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.

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.