HOW TO CRASH A FURRY CONVENTION
- Albert Einstein said, “If we knew what it was we were doing, it would not be called research, would it?” Discover what makes a furry tick. Go beyond the stereotypes or Googling anthropomorphism. What are the hopes and dreams of the average furry? Do they vote in off-year elections or enjoy off-roading? What brand of toothpaste do they prefer? If asked to choose one: Bugs Bunny or Tom and Jerry?
- Pick the right outfit. Keep in mind: fursuits run in the thousands. If you’re on a budget, a tail or a decent set of ears will do.
- What’s in a name? Everything, actually. Focus groups are a.) too expensive and b.) too time-consuming. If you’re all thumbs with adjectives, visit a furry name generator website.
- Nab a cab. After all, you might want a cocktail (or three). Wearing a fox head behind the wheel is also not recommended by the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration.
- Grease the doorman. Sure, a nice bottle of sparkling wine or a crisp hundo could work, but creativity and craftsmanship with this group count (e.g., a signed copy of Watership Down, a handmade plushie, a Moleskine sketchbook).
- Never fear begging, crying, faking credentials or the occasional white lie. Should all else fail, evoke the Explosive Diarrhea Clause.
- Don’t be a lone wolf. Once you’re in, look for somebody affable (e.g., kittens, squirrels, bunnies) and introduce yourself. Open with a compliment and proceed with smalltalk. Avoid politics, religion, Mika Brzezinski, your recurring nail fungus, yiffing, the media, that dream you had last Thursday, that one CSI episode, the health benefits of kale, or the fastest, most direct route to __________.
- Mind your manners. You’re human, so behave like a human. Running around barking like a dog or flapping your wings and screeching like an eagle sizing up its prey will not score you free tickets to Anthrocon.
- Flattery will get you everywhere: "That detail work on your dragon scales is amazeballs."
- Be a witness to the occasion. Carpe Diem!
Listing. I’ve been guilty of falling victim to this form as of late—perhaps because I’m the scattered working mother of a toddler—and though I’m pretty far from being anti-list, I felt like employing the technique in the above example was a cop-out, a convenient way for me to orchestrate the obvious: satire. Or worse, middle-school ridicule.
- I’ve been known to talk to myself to the point of my toddler asking, “Mommy, who are you talking to?”
- My dog, who also happens to be female, humps me. Mind you, I’m not on all fours or anything, but I’ve told myself her behavior isn’t really untoward. However, it is, in fact, disturbing. And untoward.
- I have an irrational fear of bees, wasps, hornets, flying ants that look like bees, anything bee-like or bee-ish. I will not only swat and run from them, but also catapult spaghetti inside a moving vehicle at the mere thought of their seemingly benign contact.
- When certain sport’s teams lose, for which I have zero control, it often affects my mood for the entire day … and possibly the next … and the next.
- Until I became a mother, I bathed. Almost daily.
- I have anxiety over playing the simplest of card games or doing the most basic of math.
- Via the phone, I’d prefer never to make reservations, doctor’s appointments, travel arrangements, inquiries into billing discrepancies, pizza orders, home repair requests, and so on and so on. If I had my druthers, I’d never answer my phone. When something requires dialing and then communication through dialing, ninety-five percent of the time I will ask my husband to do it, and he usually will do it. Because I do the laundry.
- Speaking of laundry, I will only buy Tide detergent. Ever.
- I can’t parallel park and refuse to relearn it. Thank God I live in Kalamazoo, MI.
- I’m a closet fan of Totino’s Pizza Rolls, words that end with n’, the Eagle’s song “Lyin’ Eyes,” Vanderpump Rules, and in certain cases, the deliberate, reckless use of clichés.
Despite consistent failure, it’s still my goal to avoid both.