I had a vivid and memorable dream last night about going to a Mensa convention–I went to dozens in the seventies and eighties.  I joined in 1976, was elected to the local  (Central Pennsylvania Mensa chapter, covered most of the state) executive committee the next year, took over the chapter the year after, and was appointed to national office around the same time.

The most notable thing about members is how normal most of them seemed.  Narcisstic Personality Disorder is probably more prevalent than among the genpop, and lots of boozing and sex took place at the conventions, but this is, I think,  “conventional” for conventions in general.

There was the usual schmoozing and banquets and self-congratulations.  Best thing, for me, was the workshops–everything from movie FX to stress management.  Next best was meeting celebrities–Isaac Asimov (who I once really seriously annoyed–I was drunk at the time); Margo St. James, head of the national hooker’s union ; the woman who made some headlines at the time by teaching women how to masturbate.  And memorable members, like Monica, the witch from Connecticut.  And the drop-dead gorgeous teacher from Boston, who made big bucks on the side as a high-class call girl. And the dwarf from Cleveland with progeria–she ran around at cons in this skimpy silver lame bikini.

One thing about Mensa–forget the hype, it isn’t that hard to join.  They accept one person out of every 50; Intertel takes one out of a hundred (I joined that, too), and I qualified for Triple Nines (one out a thousand qualifies).  I am kept humble by virture of the fact  that I am the dumbest member of my family, next to the dog and Muffin–the cat who ran under the bed once when our trailer caught fire–the other cats ran out the door.  My wife darn near qualifies for Four Sigma (one of of 20,000 qualifies) and her son’s IQ is simply off the charts.

Heck, my cats outsmart me on a regular basis.