Gentle readers, allow me to ruminate about the great and wonderful event that comes but once a year. I speak not of Christmas, my birthday, or even Steak and BJ Day (NSFW, if you wondered). No, I mean DragonCon, that mishmash of pop culture, costumes and all things geeky that occurs every labor day in Atlanta, GA.
For those who have never been there, DragonCon is a four day long marathon of geekiness. Anything that might fall under the purview of nerdiness, from Anime to Zaphod Beeblebrox, can be found in the three spawling hotels that the convention takes over in downtown Atlanta every year. You will find an entire legion of Star Wars stormtroopers, more superheroes than the Justice League and Avengers combined, and enough revealing costumes on luscious females of questionable age (and morals) to keep your eyes popped out for a month. Add to this what can only be called the Nerd-Mart supreme selling such items as samurai swords, action figures, belly dancing outfits, and t-shirts with obscure, geek-related phrases and you have an idea of what D*C is.
To me, it’s the mecca of the west. I’m not Muslim, mind you, nor do I pray to D*C several times per day, but you get the idea. I try to make a yearly pilgrimage to worship at the altar of costume contests and lightsaber training lessons. It’s about a seven to eight hour trip for me through Kentucky, Tennessee and Georgia, but it’s worth it, even if I have to pass through the brooding mountains in the middle of the night.
I haven’t been to the convention for a few years, mostly due to finances and a spouse who soured to the festivities. The former is less of an issue this year and the latter is no longer an issue at all, so I plan to go to my holy convention this year and enjoy the warm, sweaty press of nerdiness in the dealer’s room and exhibit hall, the butt-numbing track hopping, and of course, the nearly obscene outfits that come out after 10pm.
And the booze, oh dear lord, the booze. DragonCon, like any geek convention, is known for its room parties. These come in two flavors, the public, well announced parties, and the secretive, word-of-mouth shindigs. I usually stop by the Klingon bar on Saturday night, drink some “Romulan Ale” (oh my god make the hotel stop spinning!) and then scout about for a quiet party on one of the other floors. A few drinks turns even the most introverted geekette into a wanton hussy, and the saying goes, “if you can’t get laid at DragonCon, you can’t get laid period!”
So, my readers, if you happen to join the strange, wonderful, unusual, terrifying and fantastic circus that is DragonCon this year, look for the big man with a goatee stumbling about drunk, singing songs with Klingons and hitting on every scantily clad woman who passes by and say hi. Actually, that describes about a third of the con-goers at D*C, so maybe you should just ask for me by name.