Salve.

I'll be sharing a suite with , and .

If you'd like to Make Contact, form a Pythagorean triangle with your arms and wait 45 seconds. (Note: You will not receive a Caryll Rune.)

I'm just funnin'. If you have my number, message me; otherwise please Twitter DM at:

bellyleo (SFW)
leoposttenebras (NSFW)

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Hotel:
Great Sierra Resort.

Arrival/Departure:
Early afternoon Thursday 〜 Late Monday.

Who do you hang out with?
Everyone. I like furries. And chubby furries. And bespectacled chubby furries. And game industry folks.

Where will you be most of the time during the day?
Errywhere! Walking the floor, at panels, in the Dealer's Den. I'm sorry I can't give specifics!

What/where will you be eating?
Almost certainly within the casino complex. I'm down for anything.

Can I come with you for food/fun/etc.?
If I know you online or off, of course! If you're a cool person, probably!

Gender:
Male.

Orientation:
Omnisexual.

How old are you?
1,732.

Can I take your picture?
If my hair looks good.

Can I give you stuff?
Should you be so inclined!

Are you an artist?
I design, localize, translate and write video games. I dabble in pixel art. I write silly anthro fiction. Oh, and I'm also a fairly snazzy graphic designer. I did Kitty <3 Monster's final shirt, if you've seen that.

Do you do trades?
I'll teach you Japanese for art.

Oh? Can I practice my Japanese on you?
お気軽にどうぞ。

Are you a suiter?
Soon. SOON.

Attending parties?
Yes. Yes I am.

Do you drink?
Moderately, for sure.

Can I buy you a drink?
There are two types of fools in the world: Those who turn down a free drink, and those who turn down a free blowjob.

Do you smoke?
Unfortunately, yes. Nasty habit from eight years in Japan. I gots intense mints though!

Are you nice?
No, I'm naughty.

If I see you, how should I get your attention?
Address me as Senator, plebian! I jest. Bellua works fine.

Are you attending any panels?
Yes. My only confirmed panel so far is the game dev panel on Friday.

How do I identify myself to you?
Badges are good! Your name on Twitter might also help.

Can I hug you?
If I know you, by all means.

Can I touch you in naughty ways?
Ahem.

How do I know if you're not looking to socialize (angry, busy or upset)?
I'll probably give off the vibe.

Can I enter the pocket dimension in your mane?
Wrong lion.

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I reckon that's about it.

Hope to see you in Reno!

Hi. My name is Senator Severus Bellua Leo. I'm an alcoholic.

Allow me to begin at the beginning: Prior to last year, I was a social drinker. I enjoyed a couple rounds at cons or with co-workers. I can say with complete sincerity I would rarely drink to excess, and when I did it was usually at a company function.

In Japan—where I lived and worked for seven years—such things are encouraged. It is a culture that works hard and parties hard.

Some time in early 2012, I began to drink at home alone to cope. A video game developer's schedule is crazy; I was in charge of three games with several more requiring prep work coming down the pipeline. I was dealing with contracts valued in the tens of millions of dollars, and it scared the shit out of me. (Please note that this is not an excuse. Plenty of people deal with this kind of stress without going home and downing a couple cans of Chu-Hi.)

Some time later, a traumatic event occurred in my life. If you know me you know the details, so I'll spare you all but the most important: I was fired after my furry Twitter account was discovered. I was forced to strip in front of the executive board to show my tattoo. I was forced to prostate myself on the ground as if in worship. I was forced to admit I had published porn of fat furry guys fucking. ('Cause hey, I dig fat furry guys fucking.)

I was kicked out on my ass, and (illegally) stripped of my assets. Immediately afterwards I attended AC, which I already had tickets and plans for. I partied hard there. I partied to forget.

At this point a very important figure came into my life. I won't say the person's name, but it is possible—if not probable—that he saved my life. I want to thank him from the bottom of my heart, and apologize for all that came after.

As my former employer had stolen my funds, I barely made it home. I was despondent. I was jobless. I was offered a localization director position at a company I respect, but the salary was less that half of the seven figures I had been making in Japan.

I decided a change was necessary; a change of perspective. My friends  ashewtiger and Ianus J. Wolf in Seattle kindly took me in. There, despite incredibly welcoming company, I became even more depressed, drinking almost daily. I believe I alienated them with my behavior, as I did my friends  sparf and  MDMangi.

Before their move to Baltimore, I had a very important experience with Ashe. At the time it seemed mundane, now it seems prophetic. He told me I had a problem. Specifically, an alcohol problem. I knew he was right, but I wasn't yet ready to make the changes necessary to correct it. Ashe, if you're reading this, thank you. I'm only beginning to change now, but your kind conversation with me was the spark.

So: Back to my home in LA I went, living in my mother's garage. I now had more job prospects, but descended into a deeper funk. (Drinking a bottle of vodka a day will do that to you.) I lived a sort of half-life, attending cons at which I would embarass myself by getting so drunk I stumbled down stairs and needed to be carried back to my room. For a while, I was known as "Stumbles the Stair Lion". I credit  DarthBear with saving me on that occasion.

My depression caused me to lose contact with some of my dear friends, as I was simply too apathetic and/or inebriated to respond. The turmoil reached its crescendo at TFF, where I was asked to leave a prominent room party. In truth, it was a disaster. Since that time I didn't have a single day without drinking myself into oblivion.

After some time—and some work, thankfully—I found myself living with  rikoshi, Kohai Masaki and Boris. On paper, it was a dream scenario. Two other Japanese translators? A totally rad tiger? Four furfags in the same house? Despite this, my spiral of self-destruction continued.

I failed to negotiate a multi-million dollar deal between a dear Japanese developer friend and an American studio. I felt I had failed a compatriot. I continued to feel distant, despite living with… well, my kind.

Then, the event. I drunkenly walked to the local market/giant strip mall, where I overheard some local thugs talking about fags. I've had a history of rage, and I saw red. I approached the ringleader, a lanky guy in a tanktop half my age, and told him to shut the fuck up. He got in my face and I shoved him. He decked me, hitting me in the mouth, and I went down.

The next thing I remember was being driven in an ambulance to a hospital, covered in gore. The commemorative jacket I received for translating Monster Hunter 3 tri~ was ruined, soaked in blood. My jaw was fractured. My teeth were cracked. My chin was split open to the bone.

The hospital stitched me up, and what I next remember was Boris coming to pick me up.

This was, as AA terms it, rock bottom.

I am eternally grateful to my roommates. I am eternally grateful to my friends.

The furry fandom is my family. I can't live without you.

To the friends I alienated in my long period of depression: I am so sorry. I will make amends.

To everyone I've caused concern: I am so sorry. I will make amends.

I'm not going to drink alone anymore. I have my first novel translation contract beginning, and I hope to use it to turn a new leaf.

I am not a victim of anyone but myself; I understand that. I developed a problem which I will overcome.

I thank everyone who finds it in his heart to help me accomplish that goal.

I love you all. You are my people.

And this is my cautionary tail.

—Bellua

I’ve never written a con report before. I simply never felt the need. My friends and I know what went down, and that was good enough for me.

In the case of the extraordinary Camp Feral!, such casual detachment would be a disservice. This journal is not about highlighting certain exploits, but rather an attempt to describe the entire event through the eyes of a first-time camper. In no uncertain terms, you don’t know what a gathering of furs can be until you attend Feral!.

I first heard about Feral! via my friend  rikoshi, last year’s Guest of Honor. He praised it to the point of seeming absurdity—how could anything possibly be so great? Surely a con is a con, whether there are 5,000 attendees or 130, whether the venue is a swank convention center or a camp deep in the Canadian wilderness.

How wrong I was: Feral! was the most fun I’ve had at a furry event of any kind. Perhaps the event I helped organize this year in Japan, Kemoket—which we touted as the first Western-style furcon in the country—would have been close. To my great sadness, the 9-to-1 game development job I was working at the time refused to give me time off to attend. I will never know.

Be that as it may, I doubt even the satisfaction of my own creation could match the magical wonderland prepared by the superfurmans who comprise the Feral! staff. This was not a “con” so much as it was a powerful communal experience, every moment of every day packed with deliriously enjoyable games, workshops and events. The intimacy and lack of incessant “Where are you?” “What room is x party in?” “What’s going on?” texts and tweets—indeed, the liberating feeling of being completely cut off from the outside world—is key to Feral!.

As I expect this to be read mostly by those who have never been, I’ll break it down day by day. Those of you who attended may find it horrifically boring. Tread carefully.

DAY ONE

I knew I was walking into entirely unknown territory. I had just returned from seven excruciating years of faux heteronormalcy in Japan, was still re-acclimating to American life, had only been to Canada once, never camped, and would know only three attendees: Rikoshi,  wuwei, and  GTSkunkrat, this year’s Guest of Honor. The trip started badly, with my terminal luck in air travel mandating the flight from LA be delayed. Through fate or providence I made it to the pickup site at the last moment, and spent the long bus ride to Camp Arowhon catching up with my three compatriots.

I began to grow trepidatious on the path towards camp. I’d spent the better part of a decade in a concrete jungle, and here suddenly was real jungle... or forest, in any case. I needn’t have worried, of course, as Arowhon is equipped with modern amenities. Yet the sight of teeming nature and Tepee Lake—Lake Placid, straight up—made me wonder if I hadn’t made a grave mistake. (I wouldn’t have complained if a young Oliver Platt was present, but that’s just me.)

The delightfully kitsch Main Lodge, with its rustic charm and commemorative placards dating back a half-century eased my concerns somewhat, as did our cabin—the secluded and cheekily named “Snog Lodge”. I gather Arowhon is primarily a children’s camp, and the air of juvenility served to enhance the make-believe atmosphere: I'm a believer that most furs are big kids at heart.

I was fortunate enough to room with GT and the last-minute second Guest of Honor,  Arius, a charming wolf and fellow graphic designer. (We further bonded over designing our own back tattoos and using flat irons on our tremendously gay hair, but that is perhaps beyond the scope of this journal.)

The first day concluded with impromptu jamming at the Upper Campfire, banging on buckets like the sweaty street drummer from Taxi Driver rambling about Gene Krupa’s syncopated style. This late-night communion, lit only by the crackling firepit, was when I began to feel Feral!. Now I had an inkling of what it was all about.

DAY TWO

As I am completely unable to sleep on planes and took the LAX-O'Hare-Pearson red-eye, I slept through opening ceremonies (which I regret—I’ll make it next year) and only roused myself in time to watch a game of “watermelon football”, a curious sport in which a closed-off section of lake acts as the field and a lubed-up watermelon the ball. (Cough.) Unable to swim, I spectated as Rikoshi scored an epic touchdown, although his team apparently lost. Pity.

Day Two's main event was the “MonFur Melee”, best described as an ingenious real-life action RPG. A full explanation of the ruleset would increase the length of this report dramatically, so permit me to gloss over Warrior, Mage and Assassin to talk about the class I played through four games: Cleric. The Cleric wields a short mace that can disable limbs, but serves chiefly to heal others’ with his or her grimoire. (Mine was curiously emblazoned with “水”, the Chinese character for water. Maybe it was a Feng Shui thing sans the Feng.) Our team won all four games, owing to the fact we had extremely experienced players. I only began to get the hang of it towards the end, but next year... next year, I shall come with loins girded to unleash fury.

This brings us to the Campwide Game and a timeskip—bear with me. Each player received a plastic card printed with the word “FERAL!”, one letter of which would be stamped after answering a trivia question, winning a major game, or completing a task assigned by staff. I received my first by virtue of being on the winning team in the MonFur Melee, and my second by answering a trivia question which Rikoshi surreptitiously provided the answer to. If I remember correctly, two stamps was the max for Day Two, five for Three, and six for Day Four.

On Day Three I received none, leaving me scrambling to acquire the remainder on Day Four. One was a trivia question, three were particularly memorable tasks. The first: “Get a 30-second sketch by Ifer.” As a noob, I had absolutely no idea who Ifer was. I prepared to canvass the camp, certain the task would consume all my time. Randomly approaching a cute blue-haired girl in the Main Lodge, I scored a hole-in-one: She was Ifer, and 30 seconds later I had an excellent sketch of my fursona. The second: “Find out Max’s species.” Max? Max who? Asking around revealed he was an Arowhon staffer, presumably a non-fur. Catching him at lunch, I learned that his species was, in his words, “Maximus Decimus Meridius”. (As a fellow Roman citizen and Ridley Scott fan, I was indeed entertained.) Finally, “Take a photo of a Pokémon in its natural habitat.” Victory was preordained, as I had already helped three others including Wu Wei with the same task... but I wasn’t about to let the fabulous staffer  nayo know. I had worn a black Gengar t-shirt to camp, and the “natural habitat” was as simple as turning the lights off and shining a flashlight. With that, “FERAL!” was punched through and completed. I’ll return to this on Day Four; now back to our regularly scheduled chronology.

The evening of Day Two is a bit of a blur, as it ended with me overestimating my ability to hold my liquor and being unceremoniously dragged back to the Snog Lodge by remarkably benevolent staffers. What I do recall is buying rad merch after dinner, meeting the charismatic Wolfgang, a fellow with the impressive ability to mix a mean, mean beverage I dubbed The Madman, attending the sponsor’s event, sampling various cheeses, then finally cobbling together a semblance of a s’more at the Main Lodge campfire. The rest? Oblivion, and the vow to avoid getting quite so intoxicated the remaining two nights.

DAY THREE

Incredibly, I woke without a hangover and made my first Feral! breakfast. I decided to take it easy the morning of Day Three until Rikoshi’s Furry World Creation workshop, and spent most of my time familiarizing myself with the lay of the land. I checked out canoeing, immediately realized I’d tip the little craft, and demurred. (Not being able to swim, the potential for catastrophe was... catastrophic.) I also dropped by archery and climbing, but to my and Wu Wei’s disappointment the zipline wasn’t up and running. Next year, perhaps.

Rikoshi’s workshop, held in a frankly macabre "Nature Hut" festooned with animal skulls and bones, was as typically enlightening as it was atypical in content. Everyone’s favorite antlerfox asked all in attendance to write down an occupation, genre/setting, and species as the basis for a short story, passing their paper along to the next person for maximum entropy. I ended up with “Clinical Receptionist”/”Bodice-Ripper”/”Spotted Hyena”. I associate bodice-rippers strongly with period romance, so formulating a concept took a few minutes. I’d only just finished exposition and arrived at the actual garment vandalism when time was up, and didn’t feel confident enough to read in front of the group. Nonetheless, it was a fine exercise in rapid brainstorming and speedwriting, which would serve me well in the following day’s cabin skit.

Next was the event that proved to be my runner up for favorite at Feral!, though it ended in deep personal tragedy: “Predator VS. Prey”. The Melee sported legitimately brilliant game design, but it was only a prelude to this campwide hunt. Players are divided into Carnivores, Omnivores and Herbivores, plus a number of NPCs with special properties played by staffers. Each player has life represented by beads: Carnivores carry the least and herbivores the most. Carnivores can take life from both omnivores and herbivores, omnivores can take life from only herbivores. An added element is the food and water system, which serves to eliminate “turtling” and hiding for the duration of the game: You must keep moving throughout the forest collecting stamps from “food” and “water” locations hidden on trees to survive. The game was fantastic fun, attempting to stalk stealthily through the woods avoiding threats and hiding when the dreaded NPCs hewed near. I managed to remain ahead, with more than enough food, water and life beads to survive the game... yet in the last minutes my herbivore tag was ripped off by an errant branch, resulting in instant disqualification. Not cool, branch. Next year I will find you, and I will punch you.

Furry Improv followed, apparently the most popular Feral! event. The staff’s performances were hilarious, the setups and ideas sublime, and quick-witted attendees came up with great on-the-fly material as well. I decided to sit it out this year to see what the setups were all about, but I’ll be up on stage in 2013.

Musician’s Circle & Open Mic rounded out the evening—again fueled by Wolfgang’s Madman—at which I absolutely butchered two of my favorite songs of all time, “Get Back” and “Revolution”. Seven years in Japan made me a mean karaokist, but a live band was entirely new to me. With that said, public embarrassment can be strangely enjoyable when everyone is laughing with you.

DAY FOUR

My favorite day. Fully slotted into the Feral! groove, I attended Rikoshi’s Short Story Workshop as an observer after breakfast. Unfortunately, I had no prior knowledge the workshop existed. I would have liked to submit a sci-fi story intended for ROAR 5, a book themed around “Secrets”. (My story, Disremember, concerns an albino wolf with the ability to tear memories out of others’ minds as if they had never existed—corporate passwords, childhood traumas, nuclear launch codes. I'll probably throw it up on FA at some point.) I hadn’t finished the story in time for FurPlanet’s deadline, but a roundtable critique would have been a boon. As it was, I still gained valuable insight, and intend to read the two submissions from the workshop in full.

After lunch and general socializing/puttering about Arowhon’s lush grounds, the culmination of the mysterious Campwide Game was at hand. Having completed my “FERAL!” card, I was eligible to participate. The assembled campers had no idea what the Game would entail, and general confusion reigned when we were told we would be building Tomorrowcorp time machine prototypes. We would have 45 minutes to dash to three locations spread across camp, collect craft supplies, come up with a design, and fabricate our creations.

As mutual friends banded together in teams of four, I collected a group of strays and set to work. The supplies our runners returned with may not have been the greatest, but our effort was not entirely without merit—a “Time Vest” with accompanying control module and jaunty geodesic helmet. Wolfgang’s team’s inspired “Time Fist” emerged victorious, bolstered by his energetic infomercial-like pitch. C’est la vie; it would be bad form to bear envy towards the man who mixes The Madman.

Returning to the Snog Lodge, GT casually mentioned that we should be getting ready for our cabin skit. Cabin skit? What? I had a vague recollection from the conbook, but had essentially forgotten that each cabin was invited to write and perform a skit that evening. I was left with approximately 45 minutes to pen something funny, and was determined that GT, Arius and myself—all Feral noobs—leave some sort of impression. GT and Arius both speak Spanish, and so the idea was formulated that I would act as the “interpreter” for the two Guests of Honor. Fair enough, but I don’t speak a word of Spanish beyond “Laputa”. Worse still, how to bring the funny in less than an hour?

The answer: Insult comedy. Working from the base concept that neither GT nor Arius spoke English, I spent dinner feverishly hacking away at Canadian stereotypes as viewed by foreigners, hurling barbs at diction, hockey, and—in what I believe got the biggest laugh—Kraft Dinner®. I made the determination to go all-out, roasting Arowhon, Feral, and in a move so bold I still can’t quite believe I went through with it,  potoroo himself. I was terrified the skit would be greeted with total silence, but the crowd seemed to love it, and the ending proved quite effective—“Creen venir de nuevo a Feral?”—“Would you consider coming back to Feral?” GT and Arius, in English: “Hell yeah!”. (I gathered this rousing declaration is something of a Feral! tradition.)

To our great relief and glee, we placed in the Top 4, although we didn’t win. For an event with a 15-year history, competing with skits chock-full of in-jokes and references, it was a triumphant moment and my personal highlight of the event.

The remainder of the this final night was spent with yet more of Wolfgang’s Madman, dancing like I was still a 19-year-old raver to some very sick DJ sets. Kudos to the turntablists.

THE LAST DAY

The dream was coming to an end. A whirlwind four days had passed in the blink of an eye, and with a heavy heart I packed up my belongings and headed to breakfast, closing ceremonies, and the commemorative group photo. Most cons leave me completely drained, the stereotypical "con zombie". At Feral!, I wanted the reverie to continue. The people I met and the experiences I had were unforgettable. Memories of furcons can tend to smudge together, but this was so unlike anything I had ever experienced that my first Feral! will forever remain a reminiscence bathed in rose-colored light.

I say my first because I plan to attend camp every year. Sure, I’ll still go to the US and Japanese cons to catch up with friends. But furry is inherently fantasy, and Feral! is the closest I’ve ever come to a shared experience that truly lives up to our fandom’s potential—likeminded individuals, gay, straight, male, female, united on a fundamental level in what ties us together as a community.

We are furs, we are a rare breed, and we stand proud. We revel in each others’ presence, and too often that communion can get lost in the hustle and bustle of the megacons. We stay in groups and cliques, rarely making that chance connection that might last a lifetime. In this sense Feral! is the anti-con, an intimate gathering in which all are encouraged to join together, thanks to the superlative planning, scheduling and creative ingenuity of the staff.

I’d like to extend special thanks to friends old and new I met at Feral!, and most especially to the people behind it—you are truly gods among furs. You have at least one new devotee, and I can’t wait for next year.

Way, way, way tl;dr? Go to Feral 2013. I’ll see you there.