The night before a convention is a very special time. For one thing, it’s difficult to fully mask the sound of the power tools and the ionic phase shit generators, even behind the subtly-loudened lobby music and that suspicious clatter from the supposedly-empty kitchen. It takes the hotel crew hours of backbacking labor to bedn, twist, and chop down the walls, and partitions which protect the hotel from reality. It’s necessary to unwarp-time, to let dimensional existence finally breathe out and release the other elsewhen dimensions, and then it can take hours to generate enough Tribbles to sop up the ether water from the bits of the Eighth Sea which manage to seep through.
And hell, that’s nothing compared to what they have to do to put all the barriers back and pretend that the “normal” world is actually reality on Sunday evening. Pretending the world is normal is a terrible, awful, miserable job, and I’m glad I, for one, don’t have to do it.
