(no subject)

I'm at Potlatch, staying in the classiest hotel I've ever stayed in. Come six o'clock, we walk into registration, and Jay Lake turns to me and says, "speak of the Devil!" I'm like, "someone's talking about me? Jay Lake is talking about me? Why the hell would anyone talk about me?" It's because our workshop session was two hours earlier, while we were sitting on I-5 somewhere between Everett and Seattle moving 5 mph in Friday traffic on the Greyhound. Now, this wasn't really our fault, and I'm not pissed off, just mildly annoyed. It's not like I can't track everyone down and give them their critiques one on one.

(Oh, no! San only brought one tie!)

Yeah, I'm lying on the bed with its tower of impractically but stylishly piled pillows. Sän's in the corner eating Oreos, pondering how many people have died in this room. Had loads of fun hanging out in a room with terrible acoustics with cmpriest, davidlevine, kateyule and others who may well have LJs and didn't tell me.