From: jittlov@erehwon.caltech.edu (Mike Jittlov)
Newsgroups: alt.fan.mike-jittlov,alt.fandom.cons,rec.arts.sf.fandom,
rec.arts.startrek.fandom,rec.arts.comics.misc
[1] Weird Wizard Romance at ComiCon (long story)
Followup-To: alt.fan.mike-jittlov
Date: 3 Aug 1994 10:15:49 GMT
Organization: California Institute of Technology, Pasadena
Lines: 339
Summary: Summer Nights, driftin' away..
Keywords: Jittlov,wizard,convention,comics,romance,Freud,Jung,Caesar,salad
Xref: nntp-server.caltech.edu alt.fan.mike-jittlov:4956 alt.fandom.cons:5480
+ rec.arts.sf.fandom:6953 rec.arts.startrek.fandom:9805 rec.arts.comics.
+ misc:90320
>From Mt. Email, Xxxxxx requests:
>jittlov@erehwon.caltech.edu (Mike Jittlov) wrote:
>>considerably more modest. So it's the Park or the back of the Con's
>>24-hour video room -- unless lightning strikes twice, and something
>>like that "Date With Sandy" happens, with backrubs & all [I wish]
>
>--Elaborate, if you please.
(This is a repost of a November 18th, 1993 article. It's a pretty bare
revelation how much a geek-nerd I am. But when you spend all of your
time making/saving movies, your social depth can often be measured in
angstroms. Reality repeatedly reminds me I'm not living a normal life,
with experiences like the following -- which also features a fascinating
woman whom you just might see working ComiCon 94 Security this weekend.)
-------------------------------------------------------------------->8
L.A. Weekly recently held a contest for romantic tales -- "We've all
heard stories of your worst, most nightmarish first dates! Now's your
chance to tell us about your best!" But this is Los Angeles, and the
contest was cancelled after a few weeks when only two responses were
received. One of them was mine (and yes, this ACTUALLY HAPPENED):
THE NIGHT OF THE BIG BANG -- as experienced by Mike Jittlov
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sandy was tall, slender, and beautifully Celtic, sunny freckles with a
perfect pert nose. A long ponytail of auburn-red hair accented her
pointed ears, and her Romulan leathers hugged every curve. Attractive
was a word of major understatement. Sandy was a living magnet for
every male of every age, at the San Diego science-fiction convention.
We seemed to match in all human directions and desires. Both artists,
photographers and terminal idealists, we shared the same love of
science-fantasy and creative adventure. She definitely wasn't afraid
to be different, or to have fun.
Still, caution was a keynote in today's dating dance. We'd chosen our
common-interest rendezvous for its public visibility. Right concept,
wrong locale. I kept getting pulled to hiding, as Sandy kept
recognizing and evading more of her ex-boyfriends.
She'd also warned me about her eyes. They could actually change color
with her moods. Brown was safe. Green was ballistic. And they soon
said it was time to get out of there. The crowded convention became a
life-sized D&D game, as we hurried through its maze of sights and
sellers, to finally emerge at the Gaslamp Quarter's restaurant row.
Perfect, a late lunch would be a typically safe singles thing. Unless
all the restaurants were packed with the sci-fi con's overflow.
"Ohmighod," and Sandy yanked me out of the Spaghetti Factory, before
she was spied by a familiar Klingon tub-o-war.
Okay, it _is_ a game. And what we have is a damsel in distress, who
needs to be rescued and spirited to safety. Where do we go that's
both public and private? And where do you take someone who's at home
in Alpha Centauri? Someplace daring, different, and most of all,
affordable.
A candy-red chariot answered my call. We boarded the TJ-Trolley, and
a half hour later stepped out into another world...a Twilight Zone
lined with Batman, Bart Simpson and Jesus statues, six-dollar switch-
blades and burros painted like zebras. Proximity notwithstanding,
Sandy hadn't been to Tijuana since she was a teenager. And despite
the town's reputation, we felt quite safe. We were both taller than
everyone else, and far beyond your garden-variety gringos. People kept
crossing themselves, until Sandy remembered and took off her elf-ears.
Our south-of-the-border destination was at 5th and Revolucion, in the
venerable Caesar Hotel. Sandy halted, and shot me a look. -- No, wait,
it's not the _hotel_! Jeez, not on a first date! We're going to the
end of that dark lobby, into the Bar & Grill, where the Caesar Salad
was first created. -- She was less than impressed, "...We came all the
way down here, for a _salad_?"
I detected a tinge of skepticism, and proceeded to extol. This was the
genuine item, invented by Caesar Cardini on the Fourth of July in 1926,
proclaimed by the Societe Epicure de Paris as "the greatest recipe to
originate in the Americas in fifty years." It was even praised in the
AAA TourBook! And I gave her my word of honor this would far surpass
any such salad she'd ever tasted. She put a hand in her purse, before
following me over.
And terrific, Caesar's looked closed. But suddenly the doors swept
open, to a cool and comfy 1950's lounge - with romantic low lighting,
red tablecloths, cushioned velour seats. The head waiter himself
graciously took our order, and soon ushered over a stainless steel bowl
and cart of condiments. He grandly mixed a gustatory perfection before
our drooling eyes, while his assistants added twin margaritas, a
basketful of garlic toast, homemade tortilla chips, and killer salsa.
A taste, a swoon - and Sandy was a believer. It was a fiesta of
flavor, for $15.
The only things we left behind were our cares and worries, two glasses
of drinking water, and a unique gratuity. I folded one of the tip
dollars into an origami hopping frog. Sandy was intrigued, and kept
making it jump into a high glass. Our mustachioed waiter smiled,
suggesting that for my next visit he'd like another frog - but folded
out of a $100 bill, por favor.
We strolled around, checked out shops, the combination drugstore &
mariachi showcase, and jai alai warmups. Everything was more
interesting when you shared it, and could prove it. With the
margaritas still in effect, it was decided to take a taxi back to the
border. Sandy put on a plain-clothes aura, and had no problem passing
through the checkpoint. I was another story.
The US Customs Inspector scanned me, and asked what country I was from.
-- "Hollywood." Uh-oh, bad move, I had unwittingly committed the sin
of humor. But no harm, just tell the truth, keep it short and simple.
-- The inspector's eyes narrowed, "What do you do?" -- "I work in the
film industry." -- His face turned to stone, "What kind of work?" --
"Everything." -- "What was your last film?" -- "Ghost." -- "And what'd
you do?" -- "I played the ghosts." Sandy was staring, and blinking.
Another agent joined the first, along with a drug-sniffing dog. "And
what was your purpose for visiting Mexico? -- "Uh, to eat the Caesar
Salad." Fortunately I could explain everything in my backpack, and
they eventually let me back into Americaland without taking finger-
prints. But by the time we reached San Diego, I'd just missed my
train to Los Angeles.
We gave the convention another spin. And the wheel of chance stopped
on the space marked eerie. Apparently we knew and were known by the
same artists, writers, sword-fighters and singers. I also got offers
of crash space, but everyone had convention colds and coughs brewing.
Maybe I could find a midnight bus. Or walk back. It's only 100 miles.
Sandy studied me, head to one side, one eyebrow up, dimples appearing.
She kept on glancing as we entered her neighborhood, watching me, and
watching out. For Ocean Beach was a rowdy sector, boasting a bar on
every corner, and this was Saturday night. It was also like walking
through two realities - the noise and liquor smells assaulting from
one side, with a Disney dusk and balmy sea breeze swirling through the
other. We passed a baglady who was speaking in tongues, and a band of
bikers who just stood in a trance. I looked up and noted the street
lights flickering, but all stars beyond them were steady and bright.
And no shadows anywhere, really odd. The whole day already had a
far-out feel, but this was getting downright surreal.
Just past a headshop, and over an active earthquake fault, Sandy's
building was early Philip Marlow with an equally colorful history. We
walked upstairs, a year with each creak, to a sign that warned "Attack
Cat on Premises".
Behind Door #42 was her one-room refuge from reality. The walls were
covered with reminders of Sandy's self, her art, her mind and heart -
sci-fi, pagan, all imagination. There were Star Trek posters (with
Brent "Data" Spiner a clear favorite), her equestrian photowork,
original sketches and awards for her costumes. She was a survivor of
many a Renaissance Faire, by the feathered hats clustered from library
to ceiling.
Bright cat-eyes peeked from hiding. Her black Siamese shyly circled,
then nuzzled my hand like it was catnip. Chiquita didn't do that for
just anyone, I was assured.
Sandy lit an incense stick and unfolded a medium-sized futon. I went
to the opposite corner of the room, placed my backpack as a pillow,
and lay down at a respectful maximum distance. Sandy grinned. Then
patted her mattress...c'mon over.
Score one for civility. I hadn't made a move on her, all day. So,
maybe she was happy to find someone she could trust. Then again, she
also knew my phone number, my address, my work, a lot of friends in
common. Not to mention, the teargas spray and stun gun on her bedside
table. Possibly a catapult under the futon. I could hardly feel more
secure.
A touch. Her fingers spread across the back of my neck, climbing up
through my hair, massaging into my thinning hairline. Maybe inspiring
a regeneration. Certainly an invigoration. Chiquita wasn't the only
one purring.
And I returned the pleasure with a long backrub, feeling for nerve
knots and muscle tensions. We'd both suffered similar job struggles,
business villains. She talked and I let her words guide me, massaging
her memories, reducing all negatives back to neutral elements and
neural energy. Really nice skin, close to my own Nordic heredity, she
felt more than natural.
The basic subject soon came up. So how do we handle, you know. Answer
her, Mike. Um...I'm kind of totally devoted to a wife I've yet to meet.
I had no problem sleeping together, so long as we kept our pants on.
Her reaction was instinctive, caring, compassionate, and I was truly
amazed that anyone could keep laughing that long. Sandy had a really
healthy set of lungs. Further massage ensued.
How come she'd never married? She almost was, and even made her own
bridal gown, but called it all off just two weeks before the ceremony.
She couldn't quite say why, and I didn't want to pry. But she had
willpower to rival mine.
So how come I'd never married? I once came close with the love of my
life, but Robyn and I were from two different cultures. Victorian
versus Martian, Blake versus Roddenberry. Plus, the film and video
industry was far from stable. My earnings were just in the six-figure
range, if you count the cents.
Her brown eyes went blue. Sandy didn't want to sound mercenary, but
she'd known and helped too many starving artists. She was looking for
a rich husband. Someone with that rare combination of emotional,
physical, and financial fitness. Emphasis on the latter.
The pause was deep, but soon soothed away. So, maybe I didn't have a
Rolls or credit card. But for that eve, I felt like the richest man
alive...no billionaire ever had a better backrub.
And the candle went out, right on cue. We'd talked ourselves safely
past the point of moral abandon. She murmured something sensuous, and
curled to sleep.
I kissed her ears. And thoughts whispered in mine... Did she say "good
-night," or "good knight"? What does she really want? A naturally
sexy woman, who'd rejected her suitors, and was still recovering from
past relationships. She needed more than a lover. So, add up the clues
- the costumes, weapons, pictures. Desires for a safer and simpler
time, for security. To be respected, and appreciated.
And what did I want? I definitely felt stirrings of my ancestry.
Warriors, travelers, teachers, healers. I felt protective. And finally
stopped thinking about it. She seemed asleep, her breathing slowing.
Our body rhythms were nearly matching...at least we could share dreams.
My long arms flowed over her smooth skin, moving into a wrap-around
cuddle. She purred a warm sigh, snuggling back... Life is good.
The Big Bang hit at 5:56am. A brilliant flash came through my closed
eyes, with an incredible sound like a power transformer exploding. My
body was awake, but consciousness still surfacing. A dozen thoughts
jigsawed at once: it's the Big Quake, no the ceiling's still there,
huh where am I, it's not my bed, wait I had a date, or a dream, of
sleeping with a beautiful near-naked girl, of Sandy...she's gone!
No, she's over there -- WOWWW...
A streetlamp and dawnlight streamed through the window blinds,
shimmering over her exquisite silhouette. She was staring through
them, glancing outside and everywhere, her long red hair flying wild.
-- I shot a whisper, "What happened?!"
That was _her_ question. And she couldn't believe that I'd slept right
through the first three volleys. -- Of what? -- Sandy threw gestures
everywhere - the metallic booms, and blue-white flashes that filled
the room!
"C'monnn..!" Uh-oh, green eyes, she wasn't kidding. I bounced to my
feet and looked down at the wide back alley. Maybe a jealous ex
-boyfriend was lobbing fireworks. Nope, nobody was out there, the
window was still closed and intact, and no powerlines were nearby.
I glanced at the stun gun, ashamed of the thought, but it hadn't moved.
There was an strange scent in the room, though...not ozone, not
electrical. More like perfume, a European forest meadow, fascinating.
Chiquita-cat crouched in a corner, staring at her pacing mistress.
And Sandy was looking up and back, intensely searching for whatever
had invaded her home and asking over and over, "What's going on?!?"
I honestly didn't know. A special effect. Life is a special effect.
Maybe the fury of our unrequited passions. Or a static discharge from
three hours of backrubs. Piezo-electric phenomenae from the local
faultline. A side-effect from the salad and salsa. Venus aligned
with Mercury. Scotty was fooling with the transporter, _I_don't_know_,
but if we were going to fight off Passion Poltergeists from Planet
Illuminati I needed at least six more hours of REMs.
How can you even sleep when the world's exploding?! -- Viking reflex,
abnormal calm under stress. -- But it's like something out of a science
-fiction movie! -- Yes, it's Back to the Futon Part II, come to bed.
And that she finally did, but lay at a cautious distance - no more
massages, and no more touching. Though I felt her emerald gaze on me
for quite a while. And I think she was smiling.
We both awoke at high noon, and disappointingly still on Earth. I
offered to treat her to a consolation lunch in the Horton Plaza. As we
wandered through its riot of Escher architecture, odd stairways and
curious shops, our thoughts paralleled the surroundings. We knew that
we weren't marriage partners. Soulmates, yes. Maybe somewhere between
brother-sister, and lovers. Friends, absolutely. And that wasn't bad
at all.
I took the last train back to LA. And still felt her massages swirling
over my back and shoulders. We would stay in contact, at least through
Ma Bell.
A few days later, Sandy's apartment was psychometrized by Alys Lyn, a
professional psychic counselor. She saw two lightning balls that
opened a dimensional portal, where five guardian spirits looked in on
us - a cave bear, Irish elk, Arctic wolf, Norwegian troll, and crested
eagle, all in white against a blue field of stars. Alys even drew a
haunting group portrait.
Okay... Not that I believe in the supernatural. I don't like
explaining one mystery with another. And I say this, as I tap arcane
symbols on a plastic keyboard, and see my words marching across a
glowing green window.
But the adventure did remind me of one thing I've learned, living and
working in the Dream Capital: magic happens to magical people. It's
not so much that you get what you deserve. More, that you get what
you resemble, or need. Sandy surely deserves the best. And I hope her
husband wears earplugs and RayBans, on their wedding night.
* * *
Copyright 1993 by Mike Jittlov - TV & Movie Options Pending
(From notes of the actual event...and Sandy doesn't mind my
posting this even though some of her friends will read it.
BTW, turns out she was in the "Wizard of Speed & Time" movie's
finale crowd close-up -- the unicorn girl in green satin 8-)
PPS: printed on the back of the Caesar's Bar business card
(which has since closed, replaced by a Burger King :^p )
THE ORIGINAL CAESAR'S SALAD (for 4 persons)
3 medium heads of romaine lettuce (chilled, dry, crisp)
1 dash of Worcestershire sauce
5-6 tablespoons of grated Parmesan cheese
1 cup of croutons
1 pinch of salt
1/3 cup of garlic-flavored salad oil
1-2 tablespoons of wine vinegar
Juice of 1 1/2 lemons
1 raw egg
Freshly ground pepper
(and NO anchovies -- except for those in the Worcestershirerer)
__________________________________________ ___._`.*.'_._ ________
Mike Jittlov - Wizard, etc . . + * .o o.* `.`. +. .
902 Maltman, LA, CA 90026-2714 ' * . ' ' |\^/| `. * . * `
(213) No-Human (noon, to moon) (: May All Your \V/ Good Dreams . +
<& alt.fan.mike-jittlov> and Fine Wishes /_\ Come True:) .`.
=============================================== _/ \_ ===========::::.
Yes! ^It's an actual newsgroup (over 68,000 subscribers worldwide),
haven to hyper-creative mega-crossposting -- plus the very historic
"*SAVE THE WIZARD MOVIE*" Write-In Campaign! Tune in and lurk on!!
_// And if you'd like to help, but alt.fan.mike-jittlov isn't \\_
\\ accessible, please email me and I'll send the information //
Copyright 1994 by Mike Jittlov (for all protection that provides..)
-------------------------------------------------------------------->8
>From petersm@CSOS.ORST.EDU Tue Aug 3 04:28:25 1993
Date: Wed, 3 Aug 1994 04:28:01 -0700
From: Marguerite Petersen
Message-Id: <199408031128.EAA06802@CSOS.ORST.EDU>
To: jittlov@erehwon.caltech.edu
Subject: Re: Weird Wizard Romance at ComiCon (long story)
Newsgroups: alt.fan.mike-jittlov,alt.fandom.cons,rec.arts.sf.fandom,
rec.arts.startrek.fandom,rec.arts.comics.misc
Organization: CS Outreach Services, Oregon State University, Corvallis, OR
Thanks *muchly* for posting this. I enjoyed it immensely! And yes,
*I* believe that magical things happen to magical people too. :-)
Marg
--
"Insufficient facts always invite danger, Captain."-Spock in Space Seed
Member PSEB Official Sonneteer/Keeper of the Captain's Log JLP SoL
aka Kathleen O'Toole, Poet, Author
Return to WizDex