It’s our Fandom, Too…

I wrote this on April 29, 2009, and completely forgot about it until I was dusting off old podcasts recently.  Still true today!

My girlfriend Danielle bought me the first four Harry Potter books as a college graduation gift back in May, 2003. Three weeks later, my father suffered a serious heart attack and required quadruple bypass surgery. Three days after that, my uncle suffered a debilitating stroke. As you mind imagine, I spent a lot of time in hospitals that summer, and Harry was my constant companion in hospital waiting rooms. The books were a portal to a world where loyalty and friendship prevailed in the darkest of days. Badly injured? Swallow this potion and sleep it off.

They were a source of hope to me, when I truly needed hope.

My father died of cancer nine months later. His sister died of cancer three weeks after he did. My cousin’s baby died in his sleep six weeks after she did. I bought a house and started graduate school. I’ve worked full-time continuously since I was twenty years old. Perhaps you have a similar story? Life is difficult for everybody. Everyone has stuff, whether it be medical conditions, financial hardship, or three beautiful yet tragically energetic young children who want to build pillow forts on your head.

Everyone needs to hide.

Enter Harry Potter fan fiction. JKR was a slow writer, and the concept of inexhaustible possibilities fascinated me. Danielle was a big fan herself, so I’d talk to her over dinner about the latest story I read, the cliffhanger at the end of the last chapter and the latest version of Hermione who liked to wear bikinis. After a while, she looked more concerned for my mental sanity than usual, so I figured I needed to find hardcore geeks to talk to about my newest obsession.

I lived at Checkmated, SIYE, and Fiction Alley. I had no clue who ran the websites. Did they know each other? Did they even know about each other? Everything defaulted to the universe and the story, so I never cared too much.

I’ve hosted a fan fiction podcast called PotterFicWeekly for two years. We’ve read a dozen fanfics, chapter by chapter, and analyzed plot, character, and writing style. The universe is important to me. The characters are important to me. The authors earn the right to be there, but it’s not about them really. It’s about Harry. Harry Potter got me through difficult periods in my life, and I’m not through with him yet.

I had a very romanticized view of the fandom because it never occurred to me that Harry Potter fans who were intelligent and learned and thoughtful and articulate could read these books, close their eyes, think for a minute, and not walk away thinking that love beats hate and that Rita Skeeter was a horrid bitch.

I was soon directed to a website called Fandom Wank, which I was told would teach me what I needed to know to, and I’m quoting here, “survive in the fandom.” Let me preface that I have a bachelor’s degree in political science and a master’s degree in business. I balance my checkbook for fun. I can learn anything.

In the fandom, time began somewhere around 2001. If you were there at the beginning, you witnessed the great collapse of civilization and have the wisdom of Yoda. You are an Elder. Those who follow shall look to you for guidance and approval. Seniority rules. There is a code of conduct that shall not be violated. Fandom wank will be watching, and Rita Skeeter is a department head.

Apparently at the dawn of time, the senior Elders lived in harmony, forgive the expression, until one day like the occupants of the ladies room at a junior prom, they went batshit crazy, beat each other with pool noodles, started their own fan fiction archives, and vowed to hate each other until the end of time. Or something. Ancient history is a bit fuzzy.

The fandom is more than a community. It’s a culture, and all cultures have leadership. This one has strong leaders, and it has bullies in the form of loudmouths who don’t give a rat’s ass about how good of a writer you are. It’s your celebrity, stupid. They care about how long you’ve been here and how you dare to express yourself. What you have to say is second-tier.

I don’t recognize their authority. I don’t recognize their qualifications. I’m here to talk about Harry and what his trials mean to my own life. His journey got me through difficult days in hospitals. I learned more about myself and humanity in those days than anything I could have learned as a self-important gasbag bitching about who fired who from which website seven years ago or who has been in the fandom the longest and is most deserving of genuflexion.

My very good friend was caught up in fandom wank this past week and was verbally brutalized by those who prioritize their own egos and celebrity and the self-important weight of their personal approval over the human dignity of another person. She spent two days in tears. It occurs to me that I could never understand what I read on Fandom Wank no matter how many times I read. It’s a load of crap. It’s a manual of bullshit written by people who totally missed the point.

This is my friend’s fandom, too, and it’s mine. If that makes you uncomfortable because I haven’t stood in line long enough, then you are welcome to kiss my fat ass. Harry’s done a lot for all of us, and now I’m going to fight this one for him.

The easiest thing to remember

I spent a few minutes tonight chatting politics with a friend of mine.  We’re both more liberal than we’re not.  We both listen to talk radio, or at least I did until Jay Severin went over to the dark side back in ’08.  We enjoy actually thinking and being grounded in our positions, which is why he asked me tonight if I find it difficult to know when to trust the left.

I like that question, because this country is overflowing with millions of people who aren’t very bright, who are desperate to be told what to think so they won’t show it, and who regurgitate anything the talking heads tell them because thinking is for commies.

I was driving somewhere a few years ago during the Terry Schiavo debacle, clearly without an iPod handy, or else I wouldn’t have been listening to Sean Hannity.  He was explaining his ludicrous theory on how Terry’s husband planned her execution.  The show ended, and the next host took a caller who opened with, “It’s well-documented and clearly proven that….” and vomited Hannity’s theory up word for word.

The answer to my friend’s question?  Give the benefit of the doubt, to everybody.  And then hit them with a Buick.

Todd Akin’s infamous comment hit twitter last week while I was at a friend’s house.  I read it in spurts and thought the totality of the thing was that here’s another anti-science moron explaining how vaginal venom works.  I didn’t hear about the legitimate rape comment until later.  So let’s apply the benefit of the doubt theory to Mr. Akin.  He didn’t mean to say “legitimate” rape.  He meant to say”forcible” rape.  In Akin’s mind, there’s a difference between a woman who is violently raped in an alley and a woman who has sex and changed her mind at some point and didn’t give the right signals.  He probably would have called this “gray rape” if they let him talk long enough. These are the only two classifications of rape his teeny little brain can handle.

Legislatively,  Akin and Paul Ryan and every single Republican in the House of Representatives (plus sixteen conservative Democrats) want federal rape laws to only apply with evidence of force.  They want women to prove to doctors that they were raped before being allowed an abortion.  They want to repeat the word “forcible” as many times as they can so that in a decade or two, like they made us think all welfare recipients are slobs, an accusation of rape will carry no weight in society unless it is accompanied by an incriminating X-ray.

In the case of Akin, he got screwed.  He’s a member of a secret society with a 20-year plan and a great PR department.  Hate the thought of pink slime?  I bet you wouldn’t blink at ordering lean finely textured beef.  Akin is in lockstep with his party, but used the wrong word and was on his own, ostracized and fired upon by people who think he’s absolutely right, but don’t want to give themselves up.

I guess the vaginal venom put it over the top.

Tonight, Rep Tom Smith, a Pennsylvania Senate candidate, was pressed on the abortion issue.  He described himself as 100% pro-life and then went on to compare a rape victim’s decision to have an abortion with his daughter’s decision to have a child out of wedlock.  Understandably, the media standing nearby asked him 163 times if he was comparing rape to single motherhood.  Hundreds of miles away, Paul Ryan took heat for calling rape a “method to conception.”

Benefit of the doubt recap.  Akin was a covert agent who blew his cover and was turned on by fellow covert agents.  He got screwed, not because of what he believed, but because he actually said the quiet part loud.  Tom Smith was probably thinking about two women deciding whether to have a child, one conceived from rape and other, unintentionally from consensual sex.  That’s it.  Paul Ryan?  He is correct that rape is a method to conception.  I give him credit for that one, because it proves the vaginal venom theory is losing its core audience.

That said, it’s Buick time.  Akin, Smith and Ryan may each very well think that any act of abortion is the killing of life.  In Ryan’s case, he has no problem pointing out that he is proudly joining the ticket of someone who would only allow murder in certain situations, so I’m not quite clear on what that says about his character.  Standing next to Mitt Romney, he’s lucky to be insulated from character attacks.  The issue here is that in stating their abortion positions, they’ve shown themselves to be heartless.  Watch the Paul Ryan video from today – the method to conception one – where he showed absolutely no empathy for women who are raped.  I’m sure it didn’t cross his mind.  I keep jumping back in my mind to the 2003 press conference George Bush called when he signed an abortion restricting bill.  You could barely see Bush signing the bill for all the old, white men surrounding him.

Right here, in August 2012, subject to change at any time, the Republican Party platform exists to restrict abortion rights, restrict gay marriage, restrict health care options, and to explode the deficit by eliminating taxes to people like Mitt Romney.  Their elected leaders in the House of Representatives don’t believe in global warming.  They say it’s because a few scientists cooked some numbers, likely for the same reasons a lot of the Wall Street crowd shame-walked in handcuffs cooked the numbers.  I guess that means capitalism is a hoax, too.  Their logic, not mine.  (They later admitted God will end the world when he’s good and ready and we shouldn’t do anything to interfere with his plans.)  They don’t think we should require the HPV vaccine because they got a forward from someone stupider than they are that saying it causes mental retardation.  No science.  No facts.  All PR.

If it doesn’t smell like that, you trust the left.

Nostalgic

You know you’ve haven’t blogged in a while when you A) forget your password to log in, B) no longer have the email address you used when you registered the blog and C) find the entire thing infested with malware as perfectly organized and researched blog posts drip with hundreds of comments on where to find quality Russian porn.

My thoughts on stem cell research and the bombshell announcement of Sarah Palin as Senator McCain’s running mate are officially in the dumpster.  It’s time to start fresh.

The Other Eye was the name of a book my father always intended to write.  It was about a a man with a non-functioning eye who could see things that no one else could.  Since my father only had one functioning eye, I have a feeling he saw more to the world than the rest of us could, or at least he thought he did.  I had a lot of downtime with him but never thought to ask him that one.  You know I’ll have to write the damn thing one day just to figure it out.

I started blogging about six years ago and I remember a particular New Years Resolution about how I would stop drifting from project to project and would buckle down and actually create something.  It’s not much, but I started a tiny little podcast six years ago that spawned four spinoffs, 250 episodes and something like a month of back-to-back-to-back audio.  That’s all impressive and all that but the bit I care about is I met a lot of great friends doing it and more importantly, a lot of great people met a lot of great friends.  This bit sounds self-righteous even to me, but if it’s only about me it gets forgotten the minute I’m gone.  I’m glad it made other people’s lives a bit better.  It may be a small thing, but they’re the best kind.

In the past few weeks I’ve gotten nostalgic about a lot of things, mainly good old days of all kinds.  I miss TV shows that I used to watch religiously when they were new that are now barely available except on ebay.  I miss friends that always saw each other every day who are scattered all over the world now.  It’s crazy that you can be good friends with someone, have a phone conversation end and not realize it’s the last one you’ll have for an amazingly long time, and then reconnect on Facebook and realize since you forgot to call them back they got married, divorced, married, and have two kids.

I don’t have kids yet, unless cats count, in which case, yes, I have kids.  I never do anything the easy way.  We adopted the one who would need thousands of dollars in surgery within a month, and the chubby one who likes to bite us to show affection.  As with everything, I wouldn’t trade them for anything.  And until I can dig through wedding photos, they’re the only banners you’ll see here.

It seemed like the perfect time to start blogging again.  The last time I did this I had no other expressive outlet, so I would pour hours into perfecting every post.  I don’t have that kind of time anymore, so if I spellcheck it’s a miracle.  I just figured I learned to monologue and I might as well use it in a place where I won’t bore people needlessly.