So you want to be constaff...
Someone asked what it was like to work a con.
Here's the answer:
It's fun. Really. I mean that with all my heart.
Then someone notices you and the fact that you have a brain and the ability to think on you feet.
And suddenly it's Sunday and you have a hangover and have slept maybe 5 hours the whole weekend, stumbling around attempting to find the staff meeting at some ungodly hour in the morning, but you can't look straight at the room numbers because the lights! They burn!
It's still fun.
Now you have a badge with a ribbon or a stamp or a hologram and everyone asks you questions about things you have no control over.
Then *bam* you're an executive with a free pass to anywhere because you're that important and you manage that many different departments and have THOSE sorts of errands to run all while you're soothing over an alcoholic actor who goes on rages for NO reason other than the wind blew wrong...
It's still fun.
Suddenly you live by the schedule and if something is off by 5 minutes you start to get tense because you know it'll steam roll in 15 if you're not careful, but the VIP is still in the corner groping the underage girl's ass and the hotel manager has a problem with some of the staff, who aren't your staff, but you have the highest badge in the room and hey, the VIP nearly wandered off.
Yeah, oddly, still fun.
And you look longingly at the bar, but you can't drink while on duty and you're on duty as long as your programming is running and you have programming running well past the time you should be able to continue standing upright without help and then there's the EVENING staff meeting that you can't possibly attend, but can't possibly send an underling to either.
So you walk past staunchly, check your watch and curse because you're supposed to deal with something *five* minutes ago and your cell phone is ringing and your radio is speaking to you and now you have to be in two places at once, but on opposite sides of the con.
Yep, fun.
Then finally, time has no meaning other than to mark the beginning and the end of the day, you have too many things to take care of and too many people who need you *right now* and there are checks to sign and food get nauseous at and a precious few seconds with your headset off and your radio tucked under a jacket. Someone slips you a Mountain Dew because the first hit is wearing off already and you start to anticipate the sweet, sweet bar like oblivion only three hours into the day. Schedules mean nothing unless they've been printed wrong in the programming book and random places on you start to hurt for no reason.
You look at your Husband/Wife/Toy with longing and think to yourself "Sex? What's that? A game for the young I say." Someone slips you a magic marker to sniff because your blood just laughs at caffeine now. And now you're all about responsibility and making an example, so there's no rest for the weary as you contort your body into some sort of yoga defined torture position to release the c-clamp holding together a precious piece of con setup.
By now you've hugged at least one actor who's really hot, so still fun.
And when you're done, you're a hollow shell of yourself, sleep deprived and hung over and so buzzed you need sleeping pills to pass out for your first in a long series of naps, because you're so buzzed on chemicals and adrenaline there's no way you're sleeping the 18 hours you so desperately want.
And finally you wake up for the first time two weeks later... and do it all again.
Did I mention the fun? *squints* I'm sure I did. Because there is, fun that is. I swear.
Here's the answer:
It's fun. Really. I mean that with all my heart.
Then someone notices you and the fact that you have a brain and the ability to think on you feet.
And suddenly it's Sunday and you have a hangover and have slept maybe 5 hours the whole weekend, stumbling around attempting to find the staff meeting at some ungodly hour in the morning, but you can't look straight at the room numbers because the lights! They burn!
It's still fun.
Now you have a badge with a ribbon or a stamp or a hologram and everyone asks you questions about things you have no control over.
Then *bam* you're an executive with a free pass to anywhere because you're that important and you manage that many different departments and have THOSE sorts of errands to run all while you're soothing over an alcoholic actor who goes on rages for NO reason other than the wind blew wrong...
It's still fun.
Suddenly you live by the schedule and if something is off by 5 minutes you start to get tense because you know it'll steam roll in 15 if you're not careful, but the VIP is still in the corner groping the underage girl's ass and the hotel manager has a problem with some of the staff, who aren't your staff, but you have the highest badge in the room and hey, the VIP nearly wandered off.
Yeah, oddly, still fun.
And you look longingly at the bar, but you can't drink while on duty and you're on duty as long as your programming is running and you have programming running well past the time you should be able to continue standing upright without help and then there's the EVENING staff meeting that you can't possibly attend, but can't possibly send an underling to either.
So you walk past staunchly, check your watch and curse because you're supposed to deal with something *five* minutes ago and your cell phone is ringing and your radio is speaking to you and now you have to be in two places at once, but on opposite sides of the con.
Yep, fun.
Then finally, time has no meaning other than to mark the beginning and the end of the day, you have too many things to take care of and too many people who need you *right now* and there are checks to sign and food get nauseous at and a precious few seconds with your headset off and your radio tucked under a jacket. Someone slips you a Mountain Dew because the first hit is wearing off already and you start to anticipate the sweet, sweet bar like oblivion only three hours into the day. Schedules mean nothing unless they've been printed wrong in the programming book and random places on you start to hurt for no reason.
You look at your Husband/Wife/Toy with longing and think to yourself "Sex? What's that? A game for the young I say." Someone slips you a magic marker to sniff because your blood just laughs at caffeine now. And now you're all about responsibility and making an example, so there's no rest for the weary as you contort your body into some sort of yoga defined torture position to release the c-clamp holding together a precious piece of con setup.
By now you've hugged at least one actor who's really hot, so still fun.
And when you're done, you're a hollow shell of yourself, sleep deprived and hung over and so buzzed you need sleeping pills to pass out for your first in a long series of naps, because you're so buzzed on chemicals and adrenaline there's no way you're sleeping the 18 hours you so desperately want.
And finally you wake up for the first time two weeks later... and do it all again.
Did I mention the fun? *squints* I'm sure I did. Because there is, fun that is. I swear.