ChicaggaBloggaFest.

Trance: So dude, we went to the blog reading, and we were shunned. There were a few people who were trying to act polite, but we knew they were just lying to make us feel better.

We can't talk shit about anybody, on the off-chance that they'll read it. Oh, fuck that. They won't read this. We're Diaryland bastards. We are the red-headed stepchildren of the "blogging" community.

And you know what? I don't give a fluttering fuck.

Here I am, at the home of The Luvabeans. And why? Because I drunkenly missed the last fucking train to the south side.

Yes, I am cool.

And while I'm here, allow me to confirm that Ziggy the cat is indeed a handsome dude.

But back to Dorkfest.

I only say that because I'm trying to ignore the horrifying feeling of not fitting in with the misfits.

Seriously, we walked in, the crowds parted, and we were shunned.

Neither of us knew anyone, including each other, but we were cool with that.

We were cool with that, that is, until we realized that everyone else there was BFF and had known each other since kindergarten.

My first experience of dorkitude was when Wendy came up to me and said, "Are you TranceJen?"

I punched her in the arm, a la Elaine from Seinfeld, thereby affirming that I am indeed a fucking geek.

The worst was yet to come, as SourBob was sitting directly behind us. This was enough to propel my sickest little online fantasy life to a whole 'nother level.

SourBob, kids. I mean, come on.

It's SourBob. I can almost hear the Shaft theme song.

Damn right.

I dorked all over Sourbob, effusively proclaiming my love and adoration, while Kelly looked at me, probably wishing that she could hit me with a large, blunt object.

I will forever feel the stinging humiliation that was my SourBob experience. Don't get me wrong, he was a nice guy, as well as dashingly handsome, even in spite of the gargantuan pulsating pimple that graced his swarthy forehead.

Dear God, I hope he never reads this.

Anyway, I met quite a few very nice individuals, including Mimi, Wendy, and several other people that I had to pretend I'd read.

I am currently drinking a coffee cup full of merlot and trying to stop fantasizing about SourBob.

We went to Schuba's after the readings, where we were shunned some more.

Kelly's trying to tell me that we weren't really shunned, but I know better. I am used to the stare of the disinterested, and I fucking know it when I see it.

I kid. We met a lot of very cool people, and I plan to stalk SourBob and company again in the future.

SourBob is currently calling the Chicago police department in order to inquire about restraining orders.

But that's OK.

I will now turn it over to Kelly, because her fucking laptop is making me even blinder than I was to begin with.

Salud, and goodnight.

Luva: OK, first, Jen's too fucking hard on herself. There was abundant dorkitude, yes, on all sides. She was not alone, nor were things as dire as she seems to think. I mean, really, we went to a blogging festival. I'm surprised at the absence of (a) myriad Che Guevara T-shirts and berets, and (b) that no one attempted to greet me with an underground Dungeons and Dragons handshake.

Big fucking hypocrite, me.

This night, and the subsequent slumber party that is currently taking place, has been somewhat of the ultimate reality implosion.

I think my favorite snippet of the evening was when, in the middle of the "third set," if you will, the unmistakable aroma of happy grass wafted towards Jen and I in the front row. I turned to Jen and whispered, "Do you smell pot?" She affirmed the presence of doobage.

And then ... then ...

A smoothe and debonaire voice comes to my ear from over my shoulder. I turned, and it's the Sourbob. Yes, the one. The one that I had never heard of before this illustrious evening, actually. Ah, well. I'm out of the blogging loop, but I suppose that's all for the best, considering I'm not of the upper-echelon of online cliques.

Oh, yes. That Sourbob. He said to us, I remember clearly, "Do you guys smell pot?"

We all smelled the pot. It ain't called a "community" for nothing.

We concluded that the pot came in with a lanky, hobo-lookin' gentleman who wandered in from the street and stood, swaying, by the door, looking vacant and applauding when everyone else did. Quite the looker, that one. Jen wants to marry him.

OK. It was a fun night. We met nice people. There were cliques, it seemed, but no one actively shunned us; they just happened to be friends already, and were obviously intimidating by us and the literary reputations that preceded us. Not to mention, we're fucking hot. My ass was grabbed more than once.

Instead of digits, we exchanged URLs. Between the purple haze in the air and the overpowering wit and intellect, I'm surprised a full-blown orgy didn't break out.

It was Clever-Clever Land. (Jen's term)

The Great and Powerful Wit presided over us all from the bizarro toy-store one floor below. Seriously, the second I stepped in that shop, which Jen renamed the "More Shit Than You Can Shake a Stick At" store, I said "This place definitely sells fighting nuns." Sho' nuff ... in addition to Fighting Nuns, there were small plastic pigs and large plastic flies. There were $20 gumby figurines and baby binkies with fangs. It was kitsch-heaven.

I'm just funnin'. You know, I figure if I'm snarky enough, I'll eventually be one of the chosen. Kidding.

We had laughs with nice people. We had drinks, and drinks, and some drinks. I sat in the front and laughed too loud, rocking back and forth and clapping. And now, if by any chance any of them read this, I've alienated them all.

Whee!

OMG, we <3 Sourbob. OMFG. TL4-eva.

I think I've said this before, but Saturday night is for assholes. I'm proud to be an asshole.

3:25 a.m. - 2004-02-22
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