Will this be the year?

I have always enjoyed writing when I wanted to write. 

I have been told I'm good at it, and not just by friends.  By teachers and published authors.  But the problem is the second part of that sentence.  Did you notice it?  It reads "...when I wanted to write."  Yeah, that's the problem.  I don't always want to write.  I'm a lazy writer.  With no deadline, I tend to just write when the feeling hits me.  So there's no way to do anything with it.  So this year, I want to change that.  i want to write.  I want to write every day.  So, I'm starting with my blog, which has been existence for nearly ten years, but has been utilized four or five times.  Will this be the year things change?  Will I write.  Time will tell.

Squee! A (40something) Fangirl's Tale

NOTE: I wrote the following back in 2005 ( I was still 40-something then). It was originally an email to my friends to try and explain, in a fun way, how I ended up at my first fan convention. However, with the help of a couple of writer friends of mine, it turned into something I wanted to try and have published. But after one rejection from the LA Times, I didn't try again. It has been sitting on my hard drive ever since.

Recently, though, after swapping tales on a FB fan page, I decided that it might make a nice blog post, so here it is.

This is not meant to belittle or make fun of fans or fandom. I am a fan. This is merely a retelling of my discovery of the fun of that world and the myriad of people who inhabit it, as well as how much fun it can be to let your inner fan come out once in awhile. Say what you will about them, fans are the only reason there is an entertainment industry.

Enjoy, and please feel free to comment.

Hobbits, Ents and elves gathered around a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Giant statues of Nazgul and Orcs loomed behind me. Gandalf the Grey Wizard stood nearby onstage singing and playing guitar. Whoa. Was I really at a “Lord of the Rings” fan convention? Did I really drive all this way from Marina Del Rey to Pasadena just for an autograph?

Had I really turned into… a fangirl?

Fangirl: a female fan of a male movie/TV/music star who sets up her own fan website or webpage dedicated to him, who spends huge sums of money on items that display the image of him, and who spends many hours a week online "squeeing" to other fangirls about him (a "squee" is the noise emitted by a fangirl when the name of her star is mentioned or his image is viewed). Fangirls also frequently attend fan conventions to see and hopefully meet the objects of their admiration, and to "squee" together as a group.

Me? A fangirl? Surely not. I am a happily married, professional, intelligent woman, not some giggly 12 year-old. Yet, like millions of women around the world, I not only fell in love with the Peter Jackson adaptation of Tolkien’s “Lord of the Rings” trilogy, I developed a fascination for a member of its cast of gorgeous men. Not Viggo Mortensen, who played the studly Aragorn (too scruffy), nor Orlando Bloom, the teen dream who played the intense elf Legolas (too young). Nope, I was smitten by the handsome Scot, Billy Boyd, who played the mischievous hobbit, Pippin Took. His intelligent eyes, wicked grin, and sexy Scottish accent made me giggly. That's right. Giggly. At my age.

So when a friend told me that Billy was appearing at a “Lord of the Rings” (LOTR in fan-speak) fan convention in January (“The One Ring Celebration”) at the Pasadena Center and that a ticket would get me his autograph and a photo-op with him, I thought, “Why not?” I asked my husband, Rob, for a combination birthday, Christmas, and Valentine's Day gift in the form of a ticket. To my surprise, he not only said yes, but he bought the expensive “Wizards’ Circle” pass which guaranteed the best seats, admission to all the parties, and enviable proximity to the stars. My husband is a great and patient guy.

The gift made me happy, but a little anxious. Was this too much? Was I becoming a real fangirl?

True, Billy's picture did grace my Mac desktop, and a slideshow of more pictures made up my screensaver. Sure, the daily two-hour Internet surfing trips to Billy Boyd fansites might have affected my work schedule a bit. And, okay, so a small "squee" of delight did escape me when I saw Billy pop up in the film "Master and Commander.”

Still, I felt in absolute control of the situation. After all, it was going to be an exciting convention, Billy or no Billy. The other hobbits were also slated to appear and they were all involved in new projects. Dominic Monaghan (Merry) now stars in the new hit ABC series “Lost,” Sean Astin (Sam) had a film at the Sundance film festival, and Elijah Wood (Frodo) was involved in a number of film projects. All of the hobbits would be together in one place, possibly for the last time. There was nothing wrong with wanting to see that. It would be a little adventure.

Besides, I had decided that I could write an article or short story about the experience. I'd really be more of an observer. There. This would be “research.” Buoyed by a new sense of superiority, I relaxed and began to look forward to the event.

The night before the official opening, I took advantage of early registration, picked up my lanyard, and snapped on the wristband that identified me as a member of the coveted Wizards’ Circle. Despite my desire to remain cool and detached, I began to feel eager for the doors to open. I was ready to immerse myself in fandom.

On Friday morning the place was crawling with over 2000 happy, excited fangirls from all fifty states and as far away as Japan and England. I was amazed to discover that the ratio of women to men was nearly 100 to 1. I was even more surprised to discover that being African American did not make me stand out like a sore thumb. Frankly, I had expected to see a group of white, teenaged girl-geeks. But these fangirls were all colors, nationalities and ages, and they ranged from cute, coltish Gap-clad pre-teens to sophisticated older women in trendy Prada outfits. And all were there for the same reason: to see their special LOTR dream guys.

I don't know why I was surprised. All women get a little crazy over their favorite famous heartthrob, right? My friend Paula, a 35-year-old Korean American author and musician patiently stood in line for five hours last October to get autographs from Duran Duran. My niece, Marlicia, a sensible and pragmatic 18-year-old student/actress once waited several hours in line for a chance to meet the all-boy R&B group B2K. Even my 78 year-old church-going momma, after shaking former President Bill Clinton's hand at a political rally, pronounced him, ahem, hot stuff.

My misconceptions tumbled away as I moved among the diverse group of girls and women. Still, it was a little surprising that, no matter what the type of woman, the typical conversation went like this:

Fangirl #1: Oh my God, he's so cute!

Fangirl #2: I know! And he has such great eyes!

Fangirl #1: I know! And he has such a nice smile!

Fangirl #2: I know! And he's so sweet!

Fangirl #1: I'm so glad I got to meet him! Squee!

Fangirl #2: Me too! Squee!

This was an actual conversation between two women in their forties. Before I knew it, I was completely caught up in the weird, wild fun of it all. I, too, began giggling, sighing, and bonding with the fangirls. How could I not? It was like a three-day slumber party where the average age was 32, not 12.

I took comfort in the fact that at least I wasn’t a fangirl in costume. Costumes were huge at this convention. The movies make this part of fan conventions seem so lame: losers walking around in plastic pointy ears and cheap imitations of character costumes. But most of the fan-made costumes were stunning re-creations that rivaled the big screen originals, from giant “Ent” tree creatures lumbering about the lobby to an ethereal Elven queen in a hand-beaded gown. And if you think these folks can't laugh at themselves, there was one woman dressed as a baby Nazgul, complete with bunny slippers and hobbyhorse. If you didn't see “Lord of the Rings,” you can't appreciate how truly funny that is. I about died.

All of this was fun, but I wanted my hobbit. My first sighting came unexpectedly at a party Friday night when Billy showed up to introduce the featured band. As soon as I heard, “And here he is, Billy Boyd,” I broke into a run. There he was, on stage, smiling and waving and being gorgeous. I won’t go into detail about my behavior, but for reference, consult any film of a 1960s Beatles concert, and you’ll get the picture.

Saturday morning, after a restless night and a late start, I dressed carefully for my photo-op. "Have fun with it,” my husband said, suggesting I wear the cute black dress with red plaid accents I’d planned to wear for a party that night. Plaid. Scot. Perfect. I tried not to speed as I drove to the convention center. When I arrived, I checked my makeup in the ladies room mirror one more time, took a deep, calming breath, and went to meet my hobbit.

It was surreal seeing Billy sitting there, just a few feet from me. His manner was easy and his smile genuine, even after already taking two hundred plus photos. Except for looking taller than the 5’7” reported in his bio, he looked exactly like his photos, except he was more attractive. What was I expecting? Warts?

Then, suddenly, Billy Boyd was smiling. At me. I was next. I immediately regressed to the age of 12 and could do nothing but stare and think, "I still have time to run." Fortunately my friend Xander, who was there to lend moral support, played Sam to my Frodo and gently pushed me towards “my precious.”

“Hi, how are you doing?” Billy Boyd asked as I walked towards him, taking tiny steps due to an irrational fear of my 5’10”-in-heels frame falling on and crushing wee Billy. On the way, I accidentally bumped into the woman who had just finished her photo-op. I thought, “Great, now he knows I’m a klutz." The clever repartee that I had been rehearsing for two months fell through a black hole and I blurted out, “Ah...umm...ah...really, really nervous. Don't know why.”

Gently, Billy took my hand and pulled me down to the chair next to him, saying “Oh, well don't be, there's no reason to be.” He put his arm around me, his hand now on my BARE shoulder (Is that first base?) and turned to the camera.

The photographer asked if we were ready. I put my arm around Billy's waist and, as an after-thought, my head on his shoulder, and smiled, determined to look good.

“Ready,” I said.

Flash. It was over, but I stayed where I was for a moment longer, thinking, “His hand is soft and he’s so warm and he smells like aftershave…or is that fabric softener?” Turns out he was just a guy, a famous cute guy, but a guy. I relaxed a bit.

Billy said goodbye and as I rose to leave, I realized I hadn’t actually looked into his eyes. I wanted to see if his eyes were as green as they seemed in his pictures. Fighting my shyness, I forced myself to look into his eyes.

Bam! Whatever he had that got me to that convention in the first place hit me full force. I was staring into the eyes of a man I had only seen on a movie screen or a computer monitor. Now he was very real and oh so close.

I didn’t start breathing again until I left the room. Once safely outside, I jumped up and down like a kid and, well, squee-ed! I didn’t feel self-conscious at all because every woman there knew exactly how I felt and smiled in a way that said, “Yeah, me too.” I was sinking fast into “fangirl-ness”

My last chance to see Billy was at the autograph session after his Q&A. No cameras were allowed, but I wanted something more. Then I remembered that my mobile phone could record voice memos. When I approached Billy, I pressed the “RECORD” button on my phone and asked him to say my name.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“DaVette,” I said slowly so he could pronounce it correctly.

“DaVette?” Billy asked.

I nodded, unable to say anything else.

Billy smiled and said in a clear, loud voice, “Hi, DaVette!”

I grinned back and said, “Hi, Billy!”

Think what you want, I had his voice on my phone. Squee! I headed back to my seat and played the cell phone recording for myself and for some curious fangirls, who squee-ed in appreciation.

Of course, now I can't lose my phone.

On the final afternoon, an afterglow settled over the main convention floor. Hundreds of happy fangirls still milled about, trading war stories and waving about just-purchased tickets for next year’s convention. I overheard whispered plans to fly to Utah and camp out at Sundance and Slamdance.

My fangirl friend, Darlene, and I were among the last people to leave the convention center that final evening. We wandered through the empty exhibit hall and stopped by the makeshift theater to watch the last scene of "The Return of the King." It was the perfect way to end my adventure, and I surprised myself by getting misty-eyed as Frodo said goodbye to Sam and sailed away with the elves and Gandalf into the West.

When I got home, I felt a little like Sam returning home to his family in the final moments of the “Lord of the Rings.” My real favorite hobbit didn’t say much that night – he just smiled and held me and let me ramble on about my adventure until I fell asleep.

So, am I a fangirl? Definitely a little bit, though I won’t be putting up a fansite any time soon. Of course, I still listen to that voice on my phone from time to time…

But even if I'm not one hundred percent fangirl, I'm glad the fangirl in me got to come out and play. Kind of makes up for all those fan letters I never wrote when I was twelve.

Go, You Chicken Fat, go away!

When I was a kid, before junior high, gym class was really pretty fun (Once in Jr High, dodge ball and the like, not to mention the advent of makeup and boobage, made gym more of a trial, as most women my age will probably agree).

But in grade school, specifically the fifth and sixth grades, I liked gym for two reasons:
First, the wonderful transformation of the cafeteria to gym/auditorium. Those who had this set up in their grade schools will probably understand what I'm talking about. After lunch the tables and benches in the cafeteria, which were attached to the walls with hinges, would fold up accordion style into the walls. No big deal, but I always felt a sense of satisfaction seeing them tucked away, safely out of reach, temporarily, of the kids. And...there was now this big open room, something I've always loved. The possibilities are endless for what can be done with a big open room (which is perhaps the reason I love an empty stage or a black box style theater....but that's another blog.).

The second, more important, reason that I enjoyed gym so much was not the workout itself, not the chance to change into gym clothes, something we didn't do in grade school usually, for some reason. It wasn't the chance to stretch and move around after being cramped in my seat all morning. I liked the classroom too and was very fond of my desk, learning, reading, and all my teachers.

No, the real reason I liked gym was "Chicken Fat."

Those of you who went to elementary school in the 60's will no doubt remember this, some fondly as I do, others ...not so much.

For the younger set, here's a brief explanation from Wikipedia:

"In 1961, (Robert) Preston was asked to make a recording as part of a program by the President's Council on Physical Fitness to get schoolchildren to do more daily exercise. The song, "Chicken Fat," written by Meredith Willson and performed by Preston with full orchestral accompaniment, was distributed to schools across the nation and played for students in calisthenics every morning."

It started in '61 , but was still being played in grade schools at least through 1967 when I started the fifth grade at Franklin Elementary School. I suppose "Chicken Fat" could be called, the granddaddy of the aerobics workout. It was a six minute workout set to the music sung enthusiastically by the late Robert Preston, the original "Music Man" and it took you through ten repetitions each of sit-ups, push-ups, jumping jacks, and the like, plus running in place to round it out. All of this so that you could say goodbye the any extra weight you might be carrying around referred to as "chicken fat" in the song.

This workout was no sweat for your average fifth grader. At least back then. I honestly am not sure the average 5th grader could to a six minute workout like that, which followed roughly forty-five minutes of calisthenics that made up the class itself. "Chiken Fat" was just a treat for being good during class.

It's hard to describe exactly why it was a treat, except that Preston is so much fun. It is as if Professor Harold Hill switched from music to physical education.

So, why bring up chicken fat now? Well, a few years ago, found the song again, online. For grins and giggles, I decided to make it a morning workout.

Yeah.

Surprisingly, not as easy as it had been to me at ten. Not at all. So, though once in a while I would play it as a pick me up, I rarely attempted a work out to it, afterward.

But yesterday, I started an exercise program again. Tired of avoiding mirrors and feeling like I should be flying high over the Macy's Parade, I came to the conclusion that losing weight and getting into shape was just going to get harder to do with each passing day, so it would be a good ideal to start on the road to reversing the trend.

I've never been able to commit to going to a gym regularly and I don't power walk , run or bike. So I thought "Chicken Fat" would be the ideal way get me going again. And...

So far so good. I've always loved Preston's voice. It's as if he were right there with you, cheering you on. I feel invigorated afterward, like I've had a very brisk walk around the block. Of course I modified some of the exercises (jumping jacks...um.. not, not yet; push-ups...not ten...well...not two, but I'll get there.) I figure that three times a day for a week or two to get me going, then "Chicken Fat" will become part of a more comprehensive workout plan, like it was in grade school.

So, I'll let you know how it goes. I'm glad I dug it "Chicken Fat" out of mothballs. And frankly, when I look around, I think that maybe some grade schools should do the same.

One More Time

I am going to try to blog again and maybe this time it will stick.

It is a new decade, I am living in a new town, and I have a new career. So will I have something new to say? Time will tell, I guess.

For now, I just want to write. I really, really want to write.

Not Now, I'm Busy

I'd love to write something, but at the moment, duty is calling, drama is knocking at the door and yelling "Stella!", and I've got disaster on hold.
Peace