At this point, it's just plain silliness: the cutting of a spare house key or the run to Kinko's for sixteen color copies. Or, as said to Suzan the other night: "We do all this planning ahead of time so that when we finally get on-site, we can walk away from our lives for nearly a week."

We twisted our way through downtown, into the appropriate parking lot, and signed in. Brian was in the green room, and after a few minutes of discussion, we headed for the studio. For some reason, I expected quiet, but then I remembered that this was a live show, and that my expectation was - insane.

On the other side of the door, I found myself facing an older gentleman with a wide smile and a strong Caribbean accent. "Dey's no accidents in TV. You's here, you have to contribute. You gonna help on camera?"

"So few people come here and really make themselves at home. You went out there and slept like a baby."

I'll say.

Don't hate me because I'm here. I've been here for most of the afternoon. Most of it asleep.

Packing list? This got far beyond a packing list at least a year ago.

Year one of dragon*con: toss your toothbrush, toothpaste, and a spare pair of underwear into your backpack, while keeping your camera in your hand. Six days later, acknowledge the clothes that you're wearing are disgusting, and cannot be saved. Burn them. Vow to do better next year.

Total spams received in absence: 163.

Two hours into the drive home. Silence. After so few hours in the car, have we managed to say everything there is to say?

Three dragon*con staff meetings down, none to go. Last night, everyone marveled that dragon*con was already upon us, a sentiment made even more absurd by the frequent follow-up: "It's been so long since I've seen you!"

Silly us; we were too tired to check the weather when we stumbled into Casa Richardson last night. We awoke to discover that weather was being wreaked all around us today. That plan I had of getting up fairly early and driving home from Atlanta?