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Aug. 22nd, 2018 12:40 pm
WorldCon, Part 1
The WorldCon was an hour by car from Oakland, so I decided to drive to San Jose instead of staying over at a hotel. On Friday I got there just before noon, in time for the Mexicanx Spanish Language Reading. Unfortunately… Well, I always think I know more Spanish than I actually do. I understood three stories, think I got the gist of a few more, but some passed over my head completely. It helped that every writer read their work almost as if it was a performance, with all the sound effects and conversations acted out. Some writers in the US can do this — Harlan Ellison comes to mind, and Daryl Gregory did it at the reading I went to at SF in SF— but a lot of times people here will just read the page in front of them.
After that I did that wandering thing, running into people I knew and promising to meet them later. As always, there were people I never managed to see during the entire con, and I once again I realized I should have made arrangements or at least gotten people’s phone numbers beforehand. Next time!
Then I went to the Gardner Dozois memorial. Pat Cadigan, George R.R. Martin, and John Kessel reminisced, with assistance from Sheila Williams and other people in the audience, but the problem was that Gardner was such a powerful force, almost an act of nature, that no one could do him but Gardner. He had one of the sharpest wits in science fiction, and that, combined with the wicked glee of a small child getting away with something, made him unique. It was funny hearing him say “Peeee-nis” at inopportune moments, or seeing him stick a jellybean up his nose (you’ll just have to trust me on this), but at times the panelists seemed to have trouble getting this across. When I got home Doug reminded me of one of the things he used to say that the panelists didn’t mention — he claimed that his pick-up line was “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Then went out to dinner with Sheila and her family. As we left the Civic Center I remembered the last San Jose WorldCon, where Lucius Shepard had managed to find the only dive bar in downtown. I didn’t remember where it was but I’m certain it’s not there now. It probably wasn’t there then, either.
Then we went to the Asimov/ Analog party. It was, like most of the parties I went to, far too crowded and too noisy. I headed into the hall with some people to talk, ran into others on the way out and promised I’d be right back, and then, of course, when I came back they had gone. I met some new writers, excited that they or their friends were nominated for Hugos, and I couldn’t help feeling old and nostalgic. I remembered when everything had felt that bright and sharp and new, and I knew that, even if they went on to greater triumphs, it would never be like this again. I didn’t tell them that, of course. Why spoil it for them? And they wouldn’t have believed me anyway. But I’m here to report that, after talking to some of them, the field seems in good hands.
Stayed on too late, and then drove home.
