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Worldcon Event by Event: Two
Some things I missed, like John Picacio and Lou Anders recieving Chesley Awards, for Best Book Cover and Best Art Director, respectively. Like Charlie Stross' onstage encounter with Nobel Prize winning economist Paul Krugman (that's the sort of thing Worldcons are for, and, typically for a Worldcon, I was on a gameshow at the time). The Chesleys were, like all awards at these things, taken back to the bar. Unlike most awards, they lit up, but we couldn't find anywhere to plug them in.
The expression on my face, if you can see it, is 'he's jumbled them all up, and now I've lost my place with the handshaking!' Oh, and you see the redhead behind Lauren, John and Lou? That's Syzygy.
Anyhow, Saturday morning found me on what I thought was going to be another of those 'is this the five minute argument?' panels. This one asked the question, to quote from the programme booklet: 'How are current SF movies and TV shows reinforcing out of date attitudes and prejudices?' Not are they, but how are they. That urge for consensus again that's created dire religious yearnings like The Singularity. Or so I thought when going in. As it turned out, it was a bunch of cool people having a rather nice chat about the issues. You never can tell. And I just got to say 'Torchwood' like it was a get out of jail free card, which was a bit of a first.
I popped in to see Lou do his thing, which is to march back and forth in front of an audience like a southern gentleman Brian Blessed, promoting the heart out of the books which Pyr publishes, and occasionally pulling a scared author out of the crowd to do the same, generally in a more reedy voice. I also saw a bit of Mary doing her puppet building thing, which had a nicely packed audience, and was surprisingly technical. And I watched a bit of Scalzi's panel about Michael Jackson's Thriller, which was, I suppose, no odder than doing one about Kate Bush. At least it wasn't like that British con I once went to which had one on girl guiding. Scalzi also was the host, during the weekend, of a singles meet and greet, which I so hugely envy him for. Being a married man, matchmaking is one of my favourite things, and something at which I have so far failed utterly. Doing that at another convention would allow me to have a go on a semi-professional basis. He says that quite a few folk were still making eye contact at the end of that reception.
That evening, I'd arranged to meet up with Neil Gaiman, the Guest of Honour, for dinner. This takes organising, obviously. Neil had his (incredibly sweet and useful, if sometimes a little bit sarky about my French presentation, yes, I do mean you, young lady) publicist with him, plus a couple of fan friends who generally sorted things out convention-wise, which seemed to work well, and wasn't really the sort of thing one gets a mental picture of when one hears about 'minders'. He also had a journalist with him from a well known magazine (I'm being coy because I've no idea if this is sensitive information), who'd been observing his every public move for the last week or two, and took notes during the meal. This is all not the stuff of normal life, and I think it's a mark of how Neil's managed to hold on to his normality that everyone who talks about it tends to feel sorry for him rather than envious about his situation. I get the feeling that he doesn't really like how fame distorts peoples' reactions to him, but he's not one of those famous people who tries to pretend it's not there. One of the best things about him is how he uses the gravity around him to highlight worthwhile causes and the work of friends. If gravity can highlight things. (Did I mention I'm really tired?) Anyway, we had a nice, fannish, chat about all kinds of stuff, got back in time for Neil to record a reading of a Cory Doctorow short story before a live audience, went to see a bit of the firework display from the roof of the Palais, and ended up in a miraculously quiet bar with Ellen Kushner and her wife Delia Sherman, who are incredibly sweet, and who I hadn't properly met before. Neil worked hard all weekend, particularly popping up at children's events, and it was good to have grabbed the chance to spend a bit of time with him.
(I love how the audience after one of Neil's readings, above, have arranged themselves into something like a renaissance painting. There really out to be a man with hunting dogs somewhere in the corner.)
On the Sunday morning, I joined Stu Segal for his 'Stroll With The Stars', an effort to get fandom walking, which he does every morning of Worldcon. At this one, what with those corridors, I'm not sure extra PE was required, but nevertheless, a whole bunch of us set off, including Lou, John, Lauren, Farah, Jon Courtenay Grimwood and several others. What I do on these route strolls is quite odd: I 'press the flesh and shake hands' as Lou put it. I like the 'and' there. I work my way back through the crowd, meeting every one of them and saying hello. I'm not quite sure why. It's not like I'm inaccessible normally. I suppose I think that if one's signed up to go on a walk with particular writers, then at the end of it one should be able to say one's actually met them. Stu took a photo:
The expression on my face, if you can see it, is 'he's jumbled them all up, and now I've lost my place with the handshaking!' Oh, and you see the redhead behind Lauren, John and Lou? That's Syzygy.
Bill Willingham, after much fending off on my part, had invited me onto his Fairy Tales in the Comics panel, which was just the two of us and Kevin Maroney from the New York Review of Science Fiction. Bill laid down ground rules at the start: half an hour of us debating a list of points he had, then audience questions, because he'd been frustrated by some of the panels he'd seen, and I must say, having an actual agenda really made the thing satisfying. Plus, all three of us just wanted to explore the matter at hand. Mind you, it turned out I was there on false pretences, because Bill had thought that Pete Wisdom was literally Peter Pan.
That evening was the Hugo Awards ceremony, which has come to be the centre about which my year turns, in all sorts of ways. This year, I was honoured to be presenting two awards, both the Dramas: Long Form and Short Form. At the rehearsal, I was taken through the tech needs, and discovered that tech positively needs a long intro and some flouncing around on stage from those handing these things out, so I said I'd flounce all right. That's my excuse, anyway. I wrote my speeches in the Green Room, with research help from Bill and Lee, Mark and Lauren, after we'd got back from a lunch at which the waiter took so long to bring stuff that several of us had to leave without eating (this happened a couple of times in Montreal: 'there are... other people to be served...' he said with a Gallic shrug). The afternoon before the Hugos feels ennervated. It's like the whole convention takes a deep breath. There's programming scheduled opposite the actual ceremony, even, but nobody goes. I get the feeling it's so that if one of us chickens out and flees the auditorium before the winner is announced, they can go hide in a Hair Beading Workshop.
I went to put on my suit. I walked back in my suit. I found the reception, and all of us, my peers, wandering in, dressed up as much as we want to be, some of us in full evening wear, some of us too Professorly and renowned to do that (hello Geoff Ryman), some of us in suitably gonzo fannish alternatives to evening wear (hello Sue Mason and Cory Doctorow, who wore his wedding suit) and some of us in tank tops (hello Doselle, please don't kill me). Mary wears movie star dresses. Some prefer kilts.
The reception took place in a vast warehouse of a room, with such a huge echo that when the designer of this year's Hugo base showed it off, nobody outside of a few feet of him could hear what he was saying, which was a pity, becuase with its granite asteroid and maple leaf of fire under the rocket, this was a thing of beauty.
With more echoing, we were led into the auditorium, and put in the front row for ease of access. A young steward in a particularly visible hat was assigned to run, bent at the waist, and collect us two awards before the one we were reading out. I always enjoy the early part of the Hugos, when they give out the fan awards, like the Big Heart, that connect us by tradition to the start of the fan movement. It's like playing First Class Cricket: part of the pleasure is in knowing that you've entered a body of records that goes back along way, that you're treading where the saints have trod now, so you better damn well take this seriously, young pup. David Anthony Durham, who fell asleep one night as a literary author and woke up to find himself in SF, is a worthy recipient of the Campbell Award for Best New Writer, and makes a fine speech about seeking this community out. I know exactly what he means, as I'm sure Bill Willingham does. We had to decide to come here. He's given the Campbell Tiara by Mary, the previous encumbent. On her it looks like something out of A Midsummer Night's Dream. On him it's more Classic Trek. He looks like he's about to take over the Enterprise.
When my turn comes I head backstage after the lad in the odd hat, and find myself under the bracing leadership of the Rev. Randy, who's a stern but fair stage manager. The Hugo organisation seems a good deal more together than the stewarding at the convention, although communication between the two organisations seems to be approaching nil. I walk out and, frankly, take a moment. Last time I did this I didn't know what it was. Because I've been asked to reproduce it, here's what I said for each category.
Long Form: 'A conflicted avenger confronts his own heroism. A conflicted Avenger confronts his own ego. A monster who's a person battles monsters. A robot who's a person battles people. And the cities of the future, as described by SF's modern greats. The nominations for this year's Long Form Drama Hugo, like all the best science fiction, confront us with questions of ethics, personhood, and the life of the world to come.'
Short Form: 'How much difference does it make if you turn your car right, or turn left? What happens if you lose the love of your life, before you've even met? How can you choose between the two things you most desire? How can you identify who's human, who's inhuman, and what the difference is between those conditions? Can love conquer time? The nominations for this year's Short Form Drama Hugo ask us to ask the hardest questions, questions being asked for the first time, in a determinedly science fictional way.'
Okay, a bit cheesy, but I didn't have long to write them. And a bit of cheese is good on top of an awards ceremony. I got hell from Niall Harrison for that 'first time' bit, because of course only prose SF can be any good.
After all the awards were given out, there was much glee and joy and milling about on stage, and I slipped off down the rather gothic underground passage between the Palais and the Delta (in which, illuminated by a shaft of light, there sits a single silver chair), in the company of Bean and Medge, old Aussie buddies of mine, to the Hugo Losers' Party (there isn't one for the winners anymore, because, you know, that one would be, though fun-packed, quite small), which, as always, was hosted by the guys who are running the next Worldcon, which is in Melbourne. I stayed for a couple, then sloped off to bar and then private party of Paolo Defendini's, where we met two charming Clarion writers, Megan Kurashige and Kathleen Howard, who gave me and Lou and John hope for the next generation. I wandered home that night with Geoff Ryman, to whom my six foot is like unto a midget, and who I would always choose as wise final company on such an enormous night.
All that remained on Monday was me and an incredibly erudite Norwegian economist (with nobody else showing up, thanks for that) talking at cross purposes about the future of the nation state; a meet up with loads of folk who'd asked to be in a small room with me, and were charming (even those who'd actually signed up to be in a small room with Stephen Segal); and an end of the convention pizza with Lou, John and Paolo Bacigalupi. And by that time I was fiercely dull and sloppy about the face. 'You're in civvies, I see,' someone said on the way over to that, when actually I was wearing all the same gear except my game face. I had a joyous sushi lunch with the Plokta team the next day, and wandered about old Montreal looking for comic shops and looking at churches, and finally fell into a taxi and slept.
And I've slept since, really. And in some ways, I'll stay asleep until Melbourne. Even if there's bureaucracy, and the dealers' room this time was a bit puny, and there are rows to be had, if you've never been to one of these, do yourself a favour and go. Like I say, it's concentrated experience, concentrated friendship, concentrated love, really.
That sofa looks nice now. I've done my wordcount for the day. I think I'll get my head down. Until next time, Cheerio.
Oh, but PS: a coda, like over the end credits of a sitcom. Lauren vs. the Angry Robot...
Labels:
Anticipation,
Montreal,
SF,
Worldcon
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I do love your con summaries. I can hear your voice and they always sound so much more amusing than the actual event often is.
Paul, I agree. No additional PE was needed. I arrived a day early to the Con, to check the Stroll routes with a pedometer. I decided to leave the pdometer on for the duration of the Con; I walked an average of 8 miles (13 kilometers) a day!
I always go home from Worldcon dog tired - now I know why.
Seems like great fun. Nice summary, you either took notes or have a fantastic memory.
The 'How are current SF movies and TV shows reinforcing out of date attitudes and prejudices?' must of been interesting. You can't wheel out an out an old favorite Sci-Fi flick without it seeming to be mired hopelessly in the past, even if it's about the future. Television and to a lesser extent movies are badly afflicted. Truly great novels though seem to be better at transcending the attitudes and prejudices of their times.
For instance Forbidden Planet, which I love to pieces, is VERY 50's. The original Star Trek adopted the attitudes of the 60's which at the times seemed to be very liberated and open, but it's often strangled by the very fact that they are cramming the 60's attitudes down your throat.
I guess that unless you stick to timeless themes and social values, you can find yourself in the same trap.
Green shag carpet and lava lamps seemed like the good thing to do at the time!
Cheers.
(I want to be the guy who does the Angry Robot, what fun)
Thanks, Mary, I think in this case it will all written so fast and in such a daze that they just sound like me chattering. I think you provide a valuable service, Stu. I'll try the pedometer thing one year. Chuck: that was kind of how the panel went, we covered a lot of interesting ground, but unfortunately that's the one that's dropped out of my memory!
Goodness the Pete Wisdom being the same as Peter Pan is one of those "left field" ideas that really deserved to be explored.
Pan must have infiltrated the British mindset (like Saucy Jack and Well's Martians) enough to turn up in the Dreaming.
Ah, but Peter Pan is a special case in terms of copyright, and takes some wrangling.
Oh of course he is.
Mores the pity it could have been a cracker of a story.
Maybe we could call him Paul Pott and he could moonlight as member of the Come-Here Reds and occasional dictator :-D
Knowing you will be there is a terribly tempting incentive to go to Melbourne next year, for all that it's so far away. That "small room" on Monday was really fun, and you were pretty charming yourself! If I don't make it to Australia, there's always Reno in 2011.
(Double-checks post for unintended double entendres. Decides that even if there are none, the sufficiently determined will certainly insert one. Hits "publish" and hopes for the best.)
You know, Nicole, it was the bit in the bracket that made it all seem a bit louche. I hope you will return to Worldcon, and that you will once again gleefully inhabit my small room. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)