So gather 'round and let's get some fiddly bits sorted out before we go any further. This week's missive requires some back story, I'm afraid. But don't worry too much. It's fairly straightforward and we should be on to the good stuff before you start thinking about how much more fun cleaning the stove would be. I can't offer you the heady mind-altering fumes that emanate form a a can of EZ-Off, but I can offer you a story, a book review of sorts and a dancing monkey twirling three plates on sticks.

For various reasons, which I won't go into here mainly because I don't have a clue as to what they were nor, like the inner works of a rotor tiller, do I really desire to know, my order for Wil Wheaton's first book, 'Dancing Barefoot', never made its way to our mail box. (Wow! Was that a comma-fest or what? Every time I tap that little key I can hear my Honours English teacher's voice buzzing in my ear asking if it was really necessary or mightn't it be re-worded. As always my answer is "Yes, ma'am" and then I write it like I want to anyway.) Or perhaps I should say mail cube since Aussies say things like "think outside the cube" instead of box. I don't know, nor care to know, what that's about either. And, not being a native, I doubt I will ever care. Anyway, before I completely de-forest the Comma Jungle, let's get back to the story at hand. In the end I got a refund and an apology from Wil for my having waited so long and not receiving a book. I should, before anyone gets all huffy and says bad things about Mr. Wheaton or his publishing house, point out that I was not in the dark about the comings and goings, or not coming, of said book and didn't put up too much of a fuss in the e-mails back and forth that ensued. Obviously this was not because I'm an easy-going, patient and forgiving nun-like woman, but because I'm a bit of a fan and I realised this was his first book and his publishing house's first title. Oh, and I also realised I live on a rock in the South Pacific very very far from Arnold's Cal-ee-forn-yuh. Those who really know me will tell you I'm an acidic bitch who really needs to consider some better living through chemistry, and may find themselves surprised that I didn't flip out ninja style.

Wil wrote that he was very sorry this had happened and that he would still get me a book "if I have to walk across the freakin' Pacific Ocean MYSELF to deliver it". While this was totally unnecessary (the offer of the book, not the offer to walk on water) and he was under no obligation whatsoever, I thought this was 'cool' with a capital 'coo'. And he was good to his word as I received a copy this past Monday. I am, of course, disappointed that he didn't walk it across himself as I'm sure he'd be great fun to hang out with before he had to walk back home to feed the dog, but I think I can learn to be content with just the book. My wife is probably OK with this too as Wil is on my "straight guys I'd turn for" list. It also would have been cool to learn how he did it so I could make a bazillion dollars and make David Blaine look like a chump.

But back to the book.

I read Dancing Barefoot' in 2.5 hours. How ya' like them apples, Wil*? I was eager, there's no doubt, but the first story really grabs you and you can't stop. Especially knowing that a Wil Wheaton Dot Net favourite, the expanded saga of SpongeBob Vega$ Pants, is coming up. I couldn't stop reading despite having to be up early the next morning. I had read a great deal of the original content that went into the book, but I must say that Wil's re-writes and fleshing out have really turned it into a gem of a first book. I'm really looking forward to 'Just a Geek', the larger book that the stories in 'Dancing Barefoot' were cut from. So when I wrote Uncle Willie to let him know I'd received his package, I also let him know that I would be buying the next one from his company, despite my post-debacle intention to go through Amazon or some other mega-hyper-corp. It wasn't anything personal, but I I was gunshy and knew I would feel just peachy yelling at some faceless corporate entity if they didn't deliver on time. Page 59 didn't hurt his case either.

You see, during a convention while signing autographs Wil was forced to leave to make it to a rehearsal with his comedy troupe for that night's show. Rather than just blowing out under cover of a convention volunteer's coat or yelling fire in Klingon -- did I mention it was a Star Trek convention? -- he stood up on his table and informed the still long line that he had to leave or the show would "suck" but that he would be around for the duration of the event to finish up autographs for those who had waited the longest, those in the back of the line. He notes in the story that he feels he has an obligation to those people just as much as to those first in line, that it was his goal to convey to them that he cared about them just as much. To his relief the fans were understanding and appreciated his candour and honesty. Well, I'm happy to say this is no less the treatment I received for on the title leaf of my book, in Sharpie** of course, is written:

To Maggie,
The most patient person on the planet.
I hope it's worth the wait...
Wil Wheaton
19.09.03

He even wrote the date in International format. Bless his heart. Yes, I'm pleased to report, it was totally worth it. 'Dancing Barefoot' is a collection of honestly told stories which pull you in with their simple and universal themes of love, doubt and the agonising steps that take us to self-awareness. Wil Wheaton is not out to joust with Cervantes or push Papa into the sea, but what he does he does well and with an openness that is hard to find in today's world. Those of you who experienced summer camp and made 'that friend' there will know, but maybe not recognise, why Wil's blog is so popular. That Friend was made because there was no room for normal social jockeying and feinting. You got to know each other on a very basic and personal level (you didn't have time to fark around). You opened yourselves up and said "this is who I really am and not everyone gets to see this." Wil Wheaton's writing is like that friend. He may not be a part of your everyday life, but you know who him on a genuine level and you take him into that warm place in your heart reserved for friends.

What? Sorry. Rachael from 'Blade Runner' is making out with Michael Caine* on TV and I keep getting distracted. OK, OK, her name is Sean Young, but I'm such a DADES/BR fan I have a hard time seeing her as anything but Rachael. That's one of the pitfalls of celebrity, and one Wil has been on both sides of; Fighting off the agony that was "being Wesley" but still seeing William Shatner as "Capt. Kirk" until The Shat broke that illusion by dismissing Wil as below his notice. I'm going somewhere with this, believe it or not...

I believe that his blog, wilwheaton.net, is not popular merely because he is famous. As famous people go he's not that famous and he's been, in fandom, vilified by rabid association to a role he once played on Star Trek: The Next Generation. No, his blog is not popular because the world was clammering for "Wesley Crusher's Teen Idol Diary", it's because of the way Wil writes and the things he writes about. His celebrity gives him plenty of material, but it's his writings on learning to cope with that celebrity, with being a step-dad, with love, with loss, with being human that make him interesting to us all. He's "just like us" and we relate to him, we understand him, because he's "just a geek" who happens to be famous. And he's a good story teller. And that's what it's all about in the end.

Thanks for the book, Wil. I'm so glad it finally made it here. And congratulations on your success. You deserve it, ya big lug.

Oh. I lied about the dancing monkey.

Maggie
---

* - If you don't get that reference, then you really need to get to the movies more often. I will accept both the original film and the parody contained in another as valid answers. No cheating and if you need to use the bathroom during the test, raise your hand.

** - Sharpie is the best all around marker ever devised by man or alien civilisation. It can be used to write on a myriad of surfaces and this is what makes it so popular with people, like celebrities, who sign lots of different things. I brought a stash of them with me from America for writing on CDs, my arm, greeting cards, love notes, etc. but am happy to report that Australia is joining the Sharpie revolution. We saw a slew of them, in blue and black, fine tip or blunt tip, one pack or two in Target not long ago.

*** - The movie is 'Blue Ice', in case anyone's interested. It's pretty good so far. Even despite the guard dogs in the current scene being dubbed in using that cheesy Casio dog bark sample.

(Note: This is not as light-hearted as it may seem from the initial excerpt. And please sabotage my mom's computer if you see her reading this.)

It seems Summer, or hot weather at least, has returned to Australia despite our assurances to Summer that it was OK for Spring to hang around until Fall and that we all really thought Summer ought to go enjoy a well-deserved break on Fiji. But apparently it caught on to our ruse and is back to give us a lickin' we won't forget. There's nothing that lowers my will to live more than the promise from Summer that "you ain't seen hot yet, baby!" Well, almost nothing. Except, that is, lying awake on a hot night thinking of all the poorly thought out things I've done and the people I've hurt in the process. Yep. Summer is laughing at me right now. And it's probably lighting a little bonfire right in my vicinity with those unused Fiji tickets.

It's not that I'm bad, really. While I've committed my share of ill-advised acts, I've mostly kept under the Evildar, which... would be... some sort of radar that detects evil-doing but there's no such thing so I'm leading you on a useless chase to the next bit of punctuation. Ah. There you are. So I didn't follow in the footsteps of many of my high school peers who decided that getting married at 17 was a very mature course of action or those who suddenly had an intense need to go live with their "aunt" in Vermont for 9 months. I've done one or two things that will get you kicked out of the White House, as you'll see, but I never augured in too deep. And, all in all, my mom still describes me as a 'good kid' except when that incident about the tequila (Sorry, mom, yeah it was tequila. Margueritas to be exact. Doug assured me I was 'fiiiine'. Or he might have said 'Move, I have to puke', but I'm pretty sure I heard 'fiiiine'.) and the new car is brought up. I'm truly ashamed of that incident and have grovelled, on several occasions over the years, in both my parents' presence. But as time has a way of dulling those sorts of thing I'm sure I'll become a 'terrific kid' eventually. Not that I'm even technically a kid anymore. But it makes me feel good and reminds me of parachute pants. But I digress.

So what am I getting at? I'm glad I made you ask. What I'm getting 'at', you ask in your grammatically questionable way, is this; a list of things I'm sorry for. Alternate title, "Bad Stuff I Did That Still Haunts Me At 30-something". That one is in case David Lynch gets the movie rights. Hereafter follows the list of stuff I did that I really regret. And I mean that in a pure, non-Clintonian way. Yep. Right now. Right after this paragraph. I'm going to tell it all. All the bad stuff. No holds barred. You betcha. Look, seriously, before I get started, don't make fun of me. Okay? This is painful stuff. And, yes, I realise that I'm the one who came up with this hare-brained idea and it's my fault if you do laugh. As ill-advised acts go, this one may even deserve to be on the list. But, hopefully, in my summation you'll think otherwise. After the list. That I'm going to make. Right now. Right below here. And it won't be funny. I'm serious. Just watch.

1) The tequila incident wherein our heroine goes off to her first real 'office party', drinks lots of margueritas and plows her new car, that her parents graciously bestowed on her for graduation, into a barrier. This is the most ill of the ill-advised. This was a bang up job, pun intended, on my part. I'm rescued by my parents and, being the little bitch I was, let my dad go sort it out in the morning and didn't even offer to ride along. I was too busy nursing my excruciating new friend, the tequila hangover. I've apologised so many times that I think my parents are beginning to feel sorry for me. When they shouldn't. I deserved that tequila-fuelled nightmare. I am the worm. Kookookachoo.

2) The 1 day 'running away' incident wherein our heroine decides that her parents "don't let me do anything" and flees to live at her friend's house. A tearful phone call and a day of having to go to work cashiering at the grocery in someone else's clothes cleared that delusion up real fast. But my mom's heart was broken that day. I, being the little... I already used 'bitch', but I'm afraid to use the C word for fear my mother will read this and I'll have to add 'The C Word Incident' to the list... let's go with bitch again, bitch I was had, in essence, told my mom she sucked at being my mom and someone else would be better. I should go to Hell for this one. Luckily I don't believe in Hell outside the throes of my own internal agony. I love my parents a lot more than most of my friends love their folks, so the agony is real when I think of the things I did to them. Yep, I'm the worm.

3) Oh, man. Mom? Can you just skip to number four? No? Please? Oh, well. Hang on. Number 4: Doing cocaine in a hotel room with a bunch of weirdoes who just wanted to get in my and my friends' pants. Yeah, mom. Sorry again. You thought the tequila was bad. And, to make matters worse, it was the same town. But let's forge on. My psyche is itchin' for a thrashin'. Firstly, let's cover the minor stuff. Firstly I regret doing the cocaine. I was not only still a bitch a few years after the tequila incident, I was still a stupid bitch. Secondly I regret the incredibly poor judgement, like 'Jackass' poor judgement without the MTV dollars to make it seem better, of our being alone in the room with these people.` Fortunately we probably looked like we were about to OD and they freaked out and didn't rape us. Thirdly and most sincerely, I regret getting you, my friend who is still my friend despite this, involved. I was so scared you were going to die that night. And I wasn't so sure about myself. You seemed so small and fragile to me that night. If you hadn't got out of there intact (mortally, emotionally or... chasti... chastit... chastic... what the Hell is the word?), I don't think I could have lived with myself. For the record (and my mom, assuming she made it past the previous one) we are both very zealous in expressing our opinions about the sneaky evilness of cocaine. Just say no like Kelsey Grammer. Nothing has ever brutalised my self-image and self-worth like this drug. Better off dead, indeed. I felt like a worm.

4) The break-up with my ex-wife Jenifer incident wherein two girls find out just how unprepared for each other they are. Please note that I will not be going into specifics out of respect for her privacy. First I should explain to any of you casual readers that I am a lesbian. I've tried the straight route and dated a few guys, but the writing was on the wall all along. I'm a lesbian and that's that. Well, the writing wouldn't have included the "and that's that" part unless it was a really long wall, but I think you get my drift. No, my drift won't make you gay. Only God and touching a towel bathed in the sweat of Ellen DeGeneres can do that. Jenifer liked Ellen, and since this is about Jenifer I should get back to that. Jenifer was my wife in that we formalised our commitment to each other and exchanged rings. Call it what you will. Whatever makes it jake with your ethos or religion. Anyway, I'm not sorry that we broke up, Jen. I'm sorry it happened like it did. From what I can tell it was, in the end, for the best for both of us. But the scars are still there for me and I would wager they are for you as well. I hope you found what you needed and deserved and I'm so thankful for your family's support and understanding. I know it may not have seemed like it at times, but I was so scared and worried for you and I was thankful your folks were there to catch you when we fell. I have no 'worm' closing for this one. All my best to you, Jen.

Wow. Only four things on that list. and only three worm closings! Surely there's more, you say. Well, yes, but those are the big four. Those are the things I think about most. Well, I also think about an accident I was in once and I play that 'what if I had done x' game that leads to nowhere but Insomniaville. But these four things are the points in my life where I felt I could have been bigger. Better. Risen above. Sang it from the rooftops. Told it on the mountain. Each one of them helped form who I am and, for better or worse, here I am. And each one of them deserves to be rinsed, shaken and hung out to be dried in the light of day. Each of those story says something about where I am in life if I can scatter them across the digital brook that runs through our lives without care for who reads them. That last was a frilly metaphor for the Internet, by the way. The one before was a sad laundry allegory.

I've found love. I've married again. She's the greatest thing to happen in my life. And I don't commit words like that to paper, or the all-seeing eye of Google, lightly. She hit me like a ton of bricks and I've never felt anything like it. I feel like a great gauze has been lifted and, through her eyes, I see me more clearly than I ever have. And there's lots in me to fix and also lots in me I can be proud of. I'm so thankful to her for that. It's her gift, given unaware, to me. That and her love and her allowing me to love her. I hope I can give back at least a portion of that gift. I've travelled far, both geographically and emotionally, to be with her. I've given up whatever life I had to be here so I could be by her side and kiss her goodnight. I've learned to see how truly pushy I can be, that I'm quite a know-it-all sometimes, that I let myself get clouded in anger and lose sight of my surroundings and company. I've learned many things about myself that I've never faced up to and I've learned that I can work on them. That I can be better. Rise above. Tell it on the mountain.

So what's the summation I promised? What's the moral of this overly-long and unnecessarily winsome missive? Why do you let me put words in your mouth like that? Who knows where they've been. The summation is thus; So long as I treat them with respect, I can face and let go of the things I regret -- the things that fester in my self on hot nights. And eventually they'll keep me awake no more. So I'm starting here and now chipping away at the mouldering facade. Inspired by the woman I love and the suddenly hot night I'm hoping to make a better me.

My name is Maggie and sometimes I am a worm. And it's freakin' hot.

By the time I awake again, Galileo will be gone. At about 5:50am our time it wil start a dive into the atmoshpere of Jupiter. I spent a lot of my youth dreaming about space and the planets that neighbor us. Galileo and Voyager and their peers were amazing friends who showed us things that humans had never seen before. Goodbye, Galileo.

YARR!!! Listen up, ya bilge rats! If ye've kept yer deadlights open, yer've no doubt cotton'd by now, t'is Talk Like a Pirate Day round these parts. O'course, the scurvy dogs in America will have to wait one more setting of the sun for their chance. Aye. T'is true, me buckos.

As ye've no doubt noggin'd from the de-cor 'round me cabin, I been known ta hoist a black marooner's jack. T'is also true. I e'en leave ya a map to me booty! But step smartly 'round me bounty or ye'll meet rope's end, ya lubbers!

Now, gather round yer little freebooters and heartys, ya cowardly rats and weigh anchor. Thar be much talkin' ta do whilst keepin' yer mainsheet steady. So stay smart as paint, mateys, and keep ye far from the gibbet, ya quiverin' urchins! Or I'll bilge ye whar you sit!

May yer sails stay full and yer powder dry!
Cap'n Black Tank


Thar be new loot in honor o' this fine day!

"Lawsuits on 12-year-old kids for downloading music, duping a mother into paying a $2,000 settlement for her kid? Those scare tactics are pure Gestapo." - Chuck D (Public Enemy)

"This is not rocket science." - David Draiman (Disturbed)

[found here]

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Hahaha!
(For the record, it is off topic [but not flamebait... jeez]. I just thought this was hilarious.)

I mean, it sucks that this is happening [to other people, I might add], but this is still cool as all get out.
Lovsan worm activity.

And for the record: Mac OSX 0, Windows 71,000 (viruses that is).
UPDATE: Also very freakin cool... InforWorld PC guy switches
UPDATE: Chinese Garden pics are up.

Why do you think it is that aliens keep contacting complete idiots with their plans to enlighten mankind? One would think they might contact someone who would realise that an alien would probably have a proper familiar name for its home world Cirus D? WTF? They must feel their world is inferior to A, B and C and doesn't deserve to be top planet in the name game. And for fark's sake couldn't they for once contact someone with some artistic ability?

From the PA
From the NYT/WP
From Reuters

I rest my case...
Those who frowned (or spit) at war protestors owe them a huge apology. Not that I expect that to happen. But they owe them.