I'm an imposter (gasp!)

Devastation: I am not a true geek. Oh, I may wear black (a lot) and tweet with the frequency of one attached to her iPhone with an umbilical cord, but my glasses are strictly for reading and my black has heels welded on. High ones.

I judge my hand luggage on it's ability to keep lipgloss separate from my phone, not orthopedic correctness, and you will never see me in public without mascara. Minimum. So to be at a tripod gig is kind of like an out-of-body experience.
An awesome one, ok, but still. I don't think I was ever one of these girls wearing Docs and jeans and hi-necked tees (one by one, tick. All together? Gee, maybe one day in 1999 when I was trying to kick my creative writing tutor's attractive and condescending afrikaans butt.).

What? Oh yeah. The dvd's going to be fantastic. Of the show, not me engaging in poetic butt-kicking. Let's just pretend that whole digression never happened.

I once participated in a dungeons & dragons-type game with a (now obviously ex-) boyfriend. He wasn't an ex at the time. Der. It all ended badly when I carelessly slouched beneath a tree, horn pointing up (my character was a unicorn. Shut up. Stop snickering. I was fourteen. Yes, I had a boyfriend. He's STILL a lovely guy.) and a fellow gamer fell out of the tree. Onto my sharp, shiny unicorn horn. Oops. Yeah. Turns out the way not to make friends is accidentally stab them in the back. Especially when the dice conspire to kill them (seriously, I had no idea what I was doing). Yeah.

So I totally related to Tripod vs. the Dragon. Buy the DVD, they're just damn cool (in a geeky three-part harmony kind of way). Plus I'm SO going to be on it, laughing hysterically and looking stupid. Yay. (Reminds me of that John Farnham concert.... Oh jeez.)

Only in

Two o'clock on Sunday afternoon: a man in a motorized wheelchair rolls loudly down the highway. He's singing Elvis into a microphone, the lousy, over-bassed loudspeaker reverberating directionally across four lanes of traffic.
I wonder out loud if he's crazy. M, always the kinder of us two, suggests he's a traveling busker. I concede that's possible, if he's blind and indifferent to the lack of pedestrians this side of frankston. Perhaps he's warming up, building his confidence. He has a loudspeaker. That alone would seem to point to a certain level of comfort. Weird, we shrug, and carry on, watching the navy bastion of the Aussie flag flap behind him as he chugs along the deserted pavement crooning to the seagulls.