dafnap

Tue, 12 Oct 2004 07:23:19 GMT

http://www.limecrime.net/

Want. Like? Now.

GIP!

Thu, 15 Apr 2004 02:06:54 GMT

I'm so insanely proud of this for all the wrong, wrong reasons.

And I'm incredibly immature, but dude, IT'S SO TRUE.

Not quite wank, still totally lame.

Fri, 09 Apr 2004 22:30:25 GMT

The most humorless people ever.

Alias Wank!

Sun, 29 Feb 2004 01:29:59 GMT

The Vartanhoes are a group of people who run a website dedicated to the guy with the cute nose Michael Vartan, who plays, funnily enough, Michael Vaughn and the current paramour on Alias.

Well, according to the self proclaimed "vartanhoes" Alias has sucked major this season, and they have something to say.

My favorite part, of course, is this:

We believe that fans should never be put through what Alias fans have been put through this season. We believe that television shows should not be about manipulating and mindfucking the fans. We believe that television shows should not be about subjugating characters in favor of lame, contrived, distasteful plots. We believe that fans should not have to "stomach" months of subpar drama in the hopes that maybe, someday, there will be a worthwhile payoff in the very end. We believe that entertainment should not be about pain, disappointment, frustration and sadism.

Yes, well, at least it didn't get cancelled.

Just sayin', is all.

Fuckity Fuck Fuck.

Thu, 29 Jan 2004 09:52:19 GMT

I hate UCLA's network sometimes. It lets me into some sites, while others are inaccessible. I can get to Hotmail and Journalfen for some reason, but a no go with the Livejournal and anything else for FUCKS SAKE.

On MSN's main page is a scroll of news and something about a Jerusalem bombing just passed by and so I think "I can click this, this is MSN, I can access this page during UCLA's bitch time."

Click, and no go.

FUCK, why don't I have a TV!?! Why do I depend on my new from stupid fucking filtered MSN and my shitty ass school network.

FUCK.

< /bitch>

Gigantic Back Up (back it the fuck up) Picture Post.

Wed, 14 Jan 2004 05:01:46 GMT

Mostly for archival purposes.

***
Buffy/Angel:

You told me once, when we were young...

manip/original

Poor Eric Balfour...

***

It definitely wasn't the right time period, but goddamn if it ain't a cool base:

1024x768

no pen/original manip/original

***

From JennyO's Lay of Westley of Wyndham

we do it old style, baby.

manip/original

***

Firefly:

Praise Your Name

'Course I was listening to the song by the same name which I can't recommend enough and (imagine that!) you can download off of here by the Angels of Light. Just listen to the song. It's so goddamn awesome.

***

The OC:

hochee mama

Eh. I spent more time on the Summer manip instead of Marissa and (sadly) it shows, that and the whole thing loks wierd because they all have bigger boobs than they should but what's a girl to do?

***

The Anniversary Rocks Hard biatches!

The Marissa pic was originally black and white, and then I colored it, and then filtered it to fuck. Actually not many filters were used, but (redux) still.

colored/uncolored/textured

**

edit: I is stupid.

Wed, 03 Dec 2003 05:10:14 GMT

recovery

Woah.

Tue, 25 Nov 2003 03:54:26 GMT

I was photoshop-clean for two weeks thanks to some nasty virus leaving me free to do stuff like, ya know, study and sleep.

But doooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooode. Work computers are panty-dripping fast. It's like an orgasm each time I press radial blur/zoom/ max 10.

1024x768/mac/original manip/original

I had to color this from scratch since the face was black and white and the body was...well...not. Yeah, I excel at making things hard for myself. Go me.
**

I was thinking maybe a little texture before adding text but I'm still iffy on the actual adding text part as well. I don't know if I should in the first place because A)I can't be arsed to think of anything cute, and B)I really, really, really can't figure out how I want to format it, which usually (oddly) dictates what (A) is.

Oh yeah, and the mac version is lame yo, I apologize.

The Return of Teh HP_Wank

Mon, 17 Nov 2003 22:47:49 GMT

Talking about dredging up the past...remember all the angst when Gary Oldman cast as Sirius? All cries of "He's not cute enough! He doesn't have the rugged good looks and the pustules that ooze male sexuality? Where's the bulging biceps and the gigantic throbbing d-"

There was sobbing, wailing and the sound of a thousand keyboards misspelling words and replacing all the letter c's with k's!

But that's not all! There's the inability to tell apart shoddy photoshop with high end posters! There's endless barrages of "I hope you jump of a cliff!" And more! Go forth, boggle:

http://darkmark.com/galleries/details.php?image_id=2936

I hate it here.

Mon, 27 Oct 2003 12:42:21 GMT

Transmetroplitan, Jen, DAMN YOU.

I Hate It Here

And here's one for Mac people.

Oh god, I don't want to write this paper.

More Dru for You.

Sun, 19 Oct 2003 02:31:30 GMT

Posted this already on LJ, might as well do the rounds:

bigger?
higher-def version

oy, I'm tired.

Pink-o-Rama

Mon, 15 Sep 2003 09:35:59 GMT

Buffy/Faith, slash, sparklies and pink.

Does this make me a girl?

dammit.

Fri, 12 Sep 2003 04:15:33 GMT

I am a Google whore. I think I spent an hour today just googling "old photograph" and jacking the edges.

Whore. Such. A. Whore.

JF-ers love this shit...

Mon, 25 Aug 2003 12:47:24 GMT

Damn, I wish I thought of it...

No? Good.

OC drabble

Wed, 20 Aug 2003 22:23:51 GMT

just so I have it down for when I get home...

**

Those men came for Dad again, their big black suits filling up the spyhole when they knocked.

"Excuse me ma'am," They called out, booming voices and harsh annunciation, "We have a warrent, you'll have to let us in whether he's home or not."

Marissa knows better than to argue, people might see a van of FBI agents battering down her door and that wouldn't help Dad any; so she opens the door and they come in two-by-two like in Sunday school. She doesn't say anything, not even a 'hello' or 'come in', they know what to do and she's too tired (scared/confused/knowing) to fake pleasentries. They've come for Dad -of course- she always kinda/sorta knew that they'd stop believing her one of these days and just cut out the middleman (woman, no just a girl).

She hears Dad screaming and crashing things in his office, she hears the whir of the paper shredder and how his heels of his prada leather men's fashion 2003 shoes scratch the laquered floor. It cost 10,000 to do that and now there will be deep grooves and fault lines that Consuela will have to pretend to fix. Maybe there will be a new throw rug next week, tastefully fitting the drapes with deep reds and golds.

Maybe.

Marissa doesn't figure they'll have this house much longer and she thinks that maybe she'll do a reverse-Ryan and end up in trailers that never lose their smell no matter how many times she'll clean them. Maybe the FBI will find nothing and everything will be normal. Maybe they just want to talk to him about all the charities he funds and how they just wanted to congratulate him on a job well done. Maybe Marissa is just fooling herself and she should start choosing what to hide at Seth's house before the bank comes to foreclose.

Maybe everything will be all right.

Maybe.

Dad screams and she sees him escorted out red-faced and crying and scaring her so much. Mom is angry that the FBI ruined the new office floor and she shouts obscenities in their wake. She shakes her fist and the delicate tennis bracelet with white gold accents slips across the morroccon tiles and blind Marissa with their shine.

Mom shuts the door behind Dad and turns to Marissa and her sister, "Pack all the clothes you'll need, we're going to my Mother's." Sister runs up the stairs, already planning her cute Voiten ballet-style skirt and absolutly awesome Kathrine Kline jumper with courdery lining. It will so work with her red shoes from Bloomingdale's.

Mom motions Marissa from her perch on the stairs, shushing Marissa's strangled sob of "Oh god, Dad, is he going to be-"

"We'll be fine." She says, "Afterall we didn't know about your father's..." She rubs her forehead, "mistakes. Don't worry, he's the only one that will be charged."

Don't worry she says as she makes her way up the stairs, we'll be fine.

Marissa want's to scream at her and call her names and tell her what a selfish bitch she is and that gold isn't her color and she's so goddamn self-centered and-

Marissa runs up to her room, two steps at a time with her too-thin-gangly-stick legs and her arms swinging so fast she almost throws herself off balance. She has to pack. She has to empty her closet (and dig through her shoes drawer for the bottle Smirnoff tucked away in some old Prada slingbacks).

She's drunk by the time the suitcase is on the bed, plastered as she opens her dresser and collapses to the floor so she can get a better look at the bottom drawer. All her skirts and leggings are pressed neatly and smelling of Ceder (thank you Conseula, she whispers under her breath, thank you thank you thankyouthankyou). The first thing her shaking fist gets is her Bisou-Bisou nymph skirt with slit knees and curled edges. She knows that she wants it and packs it quickly, making sure the edges stay curled. Next is the DKNY leahter mini skirt with silver star studs and pleated silk inserts; her fingers slip into the silk and she's suddenly afraid of getting sweat all over the threads. She quickly packs it and then turns back to the drawer.

Her Givenchy wools skirt with its matching belt is sidled up to the Moschino plaid silk skirt with sheep skin trimming, both crumpled and dusty from disuse. Should she pack the Diesel jeans skirt that looks so good with the Fendi tee or would the Ambercrombie and Fitch do just as well with the Calvin Kline? Should she pack all the expensive clothes and squirrel away the cheap stuff to some friends for later, or vice versa in the chance that the bank will check?

She wants to tip the entire dresser into her suitecase and spend the rest of the night finishing off the Smirnoff and then the Captian Morgan's and then the Grey Goose and then the Golden Sun tequilla hidden in her world globe, her sock drawer, her tampon case. She want's to collapse onto her bed and wake up and go to school and forget that Dad is sobbing somewhere where big burly FBI men look on and that Mom isn't calling up all her old boyfriends to see who's done better for himself and that her sister isn't two doors down crying into her pillow telling her Sak's Breast Cancer Awareness Day teddy bear that she hopes Daddy's ok and isn't being raped by big black men like she saw on TV that one night three weeks ago when no one was looking.

Marissa's hands are tangled in Tommy Hilfinger and Ralph Lauren, she finds herself sobbing into the silken pleats and artificial crumples of her Moschino, big fat salt tears stain and drip and dry and leave black black marks into her clothes, ruining the texture, ruining the look, ruining everything normal and fine and...

Her hands shake and she begins to push all the clothes, not caring about the folds or the creases or the style or the colors, pushes them all into her bag until it bulges and she keeps pushing: Manalo Blaniks and Marc Jacobs and other spindly and sharp stilletoes and slingbacks and clogs mixing with delicate blouses and razor thing bikinis. Something tears but she continues to pack, pushing and shoving and bending and moving.

Moving. She doens't want to move, she doens't want to leave doens't want to go anywhere.

Dad's red face reflects back at her on her shiny Prada shoes and she finds herself unable to meet his gaze.

**

UNAIRED EPISODE ONLINE (s01e07 -You Are My Sunshine)

Wed, 06 Aug 2003 05:01:40 GMT

The unaired seventh episode is making the rounds online. You can find a copy here:

http://www.suprnova.org

But in order to download it you need the Bit Torrent Client, which is obtained here:

http://bitconjurer.org/BitTorrent/

Go to "Downloads" and click on the appropriate installer, either Windows or OSX depending on the type of the computer.

My download has yet to finish, and I don't think I have enough nails to bite off before it'll be done...goddamnit go FASTER!

um...

Thu, 26 Jun 2003 04:17:35 GMT

Just go.

Everyone loves Harry Potter. Everyone.

Nazis, Hairy Potters, and Bongs, Oh My!

Thu, 19 Jun 2003 09:33:00 GMT

First time wanker, long time snarky bitchy female commenter.

What started out as an innocent photoshop thread for the latest "Harry Potter" cover, soon descended into the depths of thinly veiled antisemitism and endless arguments as to the correct spelling of "defense," "criticize" and "rationalization" which really was just about Stupid American vs. Snobby British.

Americans think these words are misspelled. However the poms did come up witht he actual language. So I would say that the pommy spelling of the words is correct (and subsequently you yanks are wrong :)

Which is responded in turn with:

*sigh* people, dialects happen, and languages branch. They're both correct. This is a silly debate.

Then there's the wank on the cover itself, when guy points out:

My reasoning for this is a bit silly: American shoppers don't read the titles, they just go for the pictures, so putting Harry on makes it totally obvious (I'll bet heaps don't even know the title of the next book, just that it's got Harry Potter on it). While the rest of the world is more civilised and actually reads titles (Yeah ok I'm being cheeky :)).

Those damn smilies look double-chinned, fucking heathen.

America won't take such a jibe laying on our fat asses! We must respond in turn with the all inclusive:

Yes. You're right. Americans are stupid.
Which is proven by the fact that we harnessed electricity, pioneered modern mass-production, invented the microchip, then personal computers, and ultimately facilitated the development of the Internet, all so foreigners could log on and tell us how stupid we are.

Oh my!

There's even more I could point out, such as this:

I think it's because pix like that (british cover) remind some Americans (especially certain ones with tatooed numbers on their arms) of images like this...

Whomever could you mean? Oh! Jews? Goddamn, we so ROCK.

Just go, boggle.

Meanwhile I have to get back to controlling the media...

(thanks to Katemonkey for the link...)

firefly drabble...ignore...

Fri, 13 Jun 2003 07:30:25 GMT

On library computer; better than back of napkin...almost. Napkin smells like sushi, so hard to resist...

**

"GODDAMNIT I SAID BACKUP" Mal wrenched his shoulder to avoid the blast that was coming in, knocking down a private in the process. Hitching his gun he turned towards the girl that was supposed to be his backup. Currently she was scooping some beans with her knife from one of the supply tins that had survived last nights raid.

"Yes?"

"Back up?"

"I said in a minute."

Mal wiped at his face, some ash was still hot from when the seekers hit nearby, "Oh, I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you because of the BOMBS."

She just shook his head, as if he was being rude interupting her.

"Look, I'm the commander."

"I know that sir."

"Don't sir me-"

"But you didn't need the back up."

"And how do you know that?"

"Cause you're still talking." She smiled before taking another bite, "And I was hungry."

Mal gave her a tight smile, "Ain't you the funny one."

She just shook her head and took another bite.

Mal looked pointedly at the can, "You got any more?"

Nodding, she withdrew a dented tin from her coat, "This'll do? Supposed to be bacon but I doubt the varicity of that claim."

"It'll do." He praid the lid open, settling beside her. It reeked to high heaven and the face he made must have reflected that.

She laughed, a soft sound surprisngly, "It'll have to. It's the last we got."

"That bad?"

"Yes Sir, around as such."

**

He caught her name the second week in, when they were both locked under heavy fire, crawling on their bellies to some overturned crates. Been coming in two weeks now, the mortars and the flash-bombs. By that time they had managed to get some Alliance supplies from some unsuspecting ground troops.

...

Right, I'll come back to that later. That's not sitting too well.

**
**

They said they needed some boys, only for a little while. There was a conflict in the east, something to do with Alliance. Rumour had it that they were impounding land, tossing old ladies on their rears before killing their cattle and razing their homes. Mal didn't put too much to that, didn't trust the words of anyone with shiny badges and tipped hats.

His dad was the first to go, the first to suit up and hitch his gun to his back. Promised he would be back, be back before Christmas and make enough money to get some of those shuckers from the Bogains, said it would be real good for the following summer. Mal could go back to school then, get a real education.

His dad was the first to go, shot just two counties down, right in the left eyes. They put a veil over his head but Mal could see it through the threads, could see the gaping cavity that had been Dad's bad eye. Couldn't give him a proper burial none, couldn't dig the full six feet because no one really had the time.

Mal stayed up all night with the shovel and he knew he only made it to four or five, ducking fire from across the river. His mom said that it was ok, that he did the best he could, but he didn't believe her. They buried dad two weeks from Christmas, severance pay already spent on the wooden coffin and the little white cross that dissapeared by New Years morning. After that Mal carved his father's name on some granite, carved in each letter and then pressed it deep into the grown. No one would steal it, why would they unless they were craving a door stop so badly.

The next month someone knocked on the door and they took him down for basic. Already strong from all the corn picking he was able to get shipped out early, clutching his gun as the hull shuddered from subspace harmonics.

The trip was fast and he found himself underfire in less then two weeks from signing. He got himself a commander and everything, shouting orders and generally getting shot at. The beans weren't all that good but they all made do. He found a deck of cards on one of the Alliance corpses, all sweaty and molding but they would do too

Two nights later and he had enough cigarettes to kill half the Alliance. Commander thought he was cheating, said he was too good with the slight of hand and all that gorram business. Mal just smiled and flipped the cards; just smiled and cocked his gun.

The commander -never caught his name- was shot in the stomach another week in, and he bleed out for over four hours, still shouting orders from the coat where he lay dying.

"Gorram it, you guys shoot like a bunch of tshevon-ya!" He shouted, drawing in some smoke from the only cigarette he had left, "Hear that?"

Everyone fell silent, listening. Mortars shook the room but no one said a damn thing.

"We in a canyon, a deep one and that means," He spoke as if everyone was stupid; a bit dim witted, "-it means class?"

"That so are they. Sir."

"Where?" He raised a hand to his ear, briefly letting go his bleeding innards, "Where the fuck are they?"

"In a big, deep canyon."

"-What?"

"Sir."

"That's right, and don't you all fucking forget that." Then he died, little drops of bile mixed with blood seeping from his wound. They couldn't bury him until a few days later, when they managed to clear a little bit of land.

Mal found a stone, a nice solid one without any cracks; snurched a knife from some dead Alliance body and carved, "Commander," He managed, "Big, damn hero." Pressed it into the ground where no one could see; no one could steal.

**

Meet a woman three months in, four planets later. She had long black hair that she didn't cut, didn't shear like all the other girls. One time she stole his undershirt, so she could tuck in her hair; hide it -said it made her a target, "A goddamn big one."

He laughed at that but did catch her name.

**

They all got stupid; got stupid and careless and then the big one came and blew up half the battalion, half the chain of command. First Kovak went, then Torrance, then Simmons. Mal finds himself with the big gun, with the patch on his coat (not his, it was Simmons, than Torrance before him); the big patch with the shiny stars and the yellowing white fabric. He's the leader now, big goddamn leader.

The woman's name was Zoe and she kicked more ass then he could ever hope. She was next in line of course, and if he were to kick the bucket she would make damn well sure that the Alliance felt it.

That was comforting.

In a way.

He had mistakenly tried to shack it up with her, when Torrance was still around screwing shit up. Both drunk off their asses and the kissing was awkard, from the alcohol, from the fact they hadn't showered in weeks and they damn well smelt it.

She retched and pushed away, he held back the urge to vomit.

They both laughed and grabbed another drink.

It was going to be a long trip; for the both of them it might have just been worth it.

**

GIP!

Wed, 11 Jun 2003 08:27:01 GMT

GIP! GIP!

My Constantine love knows no bounds...

drabble

Thu, 29 May 2003 09:44:52 GMT

cross posted from lj, wanting to make sure this is stored in two places, pay no mind..

Title: Itch
Fandom: Stormwatch/The Authority (comics)
Info: http://authority.thehigherauthority.com/
Characters: Jenny Sparks, Jack Hawksmoor
Spoilers: None (I can think of...)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Jenny Sparks, happy birthday.
A/N: I have no idea where this came from, I blame Dave.

**

Hawksmoor is at the door, his callused feet scratching against metal.

Smiling she keys the door open but her mouth is already dragging
smoke by the time he sees her. When he shoves her against the wall
she exhales into his mouth and he chokes it down like smog in a L.A.
morning.

She's got that feeling in her gut that tells her she best break out
the alcohol; the stuff that burns deep and long. Her fingers itch,
more from disuse than electricity, more from lack than too much.
Feels worn down and tired because she knows her
century/generation/epoch is coming to an end.

Still beautiful.

Hawkesmoor has his palms -callused- under her shirt, scratching at
her stomach, scratching at her hip, and his tongue is so far down her
throat she doesn't have to worry about breathing for a moment or two.

Or three.

Still beautiful?

No.

Still decent. She's still got the taunt stomach and the tight thighs
and the skin that slips over muscle so toned you can bounce a dime
off her ass, her stomach, her thighs. Feels her head for a fever
that's not there; so hot lately: it's not her.

He pushes into her and she's surprised he isn't callused all over;
surprised that neither is she -still soft in some places, still warm.
He groans into her mouth and she pulls away to get some smoke into
her lungs. Hawkesmoor uses the time it takes her to draw in a real
breath to pull at her neck, collarbone.

Is she sick?

Engineer tells her no: swirling metal coalesces around her body,
drawing tighter on her taunt(slick, hard) skin, checking for
bacteria, for disease. She's the 20th century -already rotten at the
core.

The High, on his mountain top like some Olympian, thinking like he
could change her world; he never asked her and she thinks that she's
hurt. Taking a drag out of her cigarette is easy though and she knows
she fine.

Scratch that.

(Callused fingers down her back; tip of her buttocks, pulling,
kneading pressing down down until he's deep inside, mouth sucking
smog from her lips)

She's never been fine, never been ok-honky-dory-golly-gee-whiz-would-
you-look-at-that. She's the 20th century, Age of Wonder was jaded
before it began; people hated technology before it was a sliver of an
idea. January 1st, 1900 and she felt old before conception.

Different?

Yes.

She's getting nothing out of this, lets Hawkesmoor go until he's
finished and rolls onto his back. As he tries to breathe steady she
snubs out her cigarette on the side table. She turns back to him, her
hand slipping across his chest to grab at the pack that's resting on
his side of the bed. He grabs her hand too quickly, clasping it too
hard in his own, eyes all hooded and tired he leans in to kiss her
and she lets him.

People don't want freedom.

Control.

Slips over him, draws the sheets around their legs and rests her head
just above his collarbone, "I'm tired." She whispers before pulling
herself up, legs straddling him, "Exhausted."

He nods and she pushes down, blonde hair falling over her eyes as she
pulls him up for another kiss -deep, long.

City morning.

A century old and she misses the Golden Age.

**

woah. where the fuck did that come from?

::wanders off to bug her beta::

first fan art since...forever? that sounds about right.

Tue, 27 May 2003 15:33:27 GMT

So, yeah, cutaway to save friends lists...

Click to see BIG, like yo' momma

Sleep.

just one thing before I leave 'fore I forget...

Fri, 23 May 2003 17:21:48 GMT

I was just reading an article on the Buffy finale, claiming that it was the best show on television (ever). I was impressed that someone could make such a statement and filed that information away under: "We'll see". I hazard to agree with them because frankly I can't think of a TV show (other than Farscape, but that's another barrel of fish) that could fulfill its role; no, it wasn't immensely popular like Cheers or M.A.S.H. but it was one of the few shows that held an overarching archetype to maintain a thematic approach to storytelling -steadily.

This theme or basis, says the Weekly Standard is that Buffy is a tragic hero. Pay in mind that the article was written before the writer saw the finale:

"[Buffy]is a classical format with a tragic heroine at its center. Buffy can see happiness, but never be truly happy. She can have friends, but never have intimacy. She can fight for a world she wants to live in, but will die before she gets much of a chance. All of which makes her a hero; that she's self-aware, that she understands her lot, makes her tragic."

But is she? It would have fit the above specifications had Buffy died at the end -but she didn't. Was this an act of bucking the tragic heroine concept? Or was this more along the lines of what happened in the show itself, Buffy breaking the rules to get it done. The Chosen One concept was just a rule made to be broken; could the same be true to the Tragic Hero archetype?

Does she remain a tragic hero if she survives at the end?

Dammit, late for class...

Just thinking...

Wed, 21 May 2003 23:32:48 GMT

The way the finale is set up, (before Eliza shacked up with 'Tru Calling')it looked as if there would be a Faith/Wood spin off, Faith as the free-wheeling slayer on the run from the cops, Wood as the Watcher/Lover whose trying to keep her in check, adventures on the road, leather, stakes and detention slips.

Non?

just came back from 'Goodbye Buffy' Bash 2003 (w/ AiCN)

Wed, 21 May 2003 08:55:05 GMT

Herc over at AintItCool threw a "Goodbye Buffy" Bash tonight. It was held at a club in downtown Hollywood, a few miles away from UCLA (go bruins, woo!). Anyway, I finagled Liz into coming and she brought along two of her buffy-gal-pals. I knew ahead of time that things like this mean lots of snarky comments made by other people during key/high-lirious parts. In order to prevent me from killing a fellow viewer when watching one of the most important series finales after STNG's All Good Things... I downloaded the episode early and had a little cry session in my room. Armed with the knowledge of who lives, who dies, who dies by not really I was ready to get my Buffy ass down with the partyin'.

And oh, oh, what a time to be had. I want to go into more detail but I'm not so good with it so let me just give a few tid bits:

Clem? So, so, so very cool in person. The actor was there along with Amber Benson (incredibly pretty, and disturbingly skinny btw, but gracious and kind) was there to greet the crowd and draw raffles. Amber gladly allowed the hordes to attack her and had long conversations with each and every person security allowed her to. I was happy to see that she really was nice and friendly in real live; count me impressed. Unfortunatly just as we were next in line to get our picture taken, security swept her backstage. I mean it, we were *this* close, I took the girl's-in-front-of-me picture with Amber, so it was kind of innerving. I wasn't a huge Tara fan, (don't stone me) but it would have been nice to shake hands with her.

But Clem? Oh my lord, this guy is my new crush. He's hot, no really, he's like Ed from (get this) 'Ed'. He helped with the raffle; he was only supposed to do one draw, but he ended up stealing the mike from Herc and acting as the host of the night. He did the announcer voice for each item and joked around with the rest of the room. Me and Liz shouted out that he should auction himself and he was all, "You'll have to take that up with my wife, I'm sure a fiver will do it."

Needless to say we searched our pockets.

I also shouted out something about I'd love to lick his ears and he laughed. At me? With me? Does it matter?

Later, when he had to leave, he came down and we went to go speak with him; his wife or whomever was trying to hustle him out but he came running back in to speak with us, and signed all our Buffy posters graciously considering we didn't know his name until now (I forget and now I can't read his handwriting and I'm too lazy to open IMDB). When I got my signature, I didn't want to keep him (the woman was getting antsy) so I stepped aside to watch the rest of the raffle. Liz and Blythe and Carly all got their picture taken with him; they tell me that they tried to get me to come but that I was deaf even to Clem calling out my name: "Dafna! Dafna!"

Sigh.

But I got free swag! I got an 'Underworld' t-shirt in which everyone else seems to be incredibly underwhelmed while I'm oddly excited (Beckinsale! Leather! Swoon!). I also got two free tickets to Sand Diego Comic Con but can't go because I will still be in Canada studying whales. On a boat. Oh the life I lead! *swoons*

Sigh, so yeah, in the end had a great time, felt really sad, sobbed over who died and who didn't and met some cool people. So whomever out there went, thanks for making it an awesome night.

Love,
Sleepyhead.