CAPTAIN’S PERSONAL LOG
UBS CASUAL NCC-REVOKED
Commodore Allan Cormach Erickson reporting
What a night.
The 10th Anniversary Toga Party and Gladiatorial Games was held yesterday, and it was for many reasons a memorable experience.
The Games themselves went well, with a generous amount of gratuitous violence and shameless flaunting of masculinity (and even some femininity). Several of the combatants were dragged out of the arena (which was emplaced on the Hangar Deck, temporarily replacing the dance floor with a sand-filled pit sprinkled with scorpions and some cool looking snakes) with only minor injuries and amputations, proving once again that all the Starfleet training in the galaxy can't make a redshirt into a warrior. We think we got all the body parts sorted out, but Doctor MacLaren still looked a bit worried as he was handed the Zip-Loc bags.
Later in the evening, I was killed.
Oh, it's all right...now. Apparently, I was given poison instead of alcohol at some point. This had the really uncasual effect of knocking me on my ass and arresting my neural and respiratory functions in something like six seconds.
Luckily, Lt. Commander Havoc and Dr. MacLaren managed to get me into stasis in time. They then proceeded to activate the ship's little-known Emergency Commanding Officer Hallucination, a fairly accurate simulacrum of yours truly which took my place while the good doctor set about repairing the damage to my body. After the poison was ceremoniously flushed from my tubes, the Hallucination's memories were downloaded into me, thereby allowing me to have the experience of the rest of the party, which in this case included a wonderful Technicolor belch produced by a large humanoid guest named Lunk. I had never seen a quart of Romulan Ale expelled with such force. Some of the stains, I'm told, will remain until the affected bulkheads are replaced in drydock.
Because the poison thing was found to be an accident, Captain Valharicus was unable to harm anyone. This has caused him some feelings of stress, so I have suggested a trip to ancient Rome to ease his mind. He is considering the vacation.
Our next mission will be a Klingon Beach
Party, and we are presently going down the list of planets that we haven't
been banned from to find one with a sufficiently large shoreline to handle
Damage control crews are still repairing the hangar deck following the Gladiatorial Games. This was to be expected; after all, it's not that often that I allow live lions to roam free among the partygoers. Luckily, we had a sufficient stash of replacement limbs on hand (heh, heh) and all the guests were happy with the results. I still worry about Ensign Snoz' decision to have an Orion Slave Girl's arm grafted in place of his own, but...
Modifications are now under way to the Casual
which will allow us to separate the primary and secondary hulls...and
then put them back together. The coming apart thing is standard emergency
procedure, although no ship of the Constitution class has ever had
to use it. After hearing all this praise for the Galaxy class and
it's ability to become two ships, I've decided that we have to do what
we can to play catch-up. Flynn and I figure that we can randomly separate
the ship during party operations, thereby causing great fun and confusion
amongst the crew and guests. Sounds like a plan, assuming we come up with
a method with a bit more structural integrity than the current one: Lots
of duct tape.
Today, my valiant party Marine commander, Captain Valharicus, departed for an extended sabbatical to undergo extensive training. He will be using our friend, the Guardian of Time, to pass back to the declining years of the Roman Empire, where he hopes to be taught the finer points of utter debauchery and senseless decadence, along with a modicum of lead poisoning. He should return no worse for wear, and with a new depth of knowledge to bring to his job of ensuring that all party operations are enjoyed to the fullest extent by all participants.
Preliminary plans for the upcoming Klingon
Beach Party have run into a snag. Due to an unforseen scheduling glitch,
the date for the Beach Party will be moved from 19606.29 to 19606.22. This
will avoid a large Klingon holiday devoted to the hunting of Tribbles;
we were pretty worried that our Klingon guests might start mistaking the
poor-quality hairpieces currently worn by so many Starfleet officers as
the small eating and breeding machines. I will advise all ports to reschedule
shuttle flights accordingly.
Preparations for the Klingon Beach Party ran into yet another minor roadblock today.
Apparently, we have now placed the festivities on the same date as a Klingon holiday which commemorates the anniversary of the death of the Klingon gods. It seems that the Klingons grew weary of their own deities' attempts to control them millenia ago, and decided to bump them off. It wasn't easy, as we understand it, but they claim that it worked; the Klingons have no gods now except their individual, family, and racial honor. The closest remaining being who might be considered godlike is their revered and legendary hero Kahless, who is known as the father of the Klingon warrior way.
In any event, the Klingons will likely be celebrating the holiday in their traditional manner: They will get together in large groups and beat each other senseless. We have decided not to reschedule the Beach Party again, and have informed the Klingon High Council that they are still welcome to attend, so long as they confine their celebratory pummeling to members of their own race.
Other than that, the ship is in good shape. The refit at Starbase 151 has left us with a new set of perfectly matched Leeding FWG-1 nacelles, and it cost a boatload of latinum to have them removed from the Mk IX/A they were installed on at the Fleet Museum! Luckily, the curator/Chief Historian at the museum is something of a recluse, and was so impressed with his "complimentary" week aboard the Casual that he practically de-installed the nacelles himself. Of course, we gave the museum our old units, which had served us well since their purchase after the loss of the doomed UBS Relax.
The difficulty we continue to face when procuring replacement parts has again caused several of my officers to consider the purchase of a somewhat...less broken-in vessel. Flynn and I have refused to listen to such rubbish, of course. The Casual may be several decades out-of-date, but she's our obsolete, unregistered, structurally unsound party ship, damnit! It's taken us years to get her right. I'm not about to turn her into razor blades just so some junior peons can enjoy a more efficient head.
There will only be one Casual, now
and forever (or at least until we hit something really, really big).
Another successful mission has come and gone.
The 3rd Annual Klingon Beach Party has concluded with only minimal casualties, owing primarily to the stunning lack of Klingon participation. The only Klingon-like entity present was Lieutenant Commander Havoc, who had himself surgically altered for the occasion. He had a lobster added to his cranium.
The festivities were marred by several minor incidents and mishaps, but none of them was serious enough to cause a party shutdown. After all, a few minor misadventures can only add to our later reminiscing over the event, after we have safely eluded all vestiges of pursuit.
Our first sign of trouble came when we discovered that the length of shoreline we intended to use for the party was covered with discarded medical supplies. Quickly circumventing disaster, Dr. MacLaren contacted some of his old buddies in Starfleet Medical and made tham a deal on some "gently administered" hypos, bandages, and other implements. We made quite a profit on the deal, and SM even came within the hour to haul the stuff. During the wait, we amused ourselves by trying to communicate with an odd melon-shaped lifeform we came across. When it refused to respond, we deduced that it might be dehydrated and in need of fluids. One of the guests quickly came to the creature's rescue, force-feeding it several ounces of high potency alcohol to aid its distress. When this failed to revive the alien, we decided to eat it.
Later in the day, Ensign Snoz managed to wander into the bonfire, setting himself ablaze and ruining several really good-looking Molotov S'mores. A group of crew quickly guided him into the lake, where the flames were doused. Luckily, due to the exceptionally high alcohol content of the atmosphere directly surrounding Snoz, the flames considered his skin and clothing to be an inferior fuel source and left him relatively unharmed. In fact, it wasn't until we replayed the sensor logs of the event that he even noticed.
Near the end of the day, our supplies of Romulan Ale and Everclear began to fail. A clever and extremely unlikely use of transporters saved the day, however, when Commander Fugit decided to try removing the alcohol which had already been consumed and eliminated by the guests from the sanitation system directly, before processing and component breakdown. He was moderately successful, and we gained a few more hours of party fuel. At the night's end, Fugit made the unfortunate mistake of mentioning his method to several guests; within moments, there was a colorful epidemic of heaving. Nevertheless, the majority of the guests seemed to enjoy themselves.
One momentous event took place at the party as well. After his amazing performance at the Gladiatorial Games, where he single-handedly consumed almost 144 ounces of tainted Romulan Ale to keep it from harming the guests, we have decided to add Ensign Lunk to the ship's crew as the official Emergency Alcohol Disposal System. Whenever any alcohol requires quick and hazardous consumption, Ensign Lunk will be called upon to handle it. He seems quite pleased with his position; in fact, he was seen to be practicing his duties most of the day.
Well, it's off to my Brandy-filled hot tub
now, for a bit of relaxation before we leave Earth's orbit in the morning.
Hopefully, Brandy hasn't been waiting too long....
Well, I'm home again.
For the past 2.5 weeks, I have had the pleasure of attending one of Terra's most amazing events: The Pennsic War. The War is a huge temporary live recreational theme park set up each August in the state of Pennsylvania. It's pretty much a stylized representation of Terra's so-called Medieval Period, with plenty of chivalry, debauchery, and chicanery to go around. This was the 401st annual Pennsic War, and the attendance figures predictably dropped from last year's record 1.3 million down to a more manageable 977,000.
I was trying to maintain a low profile at the event, but several former guests managed to see through my carefully applied disguise of an antique Groucho Marx glasses-and-nose, and I was forced (quite willingly, I assure you) to give several classes on mid-11th century medieval revelry and courtship rites, something I learned quite a bit about during my sojuourn through the Guardian a few years back. (I left out my rather unfortunate role in the Battle of Hastings, of course; no use inviting investigation, is there?)
Of course, once recognized, I was the guest of honor at several rather exceptional parties held in the Raucous Zone, a special Fuller-domed camping area only thirty miles from the primary War site. The most impressive of these was an amazingly entertaining toga party held by a household called Darkyard, a group of 2,000 Roman re-enactors and their families from throughout the Federation. They had constructed a complete Roman bath, several private homes, a Colesseum, and a small replica of the Circus Maximus. The party only lasted four days, but would have gone longer if the replicators hadn't failed after only 1800 kegs of synthale. In a fit of gratitude for the wonderful party and the attentions of their very solicitous ladies, I decided to cover the cost of the affair myself. After all, what's 20,000 strips of latimun to the Casual?
But, in all, I'm glad to be home aboard my trusty, worn-in ship once again. We're having a special reception tonight for some folks I met at the War who have decided to join the Gemmorah's staff, and I plan to choose a governor for our colony of Relaxia from among them and try to recruit more colonists at the next War.
Also, during my absence, Captain Valharicus returned from his leave and had the official Party Marine uniform altered to a more traditional Roman design. This might be a bit coincidental, but that's okay...I have decided to build a lion pit near the wardroom, just to keep the Marines busy. At random intervals, we'll release the well-fed beasts into the wardroom and see what happens. The Marines will then be sent in to calm down the crew, but I think we'll spray them with a raw meat chemical signature first. Then, we'll broadcast the ensuing excitement throughout the crew spaces and in Officer's Country.
Who said danger isn't entertaining?
I have news of a most unfortunate nature to report today, news that bears little humor and much sorrow. For the first time in many years, I have no levity to bring to bear on the day's loss.
This morning, at 0300, I lost one of my best friends.
This morning, at 0300, my cat lost a battle with diabetes and left this drab and meager existence forever.
His name was Reuben, and he has shared my life for the past 13 years. He and I didn't always get along, but he has been a part of me for as long as I can remember. He had his own place aboard the Casual, and was well known (and in some cases, feared) by guests and crew alike.
I would say more, but this is, after all, a page devoted to lifting spirits, not lowering them with reminders of reality's grip. I just wanted to write something here.
For those that are interested, there will
be a remembrance during the next mission, the Come As You Aren't Party,
which is in the final planning stages.
Ah, another month, another mission.
Although Reuben has been sorely missed, a recent expedition returned to the Casual with a new feline mascot, a small jet-black beast with an evil glint in his eye and a penchant for self-serving behavior. I promptly named him Avon.
Preparations for the upcoming Come As You Aren't Party are proceeding well, but an unfortunate loss of most of the Casual's long-range transmitters due to an overloaded beer tap has prevented us from sending out official word to as many dignitaries as we normally would. This should be corrected by the weekend; Commander Fugit has been deprived of red licorice until the repairs are completed, assuring a speedy recovery. Now if we can only find a way to stop the nitrous oxide leak on deck 12 in time...
Some of my officers have been annoying me
about a possible salvage operation. Seems that the Federation flagship,
the venerable Galaxy-class USS Enterprise, ran into some trouble
with some Klingon babes and her warp core recently and had to be landed
in a less than graceful manner on a planetary body. At least, her primary
hull did. As such, I have been considering salvaging the downed saucer
for use as a giant restaurant/casino complex on the Relaxia colony. So
far, however, none of my officers has been able to come up with a good
plan for transporting the saucer, which has more than likely suffered severe
damage to its spaceframe and structural integrity, to the Dyson sphere
intact. Perhaps I'll make it a contest...
What a wondrous night.
The Lazy Crew Party was a roaring success, thanks to the variety and ingenuity of our always-inventive guests.
I was concerned about such things as the food, because we had wanted the guests to help provide catering at this shindig. I need not have worried. Early in the party, three Federation tugs loaded with containers of everything from Terran shrimp to leg of some unknown frighteningly large birdlike beast pulled alongside and began tractoring chow directly into the hangar bay.
We had planned an early round of the infamous Beer Chess, but many of the pieces were consumed before the game by Commander Spaughtt and had to be replenished from private stocks. As a result, the game was delayed by several hours. It was a good time nonetheless, with only three serious casualties and no loss of bile.
I must compliment all my guests and several
of my crew, most especially the Goddess-Empress and my Yo!Women!, on the
wonderful time reported by all.
I have very, very important goings on to report today.
Yesterday evening, after a lengthy discussion of the current leaderless status of the colony of Relaxia, Commodore Flynn made one of the most important decisions of his Barfleet career.
He has decided to retire from active Barfleet service.
This decision was motivated by several factors, not the least of which, I'm sure, was the chance to spend the rest of his days with his lovely companion (the able and charming Chief Surgeon) in a position of unprecendented power and wealth. Flynn has decided to take on the post of Governor of the colony of Relaxia.
Relaxia, a colony set up within the abandoned alien Dyson Sphere near Norpin V, has been thriving and flourishing for over a year with the influx of funds, materiel, and raw manual labor provided by the Casual. The colonists now number 5, 212, many of whom were relocated there voluntarily in return for a cancellation of their stupendous gambling debts accrued aboard the Casual and the soverign Hotel Gemmorah. At this time, we have decided that Relaxia is fully prepared to become a completely independent political entity, and are anxiously awaiting the appointment of Flynn as Governor to grant full independent status to the colony.
Commanders Hardemann and Fugit, along with Lt. Commander Havoc, have devised a means of altering the Sphere's star to make it stable once again. So far, the harmful radiation surges reported by Enterprise have been kept in check by a ring of Dejector Shield sattelites around the sun. Our new method, one which is considerably more expensive, involves dumping thousands of tonnes of warm milk laced with Bailey's Irish Cream into the star's core, rendering it sort of sleepy and less likely to spurt off huge quantities of deadly radiation. The modifications to the star will be complete within two standard months, leaving Flynn free to concentrate on more important problems like reproduction, alcohol manufacturing, and what to do if the builders ever return to claim their mega-world.
Commodore Flynn's retirement celebration is certain to be the single largest party ever held aboard the Casual, and is currently in the planning stages. (He has already vetoed a plan by certain officers to build a thousand-foot statue of himself anchored to the Casual's primary hull, thank the gods.)
Further planning will be a slow, cautious process. At this point, I will need to promote Captain Sulleven to Commodore to balance out my own dangerous tendencies; he's overjoyed, mainly because that means he can find out what sleep's all about again. As to the position of Captain, which Sulleven has held for many years...that will have to be decided later, because any officer who thinks he's a candidate will likely have himself killed and cut into component atoms to avoid the job.
But I'm sure we can find a sucker somewhere...
Damn. I forgot to record a log after Flynn's Retirement.
Of course, that might be because I don't actually remember what happened after I prostrated myself at the temple of porcelain...
Well, that's okay. It was fun, and changes were made. Flynn is now the Governor of the Colony of Relaxia, and his lovely First Lady is our former Chief Surgeon, Dr. O'Connor. Dr. MacLaren, the Casual's CMO, is now also her Captain, and former Captain Alexander Sulleven has been promoted to Co-Commodore. Other promotions took place, but you probably aren't all that interested, really, so we'll move along.
It's time for the MARCON 32 After-Action Report!
The Casual, armed with a vast array of entertainment hardware and potent potables supplied by the amazingly cool folks at Yukon Jack, traveled to MarCon 32 expecting to be competing against some of the finest room parties in fandom. After all, MarCon is legendary for room parties, and we were really looking forward to some stiff and exhilirating competition. As Lt. Stark piloted the Runaround Indulgent to the Con, Captain MacLaren and I worried whether we were ready to make this attempt.
As it turned out, it was MarCon that was unready for the likes of the Casual.
On Friday night, Captain MacLaren and several other officers accompanied me as I made the rounds of the parties going on. There were only a few, scattered about, but we had a very good time at them and enjoyed the beverages and social atmosphere immensely. My officers and I made many new acquaintences and contacts, and made our presence known. We looked upon the parties and agreed that while they were pleasant and fun, they simply weren't as earth-shattering, as mind-boggling, as ours was sure to be on Saturday. We told ourselves (probably correctly) that it was Friday, and that room parties just aren't as big a deal on the first night.
So, along came Saturday. The crew worked overtime to prepare the suite for the coming debacle, making a calm and mild-mannered hotel room into a proper and fitting Dispensary. We suffered some setbacks when we discovered that the hotel's phone system was sadly incompatible with our advanced live photo technology, but quick action by Commander Fugit saved the day. As the appointed hour drew nigh, squads of Party Marines and Yo!Women! were dispatched to place directional signage and to entertainingly accost as many individuals as possible.
At 8pm, we already had guests drinking at the Dispensary. By 9pm, there was barely room to reach the bar.
The exceedingly skilled and definitely underrated Medical Staff, only distantly requiring supervision by Captain MacLaren, were truly a wonder to behold. The 5-man team was a blur of alcoholic synergy and mixological skill, supplying our guests with much-needed refreshment. The biggest hits beverage-wise were the Yukon Torpedoes and the Black and Blues, both made using products provided by our sponsor, the incredibly wonderful folks at Yukon Jack.
Our Yukon stocks and the other cool items sent by Yukon Jack were going quickly as midnight approached. By then, we had set off the hotel's fire alarm system, run out of beer and tequilas, and been covertly visited by employees of a certain lodging establishment that must, for their protection, remain nameless. The suite's air conditioning system was proving woefully inadequate to the task we had asked of it, and a very attractive girl was having her body painted by some of the officers and several guests. Needless to say, this was something of an attraction.
Curious about how other room parties might be faring, I sent out more squads of Party Marines to gather intelligence data. They returned triumphant with the news that no other room parties were a threat to our ruthless pursuit of the Best Room Party title. Even the fabled Scorpion's Den was reported as falling a bit short, although I found this somewhat difficult to believe.
As the night proceeded on, Lt. Dagar became a casualty of his own pathetic alcohol tolerance and was returned to his quarters in the case of his Yo!Woman!, where he proceeded to dance naked in the shower. Luckily, we were warned in time to collect photographic evidence.
By 3am, more than 1500 people had passed through the Casual's door, and our dispensary was actually running dry. The Medical staff, it must be said, did an incredible job of improvising with what ingredients remained. Soon after 3, we were informed "unofficially" that we had won, by unanimous decision of the 3 judges, the title of Best Room Party. (As of this writing, we still have recieved no "official" word; if any of the Con staff attempted to visit us today, we missed them.)
After celebrating for a while, we were forced to shut down the party at 4am when my officers began losing consciousness. Bidding the crew goodnight, I reluctantly became comatose myself.
So, my friends, we did it. The UBS Casual, with the help of a very large number of amazingly laid back guests, has made its mark. We arrived at MarCon without knowing for certain what to expect or how we would be received. We made new friends, provided entertainment for hundreds, and dispensed vast and disturbing quantities of free alcohol. This was made possible by many people, first and foremost among them the excellent people at Yukon Jack.
To all accounts, the Casual Room Party was like no other ever seen at MarCon. Not having been to a previous MarCon, I can't vouch for the accuracy of this most prized of compliments, but I will say witf full confidence that our party will be the standard by which all other MarCon parties are judged next year.
Which means that next year, we'll have to
do it all over again. Just better.
Those reading my logs in future generations will no doubt wonder why so few of them have been included in the public access database. That's simple: I usually dictate complete gibberish while totally preoccupied with various curvaceous distractions and during periods of a marked sobriety vacuum, making interpretation of my words a rather problematic task. To keep future readers from losing slack or becoming frustrated while trying to interpret phrases like, "There was a...unnnhhh...fluctu...aaahhh...tion in the star...ooooooo...board nacellllllllle earlier todAYYYYYY!!!" I have decided to place in the public database only entries that are reasonably free from such distractions. As a result, it looks like there will be some massive gaps in the publicly available logs.
Anyway. The new Medical interns are working out quite well, and Dr. MacLaren is sure that he can begin transferring some of his duties in that are over to them in the near future, allowing him to concentrate more on his position as my XO. He has finally gotten accustomed to the lack of sleep that the XO job requires; I seldom see him trying to sneak a nap in a jefferies tube or a drink cooler any more. Apparently his body has finally come to accept the fact that sleep is simply a rare and treasured commodity and has given up the yawning, the irritability, and the hallucinations. On the other hand, Commodore Sulleven has had nothing but regrets since his promotion allowed him to resume a more-or-less regular sleep schedule; Dr. MacLaren is certain that the 290 hour nap that Alex took as soon as he was promoted was the opportunity needed by the curious alien parasites that have taken up residence in my co-Commodore's spine.
Speaking of Commodore Sulleven...since his infestation last year, he has been coming slowly to some sort of non-verbal arrangement with the still-unnamed alien parasite colony inside him. They are now beginning to allow him to drink and such again, in return for his occasional use of the word "melpharaschistic," a word we think refers to either the aliens' race, homeworld, or religion. Since the aliens are still pretty much an unknown quantity, and because further investigation could result in Alex's untimely death, we're letting them do their own thing and simply assisting Alex to live a relatively normal existence. We have had to do some extraordinary and heroic things to keep his Yo!Woman! calm during this extended period. Luckily, as soon as Alex's incapacity to perform certain...duties...was clearly understood, several officers, crew, cooks, guests, and inanimate objects began volunteering to lend a hand to her...at this point, everything seems to proceeding satisfactorily.
The big planning session for our MarCon Cruise is coming up on Saturday, and everything appears to be moving along pretty well. Arrangements have been made with the governments and races involved, including the signing of a non-destruction agreement by the Casual and a non-immolation clause by the crew. The operators of the on-site facilities we will be using have guaranteed more air handling and trash disposal equipment, alleviating two of our biggest problems from our previous MarCon journey. At the planning session, we should be able to finally reach a consensus on such troubling details as the proper mood lighting for the cruise, the shape of the glassware, and the length of hemline requirements.
We'll see what happens.
UBS CASUAL NCC-REVOKED
Commodore Allan Cormach Erickson reporting
MarCon 33 After-Action Report
I know, I know...it's amazing how long it takes me to remember enough
about the big parties to record a log of them. Well, it's finally
time. Here, without further ado, is the amazingly boring Marcon
33 After-Action Report.
Captain MacLaren and I departed for the Hyatt at 1000 hours, packing
my shuttlecraft Slack to her theoretical limit. As expected, we arrived
on-site at the Hyatt Regency prior to 1400.
Once on-site, we quickly went about contacting the proper representatives from both the Hyatt and MarCon. We discussed final issues with the Hyatt’s Convention Services Manager, Rita, and had no surprises from either her or the MarCon reps. It started looking like this thing would go off without a hitch.
We also informed our sponsor’s rep, Rick Hines, of our arrival and made arrangements to take delivery of this year’s trove of Yukon Jack treasures. Late in the day, we met Rick in the Convention Center parking structure to take possession. This year’s items included a host of shirts, a bunch of tin Yukon bottle signs, and a case of Permafrost shot glasses.
After we had registered and settled in, Captain MacLaren and I began making the rounds of the small room parties happening on Friday. There were a few memorable moments, especially in the party on 6 hosted by the proprietor of The Rowan Tree, but for the most part Friday was uneventful. My Yo!Woman! (Madame Griselda) and her personal aide arrived late, and Zelda had further work to do on my new uniform, so we were forced to leave them behind while a group of Casual officers led by the Captain and I took over a large table at the Hyatt’s bar until last call.
I was up early to get into the Taft Room as soon as possible. The Hyatt actually opened it for us at about 11:30, and we promptly began setting up shop.
The better part of the afternoon was spent in the conversion of the
Taft Room into a proper Casual area. Hyatt staff and engineers were
in and out, setting up a phone line, replacing burned out lights, and cranking
down the air conditioning as far as possible in anticipation of a heavy
thermal load later. We examined the dispensary facilities and found
them to be most satisfactory for our needs. In fact, after the makeshift
dispensary we were forced to utilize last year, the Taft Room’s dual bars
were almost too good to be true.
A potential problem reared its head early on: the organizer(s) of one of the high school proms happening near the Taft Room expressed concern that we might attempt to stage a crashing of their celebration. The response from both the Casual and several others was unanimous: “Why bother?” We were far more worried that some of the promgoers might try to invade our little shindig. In the end the worst that happened was a good bit of open-mouthed staring by teenaged males whenever our Yo!Women! made a sojourn to the restrooms.
The place was nearly ready at 6pm when I retired to the Command Suite to get into proper Casual uniform. Since the Command Suite was also the designated dressing are for the Yo!Women!, I must admit that I lingered a bit longer than was absolutely necessary. As such, I got back to the Taft after the doors had already opened. This could have allowed me to make a grand and pompous entrance, but I declined the opportunity and decided to slip in quietly.
The door NCO was again the stalwart SGT Delgrath, an imposing figure who reprised his excellent performance as last year’s door guy. Nobody gets past him uncarded; there were several ladies throughout the night who thanked him profusely for checking their I.D.’s, something many of them had not experienced in many years.
The dance floor and stage were the centers of attention, as planned. The Engineering R&D Team created an amazing stage display that went well beyond even my expectations; it was praised by guests and crew alike. Not that the display was the primary attraction…in fact, there are probably dozens of guests who had no idea there was anything on stage other than our wonderful entertainers. The response to the girls was highly enthusiastic; even Hyatt employees who had reason to come into the Taft Room seemed mesmerized by the on-stage activities. Commander Thomas remained close at hand to ensure that the enthusiasm of the guests remained at acceptable levels, just in case.
As the night wore on, I was forced to procure additional dispensary supplies twice. We acquired two quarter-kegs of somewhat acceptable beer from the Hyatt, followed by a run to Big Bear for additional mixers and well liquors. The Hyatt’s inspector kept tabs on both of the dispensaries, and even he seemed to be enjoying himself.
Due to the larger than expected crowd, we were unable to hold as many activities as we had originally planned. We did manage a few favorites, though. A few guests tried their hand at Beer Chess, although they decided to alter the game a bit and it might be better to call it Yukon Chess. Towards midnight, the Goddess-Empress presided over a rousing bout of Bobbing for Trout (v2.0) that the guests seemed to enjoy immensely. At around 1AM, newly commissioned Casual officer Major Johnson (actually a member of a friendly little group known as Bureau 13) handled the M.C. duties for our Amateur Dance Contest. Unfortunately there were fewer participants from the crowd than I expected, forcing me to open the floor to Casual crew. The prize (a $100 G.C. from Frederick’s of Hollywood) was thus won by a lovely pair of ladies from our crew.
Late in the night, around Last Call, I remembered that I wanted to give the ladies in the audience something to applaud as well and authorized Donal to allow male dancers on stage. This, of course, went over extremely well with the assembled female guests.
We experienced very few problems during the party. Our only recurring headache was the status of our internet connection and the lack of sufficient light for the video camera; this was due to the need for low light on the stage, and could not be helped. The connection held pretty well once we hit 10pm, but the lack of light made it rather difficult for any online viewers to make out much detail. The other problem was our frequent shortage of dispensary supplies, something we have already made plans to handle better next year.
This year, both of our sponsors were in attendance. Yukon Jack was represented by Rick Hines and his lovely lady, who stayed for a good long while and appeared to enjoy themselves fairly well. The Gaelic Beer Works was (of course) represented by proprietor Gary Eaken, the acting Chief Medical Officer for the party, and several of his talented staff and partners.
Comments from guests during and after the party were almost universally positive, with the notable exception of a single female guest who took singular offense to the half-naked women. Being the kind of officer I am, I did not apologize to her for our choice of entertainment.
I think I speak for the entire Casual crew when I say that this was one of the best events we’ve ever had the pleasure of participating in. Even working our asses off all night couldn’t keep us from having a damn good time at our own party. If the guests had half as good a time as the crew did, it was an amazing success.
There were a number of folks who helped us during and after the party, some for no particular reason other than their enthusiasm over it. Most notable were the staff of the MarCon Consuite, who helped out with both ice and mixers beyond and above the call of duty; the proprietor of The Rowan Tree, who made us a gift of a set of beer tankards etched with the Starfleet logo; and MarCon Security, who helped Commander Thomas and his staff head off a couple of potentially uncasual situations.
Were I a different kind of Commodore, I might be tempted to gloat over the amazing success of our second MarCon party. I might be tempted to mention that although it was not our intent, we apparently (based on Party Marine and independent reports) did a good bit of damage to the normal MarCon room party tradition. I might even be insensitive enough to wonder exactly what kind of entertainment was offered by this year’s “Best Room Party,” just to see if it’s something we can acquire and bend to our own will come MarCon 34.
Hey, wait a sec…I AM that kind of Commodore.
As the party closed down around 0300, we were forced to turn away a few stragglers who had been busy doing actual Con stuff all night. Alas, with no alcohol and no entertainment left, there was no point in keeping the shindig alive past 3AM. With a heavy heart and a large tankard of the Blood Wine dregs, I closed the doors of the Taft Room. Soon thereafter, after putting a security team in place to guard the computers, lights, and DJ gear, I followed Madame Griselda to bed.
In the harsh fluorescent light of morning we were all a bit surprised at how well the Taft Room had held up to the punishment we had inflicted upon it. There was amazingly little in the way of trash or heavy spillage, and we were hard pressed to find any damage whatsoever. We began our teardown and final inspection as guests from the night before stopped by at regular intervals to thank us for making their MarCon experience a little more unforgettable. We absorbed their praise like the ego-hungry megalomaniacs we are, and promised them that next year will be even better.
We spent a few hours cleaning up the debris and the two dispensaries, followed by a round of self-congratulation and some much needed nourishment.
Finally, after numerous good-byes and a final walk-through of the room,
we departed for home. It was a tired day, and I had a flight at 7:30am
the next morning, but it was a good exhaustion that we all felt.
Captain MacLaren and I are already making plans for MarCon 34…and wondering
just how in the hell we’ll better ourselves – again.