White is not a color for dragon*con. Black is a far better choice. A black shirt soaked through with sweat doesn't turn transparent, and the dirt, grime, and grease of equipment never shows up against it. There's an art to staying clean, dry, and daisy-fresh at 'con when you're a tech staffer.

I haven't mastered it yet, but part of it appears to hinge on changing shirts a lot.

My name is Amy, and I am a tech staffer at dragon*con.

You don't know me, and you don't see me at dragon*con room parties. The only time you might see me at dragon*con is while I'm running equipment from room to room, or while I'm standing backstage to help load out a band's equipment. Even then, I am faceless; a woman in a plain shirt and jeans, with a radio clamped to my head and equipment in my hand.

These are my answers to the five questions Amy posited to me.

(1) You have five bullets and a guarantee that you will never be prosecuted. Who gets the bullets, and why? (A single person is allowed multiple bullets, if necessary.)

Hmmm…If you're going to limit me to five, I'm going to have to be pretty judicious; I don't think I'm in danger of having to pump multiple bullets into the same person.
(1) Gallagher. I've always wondered if his head would explode like his melons.

I can finally give you the answer to the question which I'm sure was bothering none of you: "What was Amy's super-secret dragon*con graphic design project that she worked on for all of August?" I held off making these photos available until after dragon*con was in full swing, hoping that no one who was meant to be surprised would be unduly surprised by visiting cat.net.

On the Saturday before dragon*con, I was sitting in the computer room, tending to minor items from my dragon*con checklist. Halfway down the list was the note "clean off camera." My camera's memory card had been slowly collecting photos from various places, none of which were ever quite enough to post at any one time.

I flicked through the photos and realized that, when added to the photos I'd been socking away on my desktop "for eventual use," that I had enough for a post. Therefore, I present for you a mishmash collection: The Shameless Feline.

One-twenty-eight a.m.

It's time.

They call it Hotlanta for a reason: hot, muggy, steam confused and trying to figure out whether it should stream up or down. That's Atlanta on Labor Day weekend.