“Are you The FunHog?” Depends on who you are, is my standard response to that loaded question.
“My name is Alexa,” said the tall red-headed stranger. “A friend of mine who works for the Xena convention told me you were coming. I think you’re funny.”
“Well, thank you,” I said skittishly, still badly shaken over having been recognized at that sort of gathering.
“And I’m a lesbian.” “You don’t say? I’m a Democrat... nice to meet you.” Turns out, my conversation with Alexa the unabashed lesbian was the closest thing to normal I experienced at the Xena: Warrior Princess convention. I was there researching a story for my monthly column in Women’s World Monthly … well, that, and I needed a break from my insane former ex-now-present girlfriend Tina, who seemed hell-bent on becoming my ex again.
So I found myself at a convention billed “Xena and the Ass Kickin’Women of Sci-Fi Television.” And yes, it was as scary as it sounds.
For four solid hours, Bottomfeeder and I mingled with assorted freaks and mutants of all shapes and sizes — many decked out in Medieval finery — and came away from the ordeal with a crystal clear understanding of what the world would be like if, say, everyone in it were to be lobotomized.
Robert Trebor was the celebrity guest at the convention. According to Alexa, Trebor’s character, Salmoneus, appears sporadically on both Hercules: The Legendary Journeys and the spin-off series, Xena. Both of which, I might add, are no longer in production — but ASS KICKIN’, I guess, is in syndication.
“It would have been nice to have one of the main stars here, or at least more than just one guy,” sighed Alexa.
Perhaps, but the majority of the audience didn’t seem to give a damn about the lack of star power at the convention. When Trebor — a short, pudgy anomaly on a television program noted for its hard-bodied men and women — took the stage, the auditorium exploded with camera flashes and shrieks of approval.
“Thank you so much — wow! It is so great to be here,” Trebor lied.
At least I think he was lying. He had to be lying, I reasoned, because I couldn’t imagine that any Hollywood actor would enjoy being in such close quarters with the hundreds of starry-eyed genetic malformations who turned out for the occasion.
“Maybe we should leave. I think it’s only a matter a time before the collective mood here turns ugly,” I whispered to Bottomfeeder.
“Shhhh!!!” he shushed. “I’m trying to hear Salmoneus.” Damn straight he was. I hadn’t seen Bottomfeeder so rapt since the last “Cops” marathon aired on Fox. He was among kindred spirits at the Xena convention; surrounded by people who, like him, actually care whether the nitwit couples on “Change of Heart” stay together.
“How do you think I’d look in leather body armor?” Bottomfeeder asked.
I shrugged nervously, then scribbed a note on my pad: “Need to move this man out my home as soon as possible!
After blathering on for what seemed like an eternity about wizards and sorcery and syndication, Trebor jokingly admitted he was apprehensive about being at the convention, especially after he discovered a gun show had taken place earlier in the day in an adjacent auditorium.
“I don’t know if you want to have our fans around guns,” he chuckled nervously.
I don’t know if you want these people around water pistols, buddy. It wouldn’t be long before one of them drowned.
“There were some really strange people going into the gun show,” Alexa told me, munching on a candy bar. “I don’t like guns.”
Neither do I. I’m not a fan of any type of weaponry, which is why I got so nervous when a long-haired guy wearing leather and chainmail walked by brandishing a longsword.
“Stranger than him,” I said, gesturing towards the Hercules wannabe.
“That’s not too strange,” laughed Alexa. “That’s what you’d expect to see at a Xena convention … that, and lesbians.”
I pulled out the notepad again, made another note. “Enjoy the ride, Hog,” I wrote largely. “And for God’s sake man, quit the damn Women’s World Monthly gig immediately!”
And so I did. With one short, polite phone call to Nancy the Editor, who — not surprisingly — accepted my resignation without protest. Sometimes, it’s clear to everyone involved that The End has arrived.
The next day, Fisher the Agent called me — furious. When the WWM column went away, so too did his hefty commission. He told me he thought it best I find other representation, and I told him I thought he was a dumb-ass. Then we shared a laugh and said goodbye.
Once I broke the news that I was no longer pulling down $8,000 a month as a high-profile columnist, Tina dumped me for — are you ready for this? — The Bottomfeeder!!!! Yep! He moved out of my place, and into hers … and, for the life of me, I can’t figure whether I’m happy or sad about it.
A Sting lyric keeps dancing about in my head: “I’m so happy, I can’t stop crying.”
It’s like the point made by the great beat poet Jerry Seinfield when he wrote about in-between time. Like that period when you have a new job, but don’t start for a few weeks. It’s akin to the concept of “recess” in kindergarten, a “hall pass” in high school and “blanket presidential pardon” as an adult.
My whole life is like that. It is not without pleasures, but in the down times it also reminds me of the brilliant advice given by the writer Curtis Robinson: “Always remember, consumer credit is not such a great thing for financial optimists.”
So it’s recess, break time. I have that part down, and plan on joining the “Gore 2004 Campaign” to find out about that pardon stuff.
Ain’t life grand?!!! (Dan Dunn is a Santa Monica resident. For more FunHog fun, check out thefunhog.com)
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on August 12, 2002. Read the original PDF.