The Black Ballroom
Aug. 13th, 2009 04:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonBuilt around an ambitious 470 foot atrium (the largest such upon its completion in 1985) the Terminus Marquis is one of the more immediately noticeable chess pieces in the city's skyline. Caged in a Brutalist concrete grid that bulges considerably at its base, it has lovingly come to be referred to by the locals as 'The Pregnant Building' - (rumors of a drunken one night stand with the robust Georgia Pacific Tower or pencil regal Bank of America Plaza abound). There are 52 floors to lose yourself in. 1,674 hotel rooms, 61 meeting rooms, 3 ballrooms (the largest boasting 25,000 square feet of raw space), 4 lounges, 5 restaurants, a fitness center and a pool harder to sneak into than most of the local banks. Deceptively vertiginous in its expanse, the most popular convention center in the southeast upon casual inspection resembles the interior of a vast art deco honeycomb. Watching (as first time visitors inevitably do) the glass bullet elevators rocket along the vertical columns rising in the atrium’s center, the concentric ripple of floors bursting from the lobby temporarily fool the senses into believing it has arrived at the set of some science fiction noir thriller - "Come live the good life on the Terminus Marquis Colonies".
But the 'Pregnant Building' also has her secrets. Amongst them is a clandestine subterranean floor that the few who know of its existence have come to call 'The Black Ballroom'. 35,000 square feet wide and buried deep beneath the city, the floor is accessible only by a hidden stairwell whose location must remain undisclosed for purposes of the author's continued health. Hosting such diverse events as the vernal Black Lodge Invocation of His Infernal Majesty Lord Chronozon, the Illuminated Council of 156's conference on global warming and having served as a temple for the sacrifice of twenty three goats per the International Olympic Committee’s instructions in '96.
It is also the space designated for the annual Dragon*Con Battle Dance Arena – a by invitation only competition amongst the costumed elite representing the various factions of pop culture fandom.
This event won’t be found listed on the program guide or website. At best you might overhear some gossip wafting along on the smoking patio or catch snatches of drunken hearsay in the corner of a room party you weren’t even invited to. Rumors of religious blood feuds held between the Klingontarians and the Lucasfarians settled in bouts of martial prowess held within a mysterious dungeon deep beneath the Terminus Marquis. Potterites locked in mortal combat with the growing ranks of Twilighters . Pirates of the great invisible IT departments waging war on teenage Anime Cultists. DC versus Marvel. Brown Shirts versus Frak Heads. Cat Furries versus Dog Furries. An Armageddon of the collective imagination the likes of which have not been seen since the dawn of chat rooms.
But these are just shadows of the truth we glimpse rustling in the jungles of urban myth. Behind which something weird and ugly is going down. A savage beast whose voracious appetite must be fed unless it comes crawling out of the Black Ballroom and spills out into convention looking for meat.
I should know.
One year I was invited to bear witness.
***
In front of the door, at the bottom of the stairwell, an acne scarred young man sits on a barstool sizing me up. Behind him he’s got two goons – all muscle and gut with heads that seem to have grown from wide shoulders as an afterthought. All three wear laminated badges draped around their necks that are marked only with a white dragon’s skull on a black backdrop. My ‘In’ for the event, a robust steam adventurer speaking with the worst cockney accent imaginable, vouchsafes my character.
Zit Kid of the Legion of Substitute-Substitute Heroes here doesn’t seem terribly impressed… by the testimony’s inflection or the man it speaks vigorously of. He rubs his chin contemplatively. The goons trade knowing glances. I can feel it. Any moment now and we’re going to have our convention privileges revoked. My buddy won’t stop though. He pushes the brim of his bowler up his brow along with the copper goggles that he can’t really see through (I had to lead him down the stairway by the elbow) and stares Zit Kid in the face. Mister Steam drops a name, dials up old times and calls in a favor. Zit Kid grudgingly recognizes. Though on one condition… I must first answer three questions.
“For real?” I mutter, rolling my eyes at Mister Steam.
“For reals - for reals” Zit Kid sneers.
“Okay, shoot…”
“M.O.D.O.K?” Goon on the left barks.
“Mental Organism Designed Only for Killing!”
“Name all of Earth’s Green Lanterns…” Goon on the right growls, “… and in consecutive order!”
“Alan Scott, Hal Jordan, Guy Gardner, John Stewart (no relation), Kyle Rayner… and Jennifer Lynn-Hayden aka Jade. Not counting parallel earths and else worlds naturally.”
“Pffff… easy. Wikipedia Bullshit at best.” Zit Kid’s sneer flat lines and tightens into a scowl, “All the Doctor Who’s now or you’re out on your ass!”
Mister Steam looks at me nervously… the two goons swap smug nods… Zit Kid is dangerously close to a smile.
“Okay… let’s see… there was the first Doctor, the second, the third, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, the seventh, the eighth, the ninth, everybody’s favorite the tenth, and all the way to eleven total… though I haven’t seen him yet.”
“That’s not what I meant…” Zit Kid shrieks. The goons demurely cover their giggles and goatees with a hand.
“Guess you should’ve been more specific, huh?” I replace the aborted smile Zit Kid’s lost.
“Rules are rules!” Mister Steam says and now it’s his turn to grab me, as we rush past the three sentinels, burst through the doors and stumble into the Black Ballroom.
***
The Black Ballroom is not dissimilar to the Atrium Ballroom several floors (known and unknown) above, save of course for the obvious difference in widened breadth. Gray paneled walls seem tremble lightly with the nearby rumble of MARTA trains running out of Peachtree Station. It has been divided by the presence of a make shift wrestling ring and is flanked by rows of metal fold out chairs.
The audience numbers somewhere around a few hundred - more than two but considerably less than four - if the math of a casual glance is to be trusted. We work our way through the crowd towards a pair of available seats. Waiting for the show to start, I crane my neck and sift famous faces from the crowd. A West End based hip-hop producer sits just four rows behind us, his entourage includes a bodyguard regiment of men dressed as Luke Cage (their steel tiaras resting uncomfortably on matching shaved heads). I spot a beloved congressman from the 5th district chatting amiably with Nichelle Nichols. A certain notorious media and bison mogul shares a hot dog with a grown up Johnny Quest and some poor shmuck dressed up as Captain Planet.
Mister Steam slaps my thigh and tells me to stop gawking.
“And fer chrissakes, Jack… don’t let ‘em catch you trying to snap any pictures in here!” he adds nervously.
“No worries, man.” I agree and lift a half-emptied bottle of Maker’s Mark out of my backpack, “What’re the rules concerning open containers of liquor, if I may ask?”
“That you have to share with them that bought you in!”
“Deal!”
***
The ref slides into the ring, a wiry man not too far an evolutionary drop from the squirrels running around in his family tree. Next the announcer, a corpulent and monstrously bearded individual whose entrance is nothing short of unintentionally comical. He works the crowd with forgettable jokes and feel good agitprop. He goes somber quick though, once the lukewarm applause die down and begins a quick secret origin story of the event to unfold was presented.
The story goes back to the early 90’s, when the con still had the pretense of being a sincere geek gathering of the tribes instead of the 96 hour freak fest we’ve come to know and love. A Vulcan and an Imperial Stormtrooper were sitting at a bar. Inevitably an argument broke out between the two. A crowd gathered around them. Trekkies on one side and Star Wars fans on the other. Everyone was just one wrong word away from an open brawl that would have easily spilt out of the hotels and into the streets, tarnishing the community friendly atmosphere the organizers had so carefully nourished over the years. Just then when a young padwan openly challenged an even younger Starfleet cadet… to a break dance competition. Everyone’s attention froze on the two. A space was cleared just outside the bar – tables moved and the conflicting mobs parted around the pair… and so was born the Battle Arena Dance Off. A yearly ritual to placate the restless arguments regarding whose fandom indeed reigned supreme.
Applause erupt around us. Me and Mister Steam trade shots off the bottle and join in.
Now the rules which were few and simple enough to remember.
Only one contestant was allowed per fandom to represent in the dance off. They would be paired off against each other randomly and the winner being selected by audience cheers. The loser would be immediately disqualified and subsequent winners were to be pitted against each other in later matches. Props and weapons could be used so long as they did not make physical contact with a rival dancer. Failure to do so would result in an immediate disqualification. Any dancer who resorts to violence would not only be immediately eliminated from the competition but would also be banned for life from the con.
You with me so far?
Good.
The announcer wrapped it up with a brief shout out to the Arena’s guest DJ for the night – Lady Arachnid of West Carolina (who much to the announcers visible duress drew a considerable amount more cheers) and quickly wobbled off the stage.
A bell rings – the matches begin.
The highlights include:
Hallucination Generation by Gruesome Twosome firing off the turntables. A river dancing Heath Ledger style Joker challenges an emo-vampire who responds with an ethereal gothic jig. Joker takes it on camp alone.
A Cyber-man and a Cylon follow. Squaring off with both doing a vintage 80’s ‘Robot’ to Jackal & Hyde’s cover of Freaks come out at night. Tough call but the crowd gives it to the Cylon on costume alone.
Cat fight! Dark Elf Warlock versus an anime princess, a ballet brawl of two dueling leaves in a whirlwind set to Delirium’s Silence. Dark Elf takes it when Princess Anime fumbles a pirouette.
Jedi Knight errant in flowing robes works up a sweat against a Slytherin adept to one of those VNV Nation numbers about ‘honor’ and ‘destiny’ and such. Quidditch brooms however are no match for light sabers. Jedi moves on to round two.
Klingon warrior against a kaiju giant reptile. The songs Goodbye Sober Day by Mister Bungle, with the Klingon’s impromptu solo mosh literally spinning circles around the rubber suited monster who trips himself up over his own tail.
Zombie versus Pirate goes quick, when the Captain Jack Sparrow stand-in on instinct tries to fend off the hand stand advancing ghoul with his sword. An easy disqualification and much boos from the crowd. The song was an appropriate Living Dead Girl that didn’t advance much further than the guitar heavy opening.
Last of the opening round is an acrobatic feast for the eyes – a break dancing Spider-Man going toe to airborne toe with a Matrix inspired vinyl clad gun ninja – all to the furious rhythm of Amon Tobin’s Verbal. It takes the ref, three rounds of cheers to give it to the old Web Head.
***
In the end there can only be one.
The Klingon and the Jedi are the last women standing.
In one corner a pit crew of Borg make repairs to the Klingon’s make-up and whisper urgent advice to her. In the other the Jedi confers with her trainer – a seven foot tall wookie who gurgle-roars an inspiring pep talk.
The bell rings.
The contestants take the center ring.
Lady Arachnid drops a remix of Skinny Puppy’s Dig It and the combatants circle each other slow to the opening snare drum. The Jedi steps back and gives the opening to the Klingon. She takes it and leads off with a series of moves best described as Tony Hawk skateboard operatics mixed with a traditional Russian free style crouch and kick dance.
At the song’s sound bite of “You hear that… the music, the band…?” the Jedi steps up and becomes a swirling dervish segueing exquisite into the sampled Gregorian chanting. Her moves are as graceful as the Klingon’s brutal, reminiscent of that glow stick Muai Thai still all the rage at the raves. She breaks off and the Klingon steps up. Back and forth they go, ping-ponging one move after the other, trading back flips and side sweeps. Bat’leth and Lightsaber blades tease each other with strokes that just barely miss caressing one another. The roaring cheers this draws almost threatens to drown out the music… until finally each end with elaborate finishing moves that see’s the combatants freezing into guarded warrior stances.
Ten minutes in and a clear winner still hasn’t been decided. The crowd is getting ugly, I watch the media mogul launch a full cup of beer (or at least I hope it’s beer) at the announcer. Someone better shit or get off the pot soon or we’re looking at full scale riot. Goddess help us all if the ref calls it a ‘tie’.
Worse still I ran out of Maker’s Mark shortly before the last bout and whatever’s left of my buzz has dwindled to an ambient background high.
I consider sneaking off while I can, when the bell starts ringing frantically for order. This goes on for an deafening minute before a collective pall of silence finally descends upon the anxious crowd.
“And the winner is…”
***
Worming our way up the stairs in one of the small groups that have been cleared to exit the Black Ballroom (we weren't allowed to leave in mass in fear that doing so would draw suspicion from the oblivious con revelers waiting above), Mister Steam and I reach the lobby bar. There we discuss the event in open violation of our promise not to do so once back in the ‘real world’.
“Can’t believe she won, man…” he repeats abandoning the cockney inflection for the moment, having clearly lost some internal bet he placed with himself.
“She was good!” I offer with a diplomatic shrug and add a conceding, “Real good.”
“The best!” he nods sagely and we toast her victory with our drinks.
We sit there for a few minutes hovering our stares over the bar’s counter.
Finally he turns to me with a wicked smile that heralds a loud slap across my back –
“So now that that’s all done with… you ready to see something realllly cool?”
I finish the remnants of my drink, dribbling some of it across my shirt in my haste, slamming the empty glass down hard and popping off my bar stool in a spin–
“After you, Sir!”
Leaving a twenty on the counter, we ease our way slow into the rest of the night.
But the 'Pregnant Building' also has her secrets. Amongst them is a clandestine subterranean floor that the few who know of its existence have come to call 'The Black Ballroom'. 35,000 square feet wide and buried deep beneath the city, the floor is accessible only by a hidden stairwell whose location must remain undisclosed for purposes of the author's continued health. Hosting such diverse events as the vernal Black Lodge Invocation of His Infernal Majesty Lord Chronozon, the Illuminated Council of 156's conference on global warming and having served as a temple for the sacrifice of twenty three goats per the International Olympic Committee’s instructions in '96.
It is also the space designated for the annual Dragon*Con Battle Dance Arena – a by invitation only competition amongst the costumed elite representing the various factions of pop culture fandom.
This event won’t be found listed on the program guide or website. At best you might overhear some gossip wafting along on the smoking patio or catch snatches of drunken hearsay in the corner of a room party you weren’t even invited to. Rumors of religious blood feuds held between the Klingontarians and the Lucasfarians settled in bouts of martial prowess held within a mysterious dungeon deep beneath the Terminus Marquis. Potterites locked in mortal combat with the growing ranks of Twilighters . Pirates of the great invisible IT departments waging war on teenage Anime Cultists. DC versus Marvel. Brown Shirts versus Frak Heads. Cat Furries versus Dog Furries. An Armageddon of the collective imagination the likes of which have not been seen since the dawn of chat rooms.
But these are just shadows of the truth we glimpse rustling in the jungles of urban myth. Behind which something weird and ugly is going down. A savage beast whose voracious appetite must be fed unless it comes crawling out of the Black Ballroom and spills out into convention looking for meat.
I should know.
One year I was invited to bear witness.
In front of the door, at the bottom of the stairwell, an acne scarred young man sits on a barstool sizing me up. Behind him he’s got two goons – all muscle and gut with heads that seem to have grown from wide shoulders as an afterthought. All three wear laminated badges draped around their necks that are marked only with a white dragon’s skull on a black backdrop. My ‘In’ for the event, a robust steam adventurer speaking with the worst cockney accent imaginable, vouchsafes my character.
Zit Kid of the Legion of Substitute-Substitute Heroes here doesn’t seem terribly impressed… by the testimony’s inflection or the man it speaks vigorously of. He rubs his chin contemplatively. The goons trade knowing glances. I can feel it. Any moment now and we’re going to have our convention privileges revoked. My buddy won’t stop though. He pushes the brim of his bowler up his brow along with the copper goggles that he can’t really see through (I had to lead him down the stairway by the elbow) and stares Zit Kid in the face. Mister Steam drops a name, dials up old times and calls in a favor. Zit Kid grudgingly recognizes. Though on one condition… I must first answer three questions.
“For real?” I mutter, rolling my eyes at Mister Steam.
“For reals - for reals” Zit Kid sneers.
“Okay, shoot…”
“M.O.D.O.K?” Goon on the left barks.
“Mental Organism Designed Only for Killing!”
“Name all of Earth’s Green Lanterns…” Goon on the right growls, “… and in consecutive order!”
“Alan Scott, Hal Jordan, Guy Gardner, John Stewart (no relation), Kyle Rayner… and Jennifer Lynn-Hayden aka Jade. Not counting parallel earths and else worlds naturally.”
“Pffff… easy. Wikipedia Bullshit at best.” Zit Kid’s sneer flat lines and tightens into a scowl, “All the Doctor Who’s now or you’re out on your ass!”
Mister Steam looks at me nervously… the two goons swap smug nods… Zit Kid is dangerously close to a smile.
“Okay… let’s see… there was the first Doctor, the second, the third, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, the seventh, the eighth, the ninth, everybody’s favorite the tenth, and all the way to eleven total… though I haven’t seen him yet.”
“That’s not what I meant…” Zit Kid shrieks. The goons demurely cover their giggles and goatees with a hand.
“Guess you should’ve been more specific, huh?” I replace the aborted smile Zit Kid’s lost.
“Rules are rules!” Mister Steam says and now it’s his turn to grab me, as we rush past the three sentinels, burst through the doors and stumble into the Black Ballroom.
The Black Ballroom is not dissimilar to the Atrium Ballroom several floors (known and unknown) above, save of course for the obvious difference in widened breadth. Gray paneled walls seem tremble lightly with the nearby rumble of MARTA trains running out of Peachtree Station. It has been divided by the presence of a make shift wrestling ring and is flanked by rows of metal fold out chairs.
The audience numbers somewhere around a few hundred - more than two but considerably less than four - if the math of a casual glance is to be trusted. We work our way through the crowd towards a pair of available seats. Waiting for the show to start, I crane my neck and sift famous faces from the crowd. A West End based hip-hop producer sits just four rows behind us, his entourage includes a bodyguard regiment of men dressed as Luke Cage (their steel tiaras resting uncomfortably on matching shaved heads). I spot a beloved congressman from the 5th district chatting amiably with Nichelle Nichols. A certain notorious media and bison mogul shares a hot dog with a grown up Johnny Quest and some poor shmuck dressed up as Captain Planet.
Mister Steam slaps my thigh and tells me to stop gawking.
“And fer chrissakes, Jack… don’t let ‘em catch you trying to snap any pictures in here!” he adds nervously.
“No worries, man.” I agree and lift a half-emptied bottle of Maker’s Mark out of my backpack, “What’re the rules concerning open containers of liquor, if I may ask?”
“That you have to share with them that bought you in!”
“Deal!”
The ref slides into the ring, a wiry man not too far an evolutionary drop from the squirrels running around in his family tree. Next the announcer, a corpulent and monstrously bearded individual whose entrance is nothing short of unintentionally comical. He works the crowd with forgettable jokes and feel good agitprop. He goes somber quick though, once the lukewarm applause die down and begins a quick secret origin story of the event to unfold was presented.
The story goes back to the early 90’s, when the con still had the pretense of being a sincere geek gathering of the tribes instead of the 96 hour freak fest we’ve come to know and love. A Vulcan and an Imperial Stormtrooper were sitting at a bar. Inevitably an argument broke out between the two. A crowd gathered around them. Trekkies on one side and Star Wars fans on the other. Everyone was just one wrong word away from an open brawl that would have easily spilt out of the hotels and into the streets, tarnishing the community friendly atmosphere the organizers had so carefully nourished over the years. Just then when a young padwan openly challenged an even younger Starfleet cadet… to a break dance competition. Everyone’s attention froze on the two. A space was cleared just outside the bar – tables moved and the conflicting mobs parted around the pair… and so was born the Battle Arena Dance Off. A yearly ritual to placate the restless arguments regarding whose fandom indeed reigned supreme.
Applause erupt around us. Me and Mister Steam trade shots off the bottle and join in.
Now the rules which were few and simple enough to remember.
Only one contestant was allowed per fandom to represent in the dance off. They would be paired off against each other randomly and the winner being selected by audience cheers. The loser would be immediately disqualified and subsequent winners were to be pitted against each other in later matches. Props and weapons could be used so long as they did not make physical contact with a rival dancer. Failure to do so would result in an immediate disqualification. Any dancer who resorts to violence would not only be immediately eliminated from the competition but would also be banned for life from the con.
You with me so far?
Good.
The announcer wrapped it up with a brief shout out to the Arena’s guest DJ for the night – Lady Arachnid of West Carolina (who much to the announcers visible duress drew a considerable amount more cheers) and quickly wobbled off the stage.
A bell rings – the matches begin.
The highlights include:
Hallucination Generation by Gruesome Twosome firing off the turntables. A river dancing Heath Ledger style Joker challenges an emo-vampire who responds with an ethereal gothic jig. Joker takes it on camp alone.
A Cyber-man and a Cylon follow. Squaring off with both doing a vintage 80’s ‘Robot’ to Jackal & Hyde’s cover of Freaks come out at night. Tough call but the crowd gives it to the Cylon on costume alone.
Cat fight! Dark Elf Warlock versus an anime princess, a ballet brawl of two dueling leaves in a whirlwind set to Delirium’s Silence. Dark Elf takes it when Princess Anime fumbles a pirouette.
Jedi Knight errant in flowing robes works up a sweat against a Slytherin adept to one of those VNV Nation numbers about ‘honor’ and ‘destiny’ and such. Quidditch brooms however are no match for light sabers. Jedi moves on to round two.
Klingon warrior against a kaiju giant reptile. The songs Goodbye Sober Day by Mister Bungle, with the Klingon’s impromptu solo mosh literally spinning circles around the rubber suited monster who trips himself up over his own tail.
Zombie versus Pirate goes quick, when the Captain Jack Sparrow stand-in on instinct tries to fend off the hand stand advancing ghoul with his sword. An easy disqualification and much boos from the crowd. The song was an appropriate Living Dead Girl that didn’t advance much further than the guitar heavy opening.
Last of the opening round is an acrobatic feast for the eyes – a break dancing Spider-Man going toe to airborne toe with a Matrix inspired vinyl clad gun ninja – all to the furious rhythm of Amon Tobin’s Verbal. It takes the ref, three rounds of cheers to give it to the old Web Head.
In the end there can only be one.
The Klingon and the Jedi are the last women standing.
In one corner a pit crew of Borg make repairs to the Klingon’s make-up and whisper urgent advice to her. In the other the Jedi confers with her trainer – a seven foot tall wookie who gurgle-roars an inspiring pep talk.
The bell rings.
The contestants take the center ring.
Lady Arachnid drops a remix of Skinny Puppy’s Dig It and the combatants circle each other slow to the opening snare drum. The Jedi steps back and gives the opening to the Klingon. She takes it and leads off with a series of moves best described as Tony Hawk skateboard operatics mixed with a traditional Russian free style crouch and kick dance.
At the song’s sound bite of “You hear that… the music, the band…?” the Jedi steps up and becomes a swirling dervish segueing exquisite into the sampled Gregorian chanting. Her moves are as graceful as the Klingon’s brutal, reminiscent of that glow stick Muai Thai still all the rage at the raves. She breaks off and the Klingon steps up. Back and forth they go, ping-ponging one move after the other, trading back flips and side sweeps. Bat’leth and Lightsaber blades tease each other with strokes that just barely miss caressing one another. The roaring cheers this draws almost threatens to drown out the music… until finally each end with elaborate finishing moves that see’s the combatants freezing into guarded warrior stances.
Ten minutes in and a clear winner still hasn’t been decided. The crowd is getting ugly, I watch the media mogul launch a full cup of beer (or at least I hope it’s beer) at the announcer. Someone better shit or get off the pot soon or we’re looking at full scale riot. Goddess help us all if the ref calls it a ‘tie’.
Worse still I ran out of Maker’s Mark shortly before the last bout and whatever’s left of my buzz has dwindled to an ambient background high.
I consider sneaking off while I can, when the bell starts ringing frantically for order. This goes on for an deafening minute before a collective pall of silence finally descends upon the anxious crowd.
“And the winner is…”
Worming our way up the stairs in one of the small groups that have been cleared to exit the Black Ballroom (we weren't allowed to leave in mass in fear that doing so would draw suspicion from the oblivious con revelers waiting above), Mister Steam and I reach the lobby bar. There we discuss the event in open violation of our promise not to do so once back in the ‘real world’.
“Can’t believe she won, man…” he repeats abandoning the cockney inflection for the moment, having clearly lost some internal bet he placed with himself.
“She was good!” I offer with a diplomatic shrug and add a conceding, “Real good.”
“The best!” he nods sagely and we toast her victory with our drinks.
We sit there for a few minutes hovering our stares over the bar’s counter.
Finally he turns to me with a wicked smile that heralds a loud slap across my back –
“So now that that’s all done with… you ready to see something realllly cool?”
I finish the remnants of my drink, dribbling some of it across my shirt in my haste, slamming the empty glass down hard and popping off my bar stool in a spin–
“After you, Sir!”
Leaving a twenty on the counter, we ease our way slow into the rest of the night.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
on 2009-08-13 12:57 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-08-13 07:13 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-08-13 07:19 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-08-13 08:09 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-08-13 08:11 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-08-13 08:27 pm (UTC)Cool, I'll check it (or them) out if they're at the Con.
no subject
on 2009-08-13 03:28 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-08-13 07:13 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-08-13 03:42 pm (UTC)bc i know a guy who talked to a guy
whose cousin knew a girl...
no subject
on 2009-08-13 07:14 pm (UTC)