Recently, I received a Facebook friend request from a name I hadn’t heard in any way, shape, or form in years: Jason C.

In an era where phishing, fraud, and cyber-bullying are at an all-time high, I was immediately suspect. In fact, I’m Gen X — so everything is suspect.

Just Say Yes

Last week I posted about my “Say Yes To Me Era.” Well, my introduction to sci-fi conventions happened during that timeframe.

As I expanded my orbit of co-workers into friends outside the cubicle farm, some of their friends eventually became my friends too.

At a house party on January 30, 2005 — Scott’s Sammamish Crash Pad. I believe it was technically a housewarming, even though it was a condominium.

That’s where I met Jason C.

Eventually we discovered there were four different Jasons floating around our social orbit. Add a generous amount of drinks to the equation, and we solved the problem the only way friend groups do:

We gave him a nickname. Jason became Vince. And years went by with more parties, and more gatherings. The usual twenty-something orbit of social gravity.

Then one day Vince previewed a question with Scott before asking me directly: “Hey Los… have you ever heard of NORWESCON? Or conventions in general?”

Fast-forward to today.

Instead of engaging through Facebook, I messaged him directly via mobile phone. “Bro? Broesph? NORWESCON Jedi Master? Is that you?”

His reply was simple. “Yes.”

That one word reply sent me barreling down Memory Lane — with the SeaTac DoubleTree Hotel standing there like a landmark at the center of it all.

Let me tell you about the first time I ever heard of a geek-hosted convention…

Junius Price

Jason gave me some serious coaching about NORWESCON. Like Jedi Master to Padawan levels of education and training. First things first: NORWESCON registration.

“Have you ever heard of Steampunk?” he asked.

“No, but I’ve heard of Cyberpunk. So… similar? Your stylistic view of technology? You dress up kinda like the Borg from Star Trek.”

“Sorta,” he said. “Except it’s gears, brass, copper, wood…”

I cut him off. “I love the cog people! That’s what they’re called.”

He facepalmed, complete with an eyeroll. “Yes, Los. Steampunk is neo-Victorian era. Imagine a world dominated by the steam engine — where the internal combustion engine was never invented. Think of a world that could’ve been in the 1800s.”

“Go on,” I said. “I’m listening and loving it… like McDonald’s.”

“Wow, okay,” he continued. “Have you played computer RPGs or tabletop RPGs?”

“Several. Dungeons & Dragons, of course, as the gateway game addiction. Then Robotech. Mostly Rifts, with a few campaigns in Shadowrun. I had a character or two, but I was usually the Game Master — Dungeon Master duties, storytelling, the whole thing. Why?”

Jason continued, “Well, for a convention you’ll want to be anonymous. Think of it like a three-day masquerade party. I suggest creating a character you can dress up as.”

“So… cosplay?” I answered.

“Exactly,” he confirmed.

Back at the Bayne Beer Garden — the Issaquah apartment I shared with WCP for several years — I went to work in the “laboratory.” Which is to say: my bedroom. That’s where I had wedged my beautiful, new, state-of-the-art iMac desktop computer — a gift from me to me — sitting proudly atop an IKEA workstation.

I started Googling name generators. Eventually I landed on a Steampunk-specific name generator. I clicked the dropdown menus:

Gender — male
Occupation — detective

Several names popped up. And of the options presented, I selected one. (Yes, you guessed it.) Junius Price, Steampunk Detective.

No lie. This is literally his origin story!

NORWESCON

NORWESCON: the premier convention in the Pacific Northwest.

It’s habitually hosted on Easter Weekend — not for symbolism, but for strategy. Off-season hotel rates. Discounted convention floor space. A practical alignment of fandom and finance. The Pacific Northwest still shaking off winter. Cherry blossoms trying. Cosplayers absolutely not waiting for better weather.

That Easter in 2010, Vince and my newly minted alter ego — Junius Price, Steampunk Detective — rolled up to the DoubleTree by Hilton in SeaTac to check in and unload our gear.

Then it was time for packet pickup.

The sliding hotel doors opened and the world changed temperature. Not literally — though convention halls run warm with body heat, fabric layers, and nervous energy — but atmospherically. It was the first time I had ever seen people unapologetically be what they loved.

Armor clanking in elevators. Wings negotiating doorframes. A Sith Lord holding a Starbucks.

And in the lobby alone my eye started to twitch from the sheer amount of visual information being received. Darth Vader walked by the side of a winged faerie. Indiana Jones was talking with Doctor Who.

Werewolves! Cinderella! Ron Weasley! And that was just the foyer.

My head was spinning. And nobody was explaining themselves. That was the revelation.

Back then, I didn’t have the vocabulary for it. I just knew it felt like stepping into a different frequency. Panels with names I didn’t fully understand. Authors signing books I hadn’t yet read. The dealer room — sensory overload — art prints, handcrafted jewelry, dice, leatherwork, indie paperbacks stacked like treasure.

I walked slowly, taking it in, trying to look like I belonged. Because at your first convention, you don’t yet know you already do. There’s something uniquely Northwest about NORWESCON. It isn’t flashy like San Diego Comic-Con. It isn’t overwhelming like Dragon Con. It feels… communal. Intimate in scale but expansive in imagination.

You run into the same people twice in one day. You accidentally join a lobby conversation that lasts an hour. You attend one panel and leave with three new reading recommendations and a new creative itch.

And if you’re anything like me — a storyteller at heart — something shifts. You stop being just a consumer of stories. You start imagining your own.

Maybe that’s why that first Norwescon sticks with me. Not because of a single panel, costume, or autograph — but because it was the first time I saw what creative community looks like when it gathers in one place.

Writers. Artists. Fans. Builders. Dreamers.

No gatekeeping. No explanation required.

Just: “Oh — you love this too?” There’s power in that.

Every Easter Weekend since, when the hotels fill again and badges are clipped to lanyards, there’s a small echo of that first moment. The doors open. The hum begins. And somewhere inside the noise is the same quiet truth: You belong here!

And maybe — just maybe — you have something to contribute.

---

NUMB3RS

Vince interrupted. “Hey, focus up, man. Do you know your number?”

I was immediately confused. “My registration number?”

He sighed heavily. “No. On the hotness scale — have you been told? Or can you guess?”

I actually blushed. “Er… um… no. Haven’t been told. But if I had to guess? A solid six or seven. Somewhere between the Hunchback of Notre Dame and Sexiest Man Alive 2010. Again… why?”

“Well,” he said, gesturing around the room, “here — in this world, for this weekend — you’re two to three points higher. And to some women here…”

He paused. “You’re a dime.”

My eyebrows must have arched. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“You’ll see,” he murmured.

I shrugged and hustled to catch up with him as we headed toward registration.

Thankfully, NORWESCON had an app for the panel schedule. I immediately started programming the hell out of my time there.

Vince and I had completely different interests, but the system worked perfectly — kind of like college. You attend your classes, then meet up between them.

And that’s exactly what we did. However… There was one panel we were both fired up to attend.

Monster Mash

Vince and I read the panel description together and immediately decided we were in. The participation fee was five bucks. The session ran from 10 a.m. to 1 p.m., which is a huge chunk of prime convention time — but it sounded too good to pass up.

Totally worth it!

We sat down at elongated tables. For the fee, each participant received a couple of stuffed animals and a sewing kit. Then the panelist explained the assignment.

“Rip the arms off… and sew them back onto a different stuffy. Mix and match. Get creative.”

~ Mimi Noyes

Vince and I looked at each other. And immediately went HAM. It was the most fun you can have as a non-seamstress EVER. Jason and I weren’t Steampunk Pinkerton detectives anymore.

We were just bros having the absolute best time in a very female-dominated sewing room. But this wasn’t some quiet quilting circle.

This was more like an elementary school group project, complete with child-like glee and a social contract: if someone across the table had the color thread you needed, you had to make friends.

Share and share alike. So naturally I turned on the Bayne Charm™.

“Hey there,” I said, glancing at the badge pinned to her corset. “I love what you’ve got going on here. Say… can I borrow that brown thread for a moment?”

The woman in the purple corset looked me up and down like I was a piece of convention-floor man-meat. “Well hello, handsome,” she said. “Looking like THAT, you can borrow more than just my thread.”

I froze. “Uh… okay. Thanks… but the thread will do.”

I made a tactical retreat back to my station. By the time I returned, Jason was already chatting up another woman nearby.

She glanced over at me. “My, my,” she said. “Who’s your friend? Is he single? Or at least for con?”

Jason and I exchanged a look — the kind of look Archie and Junius Price would give each other before a case got interesting. He smirked.

And right then it clicked! That’s why he told me to be aware of my number.

At the end of the session, the panelists walked the room inspecting our stitched-together monstrosities like judges at the Westminster Dog Show — if the dogs had been assembled by mad scientists.

They leaned in close. Turned heads sideways. Tugged gently on limbs to make sure they were actually sewn on and not just… wishfully attached.

The room had that nervous, giggling energy you get when a class project is about to be graded — except instead of book reports, the table was full of plush abominations that looked like they escaped a toy store during a lightning storm.

One creature had the body of a giraffe, the wings of a dragon, and the face of what used to be a teddy bear that clearly had some questions about the life choices that brought it here.

Another looked like a platypus that had lost a fight with a sock drawer.

Mine? Well… mine looked like something Junius Price might investigate, not create. (STILL can’t remember what I named him.)

The panelists murmured approvingly here and there.

“Ooooh, good limb integration.”

“Nice stitching.”

“Creative use of… whatever this used to be.”

People clapped. Laughed. Held their monsters up like proud parents at a kindergarten art show. And that’s when it hit me. Three hours earlier, I had walked into NORWESCON thinking it was going to be a conference. Panels. Speakers. Maybe a little cosplay.

Instead, I had just spent an entire morning surgically rearranging stuffed animals with a room full of strangers, laughing like a kid at recess. And somehow… It made perfect sense.

Jason caught my eye from across the table and gave me that same smirk from earlier.

The one that said, See? I told you.

And in that moment — somewhere between the loose thread, the coffee cups, and a table full of plush Franken-critters — I realized something important about NORWESCON. This place wasn’t just about costumes.

It wasn’t even just about fandom. It was about permission. Permission to play. Permission to create.
Permission to be weird in the most joyful way possible.

And honestly? I was already looking forward to next Easter.

After a few more panels, it was time for a meal break: dinner. Vince suggested we unplug for a couple hours — grab food, maybe rest up before the famed room parties. At the time, I had no idea what he meant. But I trusted the Jedi Master. We grabbed dinner somewhere off-site, decompressing a bit from the sensory overload of the day. After hours of panels, people, costumes, and conversation, the quiet of a normal restaurant felt almost surreal.

Then we headed back to the hotel for nap time! A couple hours later, the alarm went off.

Vince rolled over, stretched, and said the words that would introduce me to an entirely new side of convention culture. “Alright… time to get ready.”

THEE REASON for Con: Room Parties

Once we woke up from our couple-hour nap, we each did a deck change. Because for the nighttime activities, you’d better come correct. Daytime NORWESCON is panels, workshops, and creativity.

Nighttime NORWESCON? That’s when the hotel transforms.

Doors open. Music spills into the hallways. People drift from room to room like social butterflies — or curious hobbits wandering through taverns. But before we left the room, Vince ran through what I now recognize as the Room Party Readiness Checklist ...

“Are you prepared?” he inquired.

“Yes, sir. Appropriate nighttime cosplay — something with ventilation, because with all those bodies in a small space, dancing, talking, music… it’ll be hot AF.”

“Cash?”

“Yep. Hella cheddar in the form of ones and fives for the drink donation jar. Because of the liquor license they have to post that they can’t technically sell it to me.”

He nodded.

“Protection?”

“Yeah, I have it… but I don’t think I’ll need it—”

This time he cut me off. “You already forgot the Monster Mash? Those women were stone-cold sober. Can you imagine them blasted?”

I laughed. “I’m still not convinced, Vince.”

He smirked and headed for the door. “Let’s go, Casanova. You’re gonna break some hearts tonight. Please leave some crumbs for me.”

And just like that, Junius Price and his handler stepped out into the hallway — ready to explore the wildest part of NORWESCON. Because behind every hotel door that night?

There was another world waiting.

The Hallway of a Thousand Doors

At the time I said I was prepared for it. In retrospect — meaning the next morning — I clearly wasn’t.

Literally velvet ropes split the Hallway of a Thousand Doors, but only in front of certain suites.

Want Star Wars metal? Go to Suite 115. Hoth (Metal) was rocking out — a Seattle-based metal band known for incorporating Star Wars themes and lore into their music, with song titles like The Rancor and Ghosts of Alderaan.

Want pirates? Head over to Suite 125.

Doors open. Music spills into the hallways. People drift from room to room like social butterflies — or curious hobbits wandering through taverns. Each room party has a theme.

Some are hosted by publishers. Some by fan groups. Some by artists. Other room parties were hosted by people who just really love a particular corner of sci-fi culture.

Some offer snacks. Some offer drinks, Jell-O shots. Some offer storytelling. But all of them offer community.

And that’s when Vince finally explained the real strategy. “We’re not staying in one place,” he said. “We’re going exploring.”

The hallway smelled like popcorn, rum, incense, and dry-ice fog machines. Klingons were arguing about opera. Someone in a steampunk corset was pouring shots. A Mandalorian walked past carrying a tray of brownies.

It was basically a tavern crawl for nerds of all disciplines.

Vince made one thing clear, though: toward the end of the night we were posting up at the Biohazard Room Party.

Then he dropped a question on me. “Do you know the difference between geeks and nerds, Los?”

By this point we were about four or five drinks in, and Vince was no longer really Vince. At conventions, people drift into their personas. The name badge might say one thing, but you wear your convention credentials like a rock concert backstage pass.

Without that badge? No admittance.

Doors, ropes, volunteer security — everything revolved around that little laminated badge swinging from a lanyard. It was your passport to the madness.

“No,” I grumbled. “I have a feeling you’re gonna tell me.”

“While often used interchangeably,” he began, leaning against the hallway wall like a professor who’d just discovered a chalkboard, “a nerd is generally defined as a studious intellectual passionate about academic subjects — math, science, history — often associated with a little social awkwardness.”

He took a sip and continued.

“Conversely, a geek is an enthusiast devoted to specific hobbies or niche interests — technology, gaming, pop culture. Generally better looking… and possessing social skills. Nerds focus on ideas and theory. Geeks collect memorabilia.”

I nodded slowly. “I am a Steampunk geek, by that definition.”

He shrugged, “Or simply a Steampunker.”

“I’m also a photography geek!”

He frowned.

“It’s a bender, don’t be deep.”

Then the half-drunk grin appeared.

“Keep it light. Keep it… Los-like.”

And with that, the doors of the Biohazard Room Party swung open — music pounding, lights flashing, bodies moving — and we stepped inside.

Somewhere between the hallway tavern crawl and the Biohazard dance floor, I realized Norwescon wasn’t really about panels, costumes, or even fandom.

It was about finding your people.

Con Is Community

On Sunday morning, while we were packing up our gear in the hotel room at the convention host — the DoubleTree — Vince inevitably asked the question.

“So… whatcha think?”

I paused.

“Well,” I said slowly, “I attended with an open mind and heart. I was richly rewarded — which honestly was no surprise there.”

I grinned.

“CAN. NOT. WAIT. FOR. NEXT. YEAR.”

He smiled back.

“Glad to hear it. Early registration usually opens around August. You’re in the system now, so you’ll be notified.”

And notified I was. Over the next few years we attended NORWESCON 33 (2010), 34 (2011), 35 (2012), and 36 (2013). My last one was NORWESCON 36.

And no — it wasn’t because of an incident, or anything negative. It’s simply my nature as an Aquarian male. After four consecutive NORWESCONs, plus several smaller conventions Vince and I attended during that same stretch, I felt like I had experienced everything I wanted to experience.

Panels.
Cosplay.
Room parties.
Community.

I had mastered the convention circuit, at least for that chapter of my life. So I did what writers do. I wrote the final chapter. Closed the book. And moved on to the next story.

Cons — as in conventions? Done like dinner.