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.

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.

From here to central Georgia (and back) is something over four hundred miles. Four hundred miles of alterna-rock radio stations (who don't really seem to remember what they're the alternative to) and trees that stand politely out of the way of the gently-winding interstate.We are eleven days away from dragon*con, and the pie-in-the-sky battle plans are cementing themselves into plans for the weekend after next. Oompa is recovering from brown recluse bites on his legs and can't do much lifting, so Jeremy (our very own rock-steady Mr. Sulu) will be his second-in-command this year.

In some strange, bizarre way, I actually like driving on the freeways of Atlanta. Spaghetti Junction. The Vehicle Accelerator. The Watermelon 400. I can now officially say that I've done 'em all.

It wasn't that he looked so different. Or, perhaps, so it was—in the beginning.

But beginning impressions—like all kicks to the gut—fade, even though the remembrance remains.

Backstage: it's not what you'd expect. It's more, it's less, it's completely different from what you've imagined. The world behind the curtain is very, very different from the world that the fans see.