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Tuesday, October 21, 2003  

The Obligatory JournalCon Entry

So, women and toilet seats, huh? What’s that about?

Okay, the truth is I’m kind of dreading writing this, the entry about my first JournalCon. There were seven or eight shitloads of people there—many of whom I met, many of whom I didn’t. Some of whose journals I regularly read, more of whose I hadn’t. People who knew who I was, and many, many more people who didn’t know me from Sam Houston. Basically, it was a human blogroll.

The reason I’ve been dreading writing and posting this entry is because it’s so easy for something like this to end in hurt feelings. There’s no way I’m going to remember everyone I met, and I hate to leave out mention of anyone. And, of course, there’s the whole name-dropping thing (more Damn Hell Ass Kings than I’ve ever seen in one place), which everyone else seems to handle just fine, but I’m likely to mention the name of someone I spotted across the room and completely space out on the name of the person I woke up on Sunday morning duct-taped to. Just as an example.

Then there’s the karaoke thing. Whole can of worms there. I mean, being at a karaoke party that lacks a single dud performance seems like a good thing on the face of it, and it is, but then it comes time to write about it and nobody wants to read about four hours of karaoke without having been there, no matter how good it all was, and I’d never be able to do justice to the star-making performances we saw anyway. I do want to thank my partner on “Love Shack, ” who I totally dragooned into service. I’m still not name-dropping, but I will say I hope she didn’t mind singing with me as much as she minded seeing her apartment building burned down.

And then there’s the whole thing where you say how totally awesome Person A was, how Person A made you feel all tingly inside and you’re on the verge of accepting Person A as your personal savior, and then have to turn around and say “Person B is, of course, also equally awesome,” even though Person B may in fact be incrementally more awesome or possibly even marginally less awesome. And is that really fair to either Person A, Person B, or Persons C through Omega?

The easy thing to do, of course, would be to post pictures. I generally have poor luck with that, though, and my digital camera didn’t do anything the whole weekend but add weight to my luggage anyway.

[Side note: Speaking of pictures, they had a really sensible policy. If people were allowed to take pictures of you, you put a green sticker on your badge. If you wanted people to ask first, you affixed a yellow sticker. A red sticker meant no pictures. The great thing about this is that you don’t necessarily have to worry about it at the time. Theoretically, you could just go ahead and take the picture—people probably object more to getting their pictures posted than getting them taken in the first place. So you get home, go through your pictures before you post, Photoshop all the red stickers to green, and paste ‘em up. Nothing simpler.]

Anyway, I had a great time. The weekend flew by, as weekends without my wife tend not to do. And in the interest of fairness, I want to say to everyone last weekend, from people I spent hours with to people I only met in passing: all y’all suck and I hope you die.

Today’s best search phrase: “Your face is tragic, tragic, hit you with 2%.” Ain’t that the truth.

* * *

Okay, I can’t do it. Shout outs to my peeps AB Chao and the Chairman, Allison, AltoidsAddict, Amanda, Angeline, booger, Brian, Cate, Charlie, Chiara, David, Dawn, Devota, Dreama, Emily, Gael, Greg, Gwen, Hannah Beth, Invincible Girl, Jeff Salomon, Jette, KarenD, Kate, Kim Holzer, Ladee Leroy, Lucky, Lyn and Bryan, Mare, Mary, Maxwell, mnvnjnsn, mo pie, Molly, Monty, Omar, Pineapple Girl, Rachel, Rebekah, Rob, Ryan, Sarah, Shannon, Sparkler, Stephen, Sundry, Thea, Tim, TranceJen, Tyger, Weetabix, all the people I’m forgetting or linking improperly, the Tim McGraw-looking bartender who sold me way more Shiner Bock than he should have without asking me to show him my own liquor license, and Sars for not getting mad at those of us who tandem-drunk-dialed her voicemail from the bar (as far as I know). And most importantly, my wife, Trash. It’s good to be home.

Update: And also to Uncle Bob, for crumpling so satisfyingly when my beer bottle connected with his noggin. It was worth the spillage.

posted by M. Giant 5:38 PM 0 comments


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