The voices in my head don't think they're imaginary

Wiscon was great, and I will definitely go again if I can. I didn't meet everyone, but I don't care. The people I *did* meet and *did* hang with, and *did* get run over by cows with, and *did* deal with barf with and *did* close out the Interstitial Arts Foundation Party with were, to quote Katherine Hepburn, "cherce."

I did a lot more "business" at this con than I have at any con previous. I got invited to an anthology that sounds really exciting, I got to hang with the editor of Escape Pod's new fantasy "imprint" (my awesome cool bud velourmane), I've got a couple of cool agents to send my book to, and I even got tracked down for my autograph (by Nina Kiriki Hoffman, no less ... no, it wasn't *her* who wanted my autograph, but she saw me and pointed me in the direction of the person who did, elisem, who wanted me to scribble in her copy of P6.) I also can say I now have oldcharliebrown's and melodican's names straight. (How I mistook Stephen Segal for Sean Wallace for this long, I really can't imagine.)

I discovered the work of yuki_onna (Catherynn Valente) and snurri (David J. Schwartz) at readings ... they're both writers I've heard so much about, but I've never actually been exposed to. Both of them read pieces that absolutely floored me. I look forward to reading more from both of them.

Finally, friends ... a warning.

Do not joke about spreadable cheese in the Madison airport security line.

It will be an almost insurmountable challenge. (I warn you of this now so you can prepare yourself.) As you're watching a bunch of poor schlubs being forced to take delicious plastic pots of spreadable cheese out of their carry-on bags and throw them away in the garbage cans, you will be *so* tempted to mutter to your neighbor, "yeah, like someone's going to blow up a plane with spreadable cheese." Because the ironic contrast between the grim ugliness of a blowing-up plane and the well-documented ridiculousness of processed cheese food is just too stark and hilarious.

But the TSA takes jokes about spreadable cheese very seriously. Especially in Wisconsin.

They *will* call their supervisor if your smart mouth gets the better of you. They *will* remind you that free speech doesn't exist in the airport security line, and that the Lords of TSAstan do not appreciate your sense of humor. And that's all I've got to say about that.

Except for one thing. As part of the "Glorifying Terrorism" reading (and in retrospect, am I not glad I did not have *that* book in my carryon at *that* particular moment!) the organizers were handing out blank "Terrorism is_______" stickers. I did not really know how to fill in the blank until I ran afoul of the TSA at the Madison airport. Now, it is tattooed on my brain, and forever will be.

Terrorism is spreadable cheese.

Thank you, and good night.

(Oh, PS ... I came home to an acceptance! Postcards from Hell is going to take Kandi, the Pregnant Vegas Stripper Angel of Death off my hands. Instead of payment, I've opted to take a subscription. With this (and my very subtle illo in the back of the Diet Soap sampler, the symbolism of which you have to really stare at hard to comprehend) my artistic career is launched. I'll see you all in Hell, baby!)