Late Sunday Misadventures In Eating .....

*sigh*

Rupe had a feeling. Rupe knew it from the time he eye-spied the restaurant they were headed to: Boston's.

And it was situated next to a Chili's as well, another few paces further. More bad news. (Rupe knowers will know of Rupe's "fondness" for Chili's. There isn't one.)

Nothing good could come of that, he thought. But then .... Rupe was doom-saying even before he walked in the door.

So, instead, Rupe put on his "silver-lining, happy-happy good-time" hat and ventured in.

With a party of five in tow after our jaunt to the Aquarium Of The Pacific wherein lots of slimy and sandpapery creatures were felt and ogled over, everyone was hungry and ready for something good to eat. (Rupe was naturally hungry for seafood, prolly 'cause he had walked past a Bubba Gump Shrimp Company restaurant on the way to Boston's .....)

The hostess of Boston's led us through a bar area crammed with television screens full of sports programs and through a door to an outside patio. There were a few patrons outside and a couple waiters were busily cleaning a few hastily joined tables for our use. (Rupe won't harp on the fact there were still crumbs remaining on several of the chairs after the waiters' hurried wiping. Oops. Too late. Rupe already did.)

We sat and perused the menus. After a quick first glance, Rupe realized Boston's menu was reminiscent of Chili's menu: not much substance to tantalize the pallet. Rupe sighed once more and adjusted his "silver-lining, happy-happy good-time" hat that was slowly going askew.

"Drinks, anyone?" an almost-fresh-faced male waiter called out to us unexpectedly.

We ordered. The girls (Rupe's wife and her sister) ordered strawberry mojitos in an effort to try something different, the daughters were treated to virgin margaritas to make them feel grown up and Rupe ordered a monster-sized Tecate with lime.

"I'll have to check if the bartender can make virgin margaritas," the waiter announced. Rupe's wife looked at him, quizzically.

"Oh, I'm sure whoever's bartending can come figure it out," Rupe cajoled the server whilst rolling his eyes skyward for his wife's benefit, sharing a personal joke with her.

"I'm only eighteen, so I really don't know," the waiter confessed.

Uh-oh. Rupe smelled trouble. Rupe, again, adjusted his hat. The waiter went off puzzledly and disappeared.

"Disappeared" being the operative word here.

We scrutinized the menus further. And continued to do so for ten more minutes.

Rupe finally announced: "They might be aquiring the water for those virgin margaritas via osmosis, I think. And, luckily, the beer will be fresh, 'cause they're obviously growin' the hops on premises. S'long as it's cold, I'll forgive him."

We pondered our food selections another few minutes when "Sparky" finally arrived, refreshments in tow.

All seemed right with the world. Finally. And after our first few sips, it was. Food was ordered, the conversation continued.

Mere minutes passed when the littlest daughter announced she was getting cold. The al fresco atmosphere and cold virgin margarita had gotten to her, no doubt. Rupe and daughter traipsed off hand in hand to the car to get her hooded sweater. A bit hurumphingly, we passed Bubba Gump's once again .....

On our return, we saw our orders had arrived. The specialty pizza the girls ordered was the wrong one, but Rupe's wife and sister had explained it was fine. Sparky had tried to cover it up and intervene, but it was all right they offered; they'd have it anyway. Rupe - having struggled over what to order and still dreaming of the seafood delights across the street - tried mightily to keep a straight face at the sad specimens of potato skins that were placed before him. Rupe's daughters were presented with burgers and fries.

"May I get some hot sauce?" Rupe asked. Sparky said he'd be right out with it.

All seemed in order. But Rupe noticed one daughter's face after the first bite of her burger.

"This tastes funny" she offered. "It's kind of weird."

Rupe took a nibble. The taste was indeed weird. And difficult to explain. The meat was reminiscent of ground beef, but with added extras to "enhance" the flavor. It was as if it had been deep fried, seasoned with floor sweepings and seared quickly on a grill that hadn't been cleaned in a month. The taste wasn't necessarily unpleasant, but it wasn't indicative of any burger Rupe'd ever eaten.

Sparky appeared a few minutes later to check on our order. "The burgers have to be exchanged for something else," it was explained. "They taste goofy and my daughters can't eat them." Sparky tried extracting a reason out of Rupe, but was stopped in mid-sentence with requests for replacement orders of spaghetti. Sparky at least got the hint. He took away the faux-burgers and was off.

Rupe apologized to the girls, stating this happened from time to time at restaurants. It wasn't the waiter's fault, Rupe 'splained. Rupe offered the girls potato skins slathered with cheese and onions and sour cream and jalapeños; they refused.

Sparky came back out and said their spaghettis would only take a few minutes. Rupe nodded in understanding. Sparky apologized and Rupe told him it was fine, not to worry about it.

It was under five minutes when the spaghettis arrived. The girls seemed pleased. But ..... Sparky failed to give'em forks. Spoons alone don't work when you're eating spags. Forks were ordered. Sparky huffed off quickly.

Meanwhile, the girls began eating with their spoons. Unsuccessfully, of course. "Use your fingers, that's fine," Rupe surrendered to them. They were happy to be doing so with Rupe's approval.

Rupe noticed there were huge meatballs accompanying the orders. Uh-oh. More trouble.

But the little one grabbed a golfball-sized meatball and took a hanker out of it, oblivious to the fact her burger was ousted a few minutes prior.

"Do you like that?" Rupe queried.

"It's pretty good," she said.

Rupe tried one. Yup. They were pretty good. Obviously, they were not prepared by the same cook that came up with the failed burger recipe.

Sparky reappeared. Forkless.

Rupe kept control: "Sparky? Forks?" He apologized yet again and ran off at an exaggeratedly frantic pace.

"I think Boston's needs to reassess their Wait Staff Preparedness Program," Rupe commented.

A few missteps more and we were out of the place. Rupe could finally take off his "silver-lining, happy-happy good-time" hat. A mental note was jotted in Rupe's super secret little black book: *Boston's: Just Say No*

Rupe and Company once more passed Bubba Gump's on the way back to the car. The neon lights mocked Rupe with their warm glow. A passing garbage receptacle was awarded Rupe's hat.

Rupe sighed, put the "dinner" behind him, shunned the neon lights and enjoyed the company of his family instead .....

................................ Ruprecht ( STOP )

Gabriella

My daughter's three year-old goldfish died Thursday.

"Gabriella" was a kick and a half. Never have I seen more spunk in a fish than in this one.

And in a goldfish at that.

And yes ... you read rightly: The fish was three years old.

Amazing .....

I think that I shall never again see
A goldfish live to the age of three,
My daughter's fish, Gabriella, she
Birthday'd thrice and much more, you see .....

That fish, she ate ..... and ate some more,
She must've ate 'til her sides were sore.
But that's okay, she gave us much more;
She gave us pleasure, smiles, stuff of lore.

The stuff of lore, you see, because
My daughter's fish, the fish she was
Was the biggest goldfish with fins of fuzz
And girth and hunger and all that was.

Gabriella the fish, never in a daze,
That fish was one who could surely graze.
She ate with gusto, with verve, for days,
Our astounding fish never failed to amaze.

She literally jumped from the water to feed,
She leapt, she twirled, to consume her need.
She entertained hugely, whether she fed or peed,
That fish was family ..... for certain ..... indeed.

So it was sad to see her begin to list,
Her final day would not be missed.
We would all be there, fate could not twist
Our last view of her and the tank she'd kissed.

And so, with solemnity, we say farewell
To our little three year-old fish we all thought swell.
With her gaping mouth that appeared to yell,
Our close family fish who we will miss, oh well.

So good bye, Gabriella ..... you've left a big hole
That will never be filled, not with shovel nor bowl.
Dear fish, you've given your ultimate toll.
You'll be missed, dear fish ..... swim now to your final shoal .....

............................ Ruprecht ( STOP )

"Birdbath" .....

Rupe works with Tommy T, a snappy-dressing computer operator.

His shirts're usually pressed cleanly.

He wears cuff links often.

His hair is coiffed all nice 'n' stuff.

He has an odd, yet pleasant, sense of humor which compliments Rupe's demeanor in the office and we often bounce our wits off'n each other.

And .....

Tommy T has Tourette's.

Yeppers. "Tommy T" (his name has been changed so his cable company doesn't recognize he is the subject of this blog) is a Tourette's sufferer. Or so he claims.

Rupe has the tendency to believe this, as Tommy does exhibit certain signs of Tourette's.

The thing is, it's not a problem. Not one whit.

Tommy even proclaimed on Day One of his employment he had Tourette's. But not the derogatory, ostentatious kind of Tourette's. And not the facial tic, must-scratch-that-itch sort of Tourette's.

Tommy T's Tourette's is a lot more fun and lighthearted. He goes so far as to make fun of his ownself because of it, matter'n fact.

Example: Sitting at his computer, when something goes amiss, his response is usually a hearty "Eat it!" Why? No one is certain. But it's a frustration thing, exhibited when a program command doesn't go his way or somesuch. You can't help but chuckle at it.

And Rupe goes a bit further. Every time Rupe hears Tommy T cough out an "Eat it!", Rupe starts humming Michael Jackson's "Beat It". It works in a strange sort of complimentary way. And Tommy T gets a kick out of it as well.

Other signs of Tommy T's Tourette's exhibit themselves in his need to sing abstract, out-of-context song lyrics. This thrills Rupe to no end. 'Cause Rupe's all about the music, so Rupe doesn't mind this in the least.

Matter'n fact, Rupe works those lyrics into guesses of what Tommy's singing snippets of. And Tommy, well ... he's often amazed at the answers Rupe comes up with. Many times, Tommy knows not what he's singing and Rupe'll inform him of such. "Really?!?" Tommy will query. "I didn't even know I knew that song!" he'll exclaim.

Yes, there is the occasional sharp "Birdbath!" that Tommy almost shouts out, making everyone turn in his direction. So there is a bit of blurtiness that ensues. But, when Tommy himself laughs at his exclamations, you know all is right with the world.

Once, while in a meeting with the boss down the hall, Rupe and boss heard Tommy shout out a string of incoherencies that were so comical Rupe's boss was practically doubled over on the floor with laughter. "Do you have a problem sitting next to Tommy?" he asked after his laughter had died down a bit.

"Nah. Tommy's fine. It's not a problem," Rupe replied. "Though, you may want to tighten up the observational analysis portion of your interview process next time around," Rupe jokingly suggested. Rupe's boss chuckled and shook his head knowingly.

Tommy T has Tourette's.

And Rupe loves the guy .....

........................................... Ruprecht ( STOP )

Weekend Get-Away .....

Just a few notes on the just-concluded long weekend spent shuttling between Carson City and Reno, Nevada.

Chapter One
In Order To Be Hotel Security, Your “Fun Gland” Must Be Removed

As we pulled up to the hotel for the first time in a calm, quiet Carson City early Friday morning, we could see the girls bouncing up and down waving frantically to us from their second story hotel window. I saw my father-in-law in the background gazing down at us as well. The girls knew we had arrived. They were just as anxious to see us as we were to see them.

Up to the room we went. Multiple bear hugs and kisses later and a good night from the FIL who made off to his room, the littlest one decided to come down to the car with me to help carry a few things up. As we left the room for the car, I spied a couple of security personnel heading our way.

I turned to my daughter walking beside me and asked “Do you remember what room we're in?”

“Yes!” came the confident response: “Room 210.”

As the security guards passed, one of them turned and asked “Did I hear her say you came from room 210?”

“Yes, you did,” I told the guard as I looked over my shoulder.

“Because … we're headed there right now,” I was informed.

“Why is that?” I puzzled.

“It seems there's been a lot of noise coming from that room” he explained. “The room below 210 called and complained of pounding going on from above, so we were just on our way to check it out.”

“Very interesting, because I just got to the room,” I confessed to the guard. “We just rolled in … we just got here.”

I walked the short distance back our room, security guards on one side, my daughter – wide eyed and taking everything in - on the other.

As my wife answered the door (I hadn't a key yet), she was surprised to see all of us standing there. I explained the situation. She mimicked my few sentences to the guards about just having arrived.

“Have you guys been making any noise?” I asked both the girls in the presence of the guards

”We just jumped up and down when we saw your car and waved at you,” the eldest revealed.

And then it dawned on me: Their exuberance was the culprit. Apparently, midnight trouncing about is a bane to the gambling contingent on the lower floor that decides to turn in early.

I addressed the security goons and apologized. Naturally, I blamed my (non-present) father-in-law for the commotion.

And all was well with the world.

I promised them I wouldn't swing from the light fixtures a few hours hence in respect of our neighbors sleeping habits … but all bets were off come the morrow. I was met with a stare from one guard to which I offered not only a “Good evening!”, but a hearty “See ya tomorrow … same Bat time, same Bat channel!”

Off to the car we went to retrieve luggage.

Good times.

Chapter Two
The Cat Toes're The Best Part

There were fourteen of us. Kids. Grandparents. Friends. Cousins. Outlaws all. So, when it came time for dinner, choosing a place was always “a blast”.

Chili's was a disaster the previous evening. (Is there ANYTHING good on that menu?!?) We were strewn between two different tables (granted: not the establishment's fault), my wife's burger arrived raw, the atmosphere was claustrophobic and the two year-old nephew I sat next to was demanding to be played with the entire dinner session.

So, Saturday night it was off to a Chinese hole-in-the-wall buffet my father-in-law spied on the way back from Reno.

I was one of the first to get to the entrance of the place. Right there at the front door, an announcement glared back at me. “Lost: Black & White Cat.” As my wife approached, I thumbed her gaze toward the flyer taped to the glass.

“Look what's on special tonight,” I told her. She made a face.

I held the door for her as she entered.

I took an exaggerated deep breath. “Yup. Smells like tabby to me!” She chuckled a bit while grimacing.

I opened the door and let my father-in-law and brother-in-law in on the joke. They rolled with laughter.

Despite the fact the place was a hole-in-the-wall – and the fact steaming cat wafted interestingly through the air – dinner was quite tasty …..

Good times.

Chapter Three
Shoulders Are Made To Bleed

I promised the girls I would swim with them all afternoon Saturday.

We dove for quarters for what seemed like hours on end. I tossed the eldest in the air 'til my arms hurt. The youngest leapt off my shoulders until I had permanent gouges depressed into my shoulders. I could've sworn I saw blood oozing from them round about the 100th leap. I made my father-in-law pay for hiding a sunken quarter with his foot. And I kicked a nineteen year-old's ass by drowning him every chance I got when we went head-to-head after the same coin.

Good times, indeed.

Chapter Four
Carson City Casino Cafés're Cold, Y'Know

As she came out with everyone's breakfast Sunday morning, the waitress announced she brought extra toast ‘cause the cook burnt more than he toasted. Everyone looked at each other at that unusual comment, but no one said anything. (A rarity.) We had so much sourdough toast at the table we could have formed a sourdough maze and charged admission.

Ten minutes into breakfast, I felt the room go cold. Downright fridged.

And then I saw the reason why.

My brother-in-law hadn't been served and he was starting to slow burn. You could see tendrils of steam radiate from beneath his baseball cap (which he wore at the table). As the waitress came by to check on everyone, my sister-in-law asked his missing food. It seems she never got his order. Or he never gave it. Or sumpin'.

She apologized profusely and told him she would have a plate for him in a matter of a minute. He gushed icily that it was fine … he didn't want anything after all. He was in a molded funk, for sure.

He shifted into high gear – high asshat gear, that is – and made a big 'ole scene. The poor waitress didn't know what to do, so she simply retreated to the kitchen.

I offered half my omelet to him, which he refused. My wife hushed me.

I told him there was plenty of toast and I was accosted with Superman heat vision eyes from several of my (out) in-laws.

I mentioned out of the corner of my mouth it could be worse … it could be Carson City cat hash and gravy he'd be eating. Several Smucker’s orange marmalade packets were positioned to come flying headward if I didn't shut up post haste.

The girls just giggled.

At breakfast, there were good times, too.

Chapter Five
Puking Hinders Not The Double Down

My sister-in-law complained of a stomach ache the night before. Remedies were exchanged. Charcoal pills were offered. An early evening's turndown was inevitable for her and she bowed out as gracefully as her green tinged face allowed.

Come the morning, she was at breakfast ... but understandingly didn't eat anything. She had slept miserably. She was grouchy and had bags beneath her eyes. The green glow was gone from her cheeks, replaced by palidness.

Half an hour later, as everyone was moving their luggage to the cars, she was mysteriously absent from the group.

It so happened I had passed her in the casino while checking out; she was sitting at the blackjack table, merrily tossing chips about in front of her.

Back at the parking lot, my brother-in-law was grumbling … still peeved about the earlier breakfast, but he'd moved on to something different to moan about.

“Yeah … she's too sick to pack, but she ain't too sick to plant her ass at the blackjack table,” I was informed.

Good times at the back end of the weekend as well.

....................... Ruprecht ( STOP )

It’s The "Cheesiness" That Beckons …..

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The fact that you're here, that you're reading this blog, says something about you.

You could have gone off on your own and went somewhere else. No one twisted your arm to come here.

You could have said “Enough is enough! I can't sit in front of the computer another minute!”, gotten up and walked off in a huff.

You could have decided a restroom break was in order …. a drink needed to be procured …. the dog needed walking. You could have decided any number of things.

But, instead, it was two simple things that kept you here:

• 1) It was the ease in which the link to this blog was effortlessly clicked; and
• 2) It was the succulent looking Velveeta image above that called your name silently and beckoned you to stay.

Admit it. You know exactly what you want. Nothing more or less. It was the cheese you wanted – right? It’s all right. No need for embarrassment. No need to shun your inner need for the cheese.

It’s the warm gooeyness that attracts you. The tang of sharp cheddar that holds sway over you. The creaminess of it all when cheesy warmness dribbles over some foodstuff made all the better with a creamery goat cheese concoction. It’s the cheese from Philadelphia you slather on that toasted bagel in the morning that you long for. It’s the stringy stuff on your baked potato you adore so much. It’s the pepper-infused “moots” you wedge up and add to your antipasto. And you know it.

Now … some say (as I often do): “Use Velveeta … go to jail.” That should be a constitution everyone should hold dear to their hearts. So … why do I use the image above? I use the Velveeta name and image not for the taste factor … but for the cheese factor.

Yes. The cheese factor. Or, rather, the cheesy factor.

‘Cause there ain’t nuthin’ “cheesier” than Velveeta, let me tell you. And I ain’t talkin’ taste, folks.

Not. One. Bit.

So getcher nachos out, guys. (No … that wasn’t a euphemism.) Unwrap them Triskets and Melba toastsis and Cheeze-Its.

‘Cause the “cheese” is comin’. And it don’t smell like teen spirit.

It smells like Limburger, baby ….. and it's oh, so good.

................................ Ruprecht ( STOP the cheesiness )

Gas, On The Other Hand, Is A Bargain .....

Look .....

To each his (or her) own.

But there's a line. Seriously. And I think it was crossed on a little shopping outing over the weekend.

I don't remember when it was ... a few years ago, I think ... my wife and I were walking through Nordstrom on our way back from some mission just accomplished in the mall.

Casually, we strolled the main aisle through the middle of said Nordstrom and we had to veer either left of right. There were a couple mannequins in our path. As we began to walk around them, I went up to one mannequin nattily dressed in some sort of capris and top ensemble. It just so happened both the price tags were dangling near each other and I reached out to take a gander. What I saw shocked the bejeebers out of me:

The price on the capris pants was $550.00. I shit you not. The cost of the top? $800.00.

"Holy Crap!" I exclaimed out loud to my wife:

"This outfit costs $1,300.00 ... !!!"

People turned and stared. My wife - never so embarrassed in all her life, she would later confess - grabbed me by the hand and with as much dignity as she could muster under the circumstances led me out of the store at a jaunty clip.

Fast forward to yesterday. Another errand, another excursion to the mall. And yes ... much to my wife's chagrin, another stroll through Nordstrom, my personal "favorite place to shop".

You see, the wife was out of perfume. And it just so happened she had a handful of Nordstom gift cards to exchange. So it was into the store we went ... but not before being admonished:

"You are not to say two words when we go in here, do you understand?" she chided.

"I can say anything else, though, right?" I asked. "Just not 'two' and 'words'. Got it."

I was given a look that froze the words coming out my mouth right there in midair. I wisely lowered my eyes in subjugation and opened the door for her.

It was a short stroll to the perfume counters. Her brand was quickly located, a gift box was acquired and a free gift pouch with unknown goodies was given to her for her efforts.

Meanwhile, I took time to peruse the men's colognes. I found one I thought rather unique and gave the sample bottle a squirt. "Hey!" I was yelled at. It was the wife, coming my way. "What are you doing?!?" "Just passing the time," I confessed.

Into the mall we went ... without an incident to be told of.

Thus far.

But on the way back an hour later, we needed again to pass through Nordstrom. And this time, even the wife was game for a looksy at a few things being hawked. (Though, I don't know if you can really call salespeople selling the wares of Nordstrom "hawking". Not at some of the prices I saw.)

We passed a shoe department. A pair of glisteny high heels beckoned me. I went over and nonchalantly lifted one. "How much? Care to take a guess?" I asked the wife.

"You guess," she replied, looking at me askew.

"Hhhmmmmmm ...... it is Nordstrom. I'll wager 175 bucks."

I wasn't far off. The pair weighed in at $160.00. I was only slightly aghast. I reasoned that must be a bargain.

Then, I saw some goofy looking plaid shoes. They were Bum Berry's or Huckleberry's or somesuch ... I don't know. These were probably the ugliest shoes I had ever seen ... ever. They were those dopey looking ones that kind of look like a sneaker, but they're a slip on shoe, without the heal. They were plaid, a brown and white combo, and they looked like a really bad picnic table cloth that didn't have anywhere else to call home so someone decided it would make a good shoe design.

We're talkin' hideous: Damn. Fugly. Shoes.

I hefted one and flipped it over to see the price; that's when my eyes about boinged out their sockets:

$275.00 for a pair of shoes that were missing the heal. Seriously.

I looked at my wife who was looking at me comically. "You ain't seen nothing yet," was her only comment with a wry smile.

Next we perused the sunglasses. She tried on a pair or two and asked if I liked any of them.

"Those ones look really good on you," I admitted at an oversize pair she donned. The $175.00 price tag, however, left me breathless.

"Let's get out of here," I told her and grabbed her hand.

"It could be a lot worse ... I could shop here all the time," I was told. "The only reason I come here is to get perfume or cash in gift cards."

I was relieved to here that.

On the way out, I spied a really spiffy looking Hawaiian shirt adorned with pineapples. It was earthy and comfortable-looking. And it was my last hurrah of the outing, so I took the bait. (I have a fondness for summer Hawaiian shirts - "pineapple shirts", I call them. I need a new pineapple shirt for summer every year and usually get one for Christmas. And, yes, they usually have a pineapple on them.)

$275.00. The shirt retailed at $275.00. My wife scooped my jaw off the ground and led me out of the store.

As we exited, I exclaimed: "That's insane. Completely, totally insane. And people actually pay for that stuff. Matter'n fact, it's beyond insane. It's obscene," I gushed.

We entered the car and I continued: "Look - I understand if you're some highfalutin', high-end personal shopper to the stars. Or if you're employed by someone who requires you be dressed to the nines ... but those prices are ridiculous. I mean ... you can't even walk out of there with a complete outfit for under a grand! Don't the people that shop there know we're supposedly in the midst of a recession ... ?!?"

The wife just shook her head at me silently. I turned on the radio.

Pink Floyd's "Money" was playing .....

.............................................. Ruprecht ( STOP )

P.S. Anyone that can identify the mall in the picture above wins a prize - specifically, the movie it was featured in .....

A Few Comic-Con Moments .....

So .... I've been trying to get this going for days now - a synopsis of my 2008 Comic-Con experience .... and I've come up blank. Blankety-blank, matter'n fact.

There's so much to convey, it's mind-boggling. And probably would be painfully boring to most that will read this. Suffice to say the entire event was fun-filled, frantic, overwhelming, exhausting .... yet completely satisfying.

So, what I'll do in my overwhelming-enormitousnous will be to simply jot a few notes, post a few photos and blather a bit of commentary. Otherwise, I will be blogging for a week. And if'n I do that, it'll be inconsiderate.

But I do have to highlight a specific moment that made The Con special for me. Bear with me - I will point it out detailingly and glaringly.

The Con began with a Wednesday night Preview Night and went on through Sunday.

My buddy I went with - who I go with every year - turned to me Saturday afternoon and made the first move:

"Whatter you gonna do?"

"I dunno. Whatter you gonna do?" I asked.

"I dunno," was the response.

"You done?" I queried.

"Yup" came the reply.

He and I do this every year. It's an ESP thing.

There comes a point where we've seen all we need to see, gotten all we've needed to got, met everybody we've come to meet and that's all there is to it ..... even if there is another day or so left. (In recent memory, I can't remember having stuck around for the final Sunday of The Con .....)

So ... it was off to Dick's Last Resort for the conclusion of a spifficated, long weekend to quaff a few beers. (But that's another story .....)

But, how 'bout a few photogs 'n' stuff?

Of course, there were amazing busts and creations that were drooled over. Below are a few I gawked at, covetously .....

Asajj Ventress and Count Dooku from Star Wars .....



A spiffy rendition of a Storm Trooper .....



Ursula from The Little Mermaid
(Available early next year. S'on my list of "things to get" .....)

There were, of course, numerous Tom Foolery costumed characters to be seen and bumped into .....

Some were so realistic looking,
it was as if you were transported right back into the '60's .....



Others, not so much.
(Proof that "Elvis Is Everywhere". He's even in Storm Troopers .....)



And I have no idea who these guys were,
but they'd been wandering 'round for days.
So I had to get a picture with'em .....

Then, there was frolickry and monkey business to commit:

Sketches from redheads to snag .....



Icons to get photos with .....



Daring-do costumed (and rackified!) super-heroines to be conquered by .....



Security personel to lend a restful back to .....



Luchadores to be chided .....
(Yes, that's my buddy in the red mask .... asshat)



And, naturally, celebrities to snap pictures of .....
(Zachary Levi from Chuck and Zachary Quinto, Sylar from Heroes ...
Zack Q. plays Spock in the upcoming Star Trek film, by the by .....)



Of course, there were a few comics to acquire .....
(This'un ("Hot Mexican Love Comics") was "hot off the press" ...
... as you can tell from the oven mitt being worn)



"Hotels" to be slept in .....
(Yes ... the first night we stayed in a room of a house
with nothing but a light and a floor to sleep on ... literally ...
... and it wasn't a terrible sleep at all.
The bathroom, however, was un-walk-in-able .....)



As well as ravenous zombies wandering the streets to be eaten by .....
(I'm on the ground, barely in the picture,
with entrails being spilt on the sidewalk.
Damned zombies ..... always hungry, always attacking)

Good times all around.

Now, the defining highlight of The Con for me:

The gentlemen in the photo above are Jim Warren (left) and Verne Langdon (right). (I've no clue who the guffawing bonehead is in the middle.) I was passing by and noticed Jim, the publisher of Famous Monsters Of Filmland, an old monster magazine I frequented in my youth. I had to meet him, tell a quick story and get his autograph.

While in line, a security chick came by handing out one dollar bills. She explained they were from Jim Warren. He was concerned by all the fans waiting in line. He knew the wait was taking some time (there were a few asshats that wanted everything under the sun signed by Mr. Warren) and he wanted to show his appreciation.

As I finally got up to the front of the line, I didn't notice who Verne Langdon was right away. I'd never seen him previously. Verne was the creator of all the spiffy rubber monster masks that graced the "Captain Company" ads in Famous Monsters. What a thrill! I remembered reading Famous Monsters as a lad and being envious of those Dracula and Frankenstein monster adornments, but didn't have the funds to afford them.

Welp ..... up I went to meet Verne firstly. He was gracious and warm and a big bear of a guy, genuinely thrilled to be there. I told him my tale and he took time to listen considerately. I asked if I could get a photo with he and Jim once I was done talking with the both of them. "It's expected!" he cried.

I moved on to Jim Warren. I extended my hand warmly and told him: "Mr. Warren, I have two things to tell you ....."

He got up out of his seat, leaned over the table toward me, put both his hands on my shoulders grandfatherly-like, looked deeply into my eyes and asked kiddingly with a smile: "Are these going to be long stories?" I cracked up and assured him they were not.

I told him Famous Monsters was a forbidden read by my mother those long years ago, but I snuck them in my room after clandestinely purchasing them at my local 7/11. And I read them voraciously, I told him. I remembered his name on every issue and wondered who this guy was that published this wonderful magazine. So it was a thrill to meet him.

I went on to tell him I've been to many conventions and not once, not one single time, had I ever had anyone supply ME with money to get an autograph. It was always the other way around.

"So ... what's the deal with handing out free money?" I asked.

He regaled me:

"Let me tell you something: All those artists and celebrities that charge outrageous amounts of money to give out their autographs have forgotten who it was that made them famous in the first place. I'm thrilled to have you come up and grace me with a request for a John Hancock or a picture. You, sir, are MY fan ... and that's why I give out money to you."

Un. Freakin'. Heard. Of. I was thrilled to hear this from him. I thanked him mightily for his time and consideration, shook his hand warmly and told him I wasn't leaving without a photo of he and Verne and I if it was all right. He insisted.

Around the table I went. I told Verne to keep seated (he was severely handicapped and it was difficult for him to stand) but he wouldn't hear of it. I helped him up and, while doing so, Jim stood on the chair he was sitting in to let everyone know who was boss. I turned to put my arm 'round him once I'd assisted Verne upright and doubled over in laughter at Jim's theatrics.

The result is the photo you see above.

It was a defining moment for me. Noteworthy and special as all get out. Jim even signed that dollar bill for me.

There's tons more to tell, but that's enough. A "Part Two" might be in order later.

Naturally, 2009 is anxiously being anticipated .....

......................................... Ruprecht ( STOP )