Con Excerpts

Thursday, Jan. 20, 2011 - 12:53 a.m.

Some excerpts from my scribblings on Note Pad while I was at Further Confusion:

. . .

January 13th

Well, through a series of wacky misadventures, I'm somehow at Further Confusion, accepted into the crash space of Bruce Rowe and Brian Brown. Bruce Rowe happens to be Paul Kidd's best guy friend in the whole universe, and Paul's begun saying that I'm probably one of his best female friends, so he's insisting we have to meet.

Fair enough.

I got there late Wednesday night. Bruce welcomed me instantly, showed me when I'm sleeping, and we all tipped over and slept on and off until around ten in the morning. Then we scrounged street clothes, and went for a walk in the neighbohood and got situated. I made it rain by going out of doors bare headed. We're all gettng along just fine.

In a few minutes, I'm going to log out and go see if I can get my badge, and then see how the rest of the evening plays out. I'm not sure how it happened, but the room they gave us has one king sized bed instead of the requested two queens. I am sleeping on a rollaway which is about the same size and feel of a hospital bed, and which farts horridly every time I move.

Paul was right. These guys have taken me under their wing, and I'm at ease here and safe and well cared for. It ain't the same without him, of course, but he can take solace in knowing he's faciliated something very nice for me here.

January 15th

So far, things are a mixture of alarm and relief.

Alarm in not remembering simple things like how the privacy sign works; I'd COMPLETELY forgotten the crash space courtesy of putting up the privacy sign on the way out if there are other people asleep in the room when you leave. Bruce Rowe had done that for me, but when *I* left the room, I spaced, didn't seen the sign as I was heading out, and was completely gumfoozled when I returned and saw the privacy sign and thought it meant that I wasn't allowed in.

The bigger picture is that too much of my convention savvy has been dormant and didn't resurface.

Relief, though, is rediscovering what a sunny and welcoming universe the furry community really is. I reconnected with Badger, with Jeff, with Ruben, and I've made new acquaintences with Bruce, Brian, and the Tucson Gang. Karno even made me a picture badge; only the second one I've ever posessed, and it's beautiful.

I started this event believing I was underfoot in a stranger's room.

But that's not the case now.

January 16th

At Sunday night's get-together there in the room, we were all quite literally farting around -- some of us even had fart noise generating devices, too -- when Shep's iphone went boodle-dee-doop, and he checked his email and found out that Paul Kidd's estranged wife had finally died. Everybody knew it was coming, but the grinding awfulness of cancer had taken its time and, whether she'd had antagonized people or not, it's still a life that's no longer here.

So I cried. I cried for her survivors and I cried for Paul, because hopefully it's a chapter in a book that can end as peacefully as possible.

Bruce Rowe, who two days earlier had introduced me to the joys of spiced rum, had a considerable amount of this delightful substance sloshing around inside of him at the time we heard the news, and he shambled over to me and hugged me -- something he rarely does with anybody when he is sober.

Then he tenderly took my hand, and then he reached up and stroked my hair until I was calm.

Tears were still coming, though. So Bruce did the only thing he could.

He looked me in the face and said "Quit cryin' you fucking pussy! You're acting like a goddamned GIRL!"

And from that moment until forever and ever more, Bruce is my kin.

January 17th

I'm back in SF with the post convention blues, but they are not as bad as they should be.

I think I need a nap, though.

When I get up, my plan is to sort through the boxes of Paul Kidd titles Martin Dudman entrusted to me to get to Australia, start a travel fund ledger to track the money Karno had begun collecting for Paul at the con, and see about how to mail a framed piece of artwork to Bruce Rowe.

In the meantime, hope everybody got home all right.

. . .

Those were some highlights.

---

A couple of other things that come to mind as I write this were when Shep played Ice Cube Jenga with Karno when Karno fell asleep on the rollaway; with particular attention to a stack of them on his crotch.

Don't fucking fall asleep at a party where the Tucson gang or their minons are present; you will be made to pay.

One of the cool convention premiums that I had never seen done before was custom room key cards. Bruce assured me they were expendable, so I filched two.

Finally, when the travel fund stuff is set up, I will say something here.

---

All right, that's it.

See you next time.

---

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