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The

Escalated

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The Escalated Route

A report on Chicon 7, the 70th World Convention, August 30/September 3, 2012 by GUY H, LILLIAN III, 5915 River Road, Shreveport LA 71105 * [email protected] GHLIII Press Publication #1133 * Photos by GHLIII and Rose-Marie Lillian

Not all those who wander are lost. Said Tolkien.

The best moment of Chicon 7? I was wandering. Rosy was at one of Peggy Rae Sapienza’s program moments, so I was alone, outside the convention, wandering the wrong way down Michigan Avenue. I didn’t find what I was looking for, but didn’t care. I just soaked in the energy and mystery of the city – All these monster granite buildings! Who lives their lives here? Who are all these people? Do they notice the gawking old man wandering amongst them?

On Thursday, the night before!, Rosy and I had gone out to the Adler Planetarium on its Lake Michigan peninsula, and with others of our ilk regarded in awe the coral blaze of the night-lit skyline. First Night: awesome. I remembered Nancy Griffiths’ bitter song about Chicago “roaring like a Midwest hurricane.” The newspapers touted 344 murders in the Second City so far in 2012. Yet Chicago didn’t seem like such a terrible place that night. That night, and from here, the Second City seemed magical.

I was falling in love with Chicago – again. The City of Big Shoulders and I share memories. In 1959 my folks went there for a wedding, and Dad took me to see the dinosaur skeletons at the Field Museum. (They were still in the same room in 2000, though they’d changed the skull on the Bront- … Apatosaurus.) In 1972 I’d curled up in the Henry Moore sculpture at the University to have my heart ripped out by Gail-the-girl-from-Brooklyn. Had attended a dull there in 1995, and spent many long afternoons in the midst of train journeys wandering the Loop and visiting the Art Institute. Once on a frigid New Year’s Day I’d met Ricia Mainhardt there and huddled in store doorways like the homeless. But my last visit to Chi-town had been to yet another worldcon, in 2000, where my life had changed forever for the infinitely better. Love Chicago? Why should I not? How could I not?

Heading back to the Hyatt, dodging panhandlers with their pathos-rich signs, feeling the breeze down the river from Lake Michigan, in the midst of the life and the commerce and the crowd of Chicago, I exulted in it. But still … where was the Bean?

THURSDAY

The first escalations involved in Chicon 7 were those required to get me there.

Flight. And not only flight, but twice as much as necessary. I’ll explain. When one of us – usually Rosy – almost always Rosy – flies, it’s out of Dallas. Flying out of the backwoods of Shreveport adds at least $200 each way to each ticket. Rosy, researching the Chicon flights, found that by making a stop en route, we could save fifty bucks a ticket. Go for it, I (nervously) agreed. Not thinking to ask where the stop would be. Atlanta. In an opposite direction. Instead of a shortish flight, we would have two shortish flights – and it turned out, the first would be through a hurricane. Because Hurricane Isaac chose worldcon weekend to bully its way through the Gulf of Mexico into the soft underbelly of the American South. A rain-rich, slow-moving plodder of a storm, Isaac flooded most of New Orleans (destroying part of Dennis Dolbear’s roof) before parking itself right over where we needed to fly. If you know my abject paranoia about air travel, imagine how this affected me. I was a literal shrieking freak. Only the promise of alprazolam, the excellent trank that got me through our last Australian adventure, enabled me to make the drive to Dallas the night before. Only her astonishing capacity for love kept Rosy from dumping me by the side of the road and going without me.

(I did note the SFnal name of the offending storm. Surely, I said on fictionmags, a hurricane named for the good doctor – who also hated flying – would be kind to fans.)

The morning at DFW was not promising. Ahead of us in line, a big black guy hit the ground with a coronary, necessitating the presence of EMTs. The Homeland Security X-rays found a forgotten pocketknife in my shaving kit – I was lucky not to have been arrested. Instead they let me mail the thing home in a pre-paid envelope – it arrived 9-15.

Rosy had been smart enough and kind enough to get me window seats on all the flights (it’s important for a flight-o-phobe to keep an eye on things), and soon there was the deep grumble of the engines, the sense of quick muscular speed, and the liberating separation from Earth. I had taken half a mike of trank while waiting. I had five more in my pocket, wrapped in aluminum foil.

Hurricane Isaac was a white wilderness, and passing above and occasionally through it was like swimming through milk. We encountered only minor bumbles. A map on the screen on the seat before me kept me abreast of our progress, which was cheeringly quick. Very soon we were on the ground in Georgia and rushing to catch our Chicago plane.

It was on this plane that things really began to go right. “Rosy! You must have him really drugged to get him on this flight!” Eve Ackerman came up! She and Howard were on the same flight. Chicon 7 had begun.

Almost symbolically, the clouds went away halfway there. Clear turf below. The engines groaned to signal a rapid descent, and Delta’s pilot made a pitch for AmEx cards as we touched down. Hey. We made it.

We shared a cab with Eve and Howard to the Hyatt Regency, queen of the Magnificent Mile. Now I felt stoned, not to mention p.o.ed. Our luggage took another flight, causing me a moment’s worry about our mascot, the two-inch panda (with the red bow tie), Mib. Fortunately, it was delivered later by a kook who once brought William Shatner his bags, and got the door slammed in his face for his trouble. Me, I tipped him five and ensconced Mib on a lamp in our room.

Said room – reachable by an escalator and a streetbridge and an elevator – was gorgeous , of course, with one of Chicago’s great views, the river, the Sun-Times, Lake Michigan in the distance. We photographed the room – Rosy loves to send such pictures to her mother – and headed down to Registration – elevator, footbridge, two or maybe three escalators. I was beginning to remember the Hyatt Regency from earlier experiences there. More escalators than a shopping mall.

Oh, the glorious noise of that lobby. Early, but instantly identifiable. We were among The People. We signed in and got our Halloween-themed (huh?) bags; someone told me Chicon had gotten them free, and with the ease with they split, they seemed worth every penny of it. But inside, in addition to a pocket program and various sheets …

I pulled the souvenir book halfway out of the bag and flashed it to my wife. She flinched away. She did not want to see

Her book.

For three solid weeks in July and early August, Rosy had slaved away at the Chicon 7 souvenir book, showing creativity and character that put me to absolute shame. Piles of extra progress reports were stacked neatly, my contribution to the convention, and they had burned me out – the bullshit I had gotten putting them together had so frosted me on the worldcon that I very seriously considered skipping the whole thing.

But Rosy’s drive to get the big book done well and on time had turned my head 180 degrees. At the last, she had been at the computer for 34 hours straight. No sleep breaks. Only snacks to eat. Such dedication awed and shamed me. (I’d assembled the Hugo and WSFS pages for her, but felt I had fundamentally been of very little help.) And the book looked pretty damned nice, too. Of course, just like me after I finished the DeepSouthCon 50 souvenir book last May, she couldn’t stand the thought of actually looking at it.

Well, others looked at it, and the first reaction came moments later, when we ran into Mike Resnick. Chicon 7’s pro Guest of Honor had read Rosy’s book, and he absolutely loved it.

We escalated upstairs and joined Nicki Lynch for lunch. (At the Bistro in the hotel lobby – a place we’d see a lot of in the next four days.) Sitting at the next table was fictionmags Chum . “My wife did the program book,” I bragged to him. I’d be saying that a lot.

First Night

The Adler Planetarium looks like a stone tomb from the days of Byzantium – from the outside. Within, it’s a whirl of suspended planets and shapes and exhibits and views and wonders – the perfect place for a worldcon’s First Night. Rosy and I caught a shuttle bus there and began the serious business of greeting people. I admit I felt a little lost – so many people there I didn’t know! But it was fine to meet con chair Dave McCarty in the flesh, and scope out his fundamental role with Chicon 7: idea man. This event, for instance.

We entered the Adler’s domed theatre expecting a typical planetarium sky-show, and instead were treated to “The Searcher”, a phenomenal animation narrated by Billy Crudup, wherein the lost alien of the title toured the universe seeking his wandering race. It was elegant, beautiful … in short, tres neat. Outside, we ogled the Chicago skyline, a multi-colored Milky Way in miniature glowing in mystery beneath the cool and breezy night.

Off to a great worldcon we went.

FRIDAY

9AM morning – what a time to have a panel, and on a hardcore SFnal topic like the works of Philip K. Dick, yet! Still, the Buckingham Room – once reached via several escalators – was packed . I was immediately nervous. Tom Doyle and Bradford Lynn, the moderator and one of my fellow panelists, had written lit’ry criticism about PKD. (Lynn was excited when we told him about the Ubik screenplay.) I hadn’t even read one of his books in ten years! Fortunately, if that’s the word, Jonathan vos Post was to my right, leaping to his feet to introduce himself, and his unabashed self-adulation more than masked any witlessness on my part. This was my first meeting with the great vos P, and I must admit two things. One, I ended up liking him (birds of a feather and all that), and two, if anyone ever makes me sit next to him on a panel again mayhem will result.

But I was not witless and Jonathan – this is him – was by no means as obnoxious as he makes himself sound. The topic conquered all. It turns out that the works of Philip K. Dick are so rich that they can be approached from any number of angles, and we all had lots of stuff to say. It didn’t matter that it had been years since I’d read Valis or Solar Lottery, what I had read had stuck. Not the plots, not the vaunted craziness – which is undeniable; the man reminds me of Hemingway – but the point, which was humane, consistent, and Christian in the purest sense. I got applauded when I quoted the same Yeats lines Dick mentioned in Our Friends from Frolix 8, but it was when we spoke of the empathy at the heart of his oeuvre that the passion in the discussion became obvious. Phil Dick – more than any other SFer I can name except perhaps Cordwainer Smith or Ray Lafferty – was the real thing: a writer with something real to convey, not a businessman adopting a point of view for cynical reasons of sales, but an artist seeking to put the essence of human values into words.

And what was that essence? Dick said it in Valis, his most mature work: Garlands of flowers, singing and dancing, and the recital of myths, tales and poetry. Or as he said elsewhere, the more kind we are, the more human we are. An affirmative and compelling vision.

The whole thing was magnificent. It was undoubtedly my best panel of the convention (although I enjoyed “Guilty Pleasures”, described supra). Whenever any of us ran into one another for the rest of the con, we exulted about it. When I got home, I ordered the Exegesis.

That wasn’t my only panel of the day. Later, for some reason, I sat in as part of a debate on pizza – New York “slice” vs. Chicago deep dish. With nothing to contribute, Rosy and I deserted the panel for the fan funds auction taking place several escalator rides below. Chris Garcia – so numerous his badge ribbons they dragged on the floor – Norman Cates, Murray Moore, Alan Stewart and many others took part. I bid on and bought a copy of Alva Rogers’ A for Astounding because I loved Alva and owed it to him – he and the other Little Men were more than generous to me when I was a whelp. Curse my stingy soul, though, I let myself be outbid on a really cool painting – like much of the stuff, from Mike Glicksohn’s collection – that would have been perfect for a Challenger cover. Don’t even know if it was an original or a print, but the guy who won it got a fabulous SFnal scene for just twenty-five bucks. I still curse myself, though God knows how I would have gotten the thing home.

The GOHs …

Had a lot to do throughout Chicon 7. Well, most of them. Rowena, the brilliant Artist GoH, was too ill to attend (I spoke to her sister, who reported that she was okay), I completely missed Story Musgrave (I’m told Steven Silver conducted a masterful interview with him, too), and I wouldn’t have gone to see another of the Guests had a meteorite bounced off his/her skull. (I take it back. I would have gone to see that.) But our two personal friends who were honored at Chicon 7 could not be denied.

Mike Resnick was a masterful Guest of Honor. He made lots of appearances, each replete with stories of his fabulous and preposterous career that he hardly ever repeated.

Best was a packed panel with Silverberg, , Gardner Dozois and RR Martin, the Secret History of Fandom. I’m assured by many that it provided the best laughs of the con. How could it not with such anecdotes? Bob’s tale of Baycon, the awesome ’68 worldcon marked by hippies sleeping in the lobby, Phil Farmer’s 45-minute GoH speech, and a five-hour Hugo ceremony. George’s talk of the first Hugo Losers’ Party, to the accompaniment of nude swimmers in a glass-bottomed pool. It’s on- line, and it’s a rack riot.

Memorable for other reasons was a mass autograph session for Mike’s myriad collaborators, including David Brin and *sigh* Catharine Asaro. Not only did she look nice, she was nice – she even complimented me on the latest Challenger! I thanked her for mentioning it, and complimented her on her latest career, as a singer. This from a lady who is already a Ph.D in physics and a Nebula-winning SF author. Beautiful, brilliant, multi-talented, and sweet. The woman is an alien. (See for yourself ) Also at that session was another beautiful, sweet face Rosy and I were delighted to see again: Lezli Robin. Our favorite Aussie has moved to the US to marry her fine beau Jamie, shown below with her. I hope he enjoyed himself; got the feeling that the crush of unfamiliar people and forced socializing may have bugged this fine fella a little. No, he didn’t punch me in the nose.

Peggy Rae Sapienza, Fan GoH, didn’t punch me either. She was on the constant move from appearance to panel to tea ceremony in her little go-kart (those things were all over this convention, except on the escalators), spreading good will and fannish spirit. Peggy Rae is one of a very few people – Steve & Suzanne Hughes, Justin & Annie Winston -- to visit our home in Shreveport. No kidding, great guest.

I see from my notes that we also ran into another favorite person on Friday evening – Ellen Vartanoff, sister to the fabled Irene and long one of the lights of this world. Good-beyond-good to see her still percolatin’.

SATURDAY

I’ll say this for Rich Lynch. He did a great fanzine and has been a ceaseless champion of the true fanzine. He enlisted me in that fight as I attended my first and please-God last WSFS Business Meeting on Saturday morning.

The big deal going on at this business meeting was ratification of changes made last year at Renovation – rewording of the Fanzine category and creation of the Podcast listing. Rich had put a lot of sweat into these matters and he wanted to make sure they had the votes to pass them.

I started off impressed with the smooth way Donald Eastlake ran the meeting and kept things going. But then someone invoked

Robert’s Rules of Rigmarole

And the meeting was lost in confusion. I’m a lawyer and I’ve dealt with bureaucracy for most of what I laughingly call my adult life, but this contorted monkeytail drivel was beyond me. Eventually it got straightened out and the real debate – such as it was – could get underway. And there was little suspense. Essential language establishing a fanzine as written communication published periodically passed, although people ardently insisted that a blog could pass that definition, which seemed to me to cheat the issue: is a blog more of a fanzine than a podcast? Nevertheless, the thing passed, earning an energetic fistpump from yhos. Lynch tried to restrain me, but hey, why restrict one’s celebration to moaning?

Rich’s victory in the bag, I split just as goodfella Chris Barkley began his argument for a Young Adult Hugo, in response to the usurpation of Best Novel by Harry Potter and The Graveyard Book in recent years. It failed, which brings a tinge of conscience – perhaps I should have stayed and leant my voice in support. But then, do I support the idea? We have too many Hugos as it is!

The Fan-Eds’ Feast

– has become something of a worldcon institution since Joe Major (Alexiad) and I (Challenger) founded it several years ago. This year, as at Anticipation, Cathy-Palmer-Lister (Warp) got the group together. In attendance at the Bistro: Naomi Fisher, Murray and Mrs. Moore (who is a non-fan but at least got to chat with Rosy), la belle, moi, Cathy, Lisa Major, Martin Morse Wooster, and (not shown) Joe (who took the photo), Anita and Tom Feller (SFC & SFPA bro), Milt Stevens. I hope we can go to one of those fantastic Tex- Mex restaurants on the river in San Antonio – continuing our salute to ourselves as champions of the printed word!

It was a wet day outside – Hurricane Isaac at long last reached Chicago. My only panel of the day had been canceled so panelists could attend the business meeting, so we attended an aforementioned Resnick panel, a PRae event and haunted the Dealers’ Room. The afternoon passed all too hurriedly, and as night came on, the rain ended, and peckishness once again surfaced within our bellies.

We met with Rich and Nicki and two of their pals, Barry & Judy Newton from WSFA, for this year’s Rich Lynch Death March dinner. We brought our own invitee, the ever- welcome Robin Johnson (shown here with Naomi Fisher, Pat Molloy and a friend whose name escapes my enfeebled brain). Any time spent with Robin is automatically entertaining and this excursion was no exception. As we supped at the picturesque Elephant and Castle pub a few blocks from the hotel (I had Fish & Chips, Rosy some sort of veggie pie), we talked about Lincoln – this being Illinois – and Robin gave Barry and Judy a good laugh with my famous quokka story. (I refer the curious to my DUFF account, The Antipodal Route, or my LOC in Banana Wings for detail.) Good chow with good buds: by itself, worth the flight north. While party-hopping, I found myself talking to a lady about my last criminal trial, which involved a naive young white woman who thought she could reform her street thug black boyfriend, and ended up accusing him of rape. I won the case, and hopefully did not seem like I was bragging about it – to Janis Ian, whom I much later remembered as the author of “Society’s Child”. Open mouth, insert leg, thigh-deep.

Not quite as tacky as giving a generic “Hi there!” when a lady boarded our elevator and gave me a solemn greeting. I thought I didn’t know her. Rosy, ever sharper, read her nametag and asked me about her. Senility must truly have me by the short hairs when I fail to recognize Becky Thomson, one of the world’s great lovables.

Still, it was a great evening. We encountered Dave McCarty again, and he gifted each of us with a heavy pewter doubloon in the design of Chicon 7’s shield. Rosy hung mine with the ribbons on my nametag. A special Chairman’s Award, he said, for special contribution to the success of the con. She got it for the souvenir book, I for the progress reports – a great and touching reward. Chicon 7 had completely won me over.

SUNDAY

Sunday Funnies

Breakfast in the Green Room was accompanied by the appearance on the table of Sunday Funnies, a special project of the Chicon Publications Committee that Steven Silver had been planning for a year. On the off chance that you haven’t seen it, it was a collection of ersatz comic strips by various fan artists – in color, on newsprint – depicting the worldcon guests in various heroic and/or comic situations. Randy Cleary’s “The Fantom” even mentioned me. Designed to give Peggy Rae a special surprise, it was a hoot.

Continuing with the “hoot” theme, my panel on “Guilty Pleasures” followed, another packed house in the Buckingham Room. Dan Kimmel of was moderator – he’s the author of Jar Jar Binks Must Die!, a book of lighthearted movie criticism, and you can imagine the tone of the discussion which followed. Barbarella was mentioned (people were shocked that I hadn’t seen more than Hanoi Jane’s notorious weightless striptease) and the inexecrable (and very depressing) Making Mr. Right. I maintained that bad SF movies are often derivative (Solaris – either one – down to the breaking crystal, the golden walnuts thing with Vic Morrow, any number of Star Wars ripoffs), pretentious , or Italian. Despite all this, I put in a good word for Battle Beyond the Stars, which is all of these things except from Italy. And I insisted on mentioning a superb quasi-SF film from Brit Marling, The Sound of My Voice.

Smartest thing Kimmel did was throw the floor to the peanut gallery, because they came up with some gems I now must see – like Jesus Christ – Vampire Hunter, the infamous Turkish Star Wars, Birdemic of course, The Stuff and Rubber. Someone mentioned Lifeforce and sent me into paroxysms over Mathilda May, who spent her entire performance wordless, gorgeous and stark raving naked. (“It was a terrifying film, all right,” I said. “I was terrified she would put on her clothes!” Added Kimmel, “If you want to see more of Mathilda May, I don’t know if that’s possible!”)

The panel’s goofy high notwithstanding, I was feeling a definite malaise, probably sensing that the end of the con was coming. The Worldcon Order of Fan-Editors Foolishness (or whatever) was therapy I needed. Having been an off-&-on WOOF participant since the very first (this was the 37th), and Chris Garcia being in charge this year, of course I had to contribute to worldcon’s annual apa. I did so through a fanzine called Globs of Snot. Let me explain. Many years ago, when Elst Weinstein was still awarding his Hogu Awards, I nominated a zine by that name for the Worst Fanzine award. It won. I received no trophy (usually a wooden square with a burn mark in the center, signifying that the rocket had blasted off) but didn’t mind – the zine didn’t exist either. Now it did, two pages of natter, joined by a happy 2000th birthday greeting to Caligula.

Chris could find no heavy-duty stapler to bind the WOOF mailing, so it had to go out loose. Afterwards, he sat me down and interviewed me about my fannish life, my first meeting with , and so forth. I interrupted the dialog with a coughing fit. Damn diverticulitis anyway.

Since we were about the dealers’ room, Rosy and I bought three movie posters from MorbidMonsters’ which la belle intends to frame and display in our “media room.” As the dealers’ area, buried in the sub-sub- basement of the hotel, had no internet access, and therefore no charge cards could be used, the proprietor of MorbidMonsters and I had to troop up multiple escalators to find an ATM.

That done, it was at long last time for a jaunt to the Bean, or as the artist prefers that it be known,

Cloud Gate.

It’s the work of an Indo-English artist named Anish Kapoor, who detests his masterpiece’s goofy nickname but is said to enjoy its wild popularity. Located a few blocks south of Wacker Drive (I’d gone north on my solo wander), it sits like a glob of mercury in Millennium Park, reflecting Michigan Avenue and hordes of giddy tourists.

Rosy hadn’t wanted to leave the worldcon for long, but the silver blob had her exultant. Its interior– called the omphalos – is pure Twilight Zone. The playfully distorted reflections compile upon one another until you’re convinced you can think your way to the eleventh dimension. Only the multitudinous handprints on the polished silver surface distorted the effect. I must note in his defense that Mib, the two-inch panda with the red bow tie, was far too fastidious to leave such blemishes behind him.

Ah, the answer to all gloom-fits of malaise. Science fiction, man.

Here’s another panacea for end-of-con depression: seeing Rose Carlson. My good day kept going. I hadn’t seen the great Carlson since 2000, and the incredible lady had great developments to broadcast about her life. Accompanying her to the second floor bar was her husband, Jim Kobrinetz, with whom Rose has formed a solid, successful, substantial life. She looked splendid. She reminded me of our first meeting, in the company of a couple of guys we both now and will forever miss, Julie Schwartz and Bob Tucker. How many times since did Rose put up with me on my train-trip intermissions? So good to see her so happy and doing so well!

Jim and Rose vowed to call us when and if they make a promised trip to New Orleans. That will be grand – another validation of fandom as a lifestyle affirming and rewarding.

Jim invited us to dinner, but la belle and I had to demur. We had a different kind of engagement requiring our presence.

HUGOS There?

This was the first Hugo ceremony of the 21st Century at which I was not a nominee. Rosy was happy – we had good company in Randy Cleary as we negotiated the long line and found decent seats moreorless in front of one of the big screens -- but I don’t mind saying that I felt miserable. For this I wore a sports coat and “hard shoes”? *mumble*

The first item on the night’s agenda was the traditional Big Heart Award, presented as always by the great Dave Kyle. Dave is 93, and, I noted, “looks great” – not stumbling once as he presented the award to Juanita Coulson. I flashed on the pages I laid out about Juanita for the NASFiC program book a few years ago. (This is Dave with Sue Francis and John Hertz, former Big Heart winners.) There was a nice memorial slide show, names, some faces – applause came down for many, Armstrong, Bradbury, Harry Harrison, Sally Ride. Don Markstein’s name was up there.

To save time, Chicon 7 had decided on having but one presenter: Scalzi, except in the category where he was nominated. It was supposed to speed the ceremony along, but … no. Still, things were off to a good start as Scalzi showed off this year’s Hugo base, formed along the lines of Chicago’s famous Picasso sculpture. You can see it on my cover. I made a point, later, of congratulating Deb Kosiba, the Hugo designer, on another epic job. This was her third base, her last being the excellent blue marquee for LACon III.

There was something very cool about the Hugo winners this year. Most were newbies, first-time winners. All the fiction winners – except for the dramatic presentations, of course – both fan and pro artists, and all 3 of the fan winners had never been up there before – most refreshing. The John W. Campbell plaque – and tiara – went to E. Lily Yu, a cute girl, and I’ll stand by that word: she’s only 22! Fan Artist was a surprise honor for Mo-for-Maurine Starkey, cover artist for Chris Garcia’s Drink Tank; I was pleased for her and delighted that Randall Munroe’s stick figures hadn’t triumphed – although again, he got the most 1st place votes. As Mo came to the stage, Garcia ran to embrace her. (See her on the next page.)

Fan Writer winner Jim Hines endeared himself to me by recusing himself (a legal term; is he a lawyer?) from further competition in order to make room for others not yet recognized. I thanked him later for a grand and just gesture. Where’s he publish, anyway? As for Best Fanzine … SF Signal? What? It’s a blog filled with ads for forthcoming movies and books, about as fannish as a circular for a pizza parlor. Well, at least it’s written. But are the Hugo days for the classic fanzine – articles, LOCs ‘toons – over? Watch this space.

The Podcast Award – now to be a permanent part of these ceremonies – followed, brining dozens (it seemed) of giggling ladies from SF Squeecast onstage. In fictionmags posts after the con, Bob Silverberg and others expressed annoyance at their goofy, giddy celebration, but hey: how often do you win your first Hugo? (Never, apparently, if you’re me.) The editors of Locus, at the dais next for the Semiprozine award, were at least calm.

John Picacio won Best Pro Artist, his first win after eight tries – neo! – and made a gracious point of praising two giant influences on his work: John Berkey and Richard Powers, neither of whom ever came close to Hugo recognition. It was an excellent gesture everyone applauded. Up next, the long-form editor Hugo went to Betsy Wollheim – and I have to admit, she hit me as cuter than cute. She must remind me of my Berkeley girlfriend Her shout-out to her dad that at last the name “Wollheim” was on a Hugo carried the slightest tang of bitterness. Sheila Williams made my heart glad in her acceptance speech by praising poor Stan Schmidt, who has put in decades, it seems, at the helm of Analog, yet has never won rocketry and is retiring. As Sheila’s pointed out on fictionmags, we have one more chance …

Kind of a nice surprise to see Neil Gaiman take the stage to accept the award for “The Doctor’s Wife” – Gaiman shouldn’t have won the Hugo for The Graveyard Book (or indeed, accepted the nomination) but he’s a very nice guy and of course, a towering and unique talent. (He’ll always be the author of “Dream of a Thousand Cats” to me. My cat is snoozing right behind me in this very room. What’s she dreaming about?) The only writer present more famous than Neil came forward next to receive the trophy for Game of Thrones Season 1; I’ve been making bookstore workers throughout Shreveport jealous ever since the worldcon saying that I saw George R.R. Martin there.

Finally – finally – the Hugos moved into the written SF categories. I’m ashamed to the point of self-flagellation to admit that I hadn’t read any of the nominees for the shorter awards, but it’s a sign of the genre’s health that it welcomed three newcomers to the Hugo stage. Jo Walton, too, was a first-time winner. Some may have been surprised by the victory of Among Others for the “big” award, Best Novel, in a year dominated by Game of Thrones, but I wasn’t; it had copped the Nebula and was nominated for the World Fantasy Award and had an ineffable buzz of inevitability about it. When Ms. Walton took the stage, she thanked, among others, Rene Walling, the poor bastard demonized at Readercon (and forevermore denied admission) for annoying a woman and trying too hard to apologize. I have heard too much nonsense about the incident to claim to know what went on, but I know Walling had to appreciate Ms. Walton’s shout-out. Apparently he named the book.

Afterwards, the audience dissipated to the night’s parties, and the winners thronged about outside the hall – RR calling other GoT people to congratulate them (see above), Gaiman being interviewed. The nomination and voting stats were put out to be examined: interestingly, all the fiction winners had led in all stages of the complex Australian ballot, and in the Fanzine category Steven Silver’s Argentus had missed nomination by a single vote. I would have put him on the ballot. Challenger was 7 off the pace, which is pretty decisive; between you and me and the lamppost, I have a hunch I’ll never see the inside of a Hugo ballot again. Well, if one’s day is past, be glad you had one and enjoy the evening.

One who is not only enjoying the evening, but luxuriating in it is Dave Kyle, whom we spotted – still in his red jacket – surrounded by past winners of the Big Heart Award. His daughter Kerry, whom Rosy has known forever, stood watching, proud as could be of her 93-year-old dad – yet worried about him, of course. I showed her my notes from the ceremony, which read “Kyle looks great!” I think she appreciated it. Now the only Chicon 7 challenge left was getting Rosy into the Hugo Losers’ Party. I hadn’t tried to finagle our way past good Glenn Glazer, an old LASFAPAmate, but thought to give it a try up at the party entrance on the 34th floor. Didn’t need to worry; Robbie Bourget was Guardian at the Gate this year and, saying she knew I’d lost this year’s Fanzine award, waved us in. All that fret and it was that easy!

Inside, Steven Silver seized me to pose for a photo with himself and yet another fan who has lost the Hugo 14 times. Ignominy is wasted on the shy. We finally got to meet Terrence Miltner, who had taken over as Publications Chief when I was laid low. He agreed that Rosy’s program book looked sweet and that the progress reports were acceptable – their best quality, “They’re done.” Up came Warren Buff – both he and Terrence sported McCarty’s Chairman’s Award pins – talking about the foul-up with the Dragon*Con Hugo hook- up, nobody’s fault and everybody’s chagrin. And I spotted Jo Walton, sitting alone with her award.

“That’s the Dune Hugo,” I said. “And the Demolished Man Hugo. And the Canticle for Leibowitz Hugo. And the Case of Conscience Hugo …” I could have gone on to mention The Left Hand of Darkness and Spin and Blue Mars. Instead …

“That’s the They’d Rather Be Right Hugo, too,” I said. “Searched for years to find that book … It’s not bad; I rather like Bossy the Computer!”

“Whatever you say,” Walton chuckled. At least she didn’t beat me with her cane.

Ordinarily at this worldcon, Rosy and I would sack it at around eleven, but not this night. Mindful that tomorrow we would be heading home, Rosy was jazzed – anxious to get in as much worldcon as possible. It was hours before we gave up the ghost and blearily we found our room, luggage already packed, ready by the door.

MONDAY

We were off reluctantly but early the next day. It hurt like blue bejasus to leave: we knew we’d be another full day of worldcon. But the real world demanded our presence. At the Midway airport I filched bottlecaps from the trash – why waste MyCokeRewards numbers? -- and, alparazolemed up nicely, fell asleep while our plane lingered on the tarmac. When I woke I wondered, did we land while I snoozed?

The clouds let off quick as we crossed the South between Atlanta and Dallas. Above a wide stream I thought might be Shreveport’s own Red River, I spotted a blue plane flying NW to SE 2000 feet or so beneath us. Considering our combined speeds, he was really truckin’. I felt privileged. Later on I spotted another plane, much further below, going our way. And the sectioned turf below looked terrific. If I could ever love a flight, I’d’ve loved that one. Soon we landed, returned to the hotel, fetched Big Red, booked it home to cat, yorkies, plants, jobs – normal life. I’d recovered enough from my drug binge to drive 2/3 of the way.

I’d left for Chicago wary of and sick of fans. Four days amongst the people had cured that malady, but good. Amongst the gray hairs and wrinkles of the fandom I knew, youth had shown it still has a stubborn foothold. Posted later, photos from the Masquerade likewise demonstrated SF’s ineffable energy and creativity, still percolatin’ among The People – not every SFer under 50 has fled for Dragon*Con.

I was just as reluctant as Rosy was to have it over; both of wished we could have stayed another day, and both of us were ready to go back tom0rrow.

The day will come when it will be tomorrow. TEX-MEX ON THE RIVER! Vamonos! Take the stairs.

within the omphalos …

da Bean

Mib says, “See you in San Antonio!”