, the music itself was just fine and I was thrilled silly to be there. My 1991 self was doing a little squee all night long.

The Pirate Attack: Sunday around lunchtime we met up with my old friend Abbie — who lives in Portland. She was kind enough to pick us up from the convention after we’d checked out of the hotel, and haul both Aric and I around until it was time to deposit us at the train station.

Together we decided upon lunch. We let Abbie choose, and choose she did (though I don’t remember the name of the place where we did not, ultimately, end up eating). She took us a bit outside of town and parked across the road and down the hill from a little joint that looked promising. Then we crossed the street, began scaling the sidewalk, and only made it about halfway up.

Because that’s when the knife-wielding pirate leaped out of the trees and clocked me in the face. And that’s the god-honest truth, it is, but in the interest of making my husband feel better (’tis a pity he couldn’t defend me from my attacker), I’ll make up something more mundane.


I tripped over a tree branch that was growing up through the sidewalk, and face-planted hard. I’m told that I actually fell rather slowly — almost catching myself without incident — but at the last second the inertia threw me forward and my head bounced against the pavement. It was very quick, and it wasn’t very painful. It was merely confusing and upsetting, because the last thing I remember seeing clearly … was the snap, crack, and fling of my glasses shooting off my face towards the street.

[As an aside: It would be difficult for me to overstate for effect how poorly I see; my vision is terrible and it has been for years — and even with the recent and inexplicable improvement, my eyes are still around 8.00 with a hearty astigmatism on top of the myopia, in case you’re really “in” to eyeballs and you know what that means. For years, I’ve had nightmares about losing my glasses (or contacts) in a strange place because I’m utterly helpless without them. So when they broke underneath me, it sent me into a panic.]

I stayed there on the ground for a few seconds, pulling myself together and pushing myself up onto my aching hands — which I then used to feel around on the ground. “My glasses! Oh God, my glasses!” I said, while my companions were freaking out and asking if I was okay. Of course I was okay! But my beautiful glasses! They were gone, weren’t they? AAAAUUUGH!

And then I looked up, and both Abbie and Aric made a little choked noise upon seeing my face. One of them told me I was bleeding, and I said that no, I was okay, and then I looked back down at my hands. I couldn’t see my hands very well, but I could tell they were covered in something bright red, so I said, “My hands!” because I figured I must’ve landed on something and cut myself. I had no idea I was otherwise hurt in any significant fashion.

Eventually I was led into the nearby restaurant, where I’m led to understand that it’s just as well I couldn’t see the looks on the faces of the diners as I was ushered into the ladies room for clean-up. I used my broken glasses to get a good look at myself, and finally I was a little concerned about something other than the busted spectacles. I was covered in blood — all down one side of my face, in my hair, in my ear … some of it had even gone up my nose when I had my head hanging down, looking for the glasses in the first place. I blew a blood bubble out of my left nostril. It was awesome. But the way my eyebrow was hanging a tiny bit slack from the giant gash … was not even remotely awesome.

It was patently obvious that I needed stitches.

I did a lot of swearing, pulled off my shirt and tried to wash it out, used a bunch of paper towels to swab away all the blood I could reasonably get, and kicked myself because I knew that now we’d never catch our train. I was right. We missed it. But with the help of Aric’s iPhone we found a local (and brand spanking new) urgent care center a few miles away, and I got myself glued up instead of stitched up in about an hour and a half, all told.* Then we went to lunch, finally — and then Abbie was kind enough to drop us off at the train station. We lucked out and caught a train immediately; and we were back in Seattle by bedtime.

The New Glasses: Remain super-cute, here on my face, right this moment. Little do they know how close they came to peril.

Tonight: I nabbed tickets to go see Henry Rollins for my husband’s birthday a week or two ago. But Jeez, first? I need a shower. I’ve spent all day running around like crazy, cleaning house, buying groceries, and keeping track of the heating repair men who came and went all morning. I think it’s time for me to log off now and freshen up before supper.

So there you have it, the full and formal and official update. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. May you all become greatly stuffed with whatever holiday food makes you happiest.

* We made the executive decision to skip the ER because I wasn’t ill, wasn’t woozy, and after about half an hour, I wasn’t even bleeding anymore. I clearly needed medical attention, but I didn’t need anything major.

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