First off, a couple of images from the day...


Jeremy in pinstripes. Gangster pimp publisher.


Gir.


Red panda girl.


Vodka martini vs. Mark Teppo. Teppo wins by a landslide.

( More behind the cut... )

One of the down sides to traveling with the best-dressed publisher in the room is that I, occasionally, start to feel a bit self-conscious about my own appearance. Thing is, I'm not the type to carry a closet with me, not the type to wear a different colored zoot suit every day. No, I'd rather be comfortable: pair of jeans, T-shirt, boots. It's that blue-collar, rock-and-roll aesthetic that fits me best. But still...

Once in a while...

Like yesterday afternoon. I'm working the dealers room, chatting people up, selling books. A diminutive old man comes up to the table. He's an odd-looking fellow, but I can't seem to put my finger on why. He's wearing a brown suit, frayed sleeves, easily thirty years past fashion. Maybe forty. His shirt is yellow, his tie greenish. He's fascinated with The Lurker in the Lobby, our cinematic guide to H. P. Lovecraft. He talks of many things, not cabbages and kings, but the Night Gallery adaptation of "Cool Air" and the depiction of female characters in Lovecraft adaptations. He's a fan of the former, but not the latter, complaining that adding a "romantic element" to the stories somehow spoils them.

He's a fanboy, granted, a fanboy of an earlier generation, so I smile, nod, laugh at the appropriate points. He has that maladroit fanboy expertise, he knows his Lovecraft trivia, but even so, there's something odd about him. His eyes seem two different shapes. His neck pulses, rhythmically, as he talks. And that accent, East Coast, not New York, not Boston, but... Did he just ribbit? "So, where are you from?" I ask, making conversation.

"Inns... er, Providence," he says. And then he makes the personal appearance comment. "You don't look like a publisher."

I shrug. "I'm more of an editor," I answer.

He tilts his head, focusing on me with the larger of his eyes. "Naah," he croaks. "You look more like a publisher's garage man."

"Hmmmm..." I say, stroking my beard, puzzling out what "garage man" means. After all, we do run the 'Shade out of a garage... or does he mean automotive? I'd tell him to hit the road, but I know that if I tolerate him just a bit longer, he'll hand over twenty bucks for the copy of Lurker that he's been pawing, bending, clumsily mauling the pages of. Just a bit longer.

"Where are you guys out of," he asks. "Are you local?"

"San Francisco," I say.

"Oh, I love San Fran. I was there in '68, I was in the..." he pauses, produces a guttural sound. "In the navy. I was stationed on Treasure Island. Before they bulldozed everything, put in low-income housing. Those people, you know, those people. Nothing but crime and drugs and..." He bends the cover of the book he's holding, creasing it.

Just a few more moments, I think. Just buy the book and leave. I nod.

"Those people," he says again. "They're just not like us."

"Well, that's very interesting," I say. I want him to leave. "So, it's twenty for the book, anything else I can get you?"

"No," he croaks, setting the book down and fishing in his pockets. "That's going to do it." He hands me a twenty dollar bill. It smells of the sea. He picks up the book again, clutches it to his chest. His fingers, I notice, are webbed. "Thank you," he says.

"Thank you," I respond. "It was... fascinating talking to you." Later, I would spot him in the disco room, snapping ground-level photos of passing girls in skirts, confirming that the creepy feeling he gave me was warranted on many levels. But for the moment, I was happy just to watch him disappear into the crowd.

So, should I step it up? Should I start wearing suits to these things?

Jeremy's curry-colored zoot suit.


Service dog in chainmail. I'm under the impression that it's reasonably easy to declare an animal to be a service animal in Washington, since I've noticed nearly a dozen in and around the convention, including this fellow, a waddling dachshund, an iguana, and a lhasa/shih-tzu/pug mix named Ziggy Stardust. Makes me miss Maddie that much more.


Rabbit. A shame I didn't get a pic of the two girls dressed as rabbits. Their costumes were far less elaborate (I mean seriously, this guy has an articulated jaw on his suit) though far more cleavage-y. Unfortunately, they also revealed nearly as much fur.


Impromptu blues guitar concert at the Pro Party.


Jeremy and I catch Mark Teppo's near-midnight reading from Lightbreaker. Contrary to appearances, there were other people watching, including M. K. Hobson. Really.

Also, I found Gina Ranalli while crossing the hotel parking lot. There was a "Find Gina Ranalli" bumper sticker on the car she was riding in. Alas, I was not able to find her again.

In other con party news, Gnomestock was very scary. Blacklights, tall red conical hats, mushroom chairs, and Simon and Garfunkel played loudly chased me away. Quickly. As did "James Brown is Dead" in the disco room at the Doubletree. Early morning tomorrow. I'm crashing.

In SeaTac, which is an awfully strange name for a city.
At NorWesCon. Having a good time.
Met up with the folks from Eraserhead Press. Took over the bathroom at the Small Press Party.


Chasing Jeremy through the airport.


JAL stewardesses. Their hats have rudders.


The Night Shade table.

( Incriminating evidence behind the cut... )