“I’m Not Dead!” or Anthrocon 2008 Report, Part I


Looooong con.

The Short Version: Much more profitable than I was expecting, given current gas prices, had a really good time, drank a lot, no major mishaps.

A big round of internet applause for Kevin for surviving his first furry convention magnificently!* Three thousand plus furries in one place would try the mettle of many a geek, but a combination of Kevin’s natural gregariousness, the basic harmlessness of furries, and a lot of single malt scotch won out.

Saturday night, as we staggered back from a room party to our hotel, arms draped over each other’s shoulders, he interrupted my rather off-key rendition of “I’m Too Sexy For My Shirt” to say “Okay. I am down with the furries.”


“They have great booze and they spend a buttload of money on art.”

“Damn straight.”

So that was good.

Thursday: Drove up from Raleigh. Long drive, but not too bad. Stopped at Tamarack. Kevin discovered my hideous weakness for Fiestaware, which is produced in West Virginia. Got to Pittsburgh, and went in pursuit of a meal. Kevin’s family is from Pittsburgh originally, so he had a number of places he wanted to hit, including one that had fabulous cheesesteaks. First, however, we had to find it.

Like many of my friends who spent their formative years in the South, Kevin can speak in pure, unaccented English if he so chooses, and generally does. However, I have noticed that the southern drawl comes out for most of my friends if they are:

a) drunk
b) discussing food
c) discussing alcohol
d) tired
e) angry

As we were tired and discussing food, while wandering Pittsburgh on foot, I was amused to discover Kevin’s accent go completely the other way and wind up somewhere around Brooklyn. (He did a fair chunk of time in New York, it was just amusing to see that apparently involuntary accents are dictated by what side of the Mason-Dixon Line one is on.)

So we found a fabulous cheesesteak, and all was right with the world.

Friday: Setup psychosis. Kevin distinguished himself in the art of table set-up and organization. Pseudo and I flailed at the art show. Then we settled in for the craziness–Friday, usually the slowest day, was INSANE.

About halfway through, Kevin went out to buy new shoes–the concrete floors were killing him–and returned with gyros and a half-dozen roses, thereby earning him the official title of Coolest Booth Lackey Ever. I love that boy.

Then it was off to the Sofawolf room party, where I was pleased to see that the ability of a very niceGerman man to inflict Jaegermeister on the unsuspecting is NOT unique to me. Kevin wound up with Jaeger in hand and the same baffled expression of “Wait…wait….I wasn’t going to…how did this…?”

This pleased me.

Several martinis and a Jaeger-something-or-other apiece in us, we staggered off to the art show reception.

This was interesting.

The art show reception is generally fun, there’s a lot of good art, there’s a lot of…other art…and there’s the Adult Section.

Every damn year I hope to scar some non-furry friend for life in the adult section, and it appears that I am doomed to failure. The first time I took Carlota in, she looked around, put her hands on her hips, and announced to the world “This porn is not nearly porny enough!”

This time I took Kevin in. Kevin was not particularly impressed. And then we rounded a corner and there was a photography section with leather dog-head gimp masks and strap ons and….I don’t even know what else, that initial eye-searing glance pretty much melted out my neurons.

Kevin took one look at my face and doubled over laughing. This is apparently what it means to be hoist on one’s own petard (and there may have been petard porn over in the corners, I don’t know.)

So eventually we left the art show, and started walking back to our hotel.

One of the more amusing themes of the con was that people kept finding Kevin alarming. This baffles him. He’s not a particularly big guy, small children and animals love him, he’s not particularly violent, but nevertheless, more than one person expressed the opinion that they would not mess with him. (Shaved head, goatee, tattoos. Go figure.)** By this point in the evening, Kevin is completely weirded out by this, and we’re also a little drunk. As we’re walking back, we spy a waiter standing outside the back of his bar, sucking furiously on a cigarette with the kind of hissing, high-speed inhalations of someone who is at the end of his rope.

“Completely random question,” says Kevin. “Do I look scary to you?”

The waiter turned a gimlet eye on us. “You a furry?” he spat.


“Then you’re fine.”

There really didn’t seem to be much we could say to that.

Saturday and Sunday reports to follow!

**Carlota’s boyfriend, Dusty, now…THERE’S a scary lookin’ guy.

*You can read his con reports over at

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