Well, I officially killed my camera. I carry it around in my purse and it gets kicked and punched and dropped regularly (because it doesn’t cook my dinner the way I like it! Why do you make me hit you?!) and it decided to rebel by not taking pictures. Oh, it acts like it’s going to, the flash goes off and it makes a little “click” noise and you think, “I have taken a picture!”, but when you go to the memory card… no picture. So I went on my ole buddy Amazon and bought m’self a new Canon Eylphe OCD-2000 or whatever in slate blue. I will also get a case for it, so while it will continue to hang out in my purse with my keys and a myriad of other scratchy pointy items, it will be protected.
So, this past weekend. Cool experience. My friend Jem was in town (Glamor and glitter! Fashion and fame! Truly truly truly outrageous!) for the Comicon in the Javitz Center. I met up with her on Saturday night and we went to a utterly touristy place for dinner, Bubba Gump’s Shrimp Co. It’s one of those places I wouldn’t go to unless I’m with a friend from out of town. It was a lovely dinner, though. If you go there, I recommend the Louisiana Lemonade paired with either the dippin’ shrimpin’ broth or the spicy Louisiana shrimp with jasmine rice. Afterwards, Jem told me about a party occurring in her hotel. Here’s the back story: Person A bet Person B that he couldn’t get a Wolverine comic book signed by all six contributors plus Hugh Jackman. Person B accomplished the task and now Person A, having lost the bet, had to kiss Person B’s rump. The gathering in the hotel was to witness the booty-smootch. We showed up for a short while, but people were kinda just sitting around and talking quietly amongst themselves and no one was going to kiss anything for some time, so we said, “See ya,” and headed over to Connelly’s Bar for the Marvel party. It was, to use the common vulgar term, quite a sausage-fest. I am not what one might consider “smokin'”, yet a drink was purchased for me by a male. I attribute this to the lack of bosoms on the premises. I ended up in a corner talking to the guys who run the Toronto Comicon. They kept pointing out important comic people to me, saying things like, “People cry when they meet that guy… he’s like one of the gods of comics,” and to me, the man referenced looked like a sweaty bank employee – no shoulders, pasty and plain-looking. It’s amazing how ordinary celebrities can look if you don’t have a freakin’ clue who they are.
Next entry: Westminster Dog Show. I something-other-than-a-poodle won. I am happy.