The convention is winding down back in Burlingame, but I've been home for over an hour now. The worshiped have decided to forgive us our lapses in proper penitence, and naps will soon be had. I seem to have avoided con crud, but that may have been as much because I cracked our room window the entire weekend (for uncirculated air) as anything.
However, when I got back to the main offices of Writing About Writing, I discovered some trouble. Seems the weird genocidal cephalopod army that our (ex) research and development team may have inadvertantly brought into this space time continuum (sorry about that, by the way) had stopped by.
And not to borrow a cup of sugar.
Fortunately it was only a small advance scout team, and the first thing they ran into was Leela Bruce. It probably helps that at the moment they rounded the corner and ran into each other, the cephalopods were talking about how passive voice must always be eliminated. With a cry pointing out the irony of such a statement, Leela flung herself, fists first, into their midst.
Various screams of "Melville," "unknown agent," "modern journalism," and "the verb 'birth'" echoed out as she systematically went into a primal martial frenzy that would make River Tam look like she'd done Quaaludes right before the end of Serenity.
There's not much left of the advance scout team. And I mean that in a "contiguous volume" sort of way.
But it seems like the aliens, in shifting to our time stream, may have set off some governmental alarm bells, and I'm now drowning in a sea of bureaucratic bullshit by guys who are so serious they make Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones look like they're in some kind of light and fluffy comedy or something. I am absolutely totally holding the con report (Titled: Kublacon 12....As A Writer) and not in any way procrastinating because I want a nap, but on the way to the central computer cortex to upload it, the whole building basically got locked down by a "Monsters Inc" caliber bio sweep. I've explained (repeatedly) that I am not trying to cause the invasion by writing badly--it's just an incidental side effect. I even sent some freaky elf dude who hates--and I quote "octorocks....and octoanythingreally" to their dimension with a really cool sword, and for all I know he could still be there working his way towards their main headquarters.
So that entry might have to wait until tomorrow, I'm afraid.
Funny....they were making a direct path for Lt. Lambaste's studio. I wonder what they wanted with her...