No, I'm Not Your Stalker (Reprise)

I will be attending Conflux in Portland, OR, next month, so I cruised through some websites of local clubs, bands, DJs, etc., to get a feel for the Darkchylde community's building energy...

And that's when I found him.

Shaun of the Dead

Yup. I stumbled onto his site and actually squealed at my desk:
"AAAAAAAAAAAAA! Ohmygawd - is that really...? It is!! It. Is. AAAAA ha ha ha ha!"

Luckily, no one's in the office, today, or I would have had a lot of explaining to do.

I make a sincere effort to protect the identity of those persons mentioned here, so there are a few things about this gent I left out or altered just a bit.... I only reposted his picture because it was already accessible through a club website.

But I knew it was him, and, after spending 30 minutes absorbing all the little details, my suspicions were confirmed.

And he knows MST3K.

I'm such a dork.

... I need a new hobby.

No, I'm Not Your Stalker (Part Deux)

Voyeurism: Scopophilia; the tendencies or behavior of a voyeur (an obsessive observer of sordid or sensational subjects).

For those of you who have been around since the beginning, you will remember my earlier entry on Shaun of the Dead... Who is, undoubtedly, unaware of that little post.

And he's not the only subject worthy of obsessive scrutiny... Oh, no.


I think I'm in love.


Meet Jodi of Zanesville, OH. Biggest Def Leppard fan in the universe, kick-ass mother and wife: stalk-worthy.

I bet this woman could drink me under the table while spanking Joe Elliott into submission. Her playlist makes me want to present my wrists, manacle-ring side up.

And she loves

Eddie Izzard as much as I do; seems we like our lovelies as we like our coffee: covered in bees...

Jodi, please come to CA to visit Kevin... I'm sure he would love the chance to make out with you, too.

[UPDATE: THERE'S A BEE IN MY KITCHEN RIGHT NOW - 11:05 PM! It's fate, I tell you!]


Meet Chuck, of Denver, CO. I have no freaking clue who he is, but I knew he was gold when I read his profile on OKCrazy (FYI: 'wooing' = low-grade OKC spam e-mail equivalent of "whuzzup, send me a pic of yo' naked torso"):

"About me:
If you even DARE consider wooing me, I swear to GOD I will find out where you live, break into your home, crap in your kitchen sink, use all your bras and panties in your undies drawer to wipe my butt, and help your cat pile the corpses of every mouse, bird, and squirrel in the neighborhood in the middle of your livingroom floor...and then maybe your cat and I will rent a movie or something. Who knows?

"You should message me if:
Hmmmm. I guess, for one thing, you can write me if you want to engage in some good, creative lunacy for starters. Or brain trading. Or hair sniffing. It'll be fun.

I find I'm instinctively treating this thing more as a message board rather than a vehicle for getting somebody in the sack. (None of you are actually having sex, are you? Admit it.) So please be at liberty to freely spew your vomit into my inbox without the fear that I'll put it into jars and make an altar to you or something. (Unless you want to specifically request something like. I'll fax you the paperwork.)"

Tell me YOU don't want to build him an alter. (you know you do)

Turns out there's more to be enjoyed on Live Journal:

Anyone read about that couple who got in a fight over which gang should initiate their toddler? Chuck did.

I follow his LiveJournal postings, many of which leave me laughing and, sometimes, feeling like an illiterate teenager who plays too much Guitar Hero and can't spell "endometriosis". (How the hell do all you people find the time to do a literary genealogy of Aleister Crowley? I can barely check my seven e-mail accounts and reply to my employer!)

Dying is easy; comedy is hard... And dry wit is priceless.

"Dear Jodi and Chuck,
If you ever need someone to clean your catbox, spit-polish your Docs, wax your sister, or comb the shag in the livingroom: I'm already there. But I don't do toilets.... Or laundry with skidmarks.
Clatto Verata Nicto, baby.
Deep prostration at your feet,
RD"


Okay, maybe I am your stalker...
But at least the high level of American Airlines flight cancellations ensures I'm not in your bushes right now.

(stupid black-out dates)

No, I'm Not Your Stalker

In person, I'm awkward and shy until a friendship is solidified.
Then you can't shut me up.

I never approach strangers or speak unless spoken to out of concern that I may offend or annoy.

Yet, I love to engage in a little barroom voyeurism; to sit back and watch others having the time of their lives.

And I love a good party... in almost any form.

My journey beyond the dark oubliette of my little Mole Person hole began with me growing a pair... Of steel-clad ovaries, that is. I decided: I love dancing, I love music on the dark end of the spectrum (though most of my friends don't), and I ain't geriatric, yet, so I'm going clubbing, even if I have to go alone!

And that's just what I did.

Over the past year and a half, I've met some really friendly people, and, although most of them are only in my life for one night (stop snickering, you perverts), I still remember them with a smile.

So when I cruise the 'net, skimming through club listings or Crackbook or StalkerSpace, I get a kick out of rediscovering these friendlies all over again.

On my first solo clubbing adventure - Sept. 2006 in Portland, OR - a charming gent broke my 'stranger barrier' and struck up a conversation:

"Shaun.... Like 'Shaun of the Dead'."

I like him already.

I don't know anything about him, except what he chose to tell me (helloooooo uniform fetish). For all I know, he could be a serial killer named Bubba. But, he made me laugh, which made my first solo experience at a goth club a positive one.

Thank you, Bubba.
You made my night brighter and extroversion a hell of a lot less intimidating.

And I think I see him in this one, too.....



It's like a digital age "Where's Waldo"......




(See, this is why I try to avoid having my picture taken: You never know what loony with a blog is gonna share you with the world.)

Ha ha.