Yesterday, Cory Doctorow talked about Atompunk, which is apparently like Steampunk except rampantly nostalgic for the 1950s instead of the 1850s.

It strikes me that the -punk suffix has only really held any meaning when attached to the word ‘cyberpunk’ and even then, only tangentially.  I’ll grandfather in ’steampunk’ too just because it’s used so often, but everything else?  Come on.

- Biblepunk: the blatant fetishization of pre-christian architecture, most notably including clay masonry and Solomonic gates.

- Merpunk: the blatant fetishization of living underwater, most notably by organizing large groups of people to sing “Part of Your World” from Disney’s The Little Mermaid.

- Beardpunk: the blatant fetishization of facial hair, most often perpetrated by hipster d-bags and stoners who partake in asocial rituals like “No Shave November.”

-Presentpunk: the blatant fetishization of current popular culture, most notably by watching The Soup, Best Week Ever, and listening to Britney Spears’ “Womanizer” for hours a day.

-Muppetpunk: Like steampunk, except with Muppets instead of gears.  “Hey, check out the cool Muppetpunk watch I found at the Disney store!”

- Punkpunk: A bit of a fakeout, punkpunk is the blatant fetishization of blatant fetishization, not of the actual punk culture.

It’s Thanksgiving, which means beer, turkey and football, but also some passing thoughts about what each of us is thankful for in our lives.  Normally, I’d scoff off that last bit and just say ‘Batman’ but this has been a tumultuous year.

This year I met Neal Adams, who’s one of my comic book industry heroes.  I interviewed Neal at New York Comic Con, and it was a great pleasure to spend time with him and his family.  That was a big deal for me, as were my occasional contributions to Newsarama.  My tour around the con circuit this year also let me meet Chip Mosher, C.B. Cebulski, Tom Brevoort, Molly Lazer, and Sean McKeever.  The cons in New York, Philadelphia and Baltimore also helped me to spend some time with friends, specifically Rich and Bill from Film Buff Online, Kevin Church, and Caroline and Jennifer from Fantastic Fangirls.  And Kristi, her fiance Jay and Skip and Mike, who don’t have Web sites.  I’ll reiterate, as it seems I often do (but maybe not often enough) that the comics community is made of really, really good people, despite how bitchy and snarky we can get sometimes.

This year I found a new, stable, rewarding job, and I’m thankful for my employers and coworkers and most of my clients.

I’m thankful for each of you reading Conditional Axe; I hope it’s managed to get better over the past few years and that it’s a worthwhile part of your day.  I’m thankful for my pals at Alert Nerd bringing me into the fold, speaking of blogs.   Matt, Sarah and Chris are some of my favorite people on the Internet.

Most of all, I’m thankful to have really wonderful friends and family members who’ve given me the strength and the courage to make the painful and difficult decisions that I’ve made this year.  You are too numerous to name, but I appreciate every one of you.

Okay, that was really sappy; so let’s think about cyborg bears fighting flying laser sharks instead.

Ham Sandwich from Adam "Slice" Kuban's Flickr

The key to creating good social media content is typing. Without typing, you really can’t interact online. There are plenty of reasons why ham sandwiches are awesome, but ‘having hands and fingers’ isn’t one of them. So, yeah, of course ham sandwiches suck at being part of the online conversation. Why would you think otherwise?

I mean, yeah, ham sandwiches are also kind of elitist and off-putting. And they have a coke habit. But mostly it’s the lack of hands. And it depends on the kind of mustard you put on it. Really, a bit part of it is that ham sandwiches don’t like me. I know you saw me with grilled cheese that one time, ham sandwich, but it didn’t mean anything. Please answer my calls.

I meant to talk about Halloween.

So, Halloween was another one of those nights when my friends told me:

1. I need to get the divorce off of my mind.

2. I need to have fun.

3. I need to go clubbing with them.

Unfortunately, some part of my brain was unable to accept only 66% of the proposition, and so I ended up at the local meat market of record’s Halloween party and was perhaps the only person dressed like a pirate that wasn’t also dressed like a slut.

Because my people know, respect and gracefully tolerate my geekhood, one of them points to a couple clad in superhero costumes, thinking that I’ll appreciate it.

Green Lantern, his hair and beard dyed bright green, accompanied by Poison Ivy.

My response, “That’s not even canonically accurate.”  And that’s where the title of this post comes from.

More posting later, but I wanted to share Ichor Falls with you guys.

It’s the best microfiction project I’ve seen since 365tomorrows.

Today’s story, in particular, is awesome.  You won’t look when you shut doors for the next three days.

No, it’s not what you think.

I don’t think I’m giving a lot away by saying that while I’m not exactly happy with my current status, I definitely think it falls into that ‘it’s for the best’ category. So this post isn’t my mighty moment of doubt.

Instead, it’s an acknowledgement that I am literally ten years off my game when it comes to dealing with sane, rational members of the opposite sex. Not that I’m actively seeking this sort of thing, but I’ve found myself falling into it repeatedly in the past few weeks and it’s been annoying.

Take, for instance, last Friday night. I was at a work function, or more accurately, the after-party of a work function, and these two distinct things happened:

1. Catching me totally unawares, a woman I have seen before in my life sneaks up behind me and wraps one arm around my shoulders, tousles my hair with her free hand and plants a kiss on my cheek. I turn my head to get a better appraisal of what exactly the fuck is going on, and the woman, who I have to reiterate at this point that I have never seen in my life, fumblingly apologizes and says to me, “You’re the wrong guy.”

Story of my life, huh?

Now if I weren’t nestled in a warm, moist bed of scotch by that point in the evening, or if I even gave a damn at all about this misfortunate piece of bar trash that is herself so impaired that she sees a bearded, six and a half foot tall man in a black suit, black shirt and a solid neon pink tie and gets him confused with someone else, I might have said something like, “Are you sure about that?” to try and turn it around or whatever. I didn’t do that, though; I had another beer. Hindsight tells me that it was the wiser choice anyway.
2. Later in the evening, I’m approached by a petite blond who wordlessly goes about the business of untying my tie and trying to steal it. It was “pretty,” she told me. I know, I say back. That’s why I paid money for it. She looked perplexed. Jesus, I am such a curmudgeon. After talking her out of the tie gambit, Mary - her name is Mary - and I ended up arm wrestling (I know you’re curious, so I’ll tell you I lost on purpose because really, are you going to thrash a girl at arm wrestling? That’s fun to live down at the office, I’m sure).

After the big throwdown, Mary continues to hang out and talk to me. She was really affable despite being completely tanked, and so I got my hopes up slightly when she casually asked me, “Are you seeing anybody?”

“No,” I said, despite the twinge of guilt that forming and aspirating the word caused me.

In an almost total act of non sequitir, Mary reached out to touch me and said, “I’m married. And I love my husband.” WHAT? It was a bit like the ending of The Crying Game or Ang Lee’s Hulk in the way that the big climax makes the viewer almost enraged that they’ve been fooled into thinking that guy was totally a chick or that a summer tentpole action movie wouldn’t turn into a high-budget Beckett play that ends with a giant green monster fighting a body of water. I’ve long believed that my life is a series of interesting misfortunes strung together for the amusement of others, but it’s rare that the examples of this follow so close on one another’s heels.

I should probably amend the title of this to Things I Hate: Random Encounters With Drunk Women, but honestly, it’s a less compelling headline. It’s probably also true that I’ve just described two episodes that are annoying or irritating but not indicative of any kind of fumbling lack of skill or grace on my part. It just never feels like that in the moment that it happens, does it?