While making my packing list for dragon*con on Monday afternoon, I began thinking about what clothes I wanted to take. They needed to be comfortable, easy to move in, sweat-absorbing (because anyone who thinks they won't sweat while racing around to set up for the enormous costume contest is seriously deluded), and somewhat funky.

Just about every story told by anyone who has ever worked retail in this side of the galaxy begins with the phrase, "There was this guy…"

With it comes the unspoken understanding: Don't be that guy.

Given the way this universe works, it seems highly likely that "that guy" doesn't actually exist. Instead, what we're likely to be dealing with is a highly invasive microorganism which jumps to host to host, infecting them with a strange kind of temporary insanity that compels them to go to the nearest grocery store.

As I turned out of the subdivision this afternoon, the storm spat fat, heavy raindrops down upon the asphalt. With the blinker pinging for a left turn, the Jetta's eyelashes swatted rain away as fast as the sky could give it. I stared, vaguely mesmerized by the glitter-like effect of water bouncing on the asphalt, reflecting light in the process.

We talked a lot on the trip tonight, most of which held little consequence to anyone else except us. Cats. Plans. Expectations for the convention.

On vacation. I've got post-dated entries set to appear while I'm gone, so it won't seem like I've gone much of anywhere. Standard daily entries (and a lot of photos) will appear when I return to posting.

1:46 a.m. Still less than the number I need to achieve, but the longer I sit here, the closer I get.

The plan is to acclimate me to dragon*con time. dragon*con, for those of you who aren't familiar yet, is the sci-fi/fantasy convention coming up Very Soon Now, of which I am part of the tech staff.

While dragon*con technically runs 24-7, its slowest hours are from three to eight a.m. Thus, my plan: change my sleep schedule so that I am sleeping from four to ten a.m. If I can function on fewer hours than that during the convention (and I believe that I can), I will.The hot tea in the mug to my left is so heavily saturated with sugar that any self-respecting Brit would refuse to even call it tea. I can drink hot tea and like it, but my growing up in the American South has ingrained in me an appreciation (requirement?) for sweet tea that I will likely take to my grave.

There's not much between Huntsville and Birmingham, except somewhere near an hour and a half of scenery that can be compressed into approximately three minutes of equally unexciting viewing:

"Hmm."
"Look. Trees."
"More trees."
"Is there anything else to see?"
"More trees, I think."
"Are we there yet?"
"Given that we left five minutes ago, and it takes nearly an hour and a half to get there, I think that highly unlikely."

It's a pity, really; Alabama seems to be missing some of the out-and-out oddness that is the freeway scenery in Arkansas. Anyone who has driven I-30 has encountered one of the most famous (and enduring) billboards in central Arkansas:

Enormous capital letters, the billboard equivalent of a shout:

"WARNING! PREPARE TO MEET GOD!"