How Bad Decisions Are Made

A few weekends ago I got very drunk with a handful of writers and somehow found myself in a debate over who was lower in the geek hierarchy, furries or steampunk nerds. Because I was already three sheets to the wind by that point, I gave an impassioned defense of steampunk, which in all honesty I barely remember. One thing led to another, and I got asked to organize a panel on steampunk at a certain nascent technology-focused pop culture convention here in DC. If successful, the panel would more than likely become an exhibition at the federally funded museum organizing the convention.

I was like, Hahaha, okay, no.

Because the Metro was shut down yesterday (something about fires burning underground), I had the rare pleasure of working in the DC office, so one of the museum curators walked over and twisted my arm – and by "twisted my arm," I mean "bought me a few beers." I'm not entirely sure if I'm going to be paid for any of this, and I'm fairly certain I'm going to have major regrets later, but I ended up agreeing.

Who knows, maybe I won't have a nervous breakdown, that would be nice.