[Warning: Spoilers follow. If you’ve not seen the August 2013 episodes of True Blood, you don’t want to read this.]

I’m grateful The Daily Show for its coverage of and attention to the ridiculous treatment of our returning veterans as they attempt to apply for benefits. When we think of these benefits, we usually think about medical coverage for physical injuries from combat. We think less about mental injuries from combat.

The term PTSD (or, as it will be called here, in honor of George Carlin, “shell shock”) has moved into our vernacular, and some tv shows featuring characters in the military (or other dangerous services) do address it. SVU had an episode recently called “PTSD”; characters on BSG, M.A.S.H., Breaking Bad, Downton Abbey, etc. have exhibited symptoms of the disorder.

There are some films (fiction and documentary) that address the issue as well.

However, most depictions of shell shock in the media do not address a common outcome–suicide.

2012 was a record year for military suicides. We lost more soldiers to PTSD than to combat. In fact, we’re losing them at a rate of one about every 18 hours.

The fact that we’re not talking about this made this week’s True Blood, featuring the funeral of one of the most beloved characters–and some of the revelations of his shell shock leading up to it–stand out.

I watch True Blood with a group of friends. We eat, drink, and laugh. In fact, we’ve started taking a drink each time a character says something that could only be said on this show (like “Who the fuck is Mary Poppins, and can I please kill her?”). It’s our Vampire Porn Soap Opera.

But this last episode, “Life Matters,” lingered on Terry’s life and his death in a poignant way. Characters die on this show all the time. So many, however, that we rarely get to morn them. And we haven’t had a beloved character die in a while. This mourning, though, wasn’t just because we’ll miss Terry. It was because we needed to grapple with what killed him.

It wasn’t a serial killer. It wasn’t a supernatural force–a were-whatever or a vampire or a vampire virus.

Terry chose to die. And he chose to do so because he couldn’t live with what the war had done to him and with the things he’d done.

And we’ll miss him.

When True Blood came out (and before that, when the book series came out, which I’ve read (and reviewed here), it was interesting because of its vampire characters’ analogy to the gay rights movement. It hasn’t really done anything moving or intriguing in a while.

Until now.

P.S. The book series recently came to its conclusion.

Here’s an update to my earlier post. One anonymous commentator on my post mentioned that she agreed with some of what I said. The books that have come out since my post have not repeated the problems I listed. Coincidence? Or did I unintentionally manage to give Harris some writing feedback? (I mean, I don’t get anonymous commentators. You all know me, which is why you read this. Unless you’re searching for reviews of your own work, which a few people who don’t know me have done on this site.)

Sookie makes her peace with her vampire lovers and ends up with the man she should have ended up with the whole time. Loose ends are wrapped up. The danger seems to have passed. A good end to a good series.

He’s naked
kneeling before the embers
blowing softly

There isn’t enough kindling
You offer up old road maps
with destinations that no longer exist

He moves the logs
and his hands are dirtier than
you’ve ever seen them

He will taste like smoke when
he embraces you

You now offer paper
from your pad
not with your notes–
the blank pages
filled only with promise

The smoke will still rise
the log will be red
underneath
long after he’s asleep

still naked

his hands smelling like you.

As WonderCon 2013 is the only big Con I’m likely to attend this year, this is likely the only Con blog you’re all going to get for a while–enjoy!
For the first time in 13 years, the boy and I had the same Spring Break, which happened to fall during WonderCon, so the boy accompanied me down to Anaheim.

I have to say, after a couple of years of doing these things, the most exciting reason to go is to see my friends and super-geek acquaintances.

Thus, shorty after we arrived, we went to see Barry, one of my favorite bartenders in all the world. After a ridiculously expensive dinner (just assume that every meal I mention is ridiculously expensive–bottles of water at the Convention Center are $3), we headed to bed so we could get a good night’s sleep. I think we slept for 11 hours–we both needed it.

And then it’s mostly a blur.

One day I was Zuul, the next I was Gaiman’s Death, and I ended up in my TARDIS dress for the last little morning. We saw some amazing costumes–including one little girl dressed as Death (her very lanky father was Dream), lots of Doctors, tons of Star Wars characters, a great spider, etc. etc. etc.

And I’m going to apologize now for not having many pictures. Neither the boy nor I are particularly bright about having the camera out and ready to go. (Selfishly, I would have wanted more pics of my costume, but getting the boy to take a picture of me is difficult for some reason.) However, the other reason for few pictures is how annoyed I get by the way traffic stops about every 10 seconds on the floor because of people taking pictures. No exaggeration. People ask someone in costume for a pic (a pic with the woman if the costume leaves little to the imagination–just a pic if it’s not a particularly revealing costume), the person always agrees, and then there’s the camera fiddling, the backing up to take up the entire aisle so you can get every inch of the person in the pic, etc.

Casual gathering of Star Wars costumes

I got to see my old friends–cartoonist/writer Lonnie Millsap, cartoonist/writer/co-founder of ComicCon Scott Shaw, Anthony Del Col, one of the authors of Kill Shakespeare, all the guys who work at Bongo Comics, etc.

And I got to sit in on some amazing panels, including both of Scott’s (one is his “Oddball Comics” routine; the other is the improv cartooning panel). There was also a writing panel with Jane Espenson (writer of Buffy etc), Amber Benson (Tara on Buffy), Patrick Rothfuss, Frank Feddor, and Ashley Edward Miller. Best piece of advice for writing science-fiction or fantasy? Set up your whole world–know it at an atlas/encyclopedia level–but show the audience about 10% of that. They don’t want to read an atlas or an encyclopedia.

Amber Benson also confided that she was so glad she’d gotten into writing/producing, so she didn’t have to spend her days down on the exhibit floor signing autographs.

I got to meet Jane Espenson on the last day, which was amazing. I basically fawned all over her. There was a little less fawning, but no less excitement when I got to meet Terry Moore and a very nice Canadian who’s going to be making an educational video-game to go with Kill Shakespeare. He’s moving to America (SoCal) soon, so he may come up when I teach Kill Shakespeare in my graphic novel class.

The coolest I played it was when I found myself sitting at the same communal table at the bar on the last night with several people from Dark Horse Comics. One of the guys had just hosted the Buffy comics panel. When it was finally revealed through conversation that I was a fan and had been to the panel, I had to admit that the only reason I hadn’t squealed already was that I was trying not to be a big ole fangirl.

My own panel went well. When “regular” geeks (as opposed to academic geeks/professional geeks) wander into the academic panels, they have a tendency to wander out again. However, none of the 40 or so people in the room while I was talking left, which means a lot there. (People will even leave a room when Joss Whedon is in it, which I can never quite understand–maybe they’re so excited that they’re shitting themselves?)

Speaking of Joss Whedon, I got to be in the giant arena room when they had the panel with Joss and several of the actors, and the cinematographer for Much Ado About Nothing. The movie looks fantastic–the props are modern (there are cell phones), but the dress/style of the piece is an old-fashioned screwball comedy, including the film being in black and white. Can’t wait.

I got a shout out from the Bongo Comics panel–during the Q&A, they introduced me to the rest of the audience and mentioned my book. And that was awesome!

But one of our very favorite things was a quiet dinner with Lonnie and Scott. Scott is a survivor of a different time, when there weren’t really girl geeks, when ComicCon was in a basement and mothers escorted their sons there to make sure they weren’t getting diddled by the counter-culture artists. And he’s one of the sweetest, funniest, most remarkable men I know. He spends an awful lot of time at conventions looking at the work of child cartoonists–he remembers them from year to year and encourages them to keep drawing, before drawing them something original to take home. Lonnie is a friend I know through Denise. (She can totally pick ’em!) Watching him get better and more famous every year is a great honor.

I left a little early so I could prep for my brand new Spring quarter–only to get home to a dark house. The power was out; my prepping plans were thwarted, but there was wine and Vanessa and Kevin and candles, and so we made it through.

So I’m way behind on posting. The end of the quarter happened to me. How bad was it? Now I have to wear a brace when typing and writing. It literally broke me. Sigh.

However, the second I was done with grading and choosing the Prized Writing winners, I headed to Denver for their very first ComicCon and the adjacent literary conference. I got into Denver at 1 a.m. on the day I was to give my paper, took a shower, and went to sleep.

And then woke up with hives!

Something in the sheets did not agree with me. So I bought really expensive benadryl (’cause the 6, yes 6, allergy meds I’m on wasn’t enough). I was able to watch other people’s presentations while the hives went down and looked relatively normal by the time of my presentation. The guy before me was a reader (as opposed to a speaker), so I looked pretty good by comparison. A couple of people said I made the panel worth it. Then a woman came up to me who missed my presentation and said she heard it was good.

In between that and the keynote, I hit the bar and made friends with the bartenders.

Scott McCloud (the comic theorist) gave a great talk. But there was the odd moment when he showed a page from this book:

And then he asked, “Who gave the paper on Asterios Polyp today?”

And while I had done so, I thought he must be talking about someone else. But then about five other people in the room said my name. And then he said:

“That was brilliant.”

And then I didn’t hear anything for a while.

And then I was back at the bar with my bartenders, who congratulated me and gave me a free long island iced tea when I threatened to leave.

The next day, I looked out the window at the line going into the convention center:

(That’s a bear staring into the center–there were lots of people in costumes for it to see.)

I got rid of Karma, got possessed by Zuul, and headed down. I saw, but did not pay to interact with, Pam from True Blood, Galen from BSG, Billy West, and Spike from Buffy. Met the woman who draws the little vampires. Bought a necklace. Went to a couple of panels. Didn’t get into the Doctor Who one because it was full. Saw this guy selling board games:

As I was too lazy to exorcise Zuul, I went back to the hotel bar, read my book, let my boys feed me, and made friends with the couple sitting beside me.

The next day, I dressed as Sandman‘s Death (which anyone who knows me knows means I dressed like myself but with more eye makeup). Did another whirl on the floor, said hi to the bear, and to these guys. But then I’d sort of seen everything. And an awful Whedon panel assured me it was time to seek food downtown. Hit an amazing wine bar, where I had balsamic lamb and goat cheese beignets. Made friends with the server and the manager; I persuaded the latter to leave work, so we hit a beer bar before returning to close the place down.

Then it was time for home and sheets I’m not allergic to!

Since I’ve been back, I’ve been getting ready for summer session, which starts for me tomorrow, catching up on doctors’ appointments, saying goodbye to two dear Oakland friends, going on poetry dates with MD (we saw Robert Haas, Kazim Ali, and Sharon Olds read at the Crocker), trying to get over the tragedy of Prometheus (review: just a head shake), and briefly hitting the French Film Festival.

I’ve quit writing for Matchflick after four years, but if there are any really great movies, you’ll still hear about them here.

P.S. Here’s a great little comic recommended by Scott McCloud: http://imgur.com/gallery/uBYbJ (the artist was 17).

Today, I had a driveway moments–a driveway moment is when you’re listening to NPR and you end up hanging out in the driveway because you can’t get out of the car until the current story’s over.

I was listening to this: http://www.npr.org/2012/05/17/152922457/an-afghan-shoots-a-marine-dies-mistrust-grows

It’s about the number of our service-people who have been murdered by our Afghan friends–their Afghan police and military forces–this year.

Part of the reason I was struck is because it occurred to me that we just don’t know how to do this yet.

I mean, we’ve been at war for millions of years. Millions of years.

Yet we do not know how to cope with or conduct war. We do not know how to re-integrate our soldiers into society successfully. We do not know how to stem the tide of spousal abuse and suicide that follows their returns home. We do not know how to tell them to violate one of the commandments in one situation, but to follow the others at seemingly arbitrary times. We are only starting to understand what even happens with head injuries, even though we’ve been hitting each other over the head for millions of years.

We said for years that women couldn’t be in combat because our male soldiers would find it too difficult to not do everything–including jeopardizing missions–to protect them. But the reality is that our women find the most danger from their comrades–they are raped at an amazing rate, by the very men whom we think will sacrifice to protect them from the enemy.

Many years ago, I wrote a poem from Lady Macbeth’s point of view. I was interested in why we blame for her Macbeth’s actions, when he contemplates murder before he ever writes to her about the prophecy. Undergraduates around the world write about how Lady Macbeth pushes him to commit horrible crimes–crimes against his king, his kin, his guest.

I have never seen an essay arguing that perhaps war — perhaps his joy in ripping men from nave to neck — had anything to do with the psychopath he becomes.

The only half-way comforting thought in my ruminations today (half-way because it’s not actually a cheering thought) was that there are several things we don’t know how to do yet.

We don’t know how to love, successfully, do we? How to love without jealousy. How to trust. How to practice monogamy when we’re not built for it.

We’ve had even more practice with love than with war, and yet we fail. A lot.

Other things we don’t know–how to parent, how to educate, how to balance religion with not being a bigot . . .

Lady Macbeth:  Where is She Now?

I’m always met with questions.
Did I really fall?
What was in that letter?
Aside from being none of your business,
It doesn’t really matter.
I’m always already judged—
“She wears the pants in that family.”
Well, it would have been more comfortable,
But around here it’s more accurate to note
Who was wearing the skirts.
It is Scotland, after all.

I am likened to those hags.
I change in your titles
From a dearest partner
To instrument of darkness.
You’re always painting me
Black or white.
And here I am—red all over.

I get in trouble for my images,
Because I say milk and gall and dash.
It’s beside the point,
But you try having your nipples
Cracked and chapped
By some colicky brat
And you try not to think of it.
In any case, I didn’t do it.
I merely said, hypothetically,
That I would.

Is that really worse than what he did?
Unseaming people from navel to chops.
Please—war is no excuse
When all the world is war.
Don’t be so naïve.
Is it because I’m a woman
That you’re offended?
Well, there’s an implicit war there, too.
And don’t think my body
Hasn’t played the battlefield.

I didn’t always talk this way.
But the hero
Kept coming home
And wanting to retell his exploits
To relive his victories
In our sacred marital bed.
It got so he couldn’t get excited
Any other way.
And so I steeled myself for him
Trained myself to taunt

     To take it

     To cry out

     As he cut me

     “Deeper!”

Why do you think
I’m so unphased by

      Blood

     Knives

     Poison

     Horsemeat?

So when I asked those that
Tend on mortal thoughts
To tend on mine
It was no big deal.
I’ve been plundered before.

Hereafter, when you ponder me
Remember
Hell is murky
And so is vision
With or without that candle.

On my way to class

to teach people how to write

with style

to unlearn bad habits

where I try to make everything

a story

& then I see the blood

smudged all over one hand

from where I’ve unconsciously

picked at my thumb

I didn’t feel anything

but I can’t teach

visibly bloody

so I lick the wound like an animal

test to see if it wells again

walk into class

knowing

the blood under my fingernail

will darken all morning.

Jenny Lawson, the author of Let’s Pretend This Never Happened, is a saint.

Okay, not really. I mean, not literally. Mostly because she’s not Catholic and not dead and doesn’t have the required number of confirmed miracles (again, because she’s not dead).

But if someone had to be my intercessor with the almighty, I would want it to be her.

I can imagine her argument in my favor now.

Him: There’s no way she’s getting in here. She’s violated too many of my rules.

Jenny: Like what?

Him: Well, she had a child out of wedlock.

Jenny: Technically, so did you, unless the Bible is leaving out a whole wedding scene. And sure, Alexander may not be a zombie whose worshippers commit cannibalism, but he did give her a kiss on the forehead the other night — unprompted! — for making meatloaf. He’s a teenage boy–they’re not supposed to be nice to their mothers! And did I mention that he builds his own instruments? I mean, have you seen his all-metal viola? She can’t be all that bad.

Why am I so convinced that this is how the discussion would go? Well, I’ve been reading Lawson’s work for a while now, so I’m used to her having conversations like this actual one with her husband when she bought a taxidermied baby alligator:

Victor: “Didn’t you once tell me that more than one dead animal in the house borders on serial-killer territory?

“‘Yes, but this one is wearing a hat,’ I explained drily. He couldn’t argue with that kind of logic. No one could.”

My friend Vanessa first introduced me to Ms. Lawson’s blog (www.thebloggess.com) via an entry in which Lawson gets back at her husband for forbidding her to buy more towels. It’s a wonderful lesson: http://thebloggess.com/2011/06/and-thats-why-you-should-learn-to-pick-your-battles/

I became a fan of Beyonce  the chicken and Jenny Lawson all at once. Don’t understand that sentence? Go back and read the blog I linked to!

How awesome is Lawson? Well, have you ever gotten Wil Wheaton to take a picture of himself collating paper to send to people who send you stupid requests? Have you, when trying and failing to get Nathan Fillion’s attention, ever had Simon Pegg comfort you with a twit pic of himself holding string? I bet not. But Lawson has:

Lawson’s blog is wonderful. Her book is similarly amazing. I usually don’t laugh out loud when I read, but I laughed. Out. Loud. Several times.

How could I not when she recounts a discussion with her OBGYN about how she would tear and need to be stitched up? Lawson asked if the scar could be in the shape of a lightening-bolt (a la Harry Potter) so that “whenever I have menstrual cramps I could just pretend that Voldemort was close.”

Even though I just finished the book, I already want to read it again. It has been a source of joy, of recognition (she’s not the only one to attend Armadillo rodeos), and a reward for getting my grading quota done each day. It is also “intellectually challenging and chronologically surreal. Like if Memento was a book. About dead dogs and vaginas and puppets made of squirrel corpses.”

She gave me that quote to use in my review. It’s in the book, so I didn’t even have to bother her to get it.

I’m telling you–the woman is a fucking saint.

I mean, sure, I’d been to WonderCon before. Regular readers will remember that it was at WonderCon that I got a picture taken with Adam Baldwin and ended up in a commercial for Kick Ass.

But this year was different–this year I was invited, invited to give two presentations at the Comics Arts Conference running concurrently at the festival. This was thus the year that I dubbed myself the geek queen and ended up interviewed for two publications: http://www.comicsbulletin.com/main/interviews/karma-waltonen-geek-queens-tale & http://blogs.ocweekly.com/heardmentality/2012/03/wondercon_pick_the_simpsons_in.php

This was the year I dressed up.

What exactly happened at my three full days of geek joy? Well, I packed up the boy, made a couple of powerpoints, brought my zuul costume, and let my geek mojo out. The highlights:

Alexander getting mistaken for my lover (which was not a highlight for him, but was damn funny).

Hanging with Aussies not associated with the conference at the bar. Note how I’m the only one supposed to be in costume, but how Steve, a reporter, still manages to pull one off on the fly:Alexander closing down the bar with the Aussies & I.

Hanging out with our friend Lonnie Millsap (http://www.lonniemillsap.com/) & having him introduce us to some of his comic friends.

Seeing the other costumes:

Meeting so many of the Bongo Comics (Simpsons & Futurama) people: Terry Delegeane, Max Davison, Art, Jason Ho, Bill Morrison, Carol Lay, and Scott Shaw. Having a nice long conversation with Scott about comics–one that we plan to continue. Finding out how many relatives of Terry’s have gone to UCD.

Walking up to Terry on the day I was dressed up and complaining that no one knew who I was.

Terry: I know who you are.

Me: No–not who I am. No one is supposed to know who I am. My costume.

Terry: Well, I don’t know what your costume is supposed to be, but I know who you are.

Running into some ghostbusters:

Following a former Simpsons background artist back to his unmarked van because he wanted to give me his card. He threw in a Homer drawing to make it worth my while, but I did tell Alexander that under normal circumstances, one should never be lured to a van to see someone’s etchings.

Seeing a preview of Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Slayer and trying to convince the boy that the film would work better with period music.

Ordering in a Papa Johns pizza and watching The Simpsons on the last night.

Finding the flirtiest, sexiest bartender ever & getting him to bring in a very large cucumber just to make me my favorite drink (one that no bartender in Davis even knows, btw).

Having a guy at the bar buy me my favorite drink, although I wasn’t sure at first what was happening–I’m not usually as attractive as I seem to be at WonderCon.

Meeting another hardcore and apparently psychic Futurama fan.

Giving two presentations that went relatively well, if I do say so myself.

Meeting Anthony Del Col, the awesome co-creator of the Kill Shakespeare series. Having him say it was cool to meet me & actually meaning it:

The least cool thing about WonderCon? I didn’t take enough pictures.

I have finally finished Lev Grossman’s The Magicians. I say ‘finally’ because it took a long time. Not because I’m a slow reader, but because I was extremely bored & thus kept finding other things to read in between chapters.

Why did I even finish it? Well, it’s hard to call yourself a sci-fi specialist and not have read the new hot thing. I feel a sense of responsibility to read the sequel. Yes, responsibility and dread.

Here’s the lowdown. Quentin Coldwater discovers he’s a magician during a weird standardized test. He goes away to magic school, leaving his parents easily because he feels about them what he feels about most things. Nothing. He matriculates. A bunch of boring stuff happens, including a lot of binge drinking. One disaster occurs; one vaguely interesting test is taken. Quentin is responsible for the disaster. He feels guilty about it for a paragraph or so.

Then, way after you want to reread Harry Potter again, the characters discover that the Narnia ripoff books they read as children were about a real realm & that they can go there. Amazingly, this does not make the book that much better. Blah, blah, blah, fight with the big bad, recuperate with centaurs who are exactly as dynamic as the hero: not at all.

This book keeps getting billed as an adult Harry Potter. What’s adult about it? Binge drinking. Emotionally unattached sex. Some cussing. A lack of description of spells, a cool school, or intriguing teachers. A satisfying build-up to the climax. Caring about the characters.

I’ll put it this way. The best part of this book is a quick description of why the library is awesome.

Towards the end of the book, Quentin is described this way: “He was an empty shell, roughly hollowed out by some crude tool, gutted and left there, a limp, raw, boneless skin.” Except Quentin has always been this way. It’s why he doesn’t really love anyone. It’s why he has no purpose or calling or talent. It’s why he drinks. It’s why I can’t picture him at all after reading about him for 402 pages! It’s why he never once wonders what he’ll do after school.

I suppose it’s why he’s called Coldwater. If books like Harry Potter arouse the senses and grab me emotionally, this is the cold shower that just makes me want to go to bed alone.