Bad Hair Days

Hi! Coraline here, and I'm not very happy. I'm going to tell you why.

Look at me! Do I look happy to you?!

I'm usually a pretty happy girl. And when Aunty Beccs comes over, why, I'm usually over the moon!

Pure delight! I love Aunty Beccs!

But not today. Today and I am unhappy, and I'll tell you why.

I don't shed much. I'm a good girl, and respectful of my Mum's house, and other people's houses and vehicles when I go visit (though, if I'm really excited, I might shed a bit when I go say hi to someone I haven't seen in a while, like Aunty Beccs who doesn't visit me enough). I like to keep my hair where it belongs, which is on my body, thank-you-very-much.

But. When the weather changes, for good or ill, something horrible happens. It's like puberty except it happens a few times a year.

I blow  my coat.

Now, Uncle Dan, I know what you're thinking and let's not go there.

It means that I lose a layer of fur so a new one can grow in. It "blows" away on the wind.

It is super traumatising! I look like ... like ... unspeakable. I look unspeakably bad. I don't want to go out in public. I barely even want to chew things in the basement.

The only relief is to lose that hair. But there's no easy way to do that!

UNLESS YOU ARE EVIL.

This is why I am unhappy.

Aunty Beccs came over, took one look at my hideous appearance, and decided that she and Mum should give me a brushing.

A BRUSHING.

THE WORST.

Wrenching my hairs out by the root? Tossing them into the ether? Parts of me, just gone? Extirpated before their time?

It's appalling! Horrible!

THEY THOUGHT IT WAS GREAT FUN.

Here's a shot of me hanging my head in shame.

"Please don't take my picture, I look like I was dredged up from the bottom of the East River. Oh, okay, you're going to do what you want. Thanks Aunty Beccs.
You're the BEST."

Here's one of me trying to escape, but Mum's got me trapped by the collar. Instead of helping me, Aunty Beccs decides to take a picture.

I hate you.

What's this? Oh, I guess we have a few shots of the hair they tore from my delicate shiba flesh.

That was about the size of my head.

Here's a square metre or so of my fur.

This next one is great. This is me gasping for air next to Dad and Sam, right before they gave me up to the Evil Women.

We cool right? WRONG!

For perspective on this next one, Aunty Becc's foot is FRICKING HUGE. SHE IS A MONSTER IN EVERY WAY!

So you know what?

Screw you guys. I'm having a grown-up drink.

CORALINE OUT!

Guest Posts: Ted Finchley Brings Dick Up Again

Ted Finchley is back with Instalment 3 of Dick's Surgery! Read on as the brave Mr Dick faces his greatest challenge yet, waking up after surgery only to—no, Mr Finchley tells it so much better. 

Catch up on Instalment 2 here!

DICK’S SURGERY

Instalment Three: Recovery

My awakening was both sudden and terrifying: “I can’t move. I’m dead. Am I in heaven, purgatory or hell? I just know I’m not alive.” Within seconds, terror was replaced by a warming calm. I looked up and slowly brought two images into one smiling, beautiful face.

“I’m your nurse, Sarah,” the vision purred. As I tried to lean forward, I thought I heard: “I’ll make you feel good for all time.”

“A-h-h, I must be in heaven,” I thought. I heard myself asking: “Are you an angel? Tell me again what you said.”

A poke in the ribs was accompanied by a voice with a familiar, and loving, harshness. “Mr. Dick, my dearest, the nurse says you’ll feel good in no time.”

“Not in heaven, after all.” Doing my best to hide my disappointment, I looked over to my charming wife and asked: “My dear Mrs. Dick, will I be going for surgery soon?”

Once I realised we were no longer in pre-op and the deed was done, I concentrated on watching Sarah drain the little plastic grenade connected to my surgical wound. I slipped in and out of sleep, searching for Nurse Sarah in my conscious moments, and chasing her, with the dainty Mrs. Dick at my side, romping through fields of bluebells in my drug-induced dreams.

Temperature 35 degrees C, blood pressure 99 over 66, heart rate 49; barely alive. 

Gradually I warmed up, became more coherent and realised that nurse Sarah’s shift was over—leaving me with a comforting Mrs. Dick at my side, her gentle presence lessening the depressed state in which I found myself.

Temperature 35.5 degrees C,  blood pressure 102 over 68, heart rate 60; vital signs improving. 

“They’ve strapped you in, my love, to stabilise your hip.” I looked down to see my legs separated by, and firmly bound to, a big blue contraption shoved up into my groin.

More drugs to the IV; more pills to swallow; more plastic jug emptying; more despondent boredom.

As evening approached, another recovering patient, obviously heavily drugged, was wheeled into the space behind the curtain separating our beds. With Mrs. Dick gone, I mentally prepared myself for a restful night. As I lay there, I became aware of an unpleasant feeling at the base of my abdomen, as if something was pulling at me.

More to come!

Adventures

On Victoria Day long weekend, Hawk and I went to Cold Lake and had fantastical adventures.


First, we had to stop in Sherwood Park to wrestle a lawnmower out of Hawk Sr's basement. It breathed fire, belched gasoline, and left razor-sharp shards of dried, green grass all over the place, but Hawk and Hawk Sr triumphed and hauled that sucker out the front door.


Since we were in Sherwood Park, we forsook our usual route out of the city. Ordinarily, we head up 97th St, which takes us right to Highway 28, which then terminates directly in the lake. For this journey, however, we had to use my phone's Google Map application and I have no idea how we got to Cold Lake, where we were at any given time, how we didn't die, or where this was.

Sunset was still about two hours away and it was getting dark out. Spoooooky!

The colours on the grain elevator against the sky were too perfect for me to leave alone. I had to get another picture.

So where were we? Oh yes. I had no idea. But, narratively speaking ...

It was a dark and stormy night. Hawk and I were all alone, driving secondary highways through rural Alberta. The sky looked like it had lost a barfight.

We were pausing anyway so I could take pictures of grain elevators and God Rays ...

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" went angel voices when we saw the rays.

... so Hawk leaned against the car for a moment to contemplate the next leg of our journey. I didn't notice it at the time, but look what I captured in this image!

DEMON CAR!

The presence of demons driving Demon Cars totally explains this behaviour.

Possessions aside, we made it to Mundare before the storm broke. But it was at Mundare where all hell seemed to break loose.

First of all, Mundare is famous for its sausage, and that's cool. So they built a giant statue of a giant link of sausage, which is also cool. But when we got there, icy wind whipping around us, we could not believe our eyes. The giant sausage statue looked like a giant poo.

Even with the weather getting worse by the second, we knew we could not pass up an opportunity for that sort of photograph. We tumbled out of the car and rushed to pull on our coats—but not our hats, not in that wind—and ran toward the giant poo. We sprinted toward it like hungry dogs, laughing and gasping in the gale, making general fools of ourselves, only to discover we were not alone in the poo sausage park.

No. There was a man there. A man in shirtsleeves. A man, without a coat, sitting on a picnic bench, silently observing the giant links while the Arctic wind blew leaves, litter, and two giggling travellers all around him.

Well, he made us feel awkward and idiotic, but we pressed on. No amount of idiotic feeling ever stopped Hawk and Red Panda from doing anything!

Hawk climbed the staircase to the poos, got flush with the links, and posed for me.

The poos filled my camera. I had to back way, way, up, then climb onto a picnic table, just to capture their full span. Anything less would never do-do.

My hands froze as the temperature dropped to near zero, but the sweet smell of success is always worth a little extra effort.

We scrambled back into the car as the first raindrops fell.

The rest of the journey is a blur. As for the rest of the weekend, I don't know what to say about it. It was exciting and traumatic. In a coffee shop, I saw two cow cushions doing the nasty.

I found them like that!

Maybe some stories are better left untold.

Groupons

I saw the most horrible thing in a very long time in my daily Groupon email this morning. It was this.

In case that doesn't speak for itself, what that is is a horrible, gouging rip-off. They're only giving you half the show. It should be half off already!


WHERE IS BROOKS, GROUPON? WHERE. IS. BROOKS?!


If this were an actual deal, it would be half off of half off. It should be 75% off. Half price for half a show in the first place is insulting.


It just isn't a deal if you're paying half price to get half a show. This is what it would sound like.


Dunn: My Mariaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
No one: Oh Maria, I love you girl, oh my Marie-ie-ia.
Dunn: My Mariaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
No one: Oh my Marie-ie-a


Or, to put it more clearly, it would be a dude yodelling through his nose with no backup to temper it.



Imagine boot scootin' with only one pair of boots. It's just unfathomable.


I understand that Brooks and Dunn as a duo have retired. I don't care. Half price for one half of a duo is still a total rip.


Groupon. You can do better.

Guest Posts: Ted Finchley and Dick's Surgery: Instalment 2

Our very good friend Ted Finchley continues his narrative of Mr Dick's surgery ... Instalment 1 available here!

DICK’S SURGERY 

Instalment Two: Surgery

What went on for the next two hours is open to some speculation as neither my consciousness nor my delicate flower, Mrs. Dick, was present. However, I later spoke with Dr. Dupuis who had assisted with the surgery. She re-affirmed the surgeon’s skills, telling me he deftly untangled muscle from the mangle of spurs covering the affected area, and with pliers and saw blades he sweated his way through the complex and demanding procedure. Eventually, after much measuring, fitting, drilling and re-fitting, the cobalt-chromium ball and socket implant was in place; muscle was re-strung and stitched together; and the whole re-conditioned area was stapled up.

Nice sweats, Mr Dick!

The surgeon, according to Dr. Dupuis, has his own little funny quips, but his familiar “Next victim!” was not heard this time as the ordeal had drained every ounce of his humour.

Now that I was re-constructed, Dr. Dupuis assured me I had 15 to 20 useful, and virile, years ahead of me. As I envisioned Mrs. Dick in her gumboots, her chapped hands delicately caressing her pitch-fork and her tousled hair stringing from her toque, my blood warmed in passion and I told Dr. Dupuis I could hardly wait to be once again in the pasture, turning the compost alongside that ever-faithful woman I’m proud to call my very own.

As scary and risky as the surgery might have been, it was without incident. Little could I have imagined what would follow.

More to come!

Mums

Today is Mother's Day and it is the day to officially state Mums are awesome!


I love my Mum! Hawk loves his Mom! I love my Nana! I love my Gram! And we can give a quick shout-out to some other rad mothers we know, like Hawk's little sister, and his sister-in-law; my Aunts and Hawk's; and our beloved friends who are mothers and step-mothers. You know who you are.


But this post is dedicated to the newest mum in my family, my sista!

Clever photo disguises both their identities!

She's an awesome mum. Her stupid baby melts my heart. He's so sweet and happy. He's probably still too young to recognise that I'm his Aunty, but he knows I'm a safe and special person. His special mum never skimps on the baby-sharing, and when I go to visit, I get loads of cuddles and special favours like getting to feed him or getting pooped on. We're gonna be besties when he's just a little older.


My sis is making sure that boy is going to be totally well-adjusted, too. He gets to meet loads of people. She and her husband maintain their sanity by leaving him with babysitters, trusted friends and family members who will probably also be Aunts and Uncles to him. He already knows that he will always be safe, and Mum and Dad will always come back.


Maybe the coolest part of Magpie's motherhood is her attitude. Nana said she is the most relaxed mother she (Nana) has ever seen. And why wouldn't she be? Her baby is basically a genius.  Her husband helps out with the baby. And of course, she's got me at her back just in case she needs me. Who could ask for more? Right? Right? Anyway ...


I knew she was going to be a top-notch mother because she's such a good sister. She's fairly reasonable, for a sister. For example, she even let me take a few pictures of her in the delivery room (after the birth! AFTER!) even though she'd previously declared no pictures. I've seen her looking more polished and more stylish, but never more beautiful. She was glowing in two ways: her skin was lit up like a pearl, and her spirit was shining. I wish the pictures had done her justice, but they don't. They're out of focus. It's like her aura was creating a haze of awesome around her that totally fucked up the photographs.*


So, Magpie, best sister ever, super-cool mum, happy Mother's Day. I hope that kid of yours gives you the cuddles you deserve.

Here, I got you some flowers.

__________________
*That isn't to say motherhood is all glowing skin and fancy-schmancy auras. As the sista, I'm also privy to super-secret-sister-secret TMIs about things like feeding and other things that if I even categorise them can only lead the imagination to imagine them, thus betraying the SSSS-ness of them. Motherhood can really suck, and the fact that ladies pull it off is absolutely brilliant.

Guest Posts: Ted Finchley

Our good friend, Mr Ted Finchley, presents Instalment 1 of his delightful serial, Dick's Surgery.

DICK’S SURGERY 

Instalment One: Dick Is Admitted

Coffee-less and a bit frazzled, the lovely Mrs. Dick and I climbed into the old truck at 05:15. A dark, cold, unpleasant morning welcomed us as we headed for town and the hospital. Only us heading southwest—against the steady flow of oilfield workers roaring northeast.

Arriving at the Emergency entrance at 06:00, I pressed the call button and nervously hollered “I’m here for the surgery” into the intercom. “Come on in,” was the careless reply as the overhead ambulance door clanked upward. We were greeted by a smiling nurse with a charming French accent. “Walk this way,” said she. Mrs. Dick, ever vigilant of my eagerness to respond with a clever quip, jammed a loving forefinger into my ribs before I could answer that I would be glad to if I weren’t here for surgery.

It was clear that we were early, even for the surgery preparation staff, if the disinterested looks between yawns from the admitting nurse was any indication. She soon warmed up to us after a few of my clever quips, and once she was convinced that a thirsty Mrs. Dick wasn’t going to swipe her Timmy’s latte. After dressing for the slaughter, another of my little quips (this one appreciated neither by Mrs. Dick as indicated by that well-meaning forefinger, nor by the nurse as indicated by the re-appearance of the disinterested look), and teeth clenched for the worst, in went the IV painlessly (to my pleasant surprise), followed by the necessary relaxation and anti-nausea drugs. At 07:50, I no longer feared for my safety and I was ready for anything. “Lead on,” I said to the devoted Mrs. Dick and she did just that as we walked hand in hand to the operating room where I patiently sat while more drugs were pumped into my IV. The last thing I remember before passing out was seeing my beloved Mrs. Dick, a tear upon her delicately-weathered cheek, waving a handkerchief good-bye with one hand and fumbling for her rosary with the other.

More to come!

Beaver Toys

I bought Coraline a beaver to chew on.

What?

I didn't do it on purpose. Until I gave it to her, at Nana and Papa's house. With my thirteen-year-old (almost 14!) third cousin also present.  So, yeah, um ...

"Cora! Do you want this nice new beaver?"

"Cora! Where's your beaver?"

"Bite that beaver! Chew your beaver!"

"She's got her beaver down on the rug."

"Oh now she's licking her beaver."

"Give it to me! Give me your beaver!"

"I'm gonna get it! I'm gonna get your beaver!"

"Why is your beaver so wet? Is this spit? Is your beaver covered in spit?"

"This beaver has dog spit all over it."

"She sure loves her beaver."

A few weeks later, I found the beaver in Magpie's back yard.

"Is this Cora's beaver?" I asked, picking up a burlap-looking thing with a beaver tail sticking out of it.

"Yes," replied Magpie. "She turned it inside out."

"She turned her beaver inside out?"

Childish laughter ensued as I tossed it down.  Magpie picked it up next. 

"I don't believe it. Her beaver smells like fish."

"Her beaver smells like fish?"

"Her beaver smells like fish."

You can't make this stuff up.

Comic-Con Thirty-Three and a Half

(I got bored of the original title of my trilogy.)

Hawk and I determined that on Sunday, we'd get up bright and early because there was no fucking way I was missing the panel at noon.

Why the strong language, Red Panda?  You'd better have a dang good reason for that kind of nonsense!

Sunday's noon panel was Jonathan Frakes, Marina Sirtis, and Michael Dorn.

That is a very good reason.  Please continue.

Comic-Con opened at 10:00 so we were planning on being there around nine-thirty or ten or so, give or take. We determined an 8:00 start time would allow for showers, Hawk's hair-do, breakfast, and travel-time.

Naturally, neither of us wanted to get up at 8:00.  Two five-minute snoozes later, we determined it would be most appropriate to reset the alarm for 8:30. So we did that. Then, I made Hawk get up first because my legs weighed 800,000 kg each.

Yes, that's right folks, on the most important day of Comic-Con yet, I awoke to a fibromyalgia attack.  I don't need to bore you with the TMI details, but among my symptoms are legs that feel like cement pillars and a feeling like a transporter accident left a feral cat partially materialised in my gut. The longer I stayed in bed, the longer I could put off knowing just how bad it would be.

It actually wasn't too bad. Usually, it gets worse as I wake up. Today, it stayed as an even stiffness throughout my body. Perhaps—just perhaps—today was going to go my way.*

Anyway we made it to the convention a little after ten, despite Twitter's dire warnings that we better start lining up by 8:30.

Yeah right.

Today, the line up was outside. There were rumours that, perhaps, they hadn't oversold, that the fire marshal thing was all because they had let all the people into the lobbies of the BMO Centre Place Thingygummy and couldn't process them into the hall fast enough. That problem was easy to solve by having us all line up in the gorgeous spring morning.

Hard to be a hater on a day like this!

Hawk and I were in the line. Plenty of people were milling about. I don't know what they were up to. At one point, a wee boy in a Star Trek uniform said to his dad,

"Dad! Did you see the stormtrooper? Dad! A stormtrooper!" and his dad tried to pull him in the direction the dad was trying to mill.

"Dad! The stormtrooper! Dad! Dad! Dad! Do you see him!" and the dad just pulled him along, the poor kid walking backward, trying to get a better look at the stormtrooper.

I think I saw that happen at least three times, with three different small children, and three different adults in costume those poor kids probably thought were their stories come to life.

IT WAS SO CUTE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Okay but how's this for cute? The line was actually moving pretty quickly. We probably went fifty metres in ten minutes. However, I wasn't bored. There was so much to see. Like, this adorable mouse!

He had a friend, too, but he kept darting in and out of the bushes too quickly
for me to photograph him!  ADORBS

Okay I know, you don't care about the mice or the cute kiddies. You want Riker.

We made it in well before 11:00, but inside was more disorganisation of the kind that had plagued Comic-Con the day before. The guy at the door told us to go one way, but the signs pointed the other way, so we followed the signs first. At the end of the signs was a very angry volunteer yelling at people (who were yelling at him) saying to go the other way. So we went the other way, all the way around inside the building, with sign after sign indicating we (we being passholders) should go the other direction.

At the end of it, we discovered we'd arrived at the place where you went if your intent was to buy tickets. There, a VERY angry man told a volunteer to fuck herself. I felt bad for both of them. It wasn't the volunteer's fault that she didn't know what was going on, but she was representing an organisation that didn't bother organising anything. I understand why he blew his gasket.

Hawk and I found a way past these people and suddenly, we were at our destination, a mysterious place called The Corral. (Everything in this place had horsey names. The room for the horror film panel on Saturday was Palomino Room F.) The Corral was a stadium, and in The Corral would be the presentation by Jonathan Frakes et al.

Hawk and I wasted no time in gaining good seats and we hunkered down. Before Jonathan Frakes et al. was a panel with two voice actors and a writer from Futurama, a show Hawk enjoys, so we were good to just sit.

The Futurama panel was hiliarious, mostly because the voice actors were riotously funny dudes. I've seen maybe five or ten episodes of the show ever, maybe five years ago, and I still enjoyed the panel.

But now for the main event.

Frakes and Dorn take pictures of their fans. I start drooling.

They check out their pictures.  My camera almost shorts.

Marina Sirtis ran (literally ran) onto the stage late because, she claimed,
they took her to the wrong stage.

Several times during this very silly presentation, all three burst out into loud "OOOOOHHH CAAAANADAAAAAAAAAA"s. Frakes starts. They admit that's the only part of the song they know.

I kind of forget mostly what they talked about because it was too awesome. Mostly about hijinks on set. At one point, Frakes did his Commander Riker sideways walk for us, highly exaggerated. I swooned.

I'm such a psycho fan. This is embarrassing.

After that, Hawk and I hit the convention some more, eating some food, seeing the sites, killing time before the other panel we wanted to see: Sir Patrick Stewart at 4:00.

I saw the best costume.

I saw this, but I don't know what's going on. Imposters? Optical illusion?

Maybe because I don't read comic books I don't know about Spider-Man's children?

What's that? You want more Riker?

Well I guess I did meet him. Autographs cost $30 fricking dollars, but that was a small price to pay to meet my first crush! I had to get Hawk to check my teeth and stuff before I got to the front of the line and I was SO CLOSE to applying lip gloss, but I didn't want to make Hawk feel insecure. I don't think I've worn lip gloss just for him since our second date. Actually, the only reason I even had lipgloss was because my chapstick was missing.

OH MY GOD THAT'S COMMANDER RIKER TALKING TO ME

He thought it was weird that he was my first crush.  He said "Really?" and seemed surprised. I said "Well after the beard."

I am SO SUAVE. I can't believe he didn't sweep me up and run away with me right there.

After that we wandered around some more, me in an unbelieving haze, Hawk, well, I don't know how he felt but I imagine he was a bit concerned, especially when I looked at the hand Commander Riker Jonathan Frakes (I just keep doing that don't I) had shaken and said "I will never wash this hand again".

Poor Hawk.

I bought this:

Then we decided we'd better head back to The Corral to get seats for Patrick Stewart while seats could still be found. I mean, not only is he SIR PATRICK STEWART he is also CAPTAIN PICARD. Pretty big deal.

We got to The Corral about halfway through James Marster's presentation. James Marsters is another amazingly rad dude. I got a picture of him pouting, but we were pretty far away so it isn't exactly in focus.

I'm Spike, you wanna make something of it?

So that was pretty sweet. Then, it was Patrick Stewart time ... and that man is amazing. End of story.

I said, END OF STORY

-----------------------

*When the fibro attack is non-crippling and I don't have a migraine, especially on a weekend where I hadn't packed any underwear and almost got trapped by a fire marshal, yes, that is a shiny shiny silver lining.

Nerds and Geeks: Part II

This is a continuation of the epic and amazing story of my journey with Hawk to the Calgary Comic and Entertainment Expo. In my previous post, Nerds and Geeks: Part I, I explain that Hawk and I aren't total nerds even if we like some nerdy things, mentioned meeting the wicked cool Christian Potenza, and introduce you to my cousin NightMare.


THINGS THAT HAPPENED ON SATURDAY
We'd picked up the official Comic-Con guidebook on Friday, and decided we didn't need to get to the show until noon to see the first panel we were interested in.  


Little did we know, that was a huge mistake.


We wandered from our hotel to Eau Claire in Calgary and dined on eggs and toast and sausage at the Barley Mill, then wandered around some more because it was such a beautiful day.

Me foolishly patiently waiting for my noms at the Barley Mill.

Hawk and I consider our cool factor in the context of Eau Claire. Who's cooler? If you remember these photos by the end of this post, leave your vote in the comments.  

Hawk wasting precious time

Red Panda wasting precious time

Our wanderings finished, we meandered to the C-train and moseyed to the Bow Centre Place Thing for an afternoon of Comic-Con!

We arrived to a complete clusterfuck. People were milling about confusedly. The doors into the main hall were shut. We couldn't find a volunteer, but the coat check lady told us that they had closed the doors and no one was getting in. Hawk and I were pretty annoyed. It meant we were going to miss the Brent Spiner & Co. panel!

That's Lieutenant Commander Data, the android, to you non-fans aka "normal people", if any of you who read this blog can be considered "normal".

There was nothing for it.  We had to leave.  The people around us were ANGRY.

As we left, we saw hundreds of people with "Saturday Only" passes pinned to their chests.  My heart broke for them. Imagine buying a Saturday pass and arriving only to be shut out? I was SO MAD!

Hawk and I decided to go to Chinook Centre, a large Calgary mall along the C-train route, to kill time, and attempt to get back into the convention in a few hours.

While waiting for the train, I decide to turn to Twitter for help. What exactly was going on in there?

The Twitterverse was ANGRY.

The official @calgaryexpo Twitter feed gave all appearances of being a lying liar pants.  They said they didn't oversell.  Hawk and I doubted their story.

Turns out the fire marshal had come along and shut the place down. "If we don't get in later on, Hawk," declared I, "I am demanding one third of our money back!"

Hawk agreed that was a most judicious course of action.

So we went shopping and I'm very glad we did, because it's time for—say it with me—TMI!

"TOO!!! MUCH!!! INFORMATION!!!!!"

I forgot to pack underwear for this trip. Hawk had brought one extra pair, so on Friday night I'd slept in those, hand washed the pair I'd worn into town, and hung them to dry to wear on Saturday (which I did). I thought this was going to happen all three nights of our stay, but luckily, this mall had a GAP with $4 underwear for sale.

I bought three pairs and I was SO HAPPY.

This weekend was the first time Hawk had ever heard of "Steampunk". I knew about it because of Etsy, but mostly because of Regretsy. Hawk was so excited by his discovery that when we saw a dinosaur statue in the mall that was all gear-ey and stuff, we declared it steampunk, completely on-note with the weekend, and took a picture.

Exposed gears?  STEAMPUNK!

By the time we were ready to leave the mall, Twitter was reporting that there was still a line at Comic-Con, but people were being moved in in groups of 50 (or 100) every ten (or fifteen) minutes, depending on whom you believed.  We decided to head back to the convention because there was a panel on developing horror films that Hawk wanted to see*.

Not only did we make it, enjoy it immensely, and learn stuff, we also go to wander around the halls some more, buy some presents for Sandcat and Magpie, and see this!

Star Trek and Star Wars together again!  I love colliding universes!

After leaving, we did some more wandering and did some more goofy stuff.

Like wonder who thought this statue was a good idea.

What are you looking at, Hawk?

Not sure, Red Panda, but it's making me uncomfortable.

There was non-phallic local art to consider, too.

Cow Bench? Calgary, you so silly!
(Its official name is Cow Bench)

We spent the evening wandering around downtown, eating delicious food, earning a free dessert at Joey Eau Claire, and planning out how tomorrow would go better.  I obsessively checked Twitter over the next several hours, trying to get the real story on what went down with the fire marshal earlier that day, and wondering what the heck was going to happen tomorrow with all the Saturday-only passes now set to be honoured on Sunday.  

It turns out pretty much everyone who went to Comic-Con with a smartphone on Saturday was really bloody pissed with how things went down. As for the official Comic-Con Twitter feed? They still said they didn't oversell tickets.

Guess they were just incompetent.

------------------

*This seems to surprise people, but before his MBA, Hawk completed one year of technical film studies at SAIT (very prestigious) and completed his BA in film studies at the U of A.  He doesn't just love creepy movies, he knows what goes into them.  It's pretty rad.