Todd Terwilliger

I woke up this morning during a pause in this morning’s snow flurries. Personally, I think it was more than a flurry. More than a flurry but just short of a blizzard. Does the National Weather Service classify snow storms like hurricanes? Could I dub this March Flurry Winston, possibly upgrading to Blizzard Regina as it hurtles down the coast? Category 2! Category 2! Somebody call the borough president, it’s a category 2! Damn it, where’s the army? Where’s Jack Bauer? No matter. It was here and I had to deal with it. By deal I mean take a few pictures as I slog through it on my way to work.

Sunday. The last day, the final hurrah, the end. I set the alarm early. We had stayed up too late last night watching The Wire. You simply cannot watch just one episode of The Wire. It gets on top of you too fast. Before you know it, the clock has jumped ahead six hours and you’re laying akimbo on your couch half-naked with a belt tied around your arm, held tight by one end, the end which is clamped between your gritty teeth. You’re looking down at a throbbing vein in your arm and you don’t know why.

I realized that yesterday, I went into very little specifics about what I saw at the con. This is not due to some blindness or memory lapse on my part but rather the nature of my particular interest. For me, the con was less a fact-finding mission to glean secrets profound about anything than it was all about the journey, the experience mentally, physically, and metaphysically, in the con itself.