So, here we are at AWP. Kelly, Gavin, Carolyn, Jed and Christopher forcibly made me stay up until 3 a.m. last night -- using the power of white wine and presents -- long after the more sensible among us had gone off to bed. I'm not complaining, I'm just marveling that the rest of them are up Doing Stuff, while I'm waiting for my tiny headache to vamoose. Of course, our scene is also complicated by a massive catastrophe on OUR INTERSTATE EXIT. Early this morning, there were sirens galore and it sounded like an airplane was taking off from the parking lot every five minutes; turns out it was emergency vehicles and news helicopters (still out there) and the interstate is closed until noonish.
Here's the thing I have to say so far based on a very limited amount of time spent at the actual conference hotel last night:
There are some seriously questionable and seriously bad fashion choices going on in America's creative writing programs and English departments. I don't want to hear another word about how people at science fiction conventions dress. Ever. Again. It'd be one thing if people just looked like they were auditioning for the part of Ignatius J. Reilly or Katie Holmes in Wonder Boys, but the fondness of the vest I've seen on display is truly frightening.
Until things are a go here, I propose you go read Bennett Madison's expose of Tyra Banks.