I went to my first Supernatural convention this September 4th (to attend the Louden Swain birthday bash for Rich - and got to hug Robbie and Mark Sheppard) through 8th, 2025. I did it for myself and because I wasn't sure I'd get another chance. Maybe I'll get to do it again. I hope so. Because I need to hang with Rich, quietly, gently, mindfully, more so than I did this time. But I have Cameo and Patreon, I have StageIt.
Maybe.
Maybe take two would be me less in a massive Fibromyalgia flare and an equally severe chronic fatigue flare. The one I was in all of con was brutal. I had bruises all over my body, especially my legs, and pushed myself relentlessly. I didn't go to panels I should have. Missed Misha's panel entirely but caught him long enough in the hall before that so I could tell him that it was all his fault. No context for poor Misha, who apologised and made me laugh. Misha helped me crack open enough to shove my ass out the door to myself. Not the repressed, scared little mouse, but the me who was unafraid to dig into therapy and do the work I needed to do to find myself again.
Unapologetically. I have embraced the dubass I am who is a sucker for Richard Speight, Jr. not because he's a cutie (he is, he's freaking adorable), not because he's famous, not because his eyes are fantastic and his eyebrow game excellent. Do I love those things about him? Hell yes. I love the sound of his voice, his laughter when he's bouncing off the damn walls with Robbie in a Podcast or on stage, his quiet rainy weather rambles and silly Mop-Up fumbles, his baritone that rumbles through my brain and is caught there.
I love the joy he brings me in everything I find him in, in everything he does. I love how he settles my soul. I love how he loves and how I love others in my life differently at this moment in time, if that makes sense. He is just a trickster of a man, all hijinks and mischief, and a bright ball of love. I could just sit with him and lean into a moment of stillness.
And that would be enough.
So...
I love this human bean of a man. He's just my Person. One of my joys, my peace. The bright thread I caught when I was six years old in a Phoenix, AZ theatre with my dad. Sticky soda floor, popcorn and Milk Duds. And Rich up there playing the cutest damn bully with the most adorable nose. He was with me before the shit came down in my life, he was there when it went bad even if I didn't know his face and locked that movie memory away in my head. But I found his movies, saw his face, even if I'd forgotten. Last year I found his music and heard him sing with Jason Manns and Billy Moran and...I think Misha was there in that YouTube video as well. And there it was again. That bright thread. Oh, I was a massive Gabriel fan, sure...but this was different. My chronic pain was at an all-time high, I was miserable, I wanted out. Part of me still does. I'm so fucking tired. But there's something about Rich's voice that keeps me tethered, grounds me, gives me joy and hope and peace all at once. He just feels like home. And this convention trip just made that incredibly real for me. I just sort of settled when I hugged him that first time and all the joy in me lit straight up like a goddamn bonfire. Exhausted, barely put together, dragging ass from one side of the convention to the other in my goddamn walker, just gently toddling after him, just wanting to be somewhere in the same space. I probably will never haul ass that fast again in my entire life.
He didn't have to be my snuggle buddy but he was. He could have just kept walking. I ain't fast no more. That's the kinda of human being he is. He let me in and let me just vibrate with joy each and every time I saw him. I spent the nights cramping and just vibrating in pain only to get up and throw myself back into it. By that last day and the last concert, after losing my hat (running all over the convention looking for it) and buying the silly orange one that matched Rich's, then two shirts (Ro-Bert shirt needed to be bought, same with the Dick Jr and the Volunteers' shirt), the exertion had caught up with me and I was a mess.
Not really functioning at all there by the end. Maybe not really functioning the whole of con. I mean, I danced my ass off at Kareoki Night on Friday, high-fived Michael Borja, half sang into the mic, snagged a hug from DJ Qualls at some point during con, and Ruth Connell, too! (I hope she remembers to bother Rich about getting his mail because there are presents for her and Margaret in the second box.) This section feels out of joint and it's 5am. But whatever.
My hearing aids were dead by the second day because I'd forgotten my charger. I'm pretty sure the only solid thing I ingested was some nuts, and I existed on venti caramel lattes from Starbucks.
I was very much in a daze as I listened to the boys sing. Billy and Rich were wonderful idiots together, tuning guitars (Billy just snatching Rich's out of his hands to tune it himself), and Jason just laughing at them.
I sat right in front of Rich, so I got to watch him play and hear him up close.
They played In the Pines, which is one of my favourites for Rich's low rumble on that one, Wagon Wheel, which has been my go-to on bad days, and ended with Raspberry Beret which was lovely and hilarious. It's a song I love hearing Rich sing because he gets into storytime mode and rumbles off into the sunset. Songs with story and stupidass (like Low Bar) are his forte.
I had my own raspberry beret (yes, from a second-hand store in Italy) and whirled it around and tossed it in the air at the end of the song. I waited for folks to take their pictures with the boys at the end and for some damn reason I thought I was just not getting one of them. Probably that exhaustion murdering the one brain cell in my head. Me stumbling around, weaving and unsteady, when they asked for my phone to take the picture, not realising the goddamn phone was in my back pocket. I think I made it halfway to the walker, spun around when his handler told me where it was...and was like "MY ASS POCKET?!?"
But by the time I swung back towards the boys and was headed back there, I couldn't see for shit. They were all a smear of colour, so bright I thought my brain was shorting out. I remember careening towards Jason, shaking my head, and scurrying back between Rich and Billy. "This is where I belong, right here. This is home." I'm pretty sure Rich just hung onto me and said, "Yes, yes it is," really quietly. I'm not even sure I heard it, really, or if that's just what my brain interpreted. Did that happen?! Since I was having trouble seeing straight, I nearly grabbed Rich by the face to tell him one important thing. Not to be some weird fangirl and smooch his face because it ain't like that. Nope. I told him that he better rest. And he told me to rest. Then we were all laughing together, Billy, Jason, me and Rich agreeing that we'd all rest.
Me, my rolling bag, my duffle, all hooked to my walker, chasing the 331 Hiawatha out the next morning was a blur. The ride home was, too. Pretty sure I forgot my coffee in the car and just sorta went comatose on my bed for the next two days. I hurt all over like I've been storm-battered. I can't get into the shower because I can't get my legs to raise up high enough. But I'd do it again. I'd so do it all again. It's a really steep price for me to pay physically, but I have never felt more at peace in my life. And I need to chase my little joys. Rob hugs, by the way, are fantastic and you should get some. Rich hugs eat pain for hours and maybe some of those damn Americanos he tosses back leeched caffeine into me.
That was a hard trip, friends, but my gods was it beautiful. I don't know if I'll be able (money-wise) to get there again but...that was Heaven.
And Rich missed Mop-Up, Rob missed his boo, and looked like he was going to crash out real soon. I threw a Cameo message Rich's way to the effect that his "Give me 10 minutes" to Rob and no-show better have been a nap. Am I fussing? Yep. I only fuss after folks I truly love. I throw blankets on them, send them coffee, stupid hats, eyeball boxes of joy and care. Mm...I'll do an eyeball birthday box post later. At some point. That's my love language. Curated care boxes. Loki's balls. Rich and Rob are stuck with me. So is Rain, my con buddy I met up with. But I guess I should shut the fuck up and get some sleep again. It's Trauma Thursday. I got talk therapy. ...yanno, to go with my convention Feelings, and Richard adoration. Am I too much? Probably. But I'm me...so fuckin' deal with it.
