Dragoncon, Day the Third

kellinator: Dragoncon comes but once a year. It's better than Christmas because it lasts four days.
weaktwos: By that analogy, it's only half as good as Hanukkah.

So, here we are at the Pink Palace. Or, for those into speaking French, Le Palais de Rose. But we're not, so fuck it. For those of you who have not seen the posts of my partners in Dragoncon crime (reannon, kellinator, or ariedana), the Best Western is dubbed the Pink Palace due to the choice of exterior paint. Once you cross the threshold into the box that is your room, it is your garden variety hotel room. Four people is a bit much for this room, however, it's doable.

There are three of us in the room right now. Two are feeling the adverse affects of over-indulgence. Me, I'm just feeling like taking a break. Though seeing my posts from the past few nights, you can all justifiably conclude that I have indeed been overindulging as well.

My utilikilt is on order. I dropped trou and got sized today.

I have seen the likes of Randall Schwartz, Warren Ellis, Peter David, Dr. Demento, Julie Benz, Elonka, and some others.

The interesting thing about cons, which I'm sure most of you have figured out, is that so many dorks of various types. Now, had they not all converged in this mecca of nerdy pursuits, they might have felt alone in their dorkiness. They are alone no longer. There is bound to be another person here whose freakiness aligns with yours. There's a degree of comfort in that.

Furthermore, you are guaranteed to experience or see something you have not seen before, unless you have been going to this con for years.

I've also learned why it gets the nickname of "Drama-con".

Gothic Poetry

So, I was watching a few shows by Voltaire. He's quite an amusing musician. He wrote a book entitled What is Goth. Included is a random Goth Poetry generator and a random Horror Poetry generator. Let's try one, shall we? The underlined words were randomly generated.



Dead birds descend from the hellish heights with yelping virgins in their horrifying claws . The shadows of my past call to me from beyond the limits of reality, flatulating in the bog...
The Ghost of Karloff is condemned, condemned, condemned .

More poetry

Gothic poetry by ariedana and weaktwos

Wretched is the core of my spirit.
Melancholically I lumber through the fearsome garbage heap
Until trepidations relieve me of my dreams.
Succubae, succubae, succubae.
Thou art my compulsion.