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I walked into InterventionCon this weekend all puff-chested and proud, like, ‘WHO’S A BAD-ASS-MOTHERFUCKING GEEK? ME!” I was practically humming “Eye of the Motherfucking Tiger,” as I waltzed into the hotel, all ready to get my freak binary on. I was all ready to be all, “WHO’S ALL OPEN SOURCE NOW, MOTHERFUCKERS?!

Imagine the look on my face when I finally opened up my eyes to the strains of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin,'” and realized that half of the attendees were in costumes. It was a COSTUME PARTY. And guess who had no costume?

That’s right, Your Aunt Becky.

I was, for the first time ever, somewhere without a spare costume!

Color me Furious George.

They weren’t costumes I wanted or even recognized, and somehow, I was flaming that I did not, in fact, own one. I could’ve been a wicked Britney Spears (post K-Fed) or even an Oompa Loompa. And still, nothing.

Somewhat dejectedly, I moped to my room Рon the 7th floor Рand threw myself down on the bed, trying desperately to coax some tears out of my eyes. First, I thought of the saddest basket of kitties with no one to love them. Then I thought about how cruel a world it would be if Uncrustables were discontinued. When that made me simply stabbity rather than tearful, I decided a new tactic  was in order. I decided that my next best bet would be to rub them, then poking them until finally, I was able to convince two actual tears to come out of my eyes.

It felt strangely vindicating and utterly unsatisfying.

Next order of business was to get onto the elevator and go downstairs to mope in public. I like to share my misery. I’m a giver like that.

Only an odd thing happened. Even weirder than the full-blown adults in costumes I couldn’t quite place.

Proper elevator etiquette, as explained by my mother is this: you back that ass up while waiting for an elevator to allow exiting passengers to, um, exit. Then, only after everyone who is getting off is off do you board the elevator.

Likewise, once on the elevator, you allow passengers to get off on various floors by moving graciously out of the way WITHOUT BITCHING ABOUT IT, while you wait for your stop.

It’s a simple enough concept that even my pea-brain can comprehend it.

And yet, for the first time in my life, even AFTER living in Chicago and riding 50 floor elevators crammed full of people, I was shocked and horrified by the elevators in MD.

Because, it appeared that the new way of things was this:

Elevator door opens -> stand in a line in FRONT of the elevator doors, ignoring all the empty space behind you -> groan loudly whenever someone dares try to enter the elevator with three goddamed people in it.

On the other side,

Elevator door opens and person behind you wants to get off -> rather than wait for the first in place to disembark -> push your way past the other passengers ALSO attempting to get off.

Because we all know it’s a motherfucking RACE to the fucking FINISH, motherfuckers.

First time it happened, I ignored it. Okay. Fine. Someone was having a grumbly day. Happens.

The second time? Maybe coincidence.

The third? I decided that the non-convention goers were some of the rudest people on the planet and should probably be relegated to the ALOT Island with John C. Mayer.

The moral of this story? ALWAYS PACK AN EXTRA COSTUME. Also? Wear body armor for elevators in Maryland.

P.S. I missed you, Pranksters.

Also, Also: We have an auction up at Band Back Together. You should go visit it.

Please tell me this is not a joke. Please?

dexter-does-dessert

cats

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