In which I am a lousy fan....

I keep forgetting that a lot of people get really into the costume thing for Dragon*Con. After my first time (2006), critus and netgoth and I kind of half-assedly batted around the idea of dressing up as characters from Mystery Men (Bowler, Blue Raja, and myself as either Mr. Furious or The Shoveler).

Then I remember that a leather trench-coat is probably not a smart outfit choice for Atlanta in summer.

So, I'll be dressed as "me" all weekend, which will look a lot like the not-all-that-weird stuff I wore at C14 (ie: breathable shirts and Utilikilts). Maybe I can claim to be an extra from a Gibson or Stephenson novel or something.

I'll probably shoot my mouth off at some of the World of Warcraft panels (to the near-certain chagrin of some folks), will swing by the beginning or end of Laurell K. Hamilton's something-or-other to give manly hugs to gothcop, and will generally merely be a free-floating social goober, seeing various friends I seldom encounter without keyboard mediation. Maybe some spur-of-the-moment panel or event will pique my interest, and I'll drop in.

For someone who reads as much SF as I do, I feel remarkably lukewarm about actually encountering the meat behind the words. Or being the words made meat myself, it seems.

The Horror

It crept up like a creeping abomniation eldrixtch in scope and horror, stealing sanity with every breath. The horror of it crept over me like hideous abominaiable bees, mutants. Mutant, faggot bees, creeping horribly over my skin. Skin that crawled with bees and horror like a mutation.

The skin burned as if stung, the horror of the burning horror and realiztion that it burned too with passion and heat.

Mutant heat burning for Darling N.

[confused? nauseated? mildly amused? Blame Flem & Cav.]