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DexConVIII: The Bootleg Edition
Aug. 3rd, 2005 09:31 amSo, I am not entirely dead. Not for the lack of trying, I assure you.
DexCon rattled on for yet another year, entirely due to the work of Lise and our other volunteers, and nothing to do with me. For my part, I spent the weekend dazed, confused, and as luck would have it, sick as a fucking dog. I think the Gods are trying to tell me something.
It was a small con this year, due to a lot of factors. Upheavals in the lives of many of the regulars wiped out our normal contingent, and put us back to twenty plus as opposed to the usual middling thirties and up. If the e-mails from people are accurate, apparently we'll have upwards of sixty next year, which already makes me wonder exactly how much more I can push off to Lise.
Of course, by then Rossi will be here, and has no doubt forgotten that the bounds of the Deputy Director title can only be broken by death. Meaning that I will hand her the rest of the work, and lie on the couch with a beer.
Sometimes, it's good to be me.
It was a fantastic weekend because I actually got to talk to everyone, including a new face and several newer ones. Despite the heat, the con basically went off without a hitch, mostly due to the excellent planning of others, and my regular use of the shouty voice. By the end of the night, alcohol and exhaustion had reduced it to the raspy voice, making it sound like Tom Waits was covering the convention.
Everyone owes a big big hand to the volunteers this year. Praise them.
The essential problem of the formal was that every year the bastards manage to get me with something. As of now, I possess a glorious anthology which is a photo cronicle of images, quotes and memories from seven years of this thing. I really don't know how to thank you all, other than to say that I will treasure it. There is nothing that brings me as much stress and as much joy as DexCon, and to see that passion in others is so incredibly gratifying I can barely articulate it. Thank you.
Also, Doqz is a strange Russian git.
Speaking of, four ficcers finally left my apartment yesterday, affording a little peace and quiet.
Then it started raining Frenchmen.
Four ficcers came back.
We went to the bar.
DexCon. Ficcers check in. They don't check out.
DexCon rattled on for yet another year, entirely due to the work of Lise and our other volunteers, and nothing to do with me. For my part, I spent the weekend dazed, confused, and as luck would have it, sick as a fucking dog. I think the Gods are trying to tell me something.
It was a small con this year, due to a lot of factors. Upheavals in the lives of many of the regulars wiped out our normal contingent, and put us back to twenty plus as opposed to the usual middling thirties and up. If the e-mails from people are accurate, apparently we'll have upwards of sixty next year, which already makes me wonder exactly how much more I can push off to Lise.
Of course, by then Rossi will be here, and has no doubt forgotten that the bounds of the Deputy Director title can only be broken by death. Meaning that I will hand her the rest of the work, and lie on the couch with a beer.
Sometimes, it's good to be me.
It was a fantastic weekend because I actually got to talk to everyone, including a new face and several newer ones. Despite the heat, the con basically went off without a hitch, mostly due to the excellent planning of others, and my regular use of the shouty voice. By the end of the night, alcohol and exhaustion had reduced it to the raspy voice, making it sound like Tom Waits was covering the convention.
Everyone owes a big big hand to the volunteers this year. Praise them.
The essential problem of the formal was that every year the bastards manage to get me with something. As of now, I possess a glorious anthology which is a photo cronicle of images, quotes and memories from seven years of this thing. I really don't know how to thank you all, other than to say that I will treasure it. There is nothing that brings me as much stress and as much joy as DexCon, and to see that passion in others is so incredibly gratifying I can barely articulate it. Thank you.
Also, Doqz is a strange Russian git.
Speaking of, four ficcers finally left my apartment yesterday, affording a little peace and quiet.
Then it started raining Frenchmen.
Four ficcers came back.
We went to the bar.
DexCon. Ficcers check in. They don't check out.
