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Arisia, part the first.
Jan. 24th, 2005 03:04 amFor those interested:
Your Fearless Leader made it back from Boston in the middle of the Blizzard of Aught-Five physically sound; your Fearless Leader's brain was a regretful casualty of the rare battle-inflicted Road Zombie Syndrome, and is not expected to recover unless and until said owner/operator of said brain can achieve at least a partial night's sleep.
The ban on driving in/out-of Boston was lifted somewhere around five. I got to my car somewhere around seven (and I got there at all due to the all-benevolent Most Reverend Eric Alfred Burns, Lord Sabre, who once he finally got /his/ car gave me a lift through the arctic wilderness to /my/ car, after having put me up and put up with me allllll weekend).
At seven-thirty, I pulled out of the garage, which was totally like being parked in a dwarf mine or some shit. That thing was fucking surreal. It's going to give me nightmares. THANKS A LOT NINESTORY. THANKS EVER SO, AMBER.
At seven-thirty-five, I bottomed out in a snowbank changing lanes.
At seven-forty, after futilely shovelling and shovelling and shovelling and not even being capable of getting the car to ROCK IN A RUT (don't that just sound dirty?), a Horn Dance of madcap BU students (somewhere between seven and twelve, I was never actually able to get a headcount, they were bouncing around and cavorting so much) carrying a laundry basket full of cafeteria trays descended upon my haplessly flailing Buick and--
--I swear by my tattoo--
--started PARTYING it out of the snow bank!!!
o.O
Whooping and hollering and cheering and bubbling and shovelling (with my shovel and their hands and the lunch trays), and then PUSHING, and then squeaking and thumping on the windows with their open-palmed mittened hands in order to direct me, and then shovelling more, and then pushing more, and then pulling passers-by off the sidewalks to pitch in, and then collapsing in fits of laughter, and then sticking the lunch trays under the wheels /and/ pushing /and/ directing /and/ giggling...
...I got *rescued*! :D
And then they waved me off cheerfully and went back to tromping through the snow. The last thing I heard before I rolled the window up was 'Now let's put the burnt-rubber trays back in the stack at the caf!! AHAHAHA!!'
So I finally got on the Mass Pike somewhere around eight, and I got in at Denville somewhere around 2 AM. There was a lot of really surreal-looking black-bordered salt-white road in between. More than once I halfway thought I was in a video game or Lost Highway. It was really hard not to zone out looking at the Merritt Parkway because GRIFE it looked like my iTunes visualiser on crrrrrack.
There are many many many entertaining and WTF and awwww! and /DUDE!!/ things to say about the con itself, but those shall wait until I am not:
a) exhausted,
b) so hopped up on sundry stimulants that I will NEVER SLEEP AGAIN.
BTW, dancing to 'Du Hast' tends to result in whiplash.
LLL.
Your Fearless Leader made it back from Boston in the middle of the Blizzard of Aught-Five physically sound; your Fearless Leader's brain was a regretful casualty of the rare battle-inflicted Road Zombie Syndrome, and is not expected to recover unless and until said owner/operator of said brain can achieve at least a partial night's sleep.
The ban on driving in/out-of Boston was lifted somewhere around five. I got to my car somewhere around seven (and I got there at all due to the all-benevolent Most Reverend Eric Alfred Burns, Lord Sabre, who once he finally got /his/ car gave me a lift through the arctic wilderness to /my/ car, after having put me up and put up with me allllll weekend).
At seven-thirty, I pulled out of the garage, which was totally like being parked in a dwarf mine or some shit. That thing was fucking surreal. It's going to give me nightmares. THANKS A LOT NINESTORY. THANKS EVER SO, AMBER.
At seven-thirty-five, I bottomed out in a snowbank changing lanes.
At seven-forty, after futilely shovelling and shovelling and shovelling and not even being capable of getting the car to ROCK IN A RUT (don't that just sound dirty?), a Horn Dance of madcap BU students (somewhere between seven and twelve, I was never actually able to get a headcount, they were bouncing around and cavorting so much) carrying a laundry basket full of cafeteria trays descended upon my haplessly flailing Buick and--
--I swear by my tattoo--
--started PARTYING it out of the snow bank!!!
o.O
Whooping and hollering and cheering and bubbling and shovelling (with my shovel and their hands and the lunch trays), and then PUSHING, and then squeaking and thumping on the windows with their open-palmed mittened hands in order to direct me, and then shovelling more, and then pushing more, and then pulling passers-by off the sidewalks to pitch in, and then collapsing in fits of laughter, and then sticking the lunch trays under the wheels /and/ pushing /and/ directing /and/ giggling...
...I got *rescued*! :D
And then they waved me off cheerfully and went back to tromping through the snow. The last thing I heard before I rolled the window up was 'Now let's put the burnt-rubber trays back in the stack at the caf!! AHAHAHA!!'
So I finally got on the Mass Pike somewhere around eight, and I got in at Denville somewhere around 2 AM. There was a lot of really surreal-looking black-bordered salt-white road in between. More than once I halfway thought I was in a video game or Lost Highway. It was really hard not to zone out looking at the Merritt Parkway because GRIFE it looked like my iTunes visualiser on crrrrrack.
There are many many many entertaining and WTF and awwww! and /DUDE!!/ things to say about the con itself, but those shall wait until I am not:
a) exhausted,
b) so hopped up on sundry stimulants that I will NEVER SLEEP AGAIN.
BTW, dancing to 'Du Hast' tends to result in whiplash.
LLL.
