wickedqueen.net

Actual interaction I had with some craigslist lame-o who emailed me and called and was two hours late getting back to me about picking up two six-foot floor lamps:

“Do they disassemble?”
“Yeah, they unscrew into like three pieces, so they’re easy to move.”
“Would they fit in a backpack?”
“…They’re SIX FEET TALL. EACH. …No, they will not fit in a BACKPACK.”

I had to email someone else, who showed up in like 10 minutes with a pick-up truck, so they’re not ALL freaks. And they certainly aren’t all freaks like this:

Missed Connections: Pedestrian hit by car this morning

I was in the car behind the red SUV that hit you this morning. I didn’t see much of what happened, but I know we had a red light. You looked like you weren’t hurt too badly - maybe a bit dazed, but walking around, so I didn’t stop. Kind of wish I had, just to be sure. Feel free to email back if you want, just to let me know you’re ok.

Oh, craigslist. You guys are freaks.

And apparently some of you are prostitutes. Yeah, who saw that coming.

I am getting sort of settled into my new apartment. I have furniture, and I’ve started hanging pictures and putting up posters and shit. Soon I should even have a bed frame. Oh, the luxury.

The important thing is that I hung the Scary Child:*

I thought long and hard, and that was definitely the scariest place to hang it. Home sweet home.

—

*The Scary Child is a piece of art–we’re not totally sure WHAT the medium is–created by my cousin and given to his brother, another cousin, who promptly gave it to my mother when she saw it in his house and remarked that it really reminded her of me. This is the fourth apartment that it has graced with its terrible presence. Matt really hates it.

So last night I was on the phone with a good friend from high school with whom I tend to touch base three or four times a year, which means that this was the first he’d heard about my career-ending mud wrestling injury. I mentioned that there were photos of the match online, and he immediately plugged my name into a Google image search, although if I’d realized he was at his machine I could have just sent him my Flickr link–but if I had, we might never have made this amazing discovery.

A few minutes after he found the relevant photos, there was a long silence on his end. I prodded him verbally.

“Uh, Cabell, are these your boobs?”
“Excuse me?”
“Over this PS3?”
“WHAT?”
“I did a google image search on your name, and there is a headless bust over a PS3.”
“Well, it’s definitely not me; I don’t even HAVE a PS3–where IS this?”
“Google image!”

So I google image searched myself, and sure enough:

I would like to reiterate here that this photo is NOT ME. I know how sometimes people miss these things, like when I went to that strip club on amateur night purely out of sociological curiosity and NOT AS A PARTICIPANT, DAD, but apparently wasn’t clear enough on that point in the initial blog entry.

So, yeah. That photo up there? Not me. It is, however, in the top row of results when you put “cabell gathman” (although not actually with the quotation marks in the search term) into Google image search. The rest of the row consists of the side-by-side of me and Andromeda Sparks (my main CoH avatar), my Flickr user icon, a graphic from January’s winning IAP Games Competition entry (the team for which I was on), and two different photos from Truman State University’s newsletter that do not include me but do seem to be part of coverage of events in which I was involved.

So what’s with the PS3 boobs, you ask? Well, the graphic was originally embedded in an entry of the Electric SistaHood blog’s review section, and ESH once linked to a column I wrote on female gamers for Strange Horizons. As far as I can tell, the particular page in which the actual photo was embedded contained no reference to my name, though, so it seems odd that it comes up so high on the results, except that maybe there are a lot of people google image searching me all the time and that’s their favorite photo?* IT’S NOT ME.

As a researcher of social networking sites, I naturally hear a lot about context and context collision and people who didn’t realize that their parents/professors/employers were going to see that picture of them doing body shots at a party, but I hadn’t really considered the growing possibility of cases like this, where your identifying information may end up linked to bizarre things that have nothing to do with you because you are both connected to some random OTHER thing. Confounding factors!

Which is funny in itself, since this very domain is still inaccessible from many locations that employ internet filtering software because there was a time period during which it was in the hands of pornographers, and so it’s still on a lot of outdated block lists. You’d think I’d have thought about the way that spurious connections might arise out of the vast sea of data that is the internets.** It seems like I am actually LESS likely than most to fall victim to this, because I have a weird freaking name, but on the other hand, when your name is a truly unique identifier, people are probably much more likely to assume that okay, yes, those must actually be your PS3 boobs. (THEY’RE NOT, DAD.)

Probably having publicly admitted to mud wrestling doesn’t help, either, but you know, I’m sorry, that is just how I roll. But I do not now nor have I ever owned a PS3.

(And yes, I know this post is just going to make this search result about a billion times more robust, but at least there’s a chance that people will then click on it and see this blog entry, right? …Yeah, like I believe anyone but me checks the source page.)

—

*If you or someone you know spends a lot of time google image searching me, a) don’t tell me, and b) Matt is going to be totally unsurprised, as he once claimed that I would have the most self-portraits available online of anyone in the world if it weren’t for cam girls.

**John: It’s not just a big truck you can just DUMP stuff in, you know. IT IS A SERIES OF TUBES.

But man, I <3 Kermit the Frog, and this video clip is SO AWESOME. Although I don’t know why they didn’t use Miss Piggy for “my beautiful wife”…

Speaking of Miss Piggy, I get quotes of the day on my iGoogle homepage, and awhile back I got this one, attributed to Miss Piggy:

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye.”

Oh, Miss Piggy. I forget who told me that you are the mother of all drag queens, but I do love you.

Which, following the completely tangential nature of this post, reminds me of a friend who was once completely turned off of a beautiful woman at a party because she said something disparaging about Gonzo being “too weird.” The friend himself does an amazing (and adorable) Gonzo impression, although I don’t believe this is what triggered the fatal comment.

When I first moved in, I bought a frame for nine 5″x7″ photos–I’m a big fan of montage frames. I figured I’d pick out some photos from the prints I’d ordered from Flickr around then, but I didn’t have enough with the same orientation, portrait or landscape, which the frame requires. I finally decided to order some prints for it today, and as a not-very-patient person, I went for the “pick up at Target” option (even though you can only get glossy prints from them, which I don’t really prefer). It turns out, however, that you can’t pick up your photos at just ANY Target. Only certain Targets may be specified.

Unfortunately, the Mountain View Target, which is pretty convenient to my house, is not on the list. The closest was the Sunnyvale Target; I mapped it out with Gmaps Pedometer and it was only an extra eight miles or so, with bike lanes all the way, so I went ahead and ordered them for pick-up. I mentioned this to another intern who had stopped by my office to say hello at the end of the day; he was appalled.

“Are you sure you don’t want a ride?” he asked me.
“I’ll be fine; it’s not that far.”
“To SUNNYVALE? That’s hardcore.”
“I dunno,” I said. I was flashing back to the conversation I’d had with my father yesterday, when he informed me that he’d ridden 78 miles that afternoon:

“I–what?”
“I rode 78 miles.”
“…Did you just say you rode ’seven to eight miles’?”
“No.”
“That’s what I thought.”

As Dad pointed out, he is training for his trip to New Orleans, but I only did 21.7 today and I think my legs may be a little sore tomorrow. Of course, that is on a mountain bike that was never meant for road commuting; I like to think of it as my little exercise weight.

If only I’d yet made time to attach my bike lights and didn’t have to worry about sundown, I would have stayed at the Sunnyvale Target longer to marvel–it was two stories high. I have never seen such a Target. I guess I’ll have to ride back there some time.

The other day I was walking to the gym when a woman stopped me on the pedestrian mall by the student center, exclaiming, “I love your hair!”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I love it!” she cried. “THANK YOU for doing this!”

“Er, thank you,” I said. “I like your umbrella.”*

It was, overall, an enjoyable hair encounter. I pondered it a bit as I made my way to the locker rooms. It’s not actually that unusual for people to produce expressions of gratitude in the course of complimenting my hair. I can recall at least two other instances off the top of my head: one at MIT, and one at PARC. In both cases, the complimenting party expanded on the thanks with a statement along the lines that I “brightened up the place.”

I’ve noted before that I think the pink is a particularly approachable color. People were not nearly as inclined to approach me directly when it was blue, or even purple. My initial impression that Boston was a more reserved environment has been pretty much demolished by patches of warmer weather; it’s not, I think, that people here are less likely to comment on my hair than people in San Francisco, but just that most of the time I’ve been wearing a hat–or at least the situation allowed for the reasonable assumption that I might be.**

But it’s more than just a general sense of pink-haired people being safe. There is an active appreciation here, at least from some people–people who are very “normal” looking, people who do not themselves have strange hair or piercings or wild and crazy shoes. It’s funny, because I find that often it’s people with a more overtly “alternative” personal style who are rather disapproving, implicitly or explicitly, of those of us who “go too far.”

Or maybe it’s not that funny after all–these are people who might perhaps have done the same, but for whatever reason they decided it wasn’t available to them, and now they’re cranky. They don’t want other people getting away with something. Whereas the people who wouldn’t really have gone for it themselves can appreciate it without any sense of envy or missing out. THEY don’t want pink hair, but they enjoy seeing it on me.

It’s like being some kind of sacred style clown, in addition to a delightful Ghost of Hairstyle Future for small girl children. I rarely mind being stared at by people who are smiling.

Yesterday I redyed–same color,*** not much point posting pictures; it looks about the way it always does. I used my grandmother’s old hairdryer from the 60s for the first time, and it was AWESOME–I applied heat for a full hour without having to stop to rest my arms. The color looks good, although right now I still have some little stains around the hairline, despite having used Vaseline. But I am pleased.

—

*This was true. I’d been admiring it as we walked towards each other. From a distance it looked pink, but then it turned out to be a lot of red flowers on a white background. It was very attractive.

***Special Effects “Atomic Pink.” I got it at the Garment District in Cambridge and it was like $9.50, which is a very good price for Special Effects. The staff was really nice, too.

On Saturday, I went down to the Economy Hardware in lower Allston and got window insulation kits and a wall mirror. Any ideas about how to hang a full-length cheapo wall mirror that definitely weighs more than the two pounds that my “heavy duty” double-sided tape says it will support, but has no hooks or wires of any kind currently attached to its cardboard backing, are appreciated.

The window insulation worked pretty well, except that I in no way got it up in such a way that it is “nearly invisible.” My friend Crystal said hers was, but Crystal is neater than I am. The important thing is that there is no longer a stiff wind coming through my bathroom or living room room windows, and thus I no longer feel like I am actually setting money on fire when I turn on the gas.*

Anyway, when I got home from the hardware store, I noticed that there were several shopping carts just sitting around on the sidewalk near my building. I was puzzled, but didn’t spend much time thinking about it.

It was only Sunday morning, as I reflected on what a pain it was going to be to get a scratching post home from the nearest PetCo,** that I realized that the shopping carts had no doubt been stolen from various local retailers by non-car-owning Allston residents who found themselves in similar quandaries.

I would certainly never say, in this public forum, that I would steal a shopping cart–burdened with a 36″ kitty condo scratching post or not–but I will say a) “broken windows,” and b) it never even would have occurred to me that stealing a shopping cart was a viable course of action until I realized that the practice is apparently rampant in my neighborhood.

The PetCo is in a shopping plaza with a Shaw’s Grocery, so I stopped there for a few necessities before selecting my scratching post, on the principle that groceries, unlike a scratching post, will fit in my backpack. I had been to this Shaw’s the day I arrived in Boston, when I had my father and the minivan at my disposal. We had a really weird bagger. She was so weird that when I realized I was going to get her again, I almost switched lines, but it was the shortest, so I stayed put. I was sorry.

The checker was a young woman with streaked dark hair–I would have guessed she was Indian, but her English wasn’t very good, which has not been my usual experience with Indian people. She told me she liked the color of my hair, and then asked if it was “fixed.”

“Oh,” I said, “Yes.”
“I mean–if you put water in–”
“Yes, I understand. It’s permanent.”
“How much?”
“Does it cost? Well, the dye is $15–”
“ONE fifteen?”
“No, just $15–”
< incredulous look >
“Well, it’s just the dye. I do it myself. So the dye is about $15.”

She then launched into a long tangent which, as best as I could interpret, was about wanting to put highlights (?) in her hair–in addition to what she already had, I guess, or maybe those were pretty old; they looked grown out–and how much would it cost, and some people said $400 but others said no, only $100, and what did I think.

“Uh… I really don’t know. I don’t get my hair done, I just do it myself.”
“But how much do you THINK?”
“I really don’t know.”
“JUST GUESS!”

At this point, the checker seemed manifestly hostile that I would not give her a random number, but I stood firm. I suppose I could have said “more than I am willing to pay,” which is pretty much all I am qualified to estimate on the subject, but I didn’t think of it at the time. There’s a reason I don’t get my hair dyed professionally.

It will need to be cut soon, though. Gene in the departmental office, when I asked him where a person like me should get her hair cut, responded immediately, “Judy Jetson’s!”

I looked it up on Yelp.com and it does look like my kind of salon. I prefer a stylist with more visible tattoos than me; I find the mundanes just get hung up on how damaged my hair is (duh, it didn’t turn this color BY ITSELF) and don’t know how to work with its natural aggression. I should probably call them for an appointment today.

—

*Not that I am so foolish as to believe my gas bill is not going to be astronomical, regardless. But at least now I can feel like I did all I could.

**We had to leave my cats’ scratching post and homemade “kitty castle”–basically a plywood bookcase upholstered in carpet remnants–in Wisconsin, because there was no way to get them in the car with the rest of my possessions. Given that I am renting this place furnished and have a security deposit, it quickly became apparent that they were going to have to be replaced.

So today I was at the gym* about to get on an ab machine following my cardio, and this strapping young man comes up to me.

“You’re pinker than the last time I saw you, aren’t you?”
“Uh… where did you see me?”
“At that party at [something or other] house.”
“I don’t think so. I just got here like three days ago.”
“Oh. So you’re new?”
“Yeah.”**
“Well… you have competition.”
“You said I was pinker, right?”
“You are a little more vibrant, yeah.”

It’s just like I used to say about PARC, where the security people barely glanced at my ID when I came in. People see pink hair and they don’t bother remembering ANY OTHER identifying features. A six foot tall black man could pretend to be me with the aid of an appropriately hued wig.

—

*Visiting students do not get free gym privileges. “Affiliate” rates are not exactly cheap, but the location is good and it’s a nice facility and if I don’t have a gym, I’ll go crazy.

**Yes, at this point, it seems likely that he was flirting with me, but a) I don’t like to flirt when I’m sweaty and b) he WAS kind of cute, but in a barely legal kind of way.

I have failed Science. I am very sorry.

You may recall that recently I claimed that I would redye my hair with Manic Panic in place of my preferred Special Effects and report on its performance, in the interest of Humanity and Science.*

But then I talked to several people who were all very discouraging on the subject of Manic Panic’s long-lastingness vis-a-vis Special Effects, and I got antsy, and ended up going to the mall in Santa Clara for the express purpose of finding a Hot Topic** so that I could get my brand. Special Effects is good stuff, okay?

So I’ve redyed my hair, and it is very vibrant, and currently in the stage where it comes off on everything–fortunately, my cousin, whom I will be visiting this weekend, says she has plenty of ratty pillowcases. So I figured, I’ll throw Science a bone: I didn’t use the Manic Panic, but I can post a photo of my hair after every shampoo, documenting the Special Effects fading process, although you should know that I use special anti-fading shampoo and shit. I take my hair seriously. It brings joy to small children, as evidenced by the most recent letter I received from my friend Laura’s 4-year-old daughter:***

Do you still have pink hair, or is it purple now?

I want purple, no, rainbow hair. Like green and purple and red. Oh, not that. That would be too pretty. How about red hair, and a tail and a seashell bra.

Laura’s daughter is very into mermaids, in case you couldn’t tell. And apparently she is concerned about overstimulating the plebes–TOO PRETTY. It’s a burden, as we pink-haired sirens know.

Anyway, here is Special Effects Atomic Pink a couple of days after dying, but no shampoos:

I think the color is actually a bit deeper than it shows here, and with a touch of blue (that stops it from fading orange). But if I keep taking photos in basically the same condition, we should still be able to get an idea of the fading process. For Science.

—

*It is, in fact, the case that people routinely stop me on the street and ask for my hair dying advice, okay?

***She dictates to Laura, or to Laura’s boyfriend. Apparently, she liked the Japanese stationery that I sent her for her birthday so much that she “wrote” three letters in one afternoon. Then Laura, whose hand was probably cramping, suggested that three letters was enough for one day.

“I feel like something LIGHT and BRIGHT tonight.”

“Oh, baby, I want to taste the rainbow!”

There’s something about being Far From Home that seems to drive me to book sales. I mean, it isn’t as if the Madison library doesn’t have “Friends of the Library” sales, although I think they’re rather fewer and far between than the monthly ones put on by the Palo Alto Public Library… and probably the selection isn’t as good. But I almost never went to them anyway.

In Tokyo, I once went to the Kinokuniya foreign language paperback sale after a full night of karaoke and a very awkward traditional Japanese breakfast at Denny’s (one of the other foreign exchange students was having personal issues), and, needless to say, no sleep whatsoever. This meant that later in the day, I had to teach two conversational English lessons also on no sleep whatsoever, but I didn’t regret it, because I’d gotten a giant bag of Y500 English fiction, which is no mean feat in Tokyo, where an English novel usually runs about Y1400 (~$12 at the time).

It was in Tokyo that I started reading Terry Pratchett, who I’d been avoiding because I erroneously believed him to be similar to Piers Anthony, and also where I read White Oleander, which I’d been avoiding because it was on Oprah’s Book Club and I am sometimes incongruously snobbish.*

Here in northern California, I think of White Oleander frequently, because the stuff is everywhere. More specifically, as I noted to my sister Hannah after she had checked the online bus schedule for me and determined that the bus I wanted back from the book sale doesn’t run on Sundays, when I see all that oleander, I think of People Whom I Would Like To Poison.

“That must be a long list,” said Hannah.

“You know,” I said. “Some people rate higher than others.”

My father always used to tell us that in Florida (where he grew up), every year a couple of people would die from building campfires with oleander brush, or, in some memorable cases, using oleander sticks to roast weenies. As a child, I was fascinated with poisonous plants. It may have started with the dire warnings I received from my mother about pokeberries, which were a lovely deep wine color and grew in our yard; I was also very interested in belladonna, an indication of my nascent goth tendencies. I thought it would be a good name for a girl.

Anyway, except for having to carry 52 books approximately a mile and a half to the nearest bus stop when it developed that the #88 (which would have taken me within THREE BLOCKS of my house) does not run on Sundays, I would say the book sale was a success. It was a bit picked over, it being the second day, but the second day is also when they let you fill up a grocery bag with books for $5 (or, the woman at the cash drawer tempted me, five bags for $20, but even if the #88 had been running this seemed a bit beyond my means). So I spent $5.50 for nine books at the regular sale, and $5 for 43 in the bargain room:

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