Trying to ingratiate, insinuate, whatever, myself a little more into the world of the fen, I started a livejournal journal. I wrote a story there that's mildly amusing, johnny-wise. (It tells how I nearly castrated myself & died like a lonely hobo on some frozen railroad tracks in an effort to give away lots and lots of my books for free. . .) At least, it's mildly amusing to me, now, especially since my [   ] are intact. I was hoping that I would be able to thereby connect on my second day at the con with people who had read my journal entry, since I knew that hundreds of people at the con were staying in touch with each other through livejournal.

So far I cannot say that I'm having a whole heckofalot of success cracking that subculture, however. Nary a response in meat or cyberspace. I don't know if I'm cut out to be a livejournalist, if you know what I mean. I like going to Arisia, but I don't get dressed up for it in silly costumes, and I don't sing silly filk songs, and I attend at most one SF con per year. Livejournal is full of people who do dress up for cons, who love filk, and who attend a dozen or more cons each year. I'm not sure that we actually belong together. I like the fen well enough & learn a lot about SF literature from them. But I'm not really one of them, I guess. Basically, when I go to an SF convention I guess you could say I'm slumming. I just want them to buy my books.

Lodging and night-life

Stayed with a friend of yours in Boston on Saturday night. Crashed on his couch. Before which, we watched a stunning cinematic masterpiece that he had on loan from Netflix.  If I were him, I wouldn't send it back. Not that I condone violating the spirit of the Netflix user contract, but if you got your hands on, say, an original Vermeer, would you send it back in the postage paid envelope? Just say'n. Next morning, coffee with toast and jam, breakfast of the gods. Then back to the fen at the con. . .

By the way, the only other time I'd seen the inside of ad hoc's apartment was a few years ago when he graciously lent the same couch to Older Daughter for the night & I dropped her off there. That was before the big renovation. Having seen the before and the after, I am happy to report that the renovation was a success, marble countertop and all.

Interesting SF people

I ended up on a panel (on mystery-style SF) with a fellow whom I found to be funny and interesting and personable. He is also one heck of a self-promoter. Which I quite admire, actually. I bought some of his books -- he made them sound really interesting (plus, I know him to be a good writer already. . .)

So anyway, while on the panel eruditely discussing something or other about science fiction, by a long route, somehow we got to my famously embarrassing story of the Scrubbing Bubbles, with which I regaled the rapt multitudes.

Actually I'll tell you how we got there. Barry Longyear, the third person on the panel, was describing his series in Analog magazine about Jaggers & Shad, a human-mallard detective pair. I innocently asked him if the story had any influence from the Howard the Duck book. At which point Sawyer literally leapt to his feet in Longyear's defense, and asked why it was that every fucking time an author ever came up with an idea that reminded somebody of some other fucking work, they had to be interrogated about whether they ripped off the original fucking artist? His tone was joking but also quite pointed and if I were not the confident egoist I am, I might have been taken aback to have this pair of Hugo/Nebula/Campbell award winners giving me the hairy eyeball with Robert J. Sawyer doing the whole j'accuse thing. I placated them by saying "I wasn't meaning to imply a ripping off, I was thinking more of an homage."  And then I said that my deep psychological scarring by Howard the Duck had probably completely clouded my judgement on the subject of talking mallards. So naturally I then had to tell the story of my long-ago drunken dumbassery.

A few hours later, after another curious route, I wound up being invited to lunch with Mr. Sawyer and this person. We got the luncheon buffet at the Hyatt. It cost a lot of money, about $23 including tip, especially compared to the free food in the Green Room. But on the other hand the restaurant, with linen and silverware and a view of Boston over the Charles, was more civilized than the cramped and frankly somewhat smelly Green Room with its paper plates and plastic ware, and the food was much more appetizing than the cold cuts in the crowded and messy room with all the other panelists.

I don't know why I'm going on saying unkind things about the Green Room. It's actually quite nice that the all-volunteer staff at the convention provides lots of free food and a place to relax. It's rude of me to leave any other impression. Sorry.

I enjoyed my conversation with my lunch companions very much. Maybe I'll say more about it some day. That was the funnest part!

That's all. Bye-bye!