Back in 2003, I was standing on the lawn of the State University of New York at Stony Brook, chatting with pals Bill Shunn and Bob Howe at that year’s I-Con, when we spotted a camera crew in the distance. As usual, the spotlight was on the most colorful attendees, the folks dressed up as stormtroopers or wearing chain mail.

Understand that I’ve got nothing against cosplayers—I’ve worn the occasional costume myself.

See?

It’s just that reporters always seem to focus on the outrageously dressed, and not to celebrate or explore (which would be a nice change once in a while), but in order to give their stories a “hey, look at these weirdos” slant. So as the three of us chatted, we tsk-tsked this mindset and bemoaned the fact that cameras never got pointed at those less flamboyantly garbed.

We turned away and got back to catching up in the sunshine, when about 15 minutes later, we found that the crew had moved along and was now pointing its cameras … at us! (more…)

I had a dream this morning in which I was wandering an unidentified convention, though it had to be a Worldcon somewhere due to the size of the crowds. I passed a room in which people were glued to a marathon of episodes from the Swamp Thing TV show, and then came upon the con suite, which contained lots of neon and included its own pizza oven.

I began to snap pictures of the attendees there. Most of them where unfamiliar faces, but I was being a completist about it. When I went to photograph at the table at which Connie Willis sat, I heard a disconcerting popping sound, and looked at my camera, only to see that the flash was sticking out like the bouncing head from a sprung jack-in-the-box. Oh, great, I thought, the con is just beginning, and here I am without a working camera.

Then, from out of nowhere, who should pop up but Bob Howe, who proceeds to pull out many small tools (it looks to me as if he travels with a lock-picking kit), examine the camera, and tell me exactly what to do to fix it.

What I’d like to know is—just when and why did my subconscious decide that was its symbol of competency?

I dreamed this morning that I was visiting a group of people who, though outwardly friendly, turned out to be part of an extreme religious cult. When I tried to go home after dinner, I was prevented from leaving. Though I managed to sneak away within the compound and make a phone call for help, whenever I tried to speak, traffic would mysteriously roar by, drowning out my pleas.

When rescue finally arrives and I leap into the car that has come to take me away, who should be inside but Bob Howe, Mary Turzillo, and Resa Nelson, all Clarion classmates (of each other, not of me)!

Thanks for breaking me out of there, guys!