Errata: for those of you who haven't checked the dragon*con website lately, Godhead and Voltaire have been added to the lineup. I'm pleased. I've never managed to catch any of Voltaire's legendarily-funny dragon*con shows, so hopefully I'll be able to make time to see him this year. Godhead is fantastic to crew for. They're respectful and friendly to tech staff, and just a genuine pleasure to work with. I'm with Jody on this one; I wouldn't be surprised if they're a Saturday headliner, and I certainly would be happy with the choice if they were.

I'm mostly making good on my promise. Mostly.

The third year will be the charm(s), the boots, the skirt, the shirt; anything but the mundane. "At last," some of my friends will say, one in particular.

I'm not the dressing-up type. Or maybe I'm the perfect dressing-up type. It depends on how you look at it. For the flamboyant, the outgoing, dressing-up is a simple matter of tossing together bits and pieces and letting your personality do the rest.

For the quieter, the process is more arduous. The question is not only "Can I fit into this?" it is "Can I pull this off without horrible embarrassment?" (Or, as I rather caustically like to point out, "The only good part about being the fat chick is that you can look in the mirror and never have to ask, 'Does my ass look fat in this?' because you already know the answer.)

If you listen to enough tech staff radio parties, you know firsthand that there are plenty of people in this world who wear costumes that are wholly inappropriate for their body types. I hate to generalize in this case, but these people are almost universally women. There comes a point where a tightly-laced corset is just going to make matters worse, not better. (Hint: if you've got jiggles on top AND bottom once your corset is laced, you should consider a different outfit.) There comes a point where a woman really shouldn't be wearing a bandeau top in public.

Et cetera.

So, after a couple of years' worth of badgering by Jody, I agreed to hunt for a costume for this year's dragon*con. I ignored his cries for a corset, but decided that the suggestion of evil boots wasn't a half-bad one. Evil boots I could work with. Form-fitting, yes, but in a way I was prepared to deal with; I ordered the boots.

When I was in Memphis, I found a skirt. It was short enough for 'con, long enough that I wouldn't embarrass myself too often, but still not quite long enough that I was willing to walk out of the dressing room to show it to Misty and Stephen once I'd confirmed it fit. (I have this policy of no above-the-knee skirts in public without some kind of camouflage for my melanin-challenged legs.)

No matter what anyone tells you, a lifetime of shyness can't be broken by five minutes in a fun little skirt.

I'll indulge my love of men's white dress shirts by buying an enormous one and wearing it over the equally-evil black shirt I've had in reserve for a few months. With that, the black skirt adorned with more D-rings than is technically necessary†, black tights, blue-streaked hair, and lovely shoes, I should be good to go.

I forgot to mention the shoes, hmm?

I have two choices. For minor ass-kicking needs, there are the slipper-styled shoes with a 3.5" heel and 1" platform. (Amazing how a well-placed $10 at Junkman's Daughter allows you to see over a few heads at a concert.) Choice #2 is a beauty - the kind of shoe I've always wanted but never been able to justify buying. Knee-length boots with lots of shiny silvery bits. 1½" platform + 4" heel.

That there's some sky up there, yep.

The shoes might not manage to make me invincible, but maybe they'll let me fake it for a few hours. Give me enough bravery to wear the skirt and the shirt, to flaunt the blue hair, praying that I've finally done enough to move outside Jody's disdainful classification of "mundane" without alarming my friends and spouse.

I can do this. Really, I can. I won't be one of the blonde nymphets that are a dime a dozen at 'con; I'll be one of the stouter, surlier staffers with a take-no-prisoners attitude and boots to match. Not to mention, the boots actually let me pretend to be a good bit taller than I really am.

It's amazing how people's attitudes change toward you when they no longer have to tilt head/eyes downward to talk to you. How a physically level conversation changes the mental aspects of the conversation. How fascinating it is to be able to stand face-to-face, not face-to-chest, with the person you're talking to at the moment.

How annoying it is to be four inches taller than usual and to receive a pat on the head from Thomas, saying, "You're still short, sweetie."

On the way home from Atlanta, I mentioned this to Jeff, who had been quite amused by my enjoyment of my newfound, albeit temporary, height increase. "Are you going to go out and purchase a bunch of platform shoes?"

"No. But I think I'll hang on to these. Just in case."

† Jody, I heard that thought. Yes, you. You can just quell it right now. You are NOT chaining me to anything in backstage Centennial IV. Just remember, if you chain me to something that doesn't move, who's gonna bring Gatorade and dinner to your pirate crew? Exactly. Play nice or your daughter will be the only grade-schooler who has her nose pierced.... Current music: The Be Good Tanyas, "Only In The Past" (you can download it for free here)
Great Big Sea: When I'm Up

What an exciting week! Any more excitement and I think I'd have to be flushed and gasping, just to keep appearances up. I have a reputation to uphold, after all.

"My friends tend to self-select. A lot of weak people with weak personalities don't become my friends."
- Matthew

(I should note that this entry is being written under the influence of a good deal of caffeine. I'm doing well to make my sentences more than one word long at the moment. Forgive incoherency. I'm currently chemically incapable of doing any significant proofreading. It's pretty pathetic, really.)

There are rules to dealing with Matthew. Rules, you see. Not for his protection; last I checked, he doesn't need any. The rules are for your safety, and if he's going to be writing on this site next week, you need to know about them.

In the days that I first knew Matthew, back in the disillusioned haze of high school, he was good friends with Markus, who lived nearby. I would occasionally stay with Matthew's parents, who were by far the most intelligently daunting twosome I'd ever encountered up until that point in my life. Both of Matthew's parents worked at the nearby university; his father as a professor and his mother in some forever-undefined-to-me role in the foreign studies department. Markus, one of Matthew's closer friends, lived nearby. I had met him, but had never been introduced to his ...

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.

I hate you. You are: