Kage Baker, as I have often observed, vastly enjoyed people.-watching. WorldCon is a primo place to do that, as so many interesting things attend.

It was one of Kage’s pet fancies, that eldritch creatures walked freely among us in places where normality was …  thin. Consensual. Totally ignored. Times like Halloween and Mardi Gras; places like white sales, rock concerts, and conventions. We always watched for them, argued over their antecedents, giggled over what they might be there doing …

I have seen some neat stuff here:  not just odd people, but fascinating scenaria here and there. Over breakfast, I saw the shadow cast by the Avengers logo in a mirror: but no matter where I looked, I couldn’t see what was casting it. Something existing solely in the mirror, I suspect: another dimension.

I’ve seen a merqueen, resplendent in robes of opalescent gauze and netting, pearls  and silver, her colour- changing crown and  staff liberally studded with glowing gems.

I’ve seen a stealth jester: long dagged sleeves and tu nic obscuring his body, horned and belled hood drawn over his face. The only thing that convinced me he was a jester and not an assassin was that the outfit was bright, merry red. But he was trying for enigma, I think.

I saw a lady in a sweeping cloak decorated with wolf skins go by: Lady Stark, I presume. She was attended by several warriors in Game of Thrones regalia. They were ALL followed by George R.R. Martin himself, carrying a metal stanchion. I presume they were a headed for a signing, and Mr. Martin was prepared to reinforce the guide ropes. But it looked he was planning to bludgeon someone …

I have seen meticulously uniformed fighters from literally dozens of times, dimensions, armies, empires, and doomed, heroic campaigns. It’s hilarious to watch  them deftly manage swords, ray guns, electrified spears and other weaponry accessories in the restaurant of the Hilton. I have trouble figuring out what to do with my cane …

What’s even funnier, to me, is that the wait staff is totally unperturbed. They’ll move a claymore or a jet pack out of their way without a blink. They can deliver drinks and plates around winged helmets, corrugated skulls and visors as neat as a pin. And they do not turn a hair.

Reality really is consensual around here, Dear Readers.

And a woman just walked past me with a squeaking tribble on a leash.

On which note, I believe I need another coffee. More later, kids.