Yet - there are so many things that tie us here: cats to feed, bills to pay, errands to run. No, life won't end if I forget to burn a copy of all the graphic design I've done for the dragon*con large-event pregame shows this year, but it will guarantee that if one of the powers that be have last-minute issues with some of the slides we've created, we'll be able to make edits and changes without killing ourselves.

CDs for Brian, charge the cell phone's battery, clean all old photos off the camera. Make sure the boots are laced properly, do seven batches of Rice Krispie Treats, make a Sam's run, and pick up black construction paper on the way home tomorrow. Don't forget Jessica's drum, but don't put it in the car until right before leaving, because who knows what the high temperatures in the garage tomorrow afternoon will do to the wood?

Thursday is summer solstice for tech staffers: the longest, hardest, most frustrating day of the year, when suddenly we have two hotels to set up, and the trucks are pouring in equipment faster than we can handle it. The radios haven't arrived, and no one can talk between ballrooms yet. We thrash about and throw equipment and remember why we're always sore after load-in and then suddenly,

boom,

it's evening and the bands are playing and we're all sitting down backstage eyeballing the conventioneers as they trickle in and we remember why we're here.

It's not about remembering to find someone to feed the cats or bring in the mail, or passing Heather staff lists so she can make sure that she photographs everyone on tech staff, or making plans so that you bring the toaster and Jody brings the blender. It's sitting backstage at the end of the day, your muscles aching in tandem with those of your friends whom you haven't seen, fought with, or drank with in a year. You're in boots with too much metal and too high of platform and heel, and when you walk outside, your mundane little outfit is outshone by the Stormtroopers who are chasing the Jedis who are mocking the gamers who aren't able to attract the attention of any of the women walking around in their thigh-high latex boots.

Then the radio squawks "Union break!" and everyone in hearing distance runs for the pool deck. Most of the people who respond to the call of "union break!" don't even smoke, but they show up anyway, because it's what you do at three in the morning when no one remembers where the alcohol is and you can't deal with another band member asking you for just One More Little Favor without finding out if the neck of his guitar will actually wrap around his neck.

Dragon*Con is nothing like this for the twenty-five thousand people who drive and fly and ride their way into downtown Atlanta. They plot what events they'll see and what room parties they'll attend and what music they'll dance to until dawn comes. We sit behind soundboards, in faraway rooms, touching base with the four holy stations of tech staff (Regency, Centennial, Harris, Ops, amen) through radios and runners. We watch Jody's battle against the "fuckup fairy" and sling equipment until closer to dawn than midnight, when we lean against the ice machine in backstage Centennial IV because the cool, slick metal feels good against aching back muscles.

We hate the food and beg for back massages, catch catnaps in chairs and daydream while babysitting panels, and slam each other senseless over the radio knowing that every single moment is recorded and that we would rather be nowhere else than right here.

Load-in begins Thursday morning at ten a.m.
I'm bringing my aspirin and my platform boots.

Given time and a competent staff, the plans almost seem to create themselves.

We left the house at three, pushing southeast toward Atlanta to meet up with the rest of the core staff at Thomas' house for dinner and a last once-over. With the addition of an hour incurred by crossing the invisibly-painted Georgia border, we arrived at Thomas' house near the appointed time of eight p.m.

Grids for this year's convention were passed around. To the twenty-three thousand attendees of this convention, dragon*con consists of events, panels, concerts, and other performances. For us, this year's news is that we won't be shuffling video-projector screens around the rooms of the fan tracks, the concert performers will be allowed to use dry ice but not fog machines, and that we're hoping that the MST3K guys hosting the costume contest this year will be less of a prima donna than last year's master of ceremonies (Anthony Daniels).

Convention planning is Suzan's decree that we'll take inventory every couple of hours, or that such-and-such room can't be locked and thus will need nighttime security checks to ensure no equipment goes missing, or that Thomas is taking up donations for his potent alcoholic beverage, 'apple pie.'

I'm not sure why we like doing this. I lean toward theories that have phrases like 'battle camaraderie' in them. For five days we let our inner freaks hang out while we (a band of less than fifty people) take on a convention of twenty-three thousand (and the inevitable chaos that number of people are capable of invoking).

The strange, stark truth is that we love the chaos, or we wouldn't come back from year to year. Most of us physically work harder during the week of dragon*con than any other week of the year, and yet there's something about the intensity of both the work and the play that makes it—addicting, somehow.

Until you've been sitting in the equipment room at three in the morning, listening to two grown men called ChocoBunny and Oompa Loompa guzzling the apple pie and waging a radio war, it's difficult to explain.

In the end, I understand this. We drove to Georgia and back today for the battle planning, arriving home on the wrong side of one-thirty in the morning. As I try to focus my eyes through the slowly-thickening fog of sleep deprivation, I realize that I can't think of anything even remotely profound or enlightening to finish this post with.

Except that in eleven days, it begins.

For now, sleep calls.