It's been so long since my last story that I believe you deserve an explanation. I have a confession to make: I am not a Klingon. Go ahead. Take some time to let that sink in if you need to. I'll wait. Okay? So, I'm not basing this conclusion on my smooth (if not bulbous) forehead, or my lack of desire to kill Tribbles, or the fact that Klingons (and Tribbles) don't actually exist. No. I'm basing it on the fact that I, Wendy Mitchell, sole author of this column, attended a party for the release of a new Star Trek MMORPG (Massively-Multi Online Role-Playing Game) in February of 2010, almost eight months ago, and I'm just now getting around to writing about it. Now let me explain. more ›

Holding the 'Energem' in my hand, I quickly realized its most striking characteristic: It was possibly the ugliest object I had ever, ever seen. Imagine, if you will, the bottom third of a bottle of Goldschlager, slightly shaken to stir up the little bits of gold. Now take a few random magnets off of your refrigerator, smash them with a hammer and drop them in. Then, head to your local steel plant and pick up a handful of metal filings. Combine those with a few plastic beads and the ragged fabric scraps from your last quilting project. Add a copper coil, and mix everything together inside the bottle so it's all suspended in the liquid. Lastly, imagine that the Goldschlager is actually hard resin, and that it's shaped like a pyramid. That is what an 'Energem' looks like. more ›

'Okay, Wendy, you've rehearsed this. You are Sam. Sam Johnson. Samantha. You're here to learn the fine art of picking up women. You're curious. You're a fan. You saw him on YouTube.' I was limping to the Driskill in the rain giving myself a pep talk. My broken foot and frizzy hair were throwing a wrench in my feigned persona. I'd signed up online for Adam Lyons' Free Pick-Up Artist Boot Camp online, and I had figured I'd use a gender-neutral name and make up my story later. But it was crunch time. The doorman gave me directions to the room without even asking for a secret handshake. more ›

[In the glorious, time-honored tradition of the 'Format-Breaking Episode', I now present: a poem.] I saw the best minds of my generation walk past the window without contemplation. That's what it felt like at first, anyway, as I stood there listening inside the cafe. No Ginsberg, no Kerouac, not even Mark Strand- the first few readers really quite bland. And though I was tempted to leave, I held tight- at the local open mic poetry night. more ›

So I'm not exactly sure what type of people I was expecting to find at Segway headquarters, but when I arrived, I was pleasantly surprised. The guy behind the counter, my fellow tourists, and even Our Tour Guide all looked... normal. No duct-taped glasses, no headgear, no 'Segway Or The Highway' t-shirts. But then, as if to intentionally shatter my delusion, the guy behind the counter announced, "You can go ahead and pick out your helmets." Oh yeah. Helmets. While we were choosing our badges of dorkdom, Our Tour Guide poked her head in from outside. "I almost forgot to ask," she said, smiling. "Does anyone want to ride the 'hot pink' Segway or the one with 'flames' painted on it?" We shook our well-protected heads: 'No thanks.' more ›