The present world must suck. In this postmodern era it's normal to lose oneself in the fictional reality presented by popular culture. When it's over, most people go back to their humdrum lives a little refreshed. There is however, a growing subculture that refuses to come back to the crappy reality the rest of us peons live in.

One weekend in April, two of the biggest "alternative realities" opened their gates to the public: The Annual Grand Slam Star Trek Show, which draws 30,000 rabid Trekkies in one weekend, and the Renaissance Faire, which draws, at least as many people during its two month run.

Like any good media freak show, scores of reporters, flashing their press credentials and their big expensive equipment around, would be trying to home in on the big "story". What makes these people tick? I had a notepad, a disposable camera, a fake press pass that was stolen from a movie set, and an idea that would give me the scoop. I would gain their trust, hence more probing interviews, by becoming "one of them".

Although hastily slapped together, my costume was pretty good. It was a black wool cape draped over a black sackcloth I found in my closet, topped with a black plastic, featherstudded helmet I had around the house. I looked like Mordred in a gay production of the musical Camelot. No one would suspect I wasn't one of them.

Although the Pasadena Convention center is an unlikely spot for medieval pageantry, the illusion was well maintained. Costumed characters of all shapes and sizes paraded around the outside grounds. A costumed bunch milling around outside the entrance caught my eye. Their actions were aggressive, their costumes were meticulous, and their cleavage was ample. Would these Amazonian goddesses talk to a regular reporter? Please.

"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" asked a lusty wench as she looked me over. Their suspicions eased as I told them I was a warrior and a reporter - who would like to ask them some questions. As they nodded in agreement I was composing my Pulitzer acceptance speech. It worked! I asked if they made their own costumes by hand.

"Fool! We do not make our own clothing!" They all nodded in agreement. I taken aback by their coarse manner but I guess they were still in "character". I tried loosening them up by asking if they were participating in the live-action chess game but was met with blank stares. I was about to ask if they really enjoyed drinking mead even though it was honey sweetened vinegar, but noticed something weird about them. Furrowing their brows in disapproval, I noticed each of them sported an artifical bulbous lumpy forehead. Were they trying to simulate victims of the bubonic plague?

"Are you some Federation spy?" a lady growled. Another unsheathed a nasty-looking curved blade. "Why do you pester us? Do you know where you are?" I guess my black outfit might be mistaken for some kind of Federation of German States spy costume (or was that the Holy Roman Empire?), but I really think my presumptuousness offended them. I quickly complimented them on their excellent blacksmith costumes, and their fine application of make-up.

My dodge didn't work. They looked really annoyed. Their weapons looked like they could really hurt me, even if they were just foam and plywood. Looking down at my trusty pad I fired off a desperate question. Did they believe in magic?

They stopped, looked around, and all answered yes. I finally got through to them! It was then that Security approached me and asked for identification.

They announced that my press pass was bogus, and I was in trouble. No kidding. Now my prize-winning interview was ruined. I did what any good undercover reporter should do when confronted by authority figures. I ran away.

I guess it didn't really matter where I was. A costume is a costume. What mattered more to me was that if I actually paid full price for both events I would've been out sixty 1996 American dollars. How's that for reality?