Dragon Con*fidential
Aug. 31st, 2013 03:49 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonFile It:
I wasn't quite myself tonight at the Con and as it turned out that was the best thing that could've possibly happened. I wasn't desperate there, nor depressed, horny, self-defeating, snarky or angry at not being anyone else but me. Tonight, somewhere between a bowl and a glance in the mirror, I realized fuck that. I'm strong of arm, keen of mind and thick of cock so what am I beating myself up over? Get out there and have fun.
Hell. Originally I didn't even want to go this year. No too cool for school drama or any of that shit. Just the simple math of subtraction. My friends gone or so buried in their relationships that they might as well be. My wise yet once wild brother in Jax, my inspirational Magpie menace in LA, my Princess in her tower woes beyond my reach to help and my Teddy Bear lost magnificently to love. It's kind of why I don't go to clubs of late. Not because I don't think I'll get lucky or not, it's just not the same without a bunch of drunken brothers (or sisters) in arms to party with.
But there's something about the Con. Beyond the psychogeographical echoes, beyond the rituals sublimated, beyond even the pageantry of feeling like you've crash landed in a big summer comic book superhero crossover that draws me to it.
I think it's walking by cops stoned out of my head and saying hello to them knowing there's nothing they can do. I think it's identifying and calling out the name to a costume that the person wearing thought no one else would ever get. I think it's how no one is ugly when dressed in their wildest dreams, I think it's the way super villains look noble at 2am, I think it's two people the world ignored kissing in a crowd while dressed as the heroes they've secretly always have been.
Well, back home now with a limp in this here John Wayne strut of mine. Earlier, ran into the always lovely Nurse Feisty and being a proper southern lady she had me escort her to the Dragon*Con homecoming dance. She was resplendent as always, Velma Binkley if she ever gave up paranormal investigating with the Scooby Gang to host her own NPR show. The DJ there played a bunch of 80s stuff and even a year out of practice from doing my thing on the floor I still had a few moves just on muscle memory alone. Nevertheless I ache in new places and can feel each blow the years have delivered as if they had been delivered yesterday.
Still it was the most fun I've had in ages. Later we walked through Downtown to the Westin for the Avenger's Ball. The music was jock jams circa 97 but the eye candy was scrumptious. We skipped dancing , refueled our drinks and talked instead. Which we did until the hour grew late, the budgeted drinking funds shriveled and the buzz seeped deep enough to gum up the coordination. At which point I escorted her to a cab on Baker, ensured she was safely on her way home and being 41 instead of 21 knew that now was the exact moment to end the evening's festivities.
Which is funny because this is how my Con began. Hours earlier standing on line for my badge and reading Bradbury's 'The Kilimanjaro Device'. In the story the narrator, with only love and imagination, constructs a time machine to go back in the past and give Ernest Hemingway the end he deserved instead of got. The search not so much for immortality, but leaving this world at the perfect moment. It hit me that one more so than a few of the others I read. I laughed at some parts, I just mouthed a silent 'wow' at others. Drew some odd stares from the other folks on line when I did, but fuck them if they weren't smart enough to bring company for the wait as well.
Anyhoo, that story acted as an omen of sorts, bibliomancy I guess, because somehow tonight felt like the Con I should've been at these last few years.
Well, at least so far, after all that was just round one and Saturday's when shit gets crazy.
Alright, time to wrestle the bed spins, 10-4, over and out.
I wasn't quite myself tonight at the Con and as it turned out that was the best thing that could've possibly happened. I wasn't desperate there, nor depressed, horny, self-defeating, snarky or angry at not being anyone else but me. Tonight, somewhere between a bowl and a glance in the mirror, I realized fuck that. I'm strong of arm, keen of mind and thick of cock so what am I beating myself up over? Get out there and have fun.
Hell. Originally I didn't even want to go this year. No too cool for school drama or any of that shit. Just the simple math of subtraction. My friends gone or so buried in their relationships that they might as well be. My wise yet once wild brother in Jax, my inspirational Magpie menace in LA, my Princess in her tower woes beyond my reach to help and my Teddy Bear lost magnificently to love. It's kind of why I don't go to clubs of late. Not because I don't think I'll get lucky or not, it's just not the same without a bunch of drunken brothers (or sisters) in arms to party with.
But there's something about the Con. Beyond the psychogeographical echoes, beyond the rituals sublimated, beyond even the pageantry of feeling like you've crash landed in a big summer comic book superhero crossover that draws me to it.
I think it's walking by cops stoned out of my head and saying hello to them knowing there's nothing they can do. I think it's identifying and calling out the name to a costume that the person wearing thought no one else would ever get. I think it's how no one is ugly when dressed in their wildest dreams, I think it's the way super villains look noble at 2am, I think it's two people the world ignored kissing in a crowd while dressed as the heroes they've secretly always have been.
Well, back home now with a limp in this here John Wayne strut of mine. Earlier, ran into the always lovely Nurse Feisty and being a proper southern lady she had me escort her to the Dragon*Con homecoming dance. She was resplendent as always, Velma Binkley if she ever gave up paranormal investigating with the Scooby Gang to host her own NPR show. The DJ there played a bunch of 80s stuff and even a year out of practice from doing my thing on the floor I still had a few moves just on muscle memory alone. Nevertheless I ache in new places and can feel each blow the years have delivered as if they had been delivered yesterday.
Still it was the most fun I've had in ages. Later we walked through Downtown to the Westin for the Avenger's Ball. The music was jock jams circa 97 but the eye candy was scrumptious. We skipped dancing , refueled our drinks and talked instead. Which we did until the hour grew late, the budgeted drinking funds shriveled and the buzz seeped deep enough to gum up the coordination. At which point I escorted her to a cab on Baker, ensured she was safely on her way home and being 41 instead of 21 knew that now was the exact moment to end the evening's festivities.
Which is funny because this is how my Con began. Hours earlier standing on line for my badge and reading Bradbury's 'The Kilimanjaro Device'. In the story the narrator, with only love and imagination, constructs a time machine to go back in the past and give Ernest Hemingway the end he deserved instead of got. The search not so much for immortality, but leaving this world at the perfect moment. It hit me that one more so than a few of the others I read. I laughed at some parts, I just mouthed a silent 'wow' at others. Drew some odd stares from the other folks on line when I did, but fuck them if they weren't smart enough to bring company for the wait as well.
Anyhoo, that story acted as an omen of sorts, bibliomancy I guess, because somehow tonight felt like the Con I should've been at these last few years.
Well, at least so far, after all that was just round one and Saturday's when shit gets crazy.
Alright, time to wrestle the bed spins, 10-4, over and out.