Posted by Chris Rachael Oseland on Aug 10, 2010 in
Chicago 
I have a couple announcements.
First, the Princess Bride Festival has been delayed until September 19.
Second, it’s delayed because I’m moving to Chicago.
The kind people at The Alley Theater agreed the Princess Bride Festival is too darn good to miss. Since I sadly won’t be available to run it they’ve generously agreed to take it on for themselves. They’re total champs. Show them your thanks by heading over to www.thealleytheater.org to buy tickets. It’ll be an inconceivably good time!
I can’t begin to express how much I’m looking forward to this move. I don’t really know what I’m getting myself into, but hey, I said the same thing about Kansas City and fell madly in love with the place.
I have a lot to look forward to in Chicago. On the nerd side, there’ll be Browncoats, Steampunks, Boardgamers, and the kind of active, healthy SF fandom I’ve missed so much. On the professional side, there are three cities in the US for writers. I’ve already lived in New York. Los Angeles is a prohibitively expensive move. Between them lies Chicago - only 6 hours away and convenient to several good friends.
By necessity, this means I’m saying goodbye to both Palmyran Rebels and the assorted clubs I started in Louisville. I’m incandescently pleased so many people who met at my clubs and later at my professional events went on to become good friends. Both were inspired by my desire to build community. As I move up north, it’s now my turn to join existing communities, but I know I’m leaving you all in good hands - one another’s.
Tags: Leaving Louisville
Posted by Chris Rachael Oseland on Jul 14, 2010 in
Louisville.com,
bloggin' Yes, I’ve been live blogging again. I’d say twenty articles in two days is crazy, but I’m doing it all again for HullabaLOU later this month.
Despite the occasionally critical tone, I really enjoyed the heck out of this year’s Forecastle Festival. The bands were great, the people were friendly, and the food - oh man, other festivals need to take notes. This was hands down the best festival food I’ve ever seen.
ROUNDUPS
Best and Worst of the Forecastle Festival
Forecastle Festival Art: Doing it Right
Forecastle Festival Art: Doing it Wrong
Forecastle Festival’s food offerings spank other downtown festivals
BANDS
Devo fans wave canes, tell youngsters to get off their lawn at Forecastle
Cake sucks up to the audience at Forecastle. We love them for it.
Grace Potter and the Nocturnals scare dementors away from Forecastle
Marching Band makes every empty space their stage at this year’s Forecastle Festival
we were promised jetpacks fails to launch at Forecastle Festival
ART, ACTIVISM, ATMOSPHERE
Forecastle’s Film Festival an experiment in nihilism
An indoor smoking lounge at an outdoor festival?
Mystery of the indoor “smoking lounge” at the Forecastle Festival now solved
Forecastle Festival doesn’t want you to feel blue about the environment
Hot girls hula hooping
Take a video walk through Forecastle’s Conciousness Carnival
Forecastle Festival vendor finds a convincing way to charge $5 for a nap
Activism - the red headed stepchild of this year’s Forecastle Festival
Forecastle Festival Freebies
PHOTOS
Faces of the Forecastle Festival
Forecastle Festival Photos: “Glass Art” Edtion
Posted by Chris Rachael Oseland on Jul 12, 2010 in
Adventures in Dating 
Someone recently asked me why I don’t invite promising dates over to watch David Lynch’s “Dune.” This is the same someone who always suggests I show up for a first date wearing my vinyl batgirl costume.
While it’s true the batgirl costume might get me laid, arrested or both, I don’t think inviting someone over to share my special fetish for giant sandworm movies will result in the kind of hot and spicy Fremen action only I dream about. Some day a man will show up at my door with a box of spice cake mix, a bag of cinnamon sugar, and some blue food dye. Once we’re done blinking the dye out of our eyes, we’ll butter each other up, lick off the sugar, and crank up Fatboy Slim’s “Weapon of Choice” while enjoying a sweaty night until we’re so sore from walking without rhythm that I can no longer attract the worm. There will also be cowbell.
Meanwhile, I’ve once more ended up in a string of quiet debates about the greatest Giant Sandworm Movies of all time. Gloves off, kids. It’s time to throw down and settle this.
1. David Lynch’s Dune
2. Tremors
3. SyFy Channel’s Dune
4. SyFy Channel’s Children of Dune
5. Beetlejuice
6. Tremors 2
7. Lair of the White Worm
8. Tremors 3
9. Empire Strikes Back
10. Sand Serpents
I don’t want to hear any nonsense from you blasphemers who say David Lynch butchered the novel. I don’t care that the Fremen’s black leather fetish made them that much easier for the Baron to find. I have no fear of putting my eyes out on Sting’s extra pointy loincloth. I don’t even suspect Dr. Yueh of being a cylon. Damn you all, and your needless criticisms. MY NAME IS A KILLING WORD!
Ahem.
So, as I was saying, no, I’ve never invited a date over to watch any of my favorite movies. I understand home cinema is a normal form of courtship which can often lead to “making out” or other related athletic activities. Heck, I can almost picture how to get there from The Princess Bride, so long as the guy knows when to say, “As You Wish,” but I’ve never figured out the right time to put my hand on a guy’s knee after shouting, “Khaaaaaaan!”
Tags: dating
Posted by Chris Rachael Oseland on Jul 2, 2010 in
Uncategorized 
It’s time for Palmyran Rebels to present our second annual Dread Pirate Roberts Franchisee Reunion!
If you’ve been Mostly Dead all summer this is your chance to experiece the wuv, tru wuv of The Princess Bride.
JOIN THE DREAD PIRATE ROBERTS FRANCHISE!
For a minimal fee you’ll get dread headscarf, face mask, business card and certificate as THE offical dread pirate roberts.
BUY A FARMBOY
That’s right, ladies! We’ll be auctioning off dates with farmboys who understand the meaning of As You Wish.
REENACT THE MOVIE
Dress up in costume, because once the movie starts, everyone is welcome to act is out Rocky Horror style.
WAIT, YOU WANT MORE?
We’ll have plenty of vendor booths where you can buy anything from Rodents of Unusual Size to swords to potions and much more. Win prizes for the best costumes! Challenge Vizzini to see which cup holds the poison. See jugglers from the circus next door. Duel with padded swords in the courtyard.
This is a unique Louisville event that can’t be missed!
Tickets are $12
Available from Meetup or from The Alley Theater and Art Sanctuary. A portion of the proceeds goes to benefit Art Sanctuary, and there’ll also be a fundraiser for Hands for Hope where you can buy adorable hand made ROUS and other awesome Princess Bride artifacts.
Tags: festival, go go guerrilla, Palmyran Rebels
Posted by Chris Rachael Oseland on Jun 27, 2010 in
Adventures in Dating 
I’d like to welcome all three of my new readers who found me after tuning into the Diva’s edition of the Den of Sin radio show. Many thanks to Dusty for pimping the Princess Bride Festival as well as my dating life.
I’m going to let you guys in on a little secret. Don’t tell. It’ll ruin my reputation.
Sometimes my first dates go very well.
Gosh. I almost feel like a traitor for admitting this. It really does happen.
Heck, every now and then, a fantastic first date leads to a nifty second date. Last year, an unexpected first date turned into a very nice six month long relationship. No, you loyal readers never heard about that one. My secret to securing second dates is not writing about the first date with anyone I actually want to see again. It’s worked well so far.
However, in the last few months a couple of my exes spontaneously suggested I write about our first dates. It seems they fear for my dating future if men see nothing but horror stories in my blog. This is the drawback to having the world’s most googleable name.
I was ready to take one of them up on it when, to my surprise, I had a very nice first date. Gosh. I could go back and re-read journal entries about exes to remind myself of details long past, but I’d rather call my girlfriends and gush about the tall, dark, and geeky goodness I enjoyed on Saturday night.
No, you can’t have details. I’m afraid of jinxing it. Suffice it to say my evening included zombies, Rocketmen, compliments on the contents of my bookshelves, and generous helpings of delicious beef.
Today, I can’t wipe a grin off my face. Don’t worry, though - I still have a backlog of dates I haven’t written about yet. (I live under the illusion that if I let enough time pass between meeting a guy and writing about him he’ll forget I exist rather than turn into an angry stalker.) Stay tuned for tales of the guy who showed up in a liquid latex shirt, an angry racist with a chip on his shoulder, and the purple haired pre-op transvestite.
Tags: 22 First Dates, dating
Posted by Chris Rachael Oseland on Jun 21, 2010 in
Adventures in Dating 
It’s actually quite rare for me to be stood up, but it happened twice in as many weeks. One of the guys, who lives less than a mile away, actually asked if we could could Skype instead.
On Sunday, I did what many of us do when we’re feeling lonely and perhaps a little desperte - I went slumming on Craigslist. I’ve really got to cut that out. Any time I go slumming there half a dozen people I know in real life wave hi.
“Aww. Feeling lonely, Chris-Rachael?” they say.
“Wait!” I protest. “These ads are supposed to be anonymous!”
“Riiight. That only works if you stop using proper grammar, don’t cite zombies, and quit referring to strange men on the internet as ’sir.’ You might as well leave your thumbprint and a DNA sample every time you post.”
“So, what are you doing on Craigslist?”
“Me?” They’re suddenly a little less mocking. “Er…I just surf around here for laughs. Yeah. That’s it. Er…let me know how this works out if your body isn’t found behind a dumpster.”
The Body Builder keeps popping up like an angry zit before a photo shoot. He was everywhere I wanted to be. Tonight, I wanted to be out of the house. Voila - there he was, eagerly replying to yet another personal ad.
Uncle. I agreed to meet him for coffee an hour before my favorite shop closed.
When I pulled up he was flexing outside the door. I get the feeling he does that for fun. He pretended to squint when I got out of my car then greeted me with, “It IS you! Yeah. I’ve seen your ads.” After several dozen first dates, I will say what followed was the single most creepy knowing wink I’ve ever experienced. It deserved dramatic warning music.
My normally reliable coffee shop closed early on Sunday’s. Damn. On the walk to a restaurant next door his attempts to rub his arm up against mine nearly pushed me off the sidewalk. I commented that he sure was a big guy in the hope he’d take the hint and give me some space.
“I can drop 360.” He looked so proud.
“If a globe falls out of my hands, so can I.”
Chirp. You could hear crickets after my lame attempt at humor. Body building was no laughing matter. From the frown lines on his face, I wasn’t sure if he was capable of laughing. We walked in awkward silence.
“You’re into BDSM play, right?”
Wait…what? A little segue, please. You’re supposed to lure people into that kind of conversation, not bludgeon them unexpectedly with it.
“No, that’s not my thing.”
He looked disbelieveing. “Your profile looks like you like it.”
I thought through my profiles. Let’s see, there’s the one where I say I’m not looking for a one night stand, the one where I say I’m interested in dating someone who can keep up with me in conversation, and the one where I say I’m a criminal mastermind in search of my partner in crime.
“Sorry.”
Wait…why was I appologizing? Oh, because he looked like the kind of guy who could break me in half then floss his teeth with my tendons. Every single photo he’d sent in response to my ads was of him oiled and flexing. Well, except for one. As we sat down for late night coffee, he looked conspiratorially around the room and, just loud enough for other people to hear, said, “You got that pic of my penis, right?”
“No,” I lied. If he said so, I’m sure he sent one, but I honestly couldn’t pick his penis out of a lineup. I get so damn many unsolicited photos of the things they all look alike.
“What? I know I sent it to you. I’ll send you another one when I get home.”
“No, really,” I said, “I’m good.”
“Are you saying I’m an ugly man?”
Wait…what? Yes, he was an ugly man. I consider tall and dark to be handsome. This guy’s red hair had faded to a dirty blonde over the last four decades. His failed attempts to tan left his skin a blistered pink beneath copious freckles, which themselves were almost the same shade of yellowed brown as his teeth. I had to squint to see the resemblance between him and his admittedly meh photos.
“No, that’s not it.”
“I’m a good looking man!” The guys at the table across the room from us glanced over. One raised a dubious eyebrow.
“It’s the internet. A lot of guys send me pictures of their penises. I don’t need to see another one. Honest.”
“That’s not what you’re saying. You’re saying you think I’m an ugly man.” He crossed his arms, flexing once more, and looked genuinly insulted.
I wasn’t sure how to get out of this without him whipping it out on the table as some kind of horrific proof. “Listen, the way I see it, if I get to know a guy well enough to see his penis, it really doesn’t matter what it looks like. It’ll get the job done regardless.”
“You think I’m an ugly man.”
Get a mirror, dude. Even if you had an award winning penis, it wouldn’t make up for your face.
I was exasperated. “Why did you reply to my ad?” More important, why did I consent to finally meet him? I ignored him the previous four times. I couldn’t believe I let sheer persistence outweigh common sense.
“You’re smarter than most of the women I see on the internet.”
Finally, a compliment! It was the least creepy thing he’d said to me all night.
“Most of them are just crack whores looking to score a hit and make somebody else pay for it.”
Wait…WHAT? What kind of ads did he usually reply to?
“Wow. Uh, I don’t get anything like that. There are a lot of guys who write like they didn’t make it out of the 8th grade, plus all the guys who just want an anonymous hookup.” Damn. I could tell from the glint in his beedy eyes he thought I’d just segued back to the opening he was waiting for.
“I want to ask you a question.” He leaned in too close for my comfort. “Let’s say your zombie app-o-poh-liss happens.”
…dude, you did not just mispronounce apocalypse. Surely even good Christians know how to say that word. Oh, wait. They call it The Rapture. Fewer syllables to confuse.
“The world’s ended and everybody’s running around with shotguns and they’re surviving off whatever they can find that got left behind. In your world, when that happens, will people still have sex?”
Put a fork in this date. It’s done.
“I’m not looking for a hookup,” I repeated.
“What are you looking for?”
Okay, that was a reasonable question. “Someone I have things in common with.” Unlike you. “Someone I can hang out with.” Unlike you. “Someone who wants the same things out of life I do.”
“You want sex.”
Well… yes, actually. Just not with you. Damn women for being so picky!
Twenty minutes had passed. Normally, I give guys a full hour. “Listen, I don’t want to lead you on. That’s just rude. But I can tell we’re not looking for the same things. So I think I should go now. No harm, no ill will, right?” Please don’t corner me by my car and beat me senseless, you scary angry man.
“I don’t care what you do.”
“Okay. I’m going to go now.” I slowly backed away from the table. My plan had been to make a run for the bathrooms and hope he was gone by the time I reluctantly emerged. Instead, he stormed past me and slammed the door on the way out. I lurked near a window until he was well past my car before I decided to bravely venture out.
I have my fingers crossed he learned the right lesson. Sure, persistence can pay off, but if it takes that much effort to convince a woman to meet you, maybe you should leave the crack whores, BDSM, and penis photos at home. Please.
Tags: 22 First Dates, dating
Posted by Chris Rachael Oseland on Jun 2, 2010 in
Adventures in Dating 
As a self confessed grammar snob it’s nearly impossible for me to engage in chat on dating sites. There’s literally nothing I can say to a man whose first conversational volley is, “sup u pic is hot.” Oh, sure, I could try to diagram that sentence for him (is “u” a greeting, as in ‘What’s up with you’ or is it the subject, as in ‘I just masturbated to your photo’) but then I’d have to spend the rest of the night drinking martni’s while crying on the phone with a librarian friend. My liver can only take so much.
This clever monkey slipped past my usual defenses. He can actually write, he paid attention to my profile, and he wanted to make me laugh. Let’s see if you can pinpoint where this conversation went horribly awry.
Him: Good Grammar is sexy!
Me: Yes sir, it is! Thank you for capitalizing the first word in your sentence and ending it with a punctuation mark.
Him: Do I win a prize?
Me: My lovely company on chat.
Him: You can do better.
Me: Oh?
Him: I read your profile.
Me: Why else would you ping me? 
Him: You’re an evil mastermind.
Me: Bwa ha ha! My army of robotic ants is patrolling the sewers for my dark nemesis right now!
Him: My plan to take over the world is simple: have sex with as many woman as I can and have as many babies as I can with those women. Then while the childs are growing up I’ll brainwash them to make them my army and take over the world, city by city. If you have sex with me soon, I’ll make you the highest of all the women I sleep with.
Me: A flattering offer, but I’m more the sort to build my own harem than volunteer for a slot in someone else’s.
Me: Who’s your favorite evil genius in the movies?
Him: If you volunteer your slot I know how to fill it.
Me: Two points for trying, but that one was a stretch.
Me: Whatever would you do with a diverse army of evil genius babies, anyway? Trust me, while I approve of long term planning, there are better ways to take over the world. All the money you’re investing in diapers could go towards building a lair at the base of an extinct volcano.
Him: Come on, let me go down on you so I can hear you moan for hours.
Me: I hate to break it to you, but that’s not how you make babies. It’s really more of a rehearsal activity.
Him: I want to make you pregnant.
Me: …are you serious?
Him: I knocked up two girls. My babies are smart and easy to raise. Moms love them.
Him: You’ll see.
Him: I can make you squirt.
Me: I really thought you were kidding about the evil plan to populate the world.
Him: I can host.
Me: Does that line ever work?
Him: Or I can come to you…..then cum in you.
Me: I meant surely no one ever says yes when you say, “I want to make you pregnant.”
Him: I made two kids. Let’s make it three.
Tags: dating, first contact
Posted by Chris Rachael Oseland on Jun 1, 2010 in
Adventures in Dating 
My shiny new one year membership to the Frazier Museum came in the mail today. It not only gets me into nifty preview events and a summer of piratical goodness, but any time I want to wander by, I and a guest get in for free.
Well, gosh. This has oodles of, “let me cover our next date” potential written all over it. Okay, that requires a first date to go well. A girl can dream. Meanwhile, I’m really looking forward to their rooftop party in July.
Posted by Chris Rachael Oseland on May 29, 2010 in
Autobiography 
People say you can never go home again, but I decided to visit my old apartment since I’m already in Kansas City for ConQuest.
I lived here in the dark and distant past - a time when all phones were tethered to walls, Russian cosmonauts still chain smoked on the Mir space station, and Jerry Garcia was better known for being in the Grateful Dead than being a Ben & Jerry’s ice cream flavor. In this dark time known as “The 1990’s” I lived in a slum.
I don’t mean, “My neighbors don’t even recycle! This place is a slum!” No. My upstairs neighbor and I had a deal. I’d scare wild animals away from her car and she’d warn me when to expect serious shooting on the streets.
She was terrified the skinny brown bunnies that gnawed on grass growing through our gravel parking spaces would give her babies rabies, but she wasn’t afraid of being shot. After all, she rented the top floor apartment and knew how to keep her head down. Up the block, three houses had been torn down to make space for a hideous industrial grey brick 1960’s strip style cluster of tiny two room apartments rented out by a local pimp for his girls. Across the street from the hookers a historic building had been turned into a group home for the mentally ill.
I loved taking long walks.
My neighbors fascinated me. Two blocks from my apartment were a moderately well maintained city park with a good sized kid’s splash zone and a literal corner store where the hookers shopped. The nameless corner store accepted food stamps, sold international lottery tickets, and had the world’s most fascinating selection of off brand imported home cleaning products, cheap cologne, things you can eat with crackers, and an entire case full of one gallon jugs of whole milk. I can’t drink milk, plus the hookers didn’t like it when I shopped in there, so I’d walk another three blocks to the neighborhood grocery store.
I always wished the hookers would let me shop with them because the neighborhood grocery store scared the piss out of me. The scarce vegetables were brown, the meat was green, and they too sold nearly industrial sized quantities of whole milk. Every product in the store was generic, and sometimes you had to compare the color of a tattered scrap of label on an otherwise blank can to what was in other people’s carts if you wanted to be sure what you were holding. Since the only people who shopped there were the carless poor who couldn’t get anywhere better, everything was double or more the cost of a brand name product.
If you tried speaking to anyone who worked there they’d literally scream you were a theif.
“Hi, do you have any aluminum foil this week? My window was shot out and my landlord won’t replace it.”
“Shut your whore mouth you fucking thief!”
“Right. I’ll check isle three.”
I can’t really blame them. The store kids were scarier than the adults. It was entirely their right to take your purse, plus anything in your pocket. The easiest way to trigger a hair pulling fight was for one mom to tell another one’s kid to keep their hands to themselves. I really wished the hookers would let me shop at their corner store. The ladies may have survived entirely on breakfast cereal and cracker spreads, but at least they were quiet people who mostly kept to themselves.
Today, the ghetto grocery is a Whole Foods. My mind boggles. The hooker’s corner store is now a graphic design studio. Based on the landscaping and quality of cars outside, the group home for the mentally ill looks like it’s been turned into condos.
It isn’t a total Cinderella story. Gentrification has been good to my old stomping grounds, but the neighborhood still has a way to go. All the stopsigns are still tagged with graffiti. There were half a dozen boarded up houses in a three block radius of my old place, plus at least that many For Rent signs. However, the cars all looked to be under 15 years old, and none of them had bullet holes. Neither the cars nor the houses had aluminum foil covering broken windows. The old meth house next to my apartment now has a porch swing, a satellite dish, and a willow tree in the yard. I’m kinda proud of the old place. We’ve both grown up.
Tags: Autobiography
