Back at last from Anthrocon!
Sales were okay. Print sales down a bit, offset by art show sales being up a bit, so it was a solid con–not spectacular, but solid. Definitely need more T-shirts for HeroesCon. (I’ll be interested to see how the sales do there by comparison–I haven’t done a big comic/sf con before.) Lots of people asking when Digger 2 would be out. (Next month!) The press liason asked me to talk to a reporter, bein’ that I was an Eisner nominee*, reasonably coherent, and (I presume) about as dead boring as it is possible for somebody at a furry convention to get (No fetishes, no costumes, no inner wombats…) Since she started off the questioning with “Okay, what’s with the fruit?” I doubt I provided any insight into furry fandom that will make the Pittsburgh news–or possibly the good people of the Alleghany area may be led to believe that furry fandom is all about peculiar vegetables–but I thought it was pretty funny in that kind of surreal “How odd that my life has come to this particular turn…” way that strikes me now and again. I don’t think I said anything that’ll come back to haunt me, but you never know.
Didn’t do as many sketchbooks this year–I could have done more, people were asking, but I decided not to kill myself. The second to last Azezaelbunny print went to auction for a reasonably obscene amount. The little dinosaurs didn’t do well at all, which surprised me–they were mondo popular on Deviantart, but I took home both the My Little Hadrosaur and Hadroloosa, whereas the Armadillo Stones print, which I never move during the year, sold like hotcakes. Which just goes to show there’s no predicting anything.
I drank a lot more than I usually do at a Con, which was due entirely to people at the Sofawolf party. This very nice German man with a charmingly broken accent and a rather nice business suit (not a common fixture at furry convention parties) came up and offered me a shot of Jägermeister. (He was actually a salesman for Jägermeister.) I have a distinct memory of saying “No, no, I don’t really drink–” and then he said “No, no! Is like medicine!” and nodding with utter sincerity, and suddenly there was this shot in my hand, and I thought “My god! Refusing to drink this would be like kicking a puppy in a business suit!” and the next thing I knew, it was burning a hole in my innards. “You’re a very good salesman,” I told him. He grinned like a shark in a puppy suit.
I have friends who have expended hours of their lives trying to coax me into taking even a sip of beer, and all it takes is a nice German man who will look hurt if I refuse.
I must avoid Oktoberfest at all costs.
Having thus established myself on the road to debauchery, I had–gasp!–TWO WHOLE GLASSES of white wine the next day during dinner. The rum and Coke the day after that was just the icing on the cake. (Yeah, I’m a wild woman…) My liver, who’s yearly alcohol intake resembles the annual rainfall of the drier bits of the Gobi desert, is probably reeling in this unexpected alcoholic monsoon and has convinced the spleen to help it build an ark for the coming apocalypse.
Anyway, had dinner with great people and breakfast with great people and didn’t see nearly anybody nearly as much as I wanted to, as is typical. Having returned home, the bee balm and the echinacea have bloomed, the fireflies are strobing madly under the trees, the cat is alive, and all is right with the world.
*The reporter had no idea what this meant, but hey! It’s the thought that counts…