Tuesday, September 06, 2011
the pros of cons
They met at the Orion party. Fake bid parties were always the best, focusing on atmosphere and liquor more than stunning facilities and go-to destinations. It was early only a little after eleven and without a sufficient buzz to make him immune to the fears of sounding stupid, looking out of place or simply making an ass of himself Devon was glued to the flat screen as Anne Francis levered her faux-nude torso out of the soundstage pond.
“Shakespeare in space… It’s based on The Tempest you know.”
Devon pointedly did not turn. Still focused the screen he replied, “Yes, although Frankenfurter got way more mileage out of this than the bard ever did.”
A laugh echoed into a plastic cup. “True, but who ever knew that the Airplane guy was ever so hot?”
“Generations best left unnamed.”
Another laugh. “I’m Jean.”
Of course you are thought Devon, Madeline Kahn singing mockingly in the back of his brain. He’d been tracking “Jean” for three room parties now as he moved in and out and among a contingent that seemed to be mostly Brits and Canadians. Two of them were here. Where were the others? Oh, who the hell cared? Jean was here and talking to Devon of his own free will.
“Jean Michele? Like Jean Michele Jarre?” That is the nature nerd-dom, a pissing contest of whose brain contains the greatest reservoir of minutiae and obscure trivia, the alpha determined by this and no other physical or social criteria considered valid in the broader world… unless one is female, then, sometimes cleavage can be entered into the equation. Having no cleavage Devon had learned to reach outside of genre to make up for his lack of native knowledge.
“Uh, no. Sorry, is that an author?”
“No. French musician. Sorry, I’m being obscure.”
“Well it’s new anyway,” chuckled Jean, “I usually get, ‘like Jean Luc Picard?’
“You could do worse…”
“I know, but still, how obvious!”
They laughed together. Bonding, thought Devon.
“It’s actually Jean Patrick. What you get when your people are Irish from Quebec I guess.” He pronounced it with two ‘k’ sounds.
“Umm, I’m Devon,” Devon said flipping the con badge at his belt.
“Devon….?” intoned Jean, eyebrows arched over Bambi caliber brown eyes.
“Devon Brewster. It’s what happens when your people are Irish from Cape Cod.” Devon hid his embarrassment in the dregs of his alarmingly green beverage. Never let them see you sweat, he thought.
Just then the world reopened. Three women in corsets, goggles, and incongruous anime pigtails fell into the room wrapped in a cloud of giggles and trailed by a loud man in a 3xl TOS medical corps jersey.
As Devon’s thoughts ricocheted between “Not frakking now” and “I need another drink” he felt a poke in his consciously tightened midsection.
“This green stuff’ll kill you and London is serving whiskey. So, Devon Brewster, care to join me?”
Devon hoped like hell his useless blinking pause hadn’t been quite so long as it felt. “Well sir, whiskey you say?” Then turning to the giddy storm front that was his friends, “Ladies, there is important drinking that needs my attention. You will excuse me.” He tipped an imaginary hat and added, “Please do keep Ensign McDougall out of trouble!”
It took a good five minutes of introductions and fumbling loose of hugs before the boys finally stumbled into the hallway.
“Sorry, I, well we’re all here together and…” Devon dribbled of into silence facing the look in Jean’s eyes. “Right,” he breathed, “whiskey.” Jean smiled wickedly and cut into the milling throng of hobbits, harridans and storm troopers, Devon hot on his heels.
“Shakespeare in space… It’s based on The Tempest you know.”
Devon pointedly did not turn. Still focused the screen he replied, “Yes, although Frankenfurter got way more mileage out of this than the bard ever did.”
A laugh echoed into a plastic cup. “True, but who ever knew that the Airplane guy was ever so hot?”
“Generations best left unnamed.”
Another laugh. “I’m Jean.”
Of course you are thought Devon, Madeline Kahn singing mockingly in the back of his brain. He’d been tracking “Jean” for three room parties now as he moved in and out and among a contingent that seemed to be mostly Brits and Canadians. Two of them were here. Where were the others? Oh, who the hell cared? Jean was here and talking to Devon of his own free will.
“Jean Michele? Like Jean Michele Jarre?” That is the nature nerd-dom, a pissing contest of whose brain contains the greatest reservoir of minutiae and obscure trivia, the alpha determined by this and no other physical or social criteria considered valid in the broader world… unless one is female, then, sometimes cleavage can be entered into the equation. Having no cleavage Devon had learned to reach outside of genre to make up for his lack of native knowledge.
“Uh, no. Sorry, is that an author?”
“No. French musician. Sorry, I’m being obscure.”
“Well it’s new anyway,” chuckled Jean, “I usually get, ‘like Jean Luc Picard?’
“You could do worse…”
“I know, but still, how obvious!”
They laughed together. Bonding, thought Devon.
“It’s actually Jean Patrick. What you get when your people are Irish from Quebec I guess.” He pronounced it with two ‘k’ sounds.
“Umm, I’m Devon,” Devon said flipping the con badge at his belt.
“Devon….?” intoned Jean, eyebrows arched over Bambi caliber brown eyes.
“Devon Brewster. It’s what happens when your people are Irish from Cape Cod.” Devon hid his embarrassment in the dregs of his alarmingly green beverage. Never let them see you sweat, he thought.
Just then the world reopened. Three women in corsets, goggles, and incongruous anime pigtails fell into the room wrapped in a cloud of giggles and trailed by a loud man in a 3xl TOS medical corps jersey.
As Devon’s thoughts ricocheted between “Not frakking now” and “I need another drink” he felt a poke in his consciously tightened midsection.
“This green stuff’ll kill you and London is serving whiskey. So, Devon Brewster, care to join me?”
Devon hoped like hell his useless blinking pause hadn’t been quite so long as it felt. “Well sir, whiskey you say?” Then turning to the giddy storm front that was his friends, “Ladies, there is important drinking that needs my attention. You will excuse me.” He tipped an imaginary hat and added, “Please do keep Ensign McDougall out of trouble!”
It took a good five minutes of introductions and fumbling loose of hugs before the boys finally stumbled into the hallway.
“Sorry, I, well we’re all here together and…” Devon dribbled of into silence facing the look in Jean’s eyes. “Right,” he breathed, “whiskey.” Jean smiled wickedly and cut into the milling throng of hobbits, harridans and storm troopers, Devon hot on his heels.
