July 17, 2008

No, No. I'm Home Tonight.

I'm not in Austin for the Defending the Dream Conference.

I'm not in San Francisco for the BlogHer Conference. (But please—call that city "Frisco." It makes people from the Bay Area go all red in the face, and it's fun to watch. Like anthropomorphized lava lamps, all of 'em.)

On the other hand, I will be in San Diego next week for Comic-Con (no, I'm not a fangirl; I will be there, as Joan Didion once wrote about the experience of going to college and thereby exploring the realm of the abstract, "on a forged passport"). But I'll be digging it anyway: I love the SD convention center, and the nearby gas lamp district with all those bitchin' art galleries. I'll be breaking in my new videocam at the convention, though I cannot vouch in advance for the quality of the footage.

But let me know if you'll be nearby and might feel an overwhelming urge to buy me a good cup of coffee (or a martini, for that matter). It's what you'd expect: there are certain parties I must attend, and those that I can blow off. So try me.

And I'll most definitely be at Siggraph this August. (Though the Free Pass Fairy hasn't been here yet. Hm. Free Pass Fairy, are you reading? Chop, chop.) I've been trying to talk the other locals into getting a room/suite for one night downtown so I can crash in his/her/their/its room instead of having to drive back home. But none of my friends seem to understand that my need to party trumps that $200 or whatever it is that's burning a hole in their pocket. (I have no idea what rooms cost in downtown Los Angeles. I don't care. I only know that I'm being asked to engage in mature behavior by attenuating my drinking, and that the very idea is offensive to me. Someone was supposed to simply take care of that problem, and I'm suffering. Suffering.)

So if you're going to be in L.A. for that computer graphics thingamabob in August, let me know. Especially if you've got a room. I'll be by around 2:30 a.m. with a sleeping bag and a bad case of the giggles. If you try to cop a feel, I'll blow your brains out with my Glock. But in the friendly way. The good way. I happen to b a great shot when I'm in my cups.

Where I am, tonight, if you must know, is in Glendale, California: I'm playing The Slider Game. The Slider Game is that fun little romp in which one opens various windows in the condominium, figuring out which ones will let in the most noise. Or, rather, the least amount of noise, but the maximum amount of air. This involves computing the way voices bounce off of the neighborhood's closest swimming pools and various external walls. At least, it would if I were one of you engineering types—but I'm not. Instead, I'm employing the Empirical Method to see how well I can cross-ventilate this place without enduring too many screams of childish laughter from the local kids, or too many earnest discussions over strong coffee in Armenian. (Because earnest people make me cranky, no matter what language they are speaking.)

Now some idiot is going to suggest that I turn on the A/C. No. We do not turn on the A/C unless the temperature reaches 100 degrees. Did my forebears, crossing the Oregon Trail in their covered wagons, go around turning on the air when the ambient temperatures were in the double-digits? They did not. They merely had an extra glass of pinot grigio that afternoon as they watered the horses. Or, if all their friends were having fun in Austin, TX, or in SF, CA at some sort of blog-related conference, they treated themselves to an extra olive in their martinis that evening as they circled the wagons.

The next morning, they started out again, ferrying the rest of their charges out here to the West Coast for whatever reasons people came West in those days. (Gold, or agriculture, or filmmaking, or computer programming, or defense subcontracting/space exploration: it's all the same, no?)

I come from pioneer stock, and I'm tough. No air-conditioning for me. It's cooling down, anyway. I might have some mango-pineapple juice, though. The white-trash-WASP forebears were way into that stuff as well.

Posted by Attila Girl at July 17, 2008 05:36 PM | TrackBack

I'm an idiot. Sue me. Turn the bloody aircond on.

Better for your health, anyways.

Posted by: Gregory at July 17, 2008 11:27 PM

Really? That would depend on the quality of the system, and the cleanliness of the filter--and whether any mold or mildew resided therein.

Keep in mind that the humidity around here is so low that temperatures that cause genuine suffering in sultrier climates--80s and 90s--simply aren't as bad here.

The disadvantage being that we have to power down the liquids and watch our sun exposure: as I'm sure you're well aware, most of those towering palm trees one sees in pictures of SoCal are imports. It's really just a desert that happens to feature an ocean nearby.

On the West Side of Los Angeles a lot of homes aren't even made with air conditioning. (At least, they weren't before the McMansions went up.) Most of the builders after WWII assumed that if things got warm, people would simply open their windows and get the sea breeze.

But now I have to go find some warm socks: It's 7:00 a.m., and a bit chilly in here. Naturally, being the freak I am, I'm keeping the windows open and letting as much of that air in as I can . . . what are you guys going to DO with me?

Posted by: Attila Girl at July 18, 2008 06:04 AM

There's a great coffeehouse near the convention center that's in an historical-landmark house, painted all black, called Cafe Noir. (http://www.yelp.com/biz/cafe-noir-san-diego_) And there's lots of great (albeit expensive) martinis just a block or two away from the con center.

Posted by: Danny Barer at July 18, 2008 11:24 AM

Martinis cost money? Since when?

Posted by: Attila Girl at July 18, 2008 01:40 PM

When its hot out I like to sit around in my underwear talking to myself in a faux southern accent and when people ask, and they do, I tell them I'm reviving a Tennessee William's play they've never heard of.

Posted by: Sejanus at July 18, 2008 02:18 PM

Is it true that my husband and a friend of his were running lines from "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf" and caused gossip amongst the neighbors?

Did I get that story right? 'Cause there's something very cool about that . . . not sure if that's from the H-wood house, or the apartment house before it. Or if I just made the idea up years ago on my own.

Posted by: Attila Girl at July 18, 2008 06:21 PM

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