Dark Country

The muffled bars of Childish Gambino’s “Lights Turned On” broke me from the blackness of unfiltered sleep, and into the bright, balmy late-morning air that filled my bedroom last Saturday.

“Swag…
2:30 and we still makin’ progress,
Talkin’ on Twitter to see where to go next…”

My phone vibrated near my outstretched right hand. I picked it up and forced my eyes to focus on the screen. I didn’t recognize the number, so I hit ignore. I glanced over at the clock. 11:02 a.m. My phone buzzed with a new message; it was a text from the same number that had just called. “Hey are you down here for the tailgate?”

“Wait…” I said, picking my head up off the pillow. “I’m supposed to be at a country music tailgate right now…”

A little over a week before that, my friend Bill was once again attempting to persuade me to come to the tailgate party he and his boys throw each year for the Kenny Chesney concert. The show is a huge event in Pittsburgh every summer, and it brings in country music fans from as far away as western New York and Michigan. Bill, Steph, and others had petitioned me for years to come to the party. I flatly refused each and every time, usually countering by naming another activity I’d rather do than sit through a country music concert. Like…solder my tongue to a bus.

As we sat in Bossa Nova at a friend’s birthday party [Note: Their caipirinhas are still magical.] that Friday night, Bill finally won me over with a simple clarification. When I reminded him that I love nothing less than country music, he laughed it off. “I hate it too! I don’t actually go into the concert; I just go to McFadden’s once everyone else goes to the show.” Now he had my ear. And so, when he then reminded me—for the 5,309th time—that the tailgate is always packed with scantily-clad tail, I finally saw the wisdom in exploring this local tradition. You know, for the blog. Yup. *sips drink*

As the week had went on, Dupa and Jay Swag were convinced to join me. Armo decided to have a pool party that same Saturday, and the forecast of temps in the mid-90s indicated that making our way to his place to end the day would be in our best interest. I made preliminary plans to meet up with Dupa and Swag on Mt. Washington around 11 a.m…

…Well, that part was going to have to be amended. I climbed out of bed, exchanging texts with each of them as I looked for my phone charger. My Droid's battery was at less than 20%; which, for a smartphone, means it was running on fumes. When my charger wasn’t in its usual place, I remembered having put it in the gym bag I’d taken with me the night before—I had gone to Dupa’s to pregame by his pool before catching “Ted” on its opening night [absolutely hilarious film, by the way]. And my bag, more than likely, was still in the trunk of my car. I grabbed my keys and stumbled out to my garage, hitting the trunk button along the way. When I didn’t hear the normal sound of the trunk unlocking, I looked up: My garage was empty. What…the…fuuuuuuccccccccckkkkkkkkkkkkk?…

11:21 a.m. text to Swag and Dupa: “Ok, got a whole new problem. My car is missing.”

Part of me felt I should call the police. Another, much more logical part of me felt that my propensity for drunken foolishness may be a more likely culprit than a thief. I threw on a shirt and some sneakers, grabbed a bottle of Gatorade, and trudged up the sidewalk. I could only guess that maybe I had, for whatever reason, parked on the street instead the night before. Then, about halfway up my block, a memory jolted awake inside of me: On my way home from Dupa’s place, I had met up with Pakistanimal at Shady Grove. And I had parked near the bar. It seemed probable, then, that I had never moved my car from that spot. The fact that I had no clue if I had, indeed, left my car at the bar—and barely remembered being at the bar at all—made me all the more thankful that this scenario was the most likely one. I found my Bavarian chariot exactly where I had parked it the night before, now with a fresh parking ticket tucked under one of the wipers.

By 1:10 p.m. I was at the Wendy’s drive-thru, picking up some spicy chicken fortitude and receiving confirmation from Dupa that my sunglasses weren’t at his place, which meant I had, indeed, lost them the night before. The very same sunglasses that I’d bought less than two weeks before, to replace the pair I’d ruined at the Furry Safari. Which were purchased in March to replace a pair Dupa stole from me the day after the Super Bowl…

There’s a reason I buy my shades at Target.

I met up with Dupa at his place, parked my car in his apartment building’s garage for safekeeping (I wasn’t going to risk losing it again), and rode with him to Swag’s house. Once Swag had made some quick modifications to his facial hair (see right) and we’d done a shot of Dr. McGillicuddy’s Mentholmint, the three of us set off for the nearby T station. Dupa had brought half a case of Miller Lite with him, but by the time we were boarding the train there were only three cans left. And since Swag is continuing to obey the open container laws while on probation, that damage was done entirely by Dupa and me.

Once we reached the North Shore’s parking lots, where container laws don’t apply, Swag joined us in killing the remaining beers. We waded through thick 95 degree air and thicker swarms of people, many in cowboy hats and little other clothing. The attire for this tailgate has always been described to me as “slutty casual”, and those reports came in years where Pittsburgh wasn’t suffering through a record heat wave. With the sun burning away any fucks that people might otherwise have given, nary a Chesney fan in this land—male or female—hid behind stitched modesty. While surveying this landscape, we walked right into Bill’s party, completely by accident. Even the drunken squirrel finds a nut. They had cornered a large section of Gold Lot 2; here we found music pumping (mostly hip-hop, I believe), kegs tapped, a buffet of food set up, and red plastic cups a-tippin’.

We stopped only briefly, as we each needed to hit an ATM, and had other people we wanted to catch up with first. We walked along the river, taking in the sight of hundreds of boats docked with people partying and dancing everywhere, many of those people being young, tanned women in bikinis. I mentioned I was doing all of this strictly for the blog, right?

Swag broke off to catch up with Belle and her posse, while Dupa and I found Shannon and her girls crowded under a 5’-by-5’ blue canvas tent, tucked in amongst a hundred others like it, a broad ocean of asphalt, sweat, and beer away from Gold Lot 2. They fed us cans of Labatt Blue while we hung out, and we appreciated the cold sustenance and familiar faces.

Occasionally I looked around to find an inquisitive eye staring at me from a pickup truck or tent in the wilds beyond Shannon’s plot of land. Let’s face it, a Kenny Chesney concert tailgate isn’t the well-trodden domain of my people; when I did happen upon a fellow person “of color”, we gave each other knowing nods, as if to say, “The world done changed, homie.” Yet, what struck me more than how many people stared at me, was how many people didn’t stare at me. The overwhelming majority of revelers seemed indifferent to the fact that a 6’6” half-Black man was walking amongst them at a country music concert. The world done changed, homie.

Dupa and I journeyed off to Bill’s party once more. Upon arriving we found Swag, Belle, and the other gals, including Stacks and “AIDS”. [Note: This nickname is real, though it is hardly based in reality. The story, in a nutshell: Upon meeting this cute blonde friend of Belle’s for the first time some years ago, Swag thought it would be charming and/or clever to tell her that she looked like she had AIDS. Needless to say, it didn’t win her heart.] While her girls wore shorts and little t-shirts, AIDS went all-in with a little pink cowgirl hat, a tiny blue bikini, and cowgirl boots. “I told you,” she reminded us, “I don’t really like wearing clothes.”

By around 6 p.m. Dupa, Swag, and I were ready to switch things up, since everyone else (save for Bill and a few of his boys) was heading into the concert. The three of us flagged down a cab, and headed for Diamond Market Bar & Grill in Market Square. I know I ate while we were there, but all I really remember consuming was Moscow Mules. Swag disappeared mid-meal, and was gone a long while. Just when we had begun formulating plans for moving on without him (and eventually exacting revenge upon him for ditching us), he reappeared with a look of pure glee on his face. He had gone outside to smoke a cigarette; while out there, he ran into the ex-WWF wrestler Virgil. Twenty minutes of conversation and an autograph later, Swag was like a kid that had just met Mickey Mouse. He was so giddy, in fact, that he volunteered to pay the bill. All plans for revenge were scrapped.

We caught another cab; Swag, being averse to all things swimming pool, had us drop him off at his second home, Rumshakers. Dupa and I continued to his car on Mt. Washington, and then found our way to Armo’s. My Polish homie was soon snoring from an inflatable raft as the breeze gently pushed it to every corner of the pool. I occupied the rest of my night swimming, eating burgers from the grill, and kicking it with TJ and other party guests. I awoke the next morning to Armo poking my arm, for no other reason than his sheer desire to not be the only one awake. For a solid five minutes I puzzled my mind around how I had even gotten there. A short time later, as Armo drank a Bloody Mary to kick off his Sunday Funday and Dupa moaned like an orgasm-faking porn star from the kitchen for no reason whatsoever, a thought popped into my mind.

“Wait...I was at a country music tailgate yesterday…”

Furry Safari

I think they thought I was kidding.

When asked, in the weeks and days leading up to the Anthrocon 2011 conference in Pittsburgh, what time would I be going downtown to watch the furries, I replied, “I don’t know…11 [a.m.]? 11:30?” The friend or coworker asking would usually chuckle and then proceed on with the conversation. Sometimes, though, he or she would pause to utter an expression of trepidation. Those were the precious few people who really know me, and who realized I wasn’t fucking around.

Two years ago, my friends and I had a life-changing experience. It was a balmy Thursday night in July, and—spurred by The Ex—we’d gathered at Bossa Nova for caipirinhas, mojitos, and salsa dancing. Then, overwhelmed by the first two and bored with the latter, a casual and spontaneous suggestion was made: Anthrocon was in town—we should go look at furries. Up to that point, furries were a nearly mythical subculture to me. My closest encounter with one had been watching Drama help a squirrel find a nut on “Entourage”. But, by the end of that night, we’d had so much fun that we knew furry hunting would be an annual event.

Last year we designated the Friday of the conference to be our day of safari. I met up with Dupa and “Hostess”, an old friend of his from high school, at Tonic Bar & Grill for a late lunch at around 2:30. Tonic is Furry Ground Zero; located on the corner of Liberty Avenue and 10th Street, it sits directly across 10th from the Westin Hotel, which more or less becomes a kennel the weekend of Anthrocon. All of us having taken a half-day off from our respective employments, we grabbed a spot in Tonic’s sidewalk seating and spent hours watching the herds pass, occasionally stopping one or more of them to take pictures with us. Throughout the rest of the day we were joined by just about every one of our brothers-and-sisters-in-arms, some of whom carried the party on through the night.

How can you possibly improve upon that type of impressive showing? Well…you start three hours earlier the next time.

I was the first to arrive at Tonic on Furry Friday this year, and I locked down a large table right at the corner while I awaited my comrades. Hostess was there within minutes, and after another ten Dupa was pulling up in a cab. All of us soon had mojitos, plates of food, and cameras with the safeties off in front of us.

Over the next couple of hours we drank and ate—and drank some more—while mingling with furries, fellow gawkers, and random friends who happened upon us as they walked to or from their lunch break destinations. Chappy eventually became the fourth member of our party, pulling up a chair after calling off work for the afternoon. Armo, too, made a similar executive decision to forego work for a seat in the eye of the furricane. TK, who worked in a building adjacent to the Westin, made frequent visits. He had recently decided to move to Tampa, and was now finishing off the first of his final two weeks in town. His senioritis had kicked in, and although he was to spend his remaining time with the company training his replacement, he found himself distracted by the warm weather, cold beers, and furry fun going on outside his skyscraper window. And so, about once every hour, we found TK strolling across the street in our direction, looking for a few sips of Corona and some fun.

Early on, Dupa made it known to us that he had set a goal for this year’s event: He wanted his picture taken lying across the outstretched arms of three or more furries. In other words, the ultimate leisure pose. When a group of four furries dressed as various cats and dogs stopped for us to take photos, Dupa’s face lit up with the anticipation of a dream coming true. That gleeful smile soon turned to a disappointed smirk when the pack of critters denied his pose request, claiming that the lack of grip in their hands paws would make it too difficult to hold him. Not much later, however, our friend struck gold: three more furries (also dressed as various animated canines) stopped for pictures, and they happily agreed to his pose idea. Dupa beamed in ecstasy as he laid awkwardly in their arms while our cameras clicked.

Last year, a large group of furries (as well as a mix of civilians) gathered in front of the Westin to play vuvuzelas in tribute to the ongoing World Cup. This, in turn, caused me to exclaim, “The furries have vuvuzelas! THE FURRIES HAVE VUVUZELAS!!!” as I sprinted through traffic and fumbled with my camera phone. This year, another demonstration of sorts took place. A long, white stretch Chrysler 300 limousine pulled up in front of the hotel, and out climbed five or six furries. I regret not heading over to get to know these particular fur-lovers better. They could have been the key to me pulling a Johnny Drama.

Now, I think I speak for the rest of the guys in my crew when I say that sex with a furry isn’t very high up on the ol’ bucket list. But if the opportunity—and a reasonably attractive female furry—presents itself, I’m certainly game. TK had been approached by a furry earlier in the week; she even went so far as to say, “You would be hitting on me if you could see what I look like under this costume” (when he asked if he knew her, she quickly walked away without an answer). And then, for the first time in our furry-hunting years (that we know of), we actually happened upon a woman worth consideration. A small fox (irony noted), running with a pack of plain-clothed handlers, sat down at a table near ours. When the costume head came off [remember, this was late June in Pittsburgh; temps hovered in the mid 80s with a healthy dose of humidity for much of the afternoon, which isn’t very kind to those wearing large, heavy, fur-covered outfits], we found a cute, petite girl in her mid-to-late 20s wiping sweat from her face and matted-down hair. But, at the risk of disappointing my dear readers, I have to report that none of us actually played “Tony” to this Anthrocon “Maria”. We all just admired from a distance, too wrapped up in the numerous platonic attractions going on around us.

When one furry wandered near our table, holding a staff and dressed as a creature that resembled a lion with horns, we snapped several pictures. Later, a heavyset guy in civilian clothing came strolling past, carrying a bag from a nearby sandwich shop and the same staff with which the lion had been walking. When asked, he confirmed that he was, indeed, the same person. I inquired about the lavish costume, and he revealed that it cost him about $3000. And the maker, a specialist in Boston, had undercharged him. “She probably could have asked for about $5000 for a costume like that.” “Lionel” (heh…) had brought another costume designed by the same woman with him to the conference as well. In all, he had brought four different getups for the weekend. He assured us that, after he had gone inside and eaten his dinner, he would be back as one of the other three characters.

The weather, though, soon prohibited that. As bad as heat and high humidity are for furries, the inevitable result—a summer rain shower—isn’t any better. It also doesn’t work for civilians on safari, watching from uncovered sidewalk seating. Our posse (which now included Jay Swag, Mitch Canada, TD, and her sister, “Green Pants”, among others) moved inside Tonic, to the upstairs bar and lounge area.

It was now after 5 pm, and downtown office-dwellers, fresh from the workweek, began pouring into the bar. A large percentage of those people were coworkers of Dupa and TK; had my brain not been on a Corona-and-furry high, I would have recognized this as a bad sign. Among the thousands of local men and women in that particular corporation’s employ, is one person who is guaranteed to suck the fun out of my Furry Safari: The Ex. In the nearly two years since our breakup, we’ve taken careful measures to avoid running into each other—at least I have; some of hers have been described as more “stalker” than “dodger”.

I was sitting at the bar talking to TK, when I saw a look come over his face as he stared towards the top of the stairwell behind me. He leaned over to me and said, “It just got bad.” Sure enough, as I glanced past him, I saw a familiar head of brown hair bounce by on its way to a table across the room. My reaction, in true Neil McCauley style, was to immediately turn and head downstairs.

All of ten seconds after I’d stopped in the downstairs bar to take a deep breath and consider my exit strategy, TD came chugging downstairs to my aid. “I couldn’t understand why you left—then I saw her!” After a few minutes of kvetching, I once again located my testicles and went back upstairs. Once there, I posted up at the bar with my back turned to The Ex’s side of the room, did a shot of American Honey with TD and Green Pants, and then gathered our crew and moved the party to August Henry’s.

Despite the last-chopper-out-of-Saigon-like retreat from Tonic, we had actually been planning on heading to August Henry’s (just not quite so early). The decision had been made hours earlier, when we learned that they would be hosting “Furrioke”—a.k.a. karaoke featuring furries. We found a table and ordered ourselves some dinner, and I fought off a newfound paranoia that made me look around every few minutes to see if we’d been followed. Tony soon joined us, and started tossing back beers and shots to catch up. Unfortunately, hardly any furries were there, making my daydreams of watching someone dressed as a wolf sing “Life is a Highway” feel somewhat unrealistic.

After a seemingly innocent trip to the bathroom, Dupa admitted to us that he’d thrown up in a urinal. And he was still rocked. Every experienced drinker knows that—sometimes—vomiting will clear your mind, freeing you up for another few hours of boozing. That didn't happen for Dupa, and he fully understood the gravity of that fact. He bid us adieu, walked outside, and caught a cab home.

And it wasn’t even dark outside yet.

The rest of the night came at me fast and furiously. Swag, TD, Tony, Mitch, and I eventually found our way over to Rumshakers, where our standard fare of beers and shots took on a much more sinister tone after a full day of drinking. A blackout had finally taken hold of me, and I was more than happy to relinquish command of the ship. My next clear thought came as I strolled along Grant Street alone—I was downtown again. After sleeping off some more of my drunk in my parked car, I came home and flopped onto my bed like I was shielding friends from a grenade. When I awoke the next morning, I was a little surprised there wasn’t a squirrel costume on the floor next to my bed.

There’s always next year.

God Bless America: Part 1

Only in this fine 50-state union can so many varied forms of drunken cultural revelry blend together in a melting pot of absurdity during the union’s birthday weekend. Similar to last year’s three day cavalcade of shenanigans, this year's 4th of July partying was a multi-staged affair. Maybe it’s a sign of my old age (having reached the ripe ol’ age of 30), though, that this year I used Friday as a buffer between Thursday and Saturday’s events. Still rocked from the previous night, Girlfriend and I used that day to window-shop some office furniture, maybe buy some décor touches, maybe Bed, Bath, & Beyond—if we had enough time. A pretty nice little Friday.

[If you read that and actually had to click on the link before you got the movie reference…I feel pity for you.]

Without further ado, I bring you the fireworks [first and last stupid pun of the post, I swear]:

Thursday

Since most of us would be off of work Friday, Girlfriend planned a trip to Bossa Nova for salsa dancing on Thursday night. She’s an avid salsa enthusiast (she is a spicy Latina, after all—sorry, that pun was unintentional); my boys and I, not so much. But it had been nearly a year since she last got to dance, and she was well deserving of a chance to get back into the act. To accommodate everyone’s tastes, though, Girlfriend’s plan involved a quick and simple compromise: she, TD, and 1L would all go for the dancing; Baby Joey, TJ, Dupa, Chappy, Hollywood, and I could stick to the bar and do what we do best: get drunk. Giggity.

Joey backed out that evening (he had to work the next morning), though he agreed to drop off and pick up TD. 1L never showed, and I still am not sure what happened to her. Hollywood met up with us at the bar, however he could only stay for an hour or so before he went home (he also had to work on Friday). The rest of us, conversely, were down with the get-down. We pregamed at my apartment, where I put back rum & Cokes before I had even eaten dinner—after skipping lunch earlier in the day. TD, who was also low on nourishment, arrived with a bag and cup from Wendy’s, hoping to brace herself against the impending onslaught of alcohol. Nearly as soon as she was seated on the couch, however, she was pouring Ketel One into her medium Sprite. About 45 minutes later, when our cab pulled up in front of my building, TD raced to refill her now “to go” cup; in went more Ketel One, this time mixed with cranberry and orange juices. Easily the smallest of our crewmembers, TD had consumed seemingly a quarter of her bodyweight in alcohol before we had even reached Bossa Nova’s doors. I silently wondered if Girlfriend had realized just what she had gotten herself into. I’m sure she was weary of the boys’ behavior from the instant she formulated the night’s planning; but, surely she had to have thought TD would be her closest and most composed ally in minimizing the damage done by all of us Y chromosome-rs.

I had slowed down on the drinking at home, not wanting to go big time until after I had some food in my stomach (lest I ruin both my lady’s long-awaited night of dancing and my relationship by passing out at the bar). Girlfriend brought some takeout with her when she came to my place, and it provided a suitable base for the night. So when I bellied-up to Bossa Nova’s bar, it was game on. I started with a mojito, while Dupa started with a caipirinha. The mojito was sweet—even sweeter than mojitos I’d drank at other bars. The caipirinha, however, was 9/10s pure booze. It was so strong, in fact, that even Dupa couldn’t handle it (I think he secretly had a sex change operation that he hasn’t worked up the courage to tell us about yet). He and I quickly swapped our orders for the next round of drinks.

Salsa dancing is a good time—so long as you’re not the one doing the dancing. Of course that’s just my perspective. But watching people with rhythmic coordination spin and step was entertaining, and the lively music will keep your blood pumping. As I watched Girlfriend do her thing, I realized that she really is a fantastic dancer, with a soft step, smooth body movement, and a charismatic smile. She explained that some of the people who flooded the dance floor were naturals who had learned everything they knew simply by watching. Girlfriend, herself, was such a person; TD, on the other hand…

Girlfriend vowed to serve as her instructor, guiding her hand-in-hand, step-by-step. A few factors were working against her, though: (A.) TD was hammered—I’m talking three sheets to the wind and listing to port; (B.) TD, while not hopelessly uncoordinated like moi, isn’t as naturally fluid as, say, Girlfriend; (C.) when TD is drunk, she can be easily distracted—picture a kitten in a yarn factory.

Girlfriend: “Just step like this, but look at me—don’t look down.”
TD: *looking down at her feet* “Like this?”
Girlfriend: *laughing* “That’s good, but don’t look down!”
TD: *glances up at Girlfriend, then back down at her feet* “Like this?”

Despite studying her feet so intently, TD still managed to make the rookie mistake of stepping on her instructor’s feet. Eventually, after a frustrating back-and-forth like the aforementioned, Girlfriend abruptly turned and walked away. TD, calling her back, hopped up and down in smiling, childlike giddiness. As I recorded the entire scene on my phone, TJ chimed in from over my shoulder, “She’s like a goddamn 11-year-old, Dawg!”

She was also the owner of some of the night’s best quotes.

• On her role that night: “I’m hammered; I’m [Dupa] tonight!”
• On a particular song being played: “Oh my god! There are Spanish people singing the Beatles—that is, like, my DREAM!”

But when you’re 5’2” and 90 lbs soaking wet, tipping back glasses of vodka quickly catches up to you. I’m not sure what exactly it was she said or did that made me—through my cachaca fog—suddenly begin worrying about her, but I somehow realized that she needed to slow down. Now, if you’ve ever tried to get a still-conscious friend to pump the brakes at a bar, then you know just how difficult it can be. Drunks, more oft than not, are incredibly stubborn, and when they have reached that level of intoxication it becomes that much less likely that they can comprehend just how bad they are. I asked TD if she wanted a glass of water, expecting to be rebuffed with a glare and a dismissive wave. I was shocked to hear, “Yeah…please!” instead.

TJ announced, at about midnight, that he was heading home (maybe he and Dupa caught a two-for-one special on sex change operations?). He said his goodbyes to the guys, and then walked over to bid adieu to Girlfriend and “Sherif”, a friend of Girlfriend’s who had joined us midway through the night. I looked away from where they were standing, and then scanned back over all of 10 seconds later. When I did, I saw that TJ was still there, and Girlfriend was flagging down a bartender. “I offered to buy him a drink, so now he’s staying,” she called over to me, with a gesture towards TJ.

1. That’s a pretty elaborate and risky ploy, all just to scheme a free drink.
2. I’ll have to ask him to teach it to me.

Around 1 a.m., a stroke of genius came from amongst our well-lubricated crew: that weekend, Anthrocon—a.k.a. the world’s largest Furry convention—was being held in Pittsburgh. We all closed our tabs and set off towards the Westin Hotel, where attendees were staying. Along the way, Girlfriend stopped at a row of hedges surrounding a parking lot. She reached in and ripped off a two foot long branch, which she christened her “tail.” As we walked the final three blocks to the hotel, she held the branch behind her, wagging it in excitement; she even paused in the middle of an intersection to wiggle around with her tail (likely to the delight of any straight male nearby).

After stopping at the lobby doors to pose for pictures with a gentleman dressed as a brown and white fox, we headed inside to have some more fun. But, unexpectedly, TD stopped in her tracks—the furries were freaking her out. She called and asked Baby Joey to come pick her up from the parking lot of Esq’s apartment building, which was nearby.

Girlfriend and I walked over with her and kept her company until Joey arrived, and then returned to the furry hunt. Catching up with TJ, Sherif, Chappy, and Dupa at a bar across the street from the Westin, we found a furry couple in matching fox costumes (the lady’s was bright pink, and the man’s was light blue). Girlfriend posed with the lady fox, playfully sticking out her tongue as if she was about to engage in some girl-on-furry-girl action. A nearby group of guys—none of who were in costumes—were thoroughly entertained by our antics. As it turns out, they were part of a convention taking place that weekend for another specialty group: Mensa. Where else but Pittsburgh could 4th of July weekend mean the presence of both world-class geniuses and people who like to dress up as animated woodland creatures?

We walked back to the Westin, and made some new friends:

• Sherif and Girlfriend posed with an orange and black raccoon who called himself “Foxwell”.
Girlfriend: “I love Frosted Flakes.” Foxwell: “Uh, that’s nice—but I’m not Tony the Tiger.”
• After the girls had their picture taken, I handed over my camera and stood next to Foxwell.
Me: “You ready?” Foxwell: “Sure…?” Me: “GANGSTA POSE!” *crosses arms and leans back* Foxwell instantly met my pose by crossing his own arms and leaning back, and we took the G’est civilian – furry pictures ever.
• A red and gold Chinese dragon walked up the staircase to the second floor. I pointed him out to Dupa, who ran up the stairs after him, with Sherif in hot pursuit. Seeing them run, I followed, and soon Girlfriend did too.
• Posing with two large dogs, Girlfriend commented, “Babe, this one looks like [Pakistanimal]—look at his belly!”
• One puppy laid down on his back, and kicked his legs in the air as Sherif rubbed his tummy.
• Girlfriend found some people eating pizza in the lobby. She quickly sweet talked her way into receiving a slice, and munched on it as she continued to pose for pictures with furries.
• One of the on-lookers sitting in the lobby was a young blonde guy dressed in a white dress shirt, black hat, black vest, and black pants. Someone suggested that he was dressed like Michael Jackson, and Girlfriend sprung into action. She ran across the room, stopping a few feet away from him to do the Thriller dance. Have I mentioned how much I love her?
• As we sat on a couch, Girlfriend began asking passing furries where “the afterparty” was, and whether or not they could get us into it.

• A member of the Westin staff approached us and asked if we were staying at the hotel that night. When he learned that we weren’t, he showed us to the door. “Ain’t that a bitch?,” TJ said. “A lobby full of people in animal costumes, and WE’RE the ones who get kicked out!”

[To be continued...]