The
SMOKIN’
ROUTE
THE
SMOKIN’
ROUTE
BEING AN ACCOUNT
OF THE JOURNEY OF
GUY & ROSY
LILLIAN TO THE
CITY OF SPOKANE,
WASHINGTON AND
SASQUAN,
THE 73RD WORLD
SCIENCE FICTION
CONVENTION
AUGUST 18-25, 2015.
Composed by Guy at 1390 Holly Avenue, Merritt Island FL 32952
GHLIII@yahoo.com * GHLIII Press Publication #1183
Oh, what a journey it could have been. And oh, what a journey it was.
In our dreams, we would have roaded it to South Dakota, walked the Greasy Grass at Little Big Horn,
sought the majesty of Mount Rushmore and the Crazy Horse Monument, whistled the theme to Close
Encounters at Devil’s Tower, then driven on through Montana and Idaho to Spokane. But those fantasies
evaporated with the bad luck and ill will of April, which gutted us financially and emotionally. It seemed,
that spring and early summer, that Rosy and I would have only an ambassador to send to Sasquan, the 73rd
World Science Fiction Convention – its souvenir book.
This was the sixth major convention for which Rosy and/or I had edited the program/souvenir book, and
possibly the most satisfying. I did Let the Good Times Roll for Nolacon II with Peggy Ranson – without
benefit of computer layout programs. I love the book but our primitive tools and lack of experience shows.
La belle and I worked on Noreascon 4’s with Geri Sullivan, a layout genius of incomparable talent, and
while the book is beautiful, we credit that mostly to Geri. Rosy’s book for Chicon 7 is jolly and colorful,
but was done at such a breakneck, last-nanosecond pace that its rife typos glare like burning coals. The
tome I did for the Raleigh NASFiC has its attractions – great Brad Foster robot art and a devastating photo
of Catharine Asaro, for instance – but is mostly a guide to program participants. Then there’s the huge
book I edited for the 50th DeepSouthCon – it nearly bankrupted the concom, and I messed up line spacing
throughout, but it’s too much a labor of love for my home convention and its Rebel and Phoenix Awards
for me to judge rationally.
Sasquan’s book was the first time Rosy and I could truly collaborate on a project, me as editor, assimilator,
and general visionary, her as layout engineer and InDesign expert. I got my job done early, throwing
together a fanzine-like dummy of the book, so she had plenty of time to turn my slop into a volume of
professional quality. Which makes the Sasquan book sound dry and lifeless – and it was anything but.
I am far from the brightest nova in the night sky, but I did have some definite ideas about the job. Sasquan
began life under a pall. Spokane was not fandom’s first choice for the 2015 Worldcon; it won over
Helsinki due only to the vagaries of the Australian ballot. I got the strong impression that fans of the
Finnish bid – though not the bidders themselves – felt cheated, and blamed Spokane. Furthermore,
Sasquan’s committee labored within a harsh and hostile local environment in Seattle, locus of the state’s
fanac. Its many fandoms were having at each other fang and claw – as I found when I tried to recruit
locals for the convention newsletter and other publication tasks. (Of course, the Corflu crowd is very
strong in the northwest. I’m an outsider to that corner of fanzine fandom – there’s a suspicion there that
didn’t help.) Finally, thanks in part to a NASFiC that apparently did not go well, I sensed a cruel disdain
for Sasquan’s honcho, Bobbie DuFault, bad juju visited upon her name even after her untimely death.
It wasn’t just fannish mistrust of the concom that afflicted Sasquan. Outside fannish pressures also came to
bear. In April the Hugo nominations came out – and the onslaught of the Sad Puppies began. You know
the story and are probably sick of it. For my present purposes, let’s just say that the right-wing paranoia
that clogged the Hugo ballot served as additional weight on Sasquan’s back.
I saw it as my duty to enliven this sour situation. The Sasquan program book, I decided, should have a
lively, goofy tone to counteract the bad vibes groaning about the convention. This was all the easier to
manage thanks to the convention’s Artist Guest of Honor and resident genius, Brad Foster. His cover illo –
see my cover – had blown us away. His vision of a dopey bigfoot, realized on the front of the first progress
report and various fillos therein … well, that settled it. I’d use that silly sasquatch, whom I presumed to
name “Hugo,” to bring the souvenir book unity and style – and keep it light. Rosy got the message and
came up with the footprint idea to promote the idea of Hugo the Sasquatch, fetched for worldcon by a pair
of naïve aliens, wandering through the Worldcon spreading destruction in his wake.
Anyway, we got it done, we got it proofread by as many eyes as I could enlist, made every correction they
and we could find, and got it to the printer on time. We’d done our best, cut no corners, and could feel
pride in our work.
There matters stood as August came around, and its days began to fall behind us. As we had no chance of
attending, I thought, I expected I’d be reading about Sasquan online, straining to follow the ceremonies via
Livestream (last year’s show was an all-but-incomprehensible cacophony of overlapping soundtracks), and
sweating out the chances of my Hugo favorites – Mike Resnick and Toni Weisskopf in the editor
categories, Journey Planet as best fanzine, Steve Stiles for fan artist, and Cixin Liu’s magnificent ThreeBody Problem for best novel – on the ballot thanks to the character and good sense of author Marco Kloos,
who withdrew his Lines of Departure, whether out of embarrassment over a Puppies endorsement or for
other reasons, who knows. Oh well, we thought: not the first Worldcon we’d had to enjoy from afar.
Then came August 11. I’m not at liberty to disclose how the money came free, or its source, but on that
marvelous day money did come free, and I wrote in my journal, “Oh dear God we’re going to Sasquan.”
In one week.
Rosy and her stepmother Patty took matters in hand, preparing a budget contrasting my immediate plan –
gassing up the car, throwing a change of underwear into a grocery bag and booking it – with Rosy’s
sensible alternative: flying. It would take six times as long to drive and cost three times as much. They
contacted a family friend in the travel business, who obtained seats for us at a decent rate – rather
miraculous for such a late date – and that was that, cat. The die was cast.
I won’t bore you with my paranoid delusions about the flights – which would be five in number: three to
get there (Orlando-Salt Lake City, SLC to Seattle, Seattle to Spokane), two to get back (we scored a direct
flight Spokane to Salt Lake). Suffice it to say that when we finally left, in the pre-dawn hours of August
18, the glorious reds and yellows and whites of Orlando from aloft were not quite lost on me. Such is the
nature of Xanax: the pill I popped took enough edge off my terror to let the good stuff shine through. The
western mountains, when we reached them, were awesome – the deep shadows, the rugged ridges, the
impassable cliffs of the wilderness below were heart-filling and fear-shaming. Having my phobia abashed
made the views even more glorious. Coming into Seattle, a hearty religious discussion in progress with a
nice Mormon row-mate (who once crashed on Mitt Romney’s floor), Mount Rainier framed itself, white
and magnificent, in the portside window. And was that Puget Sound, wide and beautiful, below us?
Awe gave way to annoyance once we reached Seattle. Our flight was some 40 minutes late and we’d
missed our connection. While Rosy called her travel agent buddy and tried to deal with Delta Airlines, that
monument to airline arrogance, I practiced for old age with two wheelchair rides around the expansive
terminal, seeking the appropriate gates. No, I wasn’t suddenly stricken and unable to walk – just stupid
from Alprazolam. I don’t know how I avoided justifiable assault from those actually needing such
assistance, and righteous arrest. All I do know is that when
we finally boarded our tiny jet for the 32-minute bop across
Washington State, Toni Weisskopf greeted us from her
seat. Worldcons begin with a first fan sighting, and so
Sasquan had begun.
The turf below us looked mountainous and wooded – I
imagined Hugo the sasquatch galumphing his way through
its forests. Except when there were no forests. Just swathes
of bare earth. We flew through a nasty yellow haze. It was
impossible not to realize that eastern Washington was On
Fire.
Our landing was hard, our braking quick: our bellies
strained against the seat belts. After 12 hours of stressful, if
occasionally beautiful, travel, we were at our destination –
Spokane, Washington, 2,368+ miles diagonally across
America from where we’d woken up. And as a perfect
punctuation to such a day, Delta lost my luggage.
I spent a night of near-rage (although Delta did gift me with a complimentary tee shirt, correctly sized, and
a wicked little razor) anticipating a convention spent in the same sweaty gear as I’d flown in. But then, we
received a call. T’was a courier. She had my suitcase in her trunk, she said, and had been tasked with
delivering same by Delta, but as a new arrival from the Midwest, had no idea where our hotel was located.
Fortunately, the svelte blonde cutie found it, and me, before I afflicted Sasquan with my nervous flight
stench. A change of togs and we were ready to face fandom.
Oh – some fans were sitting around the hotel lobby when we emerged from our room. One girl, already
registered, had all the convention freebies out of their green Sasquan bag and spread out before her.
Among them was our book. That first sight of a project is always the most daunting, but in this case, it was
also satisfying. Book looked good. We boarded the convention shuttle bus – very comfy; good work,
Bobbi – and were off, past the castle-like Holiday Inn Express, to see the wizard.
Is there any fannish excitement to match the first moments of a Worldcon? Walking the long Convention
Center hallway from the street to the central hall, we said hi to Mike Glyer, the second familiar face after
Toni’s, and then Joe and Gay Haldeman, who greeted Rosy warmly and pressed an invitation to their
anniversary party into her hands. Bob Silverberg was with them; I made a point of calling him ”Bob,”
which he’s always demanded that I do, and then blew it all by also calling him “sir.” I can’t help it; he’s
Robert Silverberg and I’m some schnook. Then we were at registration, or rather I was; as a Department
Head, I figured I had the right to cut in line, and left Rosy to maintain the familiar shuffle. I made the
mistake of approaching Paula Leibowitz with my plea for special understanding, and was driven back,
covered in ridicule. (Eventually we were shuttled to a staff line and got our goodies.)
Familiar faces came forth in a rush: Grant Kruger, the South African fan (because the only South African
fan, he believes), appeared, with longer locks than before. I pleased Andy Porter by showing him his
credit in the souvenir book, and in return he showed me the semi-pornographic cover to Marty Cantor’s
Holier than Thou XX, with which he planned to embarrass Brad Foster. Norman Cates (see previous
page), campaigning for New Zealand in 2020, coughed and choked in line, but still waved hi, as did James
Bacon, hyping his Dublin bid for 2019. His moustaches were needle-sharp. Mike Resnick grabbed me by
the back of my neck, but I couldn’t mind;
Carol was with him and reported feeling
fine, a relief to their innumerable friends.
Steve and Sue Francis came up (they’d
show again at the Hugo ceremony), as did
Roger and Pat Sims; Roger just hit 85 and
says little these days, but his cheery smile
conveyed a lot.
I was brought up short when I glimpsed
who I thought for an instant to be Julie
Schwartz in silhouette – and felt the ache of
Time when I realized that, of course, it was
another man. Many were the happy greetings as we re-entered the personal realm of fandom, but the
regrets were many, too.
In search of our beautiful and ever-more-accomplished pal Lezli Robyn, whom Rosy had agreed to meet in
the Dealer’s Room, we adjourned thither, to find convention Guest of Honor David Gerrold manning his
own booth just inside the entry. I’ve been impressed with Gerrold of late; his reactions against the Sad
Puppies was strong and humorous, fair and resilient, and tough enough so that one of their neurotic
number had called the Spokane police and warned them that he was dangerous and criminal. Sasquan was
ready to expel the fool before Gerrold talked them out of it. The maturity and strength in the man was good
to see.
It was also good to hear his praise for our souvenir book, which he told us was the best he’d ever seen at
any con, anywhere, anywhen. Sure, he was just being a good GoH, but even so, when I heard that, I had to
walk off and be by myself for a minute.
Rosy found the lovely Lezli – stunning in her rich red hair – and two other Mike Resnick “writing
daughters,” Tina Glover and Monica Lestetter, cute, brilliant ladies of around 13 years of age. (I have
those numbers reversed, but they looked 13.) I was unnecessary in such company, so I wandered. I saw
noble Chris Barkley and his friend Julie in the reg line (DUFF!), went by the daily newsletter office to
introduce myself to editor Cherise Kelley (who wasn’t there, although able Tom Galloway and Kage
Thornbrough were), and met WSFS champion Linda Deneroff, who also complimented the book and
received my gratitude for saving our necks at the last minute. You see, we were about to publish last
year’s constitution before Linda spotted the mistake. She liked how we’d printed the proposed
amendments in blue. Everyone expressed surprise that we had made it. Us too.
Back in the dealer’s room, I was contemplating The Dark Forest, second volume in the trilogy of which
The Three-Body Problem is the first. I had in mind a copy with a frayed cover, because … well, I felt sorry
for it! Aren’t you one of us nuts who feel pity for inanimate objects. I was distracted from my mull by
Bobbi Armbruster, who stood next to me for two minutes before realizing who I was. I grew used to that in
my youth. She was pleased that I liked the shuttle service, her bailiwick within the convention workforce,
but tried to convince me that she has six grandchildren, five girls and a dude. Impossible! The woman is
only 25! Never mind that we met at Suncon, 1977. Ah, LASFAPA in the late seventies …
It was time to open the show, so we trooped – my feet already
aching; Skechers Gowalks shoes are super-comfy, but those
floors were hard – across to East Hell (or so it seemed) for
Opening Ceremonies. Con chairman Sally Woehrle stumbled
gamely through a verbal history of local fandom and
introduced the guests, who came forth to occupy easy chairs
on the stage. Gerrold, Vonda McIntyre, Brad Foster, filker
Tom Smith, Fan GoH Leslie Turek – I felt I’d come to know
all of them through prepping tributes for the souvenir book.
The star of the show was present only through a videotape,
however – astronaut Kjell Lindgren, on the International Space
Station, who welcomed us to Sasquan floating in mid-air. He
threw a tribble at the camera in David’s honor and followed it
up with a weightless backflip. Stand-ups of Kjell were spread
throughout the convention – and carried at the fore of many
processions.
They brought out Matthew Dockery, the Hugo base designer –
couldn’t make out his work, though we saw it later, and that’s
it on my bacover – and Nina Horvath, the Austrian TAFF
winner. Her English was charming, her dimples delightful –
but she doesn’t get by on looks. Nina is a paleontologist –
dinosaurs again! – who has published some 35 SF stories (in
German, of course) and won awards as both a writer and an
anthologist. She had fandom at her feet throughout the con.
And they had a sasquatch! Recall that our souvenir book was bound by the tale of Hugo Bigfoot, lured to
the con by aliens, who wandered hither and yon during the event spreading chaos in his wake. Well, here
he was in the hairy flesh, only they called him Terence – no doubt his middle name – leading us out into
the park adjacent to the convention center for that delightful new tradition of Worldcon – First Night.
Across the bridge in the pretty park SCAers dueled, strange games were played, and an amateur musical
was performed (out of earshot). The weather was marvelous and if that was a hint of smoke in the air, it
was – for the nonce – only a hint. Vouchers were handed out for free Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, for which
there were two long lines; Rosy and I each had banana cones enriched with huge chunks of chocolate, and
not a calorie within miles. But we didn’t linger; my feet were in serious revolt, and I wanted to see the
Fanzine Lounge.
I was anxious – in two meanings of the word – to visit the
Lounge. I define myself as a fan primarily in three ways: as a
reader, as a Southerner, whose home event is the DeepSouthCon,
and as a fanziner, whose life hobby is the production of amateur
magazines like, well, this one. Though all of these roles have
certainly been rewarding, I have not been universally popular in
the latter two – but as my great antagonist Don Markstein once
observed, that’s the way the corflu clots. The Lounge was the
project of what I call the Corflu crowd, mainstays of the
venerable “fanzine fans’” convention, and let us admit in all
discretion that although I much admire their work and like many
of the people, the feeling has not always been mutual. Our
perspective of the hobby is widely divergent, and our relationship
has been – what is the term? Ah! “Iffy.”
Nevertheless, I found the Lounge very comfortable, crowded
with soft leatherette couches, and well-stocked with fanzines, old
and new. Everywhere, as intimated by the poster above, inflatable
dinosaurs roared silent abuse upon the conventioneers. In this
benighted era of blogs and fancasts, the paper fanzine is
considered as antique and rare a creature as ever caroused through the Jurassic. In defiance of this fact, the
Lounge was a jolly place. Great kudos to organizer Randy Byers and his krewe. Particular praise goes to
Jerry Kaufman and honor beyond honor to his lady, Suzle Tompkins, who in her position as Sasquan’s
Hotel Liaison saved our necks when the Red Lion at the Park futzed up our reservations.
Cathy Palmer-Lister, of Montreal’s Warp, grabbed me in a hug – and a demand for a Fan-Eds’ Feast. I was
abashed; first I’d thought of it. Ulrika O’Brien reported that her relaxacon of the previous weekend had
been a success, and Banana Wings co-editor Mark Plummer presented me, as he often does, with the latest
issue of his and Claire Brialey’s exceptional zine. I was embarrassed that, obsessed with the souvenir
book, I’d done nothing special of my own for the con. But all was all right, for a grand surprise called to
me from one of the easy chairs: Liz Copeland.
Grand indeed this surprise. Beset by work. Liz’ husband Jeff had informed the world that he and his would
be unable to get to Sasquan, though they live only a few hours’ drive away. But during Ulrika’s relaxacon
Liz had been invited to ride in with other Seattleites (that’s a word, isn’t it?) and crash in one of their
rooms – and so here she was. Liz and I go back a long time – forty years as of the middle of July. Rivercon
I, Louisville, DeepSouthCon 1975, was her first convention, and she got hit by a whole riverboat-full of
whammies. The appearance of Muhammed Ali was but the first. There’s been a lot to those 40 years,
including a triumphant marriage to Jeff, two splendid kids – and about twenty-five operations, from the
latest of which she was still recovering. She’s prevailing, though, and I’m so proud of Liz I could spit. (In
fact, I will. Oh, sorry, Pepper; didn’t see you there.)
After we wandered the adjacent Exhibits, eying the many Hugos on display (Rich Howell assembled his
gorgeous design, the only time a Hugo had itself been nominated for a Hugo), and a 3-D printer creating a
yellow plastic octopus – I just report the facts – other old pals picked us up, Rich and Nicki Lynch,
celebrating their own fortieth – only theirs denotes a wedding anniversary this year. We were off to dinner,
soon joined by David and Diana Thayer, across the street from the CC. Our first choice, O’Donoghue’s,
had an inviting old-pub atmosphere, but was raucous with racket, as the management and patrons loudly
celebrated a Spokane-born baseball player. We trekked around the corner to an establishment called
Steelhead’s, adorned with portraits of fishing lures and gifted with a menu celebrating Spokane’s signature
salmon. David – a.k.a. “Teddy Harvia,” and a Hugo winner under that name – recalled with me hanging
onto straps and college girls aboard a San Francisco cable car during another dinner expedition with the
Lynchi, years ago. We call such trips “Rich Lynch Death Marches,” because Rich often leads his followers
on epic treks across miles of city streets. Today’s jaunt was a short walk – but the name seemed more
appropriate now than ever. The reason was the sky.
In my notes I described the sky that day as “spooky” and
“baleful.” Smoke filled the firmament, smoke from the fires
surrounding the city, fires that would kill three firefighters
that day and would attack the eyes and throats of many a
convention-goer. The sun didn’t shine, but rather yearned
through it, feebly, like a fried egg surfacing through dirty
grease. We’d seen the smoke flying in the day before, and
when the wind was wrong Sasquan would be bedeviled by it.
It was creepy to walk through downtown beneath such a sky.
But we had to, for parties, or “Meet’n’Greets,” were set to
begin at the convention party hotel, the “old” Davenport,
several blocks away. After dining, the Lynchi set out to find
their rental car, and we hit the streets, relying on the
convention map to get us there. Walking with us part way
was a black-clad goth teenager, whose response to my query
for directions could only be described as crazy as a roadside
raccoon. I watched with horror as she danced down an alley.
I am my brother’s keeper – but Rosy was probably right: leave her be; this is her place.
There were several Meet’n’Greets in progress at the Davenport, a beautiful old hotel renovated and dressed
up by a generous multi-millionaire – they had his statue, seated on a bench, by the lobby doors. Upstairs in
the Fanzine Lounge we met and heaped praise on the decorator, a modest fellow with an altogether
immodest scientist friend. He had never encountered SF fans before, and every word he said was rather
desperately designed to impress. He would have driven us out immediately had it not been for the presence
of the great British fanziner, Sandra Bond, whose QuasiQuote stood tall amongst the much-missed forest
of terrific Brit perzines, and the dynamic duo of Mike Ward and Karen Schaeffer (see above).
Mike was the person I’d known longest at the convention; we met at Berkeley’s Little Men in the late
sixties. He told me that Quinn Yarbro had a stroke – bad! – but was recovering well – good! I encountered
Karen through LASFAPA, the scandalous lotus-eaters’ apa. She was never a member, but once, someone
published a photo of her in this jewelry that hung down over her forehead, a diadem I think it’s called, and
let’s just say that the picture made an impression. She’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve known in
fandom, and how she’s restrained over the years from having me beaten or arrested, I’ll never know.
Also showing up, Ruth Judkowitz and Kyla, also met through
LASFAPA, adored in person at Iguanacon, life-fulfilling treasures ever
since. Ah. Life was again complete. We didn’t get to exchange more
than a peace sign (viz ) all week, but seeing them was grand.
One more note of interest to Wednesday night. It may have been at
Boston’s Christmas-themed (?) party that Rich Lynch developed back
spasms, but wherever it was, they socked the bwah with some serious
pain. I enlisted the help of Aussie stalwart Alan Stewart, who is Rich’s
height, to get him onto his feet and on his way. We too were on our way,
since I was making even less sense when I talked than I usually do.
After dreaming of a brawl, possibly between trufans and the Sad
Puppies, I returned to the convention in the middle of the night –
7:45AM. As a department head, I was required to attend daily 8AM
concom meetings – and except for the ungodly hour, it was no problem.
The hotel fed us a terrific buffet – bangers, bacon, French toast, roast
pheasant, chateaubriand – and I also learned to raid the con suite and
staff lounge too. (Dave Schlosser, in blue rubber gloves, was among
those stacking bagels onto the breakfast bar.) I also got to watch the Sasquan committee at work, and came
to respect them a great deal. What wasn’t to respect? Everything was going well. Randy Smith’s Exhibits
were a hit, Jill Eastlake’s Events had come off okay so far, Bobbi’s shuttles were shuttling with alacrity,
Cherise Kelley was producing a fine twice-daily newsletter, the Sasq Watch, for my department, and the
Tech – thank you Larry Schroeder – was perking along nicely. Of course, the big challenges were coming
up – the Masquerade and the Hugo ceremony – but it was only Thursday; time to fret about those potential
nightmares later.
The convention itself had awoken while we met, and waiting for Rosy, again I contemplated the Dark
Forest copy with the torn cover in the Dealers’ Room. Who would love it except for me? Later, I decided,
I would buy it.
I am amazed at how little programming I took in at Sasquan. (Rosy, by contrast, went everywhere advice
for new writers and self-publishers was being dealt out.) Not counting the major productions, I hit one
count it one panel, and it was a panel of one – John Hertz’ “Classics of Science Fiction” presentation on
R.A. Lafferty’s 1968 masterpiece, Past Master. In the room, Laurraine Tutihasi (another reminder of
LASFAPA days), Lofgeornost’s Fred Lerner and several others. It was grand to be reminded of elegant
Past Master and its inelegant author. John called it “a magnificently integrated book,” Lerner thought it “a
meditation on original sin,” and everyone mulled over a central question, oft-overlooked in appreciation of
Lafferty’s insane Irish hilarity and late-‘60s passion: what is the purpose of the anti-Utopian Cathead?
Those were the days, that was the book, and that was the guy. Read a review of that and his two other ’68
publications, The Reefs of Earth and the divine Space Chantey, bought them all, and in a glaze of 18-yearold ecstasy, pronounced, “I have found My Boy.” Ray, you magnificent lunatic, you never let me down.
Lynch came up and gave me, for the last time, he said, a bag of Coca-Cola bottle caps. I don’t drink much
Coke anymore, but hey, you can free Sprite for those things, too … Thanks, Rich.
Rosy and I dropped by the Staff Lounge – 14th floor, Doubletree, impossible elevators right beyond the
Sasq Watch office – for some lunch, but didn’t linger long. We had to hustle across the CC campus to hit
one of the con’s early highlights. Outside of auditorium 100B, Tom Hanlon handed out kazoos
emblazoned with “HUGOS MATTER.” I could only imagine what we were supposed to do with them in
two days’ time. I didn’t cut too badly in line.
We took our seats and, shortly, without introduction, George
R.R. Martin shambled forth, eyes down, envelope in hand.
He parked himself at the easy chair and microphone at stage
center, sighed, pulled the mike close and asked how many of
us knew Game of Thrones only from the TV series – in other
words, who had not read the books. Ashamedly I joined a
few others raising our hands. He explained that the chapter
he was about to read, from The Winds of Winter, featured a
character and a subplot not included in the television series,
Aranne Martell and the Golden Company. He began to read.
Of course, the chapter was fast-moving, fun and well-spun:
“Dragons of words and whispers …” I really ought to read
Game of Thrones. During the Q&A session that followed,
GRRM had some trouble hearing the queries, but allowed
that Fevre Dream was his favorite non-GoT novel, he’d avoided the South Park parody (others watched it
for him), and said with great seriousness, “No work of fiction would be harmed by the insertion of
additional turtles.” Yes, turtles.
Was it Thursday that one of my excursions by the Fanzine Lounge coincided with the scoring of a trivia
contest? Let’s just say that it was. A tall fellow stood in the center of the space, reading the answers to
such a contest – answers that were more fantastic than science fictional. “Robert A. Heinlein won Hugos,”
he proclaimed, “for Starship Troopers, Friday, Time Enough for Love and To Sail Beyond the Sunset.”
“That’s wrong!” I interjected. “Heinlein won Hugos for Double Star, Starship Troopers, Stranger in a
Strange Land and The Moon is a Harsh Mistress. Later he got a Retro-Hugo for Farmer in the Sky.” “Get
your info straight, man!” somebody chimed.
Later, Andy Hooper said the fella was thinking about the Nebulas. “Heinlein never won a Nebula!” I said –
incorrectly, since RAH was the SFWA’s first Grand Master, in 1975. Whatever, I fear I spoke rudely and
out of turn. Better to let a goof go uncorrected than embarrass a guy like that. Maybe he was thinking
about the books for which Heinlein lost Hugos – Have Spacesuit, Will Travel; Glory Road; The Moon is a
Harsh Mistress (remember, it was nominated twice); Time Enough for Love; Friday; and Job: A Comedy
of Justice. More interesting trivia, anyway.
Again we met the Lynchi for dinner, joined by Naomi Fisher, Pat Malloy, their daughter Gracie and a
young lad friend of hers. Again we tried O’Donaghue’s, and were almost put off again by impossible
crowding – and the harried manager’s apology: we’d be waiting for an hour for our food. Still, we stayed,
in a back room opened especially for us, and the food – which arrived much more quickly than we’d been
warned – was worthwhile. My fish was bigger than my foot, and much tastier.
Speaking of my foot … That night’s excursion to the Davenport featured the superb New Zealand in 2020
party, at which Norman Cates – whose name we cheer raucously whenever we spot it in movie credits –
had a Hobbit doorway backdrop set up for picture-taking. Like a good hairy-toed hobbit, I shed my shoes
and socks for my portrait, on which you may gaze via my cover. Others in the room fled outside into the
smoke for a breath of fresh(er) air.
The nighttime Fanzine Lounge was particularly comfortable that Thursday night. Inflatable creatures of the
Cretaceous hung from the ceiling, and we enjoyed a thoughtful talk with Carrie Root. Like many, she
dislikes the expanse and the crowd and the hustle of Worldcon, preferring the intimacy and the old-friendsgathering style of Corflu. We know what she meant: DeepSouthCon is like that for us, a “home con,” a
place where everybody knows your name.
Thursday done.
At the DH meeting on Friday morning we were told that Sasquan’s membership had passed 11,000, with
well over 5,000 in actual attendance – and that there were no extraordinary problems. Except the smoke, of
course.
It was a filthy sky, even worse than before. You could feel and taste the sting of the smoke inside the CC,
and surgical masks were as common as canes and “mobies” throughout those attending. Someone said that
the city, newly named “Smoke-ane,” was surrounded by wildfires, suburbs were being evacuated, and the
AQI was in the red – dangerous. Thank God there’d be no First Night on this day.
So the Worldcon, by and large, stayed indoors and did its best to ignore
the nightmare in the atmosphere. I hung around the autograph line with
Orlando’s Juan Sanmiguel and Chris Barkley, walking with them to get
my personal copy of the souvenir book autographed by Vonda McIntyre
and Leslie Turek. I befuddled Vonda, no doubt, explaining why Rosy had
given her largest portrait an antique border – the better to mask the
picture’s criminally low resolution. Leslie was very complimentary,
really tickled that she had so many pages devoted to her. “Thank you for
such a beautiful book!” she wrote in her inscription. “I will treasure it!”
I’ll treasure that!
Naomi Fisher handed me her cellphone so I could chat with one of the people we most missed at Sasquan
– Greg Benford. Our roping cattle on a dude ranch or something, Greg promised to see us at
MidAmeriCon II and encouraged me to continue – start, actually – some serious writing projects I’d
discussed with him. I will: the conversation of writers is always a
goad in that direction. What color was Quantrill’s hair again?
And what’s he got to do with Andromeda?
I followed my nose into Guinan’s café, adjacent to the Fanzine
Lounge, for the Fan Fund auction, run with great success by
Andy Hooper and Jerry Kaufman. Nina Horvath provided
European chocolates and Norman Cates brought forth his usual
load of WETA gear – tees, hats, jackets – that, as ever, brought
good money into DUFF. We made a wise move electing him as
delegate. Fans scored all kinds of arcane goodies – this  lady,
for instance, was delighted with her imminently practical
pterodactyl lamp – and a hardback first edition of Bug Jack
Barron went for a cool C-note. (The buyer was aghast at my
story of its Nebula snub. Robert Bloch neglected to name it when
listing the nominees, much to Norman Spinrad’s dismay; he
apologized after Spinrad lost the award to The Left Hand of
Darkness.) Only thing in the auction to which I objected was someone outbidding Brad Foster for a robot
hand puppet. Brad collects robot stuff and, as he was Artist GoH, I irrationally thought it rude to bid
against him.
The exchange of all that serious coin made up my mind for me, and I sped into the Dealers’ Room to buy
the copy of The Dark Forest I’d eyed – the one with the torn cover. Alas! Interest in its prequel, The
Three-Body Problem, was growing as Hugo day approached, and it had been snapped up. I was told to
return the next day, when more copies would be on hand – but dammit, I wanted that one. I actually gave
some thought to putting an ad in the newsletter, offering an exchange: a perfect copy for the damaged one.
Some thought, but not a lot. (I bought the book – a new copy – the next day.)
The air above remained foul that evening as we went out for dinner with Lezli and other “Resnick
daughters,” so yucky that we made for the closest possible site – a Chili’s. The ladies were killer cute,
marvelously smart and varied in their backgrounds, one a newbie California lawyer, another a helper-dog
trainer who also works with disturbed kids. One fella showed pictures of Robert Rogalski’s immaculate
miniatures. It was a splendid meal, and flattering as all Hell: the ladies picked my arrogant wits for lawyer
and fandom stories from my regrettable past. I always feel like a blowhard after I let loose with classic
GHLIII-ia, but they said I was cool – even though Leslie van Houten, Poul Anderson and Alfred Bester
were names out of pre-history for them.
Afterwards, in lieu of the Davenport, the assemblage retired to the modernistic lobby bar of the Grand, one
of the hotels favored by Sasquan’s pro contingent. It was something of a mini-convention, bustling, noisy,
super-modern. While Rosy and Lezli yapped about life and work, I found a nice easy chair and
contemplated Morpheus. Thus Friday passed into the realm of the Past.
Saturday, August 22 was the day at Sasquan, and a bright
day, the wind right, the air clear. At the morning’s DH
conclave I found that Helsinki had fulfilled its mission
and won the 2017 Worldcon, defeating DC handily (by
500 votes!) on the first ballot. Poor Montreal and Nippon,
despite last-minute spending and happy bids, had received
only token support. I wasn’t worried about the Japanese
bidders – they’d told me earlier than if they lost this time,
they’d try anew. Trying anew is what won 2017 for the
Finns, methought. Their bid this time was not remarkable,
but they had sentiment on their side: admiration for their
spirited efforts for 2015 and a sense that they had already
earned their shot. That makes more sense than one theory
I heard – crediting the Sad Puppies for Helsinki’s victory.
(Damn it, the con should honor Quinn Yarbro – American
SFdom’s greatest Finn, since we lost Emil Petaja!) 2017
Helsinki. 2019 Dublin. 2020 New Zealand. Fandom will
be crossing a lot of water in the next few years. I also
heard good words on last night’s 40-costume Masquerade and Kevin Roche’s mc’ing of same.
After the meeting I prepared an important news story with Robbie Bourget, Seth Breidbart and Jill
Eastlake – how and when fans should pick up their Hugo tickets. No, not tickets! We weren’t to call them
tickets. That sounded like we were charging. Coupons, that was it! These coupons would give them
assigned seating at the awards ceremony, an idea that had worked pretty well at the Masquerade. I picked
up our own passes to the pre- and post-Hugo receptions, and enjoyed a candid talk with Bourget about
Nolacon II. She’d worked herself into the hospital – quite literally – struggling with the 1988 catastrophe
… but she didn’t see the con as a disaster. She praised my chairman for his willingness to seek and pay for
help when told it was needed, and like everyone else, declared the city itself a rousing success.
Thence down the hall to the Sasq Watch office, where I was charmed by Marah Searle-Kovacevic, who
had come to “Smok-ane” by bus. I fled the office when Cherise told me that, of course, she already knew
the Hugo winners and was preparing the results-zine now. I didn’t want to know! I felt there’d be little
point in attending the ceremony that night without the suspense, and besides, if Three-Body Problem had
lost, I’d’ve been bummed out and even worse company than usual. So after clearing the idea with Glenn
Glazer, my immediate superior in the concom, I found the charming intercom announcer in the Dealers’
Room and had her pass along the news. Outside on the CC patio, a beautiful girl in a white dress twirled
about, her skirts floating.
I’m a bit confused about the sequence of Friday events. I believe this was when I headed solo to the Red
Lion, where I prepped my corpus for the night’s festivities. Rosy
and I played text-tag after I returned – she was in a program
room someplace listening to Lezli give a reading, but I could not
find it. Apparently things didn’t go well for Ms. Robyn, either –
she had only her first draft to read from, and spent most of her
time trying to copy-edit the story as she spoke. La belle and I had
options available to us afterwards – a tribute to Peggy Rae
Sapienza or the Haldemans’ anniversary party. Blest with a handdelivered invitation, we chose the latter.
Celebrating Joe and Gay’s fifty years together was a high. The
room was tiny, glutted with names – David Gerrold, Silverberg,
Resnick, Connie Willis, David Hartwell, the Simses, Howard
Rosenblatt and Eve Ackerman – and rich with goodies, cake and
chips, elbows and “excuse me’s” everywhere, the guests of honor ensconced on a corner couch – and it
was terrific. I not only like those people, I’m proud of them. Not only one of science fiction’s great love
stories, but one of our generation’s.
It was Rosy’s turn to hie to the hotel and prepare for the Hugos – I spent my time distributing as many
copies of the newsletter with ceremony seating instructions as I could. Though I’d donned a sports coat
and decent, non-jeans slacks, Rosy noted that I was wearing tennis shoes and gave me grief for it; heck,
Resnick didn’t change his clothes at
all, and Gerrold wore tennies, too.
Anyway, to the CC’s big ballroom we
adjourned, our own staff seating
tickets in hand, for the Big Event.
Warren Buff, recovered somewhat
from his disappointment with DC17,
manned the “door dragon” table,
collecting tickets with a partner and
dispensing drink chits. Inside the
large, cool room, cloven by tables and
buffets, we sat at the same table as
Nina Horvath and her talky boyfriend
and the winner of this year’s First
Fandom award and his wife. At the bar Chris Barkley and I chatted with Ken Liu, Hugo-winning writer
and translator of The Three-Body Problem; Chris was kind enough to mention my heartfelt support of the
book on social media. I just hoped it would win – and continued to be glad I hadn’t looked at the list of
victors in the newsletter office.
While I was balancing plates of goodies I wished to convey to our table, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
Looking up, I beheld the genial expanse of George R.R. Martin’s face, and his hand – holding a green
ribbon. “HUGO LOSER,” it read. Chris Barkley snapped a photo. Story: George has given out such
ribbons, and I’ve scored them, for several years. I mentioned my desire for one this time to Lezli Robyn,
who undoubtedly passed on the message to GRRM. When Barkley
ran the preceding photo on Facebook complaints resounded: Why
doesn’t he quit wasting his time at science fiction conventions and
finish that series? My response: I haven’t started it y- … Oh. You
meant George.
After the nominees were
photographed, Gerrold
called everyone’s attention
to the fore. He held up a
wooden carving of an
asterisk. David tried to
put a positive spin on the
thing, calling in six !s bonded together and marking the new
voting record set by this year’s Hugo balloting and so on, but it
didn’t work. The sculpture was immediately controversial; Toni
Weisskopf was incensed by it and left the ceremony. I’ll print an
explanation in another venue. All the nominees were asked to
pick one up as they left.
We were bundled into the cool expanse of the auditorium, its
further rows already filling with fans. We staffers had choice
seats, effectively mixed in with the nominees. A Sasquan
emblem was projected whitely against one wall, a giant Hugo
on the other. I wondered how many of us had Hanlon’s kazoos
in their pockets, poised to drown out
feared Puppy protests. One canine
moron had mentioned the possibility of
a bomb threat – by the Social Justice
Movement should a Puppy candidate
prevail. No central aisle in this theatre
– that would be a madhouse! But
anticipation trumped anxiety. The
Hugos, man. Biggest night in the
science fiction year, and here we were.
The ceremony is available online, and I
advise anyone seeking to understand
science fiction’s unique community to
seek it out, for it was an incredible
show. All praise to the hosts –
beautiful Tananarive Due, paying
tribute to Nichelle Nichols in a spiffy
Trek uniform, and especially David Gerrold, No one knew better than he the trickiness of his position.
Gerrold had to deal with the worst assault on the Hugos in award history, the vitriol of the Puppies and the
response that had come in return – a 3500-person flood of supporting memberships and Hugo ballots that
everyone knew would include a raft of votes for “No Award.” I once described a court case I handled as
“dancing in a mine field in Bozo boots.” Gerrold, in tennis shoes, was in just such a situation.
He and Ms. Due – and Company –
handled it beautifully. Silliness and
great judgment reigned. David’s
dialog with the Dalek, later in the
ceremony, was brilliant. “Are you
staring at my nuts?” the creature
demanded. “I have to urinate!” First,
Connie Willis – “the Meryl Streep of
science fiction” – gave a wonderfully
silly speech about the perils of being
an MC. We were all relieved to see
Connie up on stage; not only was she
jolly, she was there. At first, when
the Puppies had dominated the
nominations, she had refused to
appear. She had changed her mind,
and everyone rejoiced. Robert
Silverberg, her frequent partner in
dais crime, gave an even sillier
speech, leading the crowd in a
deadpan “Hare Krishna” chant,
banging a tambourine and once again,
telling the story of Berkeley’s manic Baycon. He has the year of the People’s Park riots wrong – that came
about nine months after Baycon, and I should know; I was there – but why critique a great speech? No one
does it better than Silverberg.
The asterisk thingamajob was introduced, and for some reason – I’m pretty thick, or have you noticed? –
John C. Wright was brought to the podium. Wright, who had been scheduled to serve as DeepSouthCon
2016 Guest of Honor until that convention was suddenly (and temporarily) canceled, had been the writer
most favored by the Puppies slate – winning three out of five spots in one of the fiction categories –
impressed me rather favorably, as a big, likable lug. But what was he doing on stage? A sop to the Pups?
The awards began, as usual, with special honors – one to the late Jay Lake, the First Fandom honor
(presented by Steve and Sue Francis) to Julia May, the Big Heart (quite deservedly) to the great Ben
Yalow. Our tablemate from the pre-ceremony reception got his special honor, and gave a long but witty
speech. They moved on to Hugos, finally, and brought Nina Horvath to the fore. The delightful TAFF
delegate presented all of the Fan Hugos, marvelously accented (“Jorjuss!”) – and they were good Hugos,
too.
I recently said that I hadn’t heard of any of the Fan Writer nominees, but on further reflection found that
I’d been wrong. During the hideous Gamergate incident that preceded the ascent of the Sad/Rabid Puppies,
I’d read of Laura Mixon on Laura Resnick’s blog. She had written an involved and tightly researched piece
on a Gamergate writer who called herself, among many other names, Requires Hate – and had done an
epic job countering her mean perspective and savage tone. I reread Mixon’s piece after the con, and found
it well-done to the nth and informed with a passionate defense of civility. In a way, the award reminded me
of Kameron Hawley’s the year before – a single blog entry making a commanding impression – but I liked
and approved of this one much more.
Elizabeth Leggett won the Fan Artist honor; her work appears, I take it, in Lightspeed (later named Best
Semiprozine – and God, do I hate that category) and seems professional to me, as well as very compelling
and Dali-esque. Three Fan Artists in a row that I didn’t know ahead of their Hugos – I am Out of Touch!
Fortunately, I was very familiar with the winner of the Best Fanzine award – and it brought my first outloud “YES!” of the night. Journey Planet, alone of the candidates in its category, is a traditional fanzine,
with articles and themes and fan art. It is a quality item. Fundamentally, the same duo who won for The
Drink Tank some years ago is responsible for this one – James Bacon and Chris Garcia (busy with his
twins and not present, alas). They were joined on the ballot by special editorial contributors, including
Helen Montgomery, and wild was my delight at their win. Here was a victory for us dinosaurs –
affirmative, enthusiastic, quality- and fandom-oriented dinosaurs. Here they are below with John Hertz,
who had donned dance regalia to accept an award.
“The members of the 73rd World Science Fiction Convention
have decided that there will be no Hugo presented in this
category.”
That was the language decided upon by the Hugo hosts and
approved by the Sasquan committee. I’d heard it quoted in the
DH meeting that morning. We all heard it when the envelope
was opened in the Best Related Work category, up next. The
nominees included two Castalia Press works, candidates from
the Puppies slate – and we got our first indication of what that
meant to categories so dominated.
The audience was stunned – and muttering was heard. Gerrold
bounced into action. He signaled to the tech crew – and the
movie screen above the stage descended. “Please hold your
appreciation until the end of the list,” David said – as Steven Silver’s Memorial List was played. The
inspired stroke forced an immediate mood-switch. Mourning our many lost SFers gave us the chance to get
used to the idea that “No Award!” had been heard – for only the sixth time in Hugo history – and would
probably be heard again.
As it was, four more times. You could tell when it was coming up, because neither Gerrold nor Ms.
Tananarive would read the names of the nominated authors. Both the short story and novella categories,
packed with Puppies, went down in flames – as did both Editor categories, each containing a nomination
for the detestable Theodore Beale, a.k.a. Vox Day. As the man says, Whoa!
I didn’t like it. I had friends – Mike Resnick and Toni Weisskopf – on those lists, and as the voting
breakdown showed afterwards, they probably would have won Hugos without the No Award avalanche.
Mike and Toni weren’t Sad Puppies stooges; they were and are dedicated and accomplished science fiction
professionals, as well as first class human beings. In their cases, No Award threw out very deserving
babies with Vox Day’s very dirty bathwater.
While on the subject … though I approve heartily of anti-Puppies sentiment, I’d like to know the scoop
behind the astonishing gush of supporting memberships and No Award ballots. I cannot believe that
3,500+ SF fans did this on their own. Neither, n.b., do I believe that those voters were simple phonies.
Their votes in the other categories, especially Best Novel, were just too authentic to justify such cynicism.
But who organized this explosion of anti-Puppies opposition? Who, and where, and how? Inquiring minds
want to know.
The sentiment of fandom was obvious, and devastating. Even in the Novelette category, No Award
garnered the most first-place votes – but fortunately, another Statement was being made this Hugo
evening. The winner there was a translation, Thomas Olde Heuvelt’s “The Day the World Turned Upside
Down”. As the acceptor said, fandom was declaring that diversity was the rule in the science fiction world.
He – I think it was a he – mentioned that another translated work was up for an award, later, and I crossed
fingers that the trend would continue.
First, though, there were other Hugos to get through – principally the Dramatic Presentation honors. In an
astonishing upset, a Game of Thrones segment and a Doctor Who episode lost to a show I’d barely heard
of. It wasn’t even listed in the Hugo Program Guide (for which my Publications Department had no
responsibility). Rosy and I decided that we’d have to start Orphan Black with its first season, and
eventually get around to “By Means Which Have Never Yet Been Tried”, the episode which catapulted it
to the ranks of Hugo-bestowed TV. (Quick: how many series have seen shows honored?) Though I voted
for Interstellar, which I consider brilliant, I wasn’t in the least
surprised by the victory for Guardians of the Galaxy. I mean, We
are Groot, right? It was a runaway winner. Rather surprised by the
Captain America second place finish; I thought that film rather bythe-numbers, i.e., unoriginal.
Finally Gerrold cued the techies again, and the movie screen lit up
with the smiling face and weightless form of Dr. Kjell Lindgren.
He wore a Sasquan badge – Brad Foster said later that it gassed
him unmercifully to see his art in orbit – and held a miniature
Hugo. He read the nominees for Best Novel – and vanished, as the
screen blacked out. Gerrold called to him in ersatz anguish: “Don’t
leave us like this! Who gets the Hugo?”
Here it was. The Worldcon had gone well. Rosy and I had had a
really good time. But would I remember tonight fondly or with a
tinge of regret? My #1 Hugo candidate had only appeared in
hardback, and hadn’t even made the initial list, after all. It hadn’t
won the Nebula, and Ancillary Sword had won the Locus poll for
SF, as The Goblin Emperor had for Fantasy. Three-Body Problem
was wildly original, inventive, and thrilling. Would it be rewarded
at last ronight or spurned like a beggar in the dust?
I was nervous for another reason. I remembered Magicon. The wrong name had found its way into the Best
Fanzine envelope, embarrassing poor Lan Lascowski and befuddling poor Rich Lynch. Lindgren had
recorded “the winner is” announcements for all five nominees – what if they played the wrong one?
“The Three-Body Problem!”
I whooped. I’m still whooping. Cixin Liu was a solid winner throughout the course of the Australian
ballot, beating The Goblin Emperor by impressive, if not overwhelming, totals throughout the many steps
needed to establish it as the ultimate victor. Its win was real – and as Ken Liu lofted the Sasquan Hugo, I
felt glad that I hadn’t spoiled my ecstatic rush by learning of the winners early. An impressive night all
‘round – the SF community had made a statement, and the statement was for inclusiveness, for broader
horizons, for recognition that science fiction is a species-wide art form, and that attempts to close its
borders would be met with overwhelming rejection. The great lesson of Sasquan, with its humongous
Hugo vote totals and its lively and positive 2017 Worldcon race: the field is healthy, the community is
healthy. Yay us!
There were two post-Hugo “losers’” parties, and if there was a disappointment in the night for Rose-Marie,
it was that we only had invitations to one. Staffers had access to the party being given across the street
from the CC at Auntie’s Bookstore, a unique situs and, I adjudged, a pretty successful one. The walk there
was “jorjuss,” the foodies were good, the conversation was fine (we talked with Howard Rosenblatt about
anything but legal matters and with Joe Siclari and Edie Stern – whose souvenir book for the last L.A.Con
is still the best I’ve ever seen), the atmosphere very congenial (I got to congratulate Ken Liu – who should
have gotten a trophy of his own for translating Three-Body). But it wasn’t the post-Hugo party. That one
was hosted by George R.R., at the Davenport, and if you have access to Lezli Robyn’s photos from
Sasquan, you’ll see what a spectacular blowout it was. We heard that it went on till 5AM and that it was
mainly attended by pros.
La belle was frustrated. Sure, we were grateful to be at Sasquan and loved the access we enjoyed as
staffers and department poohbahs. But she wanted to be In, all the way In, with the In Crowd. Someday …
I hate Sundays at conventions. I hate seeing things wind down and break down and pack up and move
away. I greeted Bob Silverberg at 7:30AM in the Doubletree restaurant – he’s a west coaster now, without
jet lag to justify the insane hours; why up so early, Bob? – and learned at the last DH meeting that Sasquan
was sitting on a record of astonishing success.
11,649 members. 5,232 warm bodies, 1,012 coming in at the
door. Very impressive. Thousands of hours on the livestream
and U-stream circuits (including Rosy’s stepmother, Patty
Green) for the Hugos, the top item last night on Twitter. Jenny,
our NASA liaison, sent us each little gift packets of shuttle
bookmarks and the like.
The Convention Center, we were told, had been anxious to
please all con long, and its ushers and bartenders and other staff
were praised as friendly and helpful. I could attest that they
knew where rooms were that I couldn’t find on the maps. The
2,000 extra restaurant guides would be donated to the Spokane
Visitors’ Bureau – and they were very grateful. Finally, it was
reported that the only noise complaints the convention received
were from the Davenport’s year-round residents, and as the
other hotels refused to allow parties (or “Meet’n’Greets”), there
was little that could have been done. We were told to fetch our
staff tees to wear at Closing Ceremonies and that was that.
I returned to the convention hall and found myself near
Christine Valada’s Portrait Gallery, exchanging eyetime with
Fritz Leiber, Dave Kyle and Ray Lafferty. The nostalgia of the
moment ached. I wandered into the breezeway to the
Doubletree and zoned out. Alan Stewart, Bobbi Armbruster and
a few other familiar faces joined the many others passing by.
Some fans still wore facemasks, and indeed, I too sensed a mild
smokiness. I dropped off, waking to the conversation of a girl
named Stella sitting nearby, who talked of the auto in which she
was riding breaking down irretrievably in the wilderness of South Dakota, and buying a used car to make it
the rest of the way.
Rosy came and fetched me. We returned to the auditorium where we’d opened the convention (and heard
GRRM read) and took our places for Closing Ceremonies. We heard the distant lilt of Filthy Pierre’s flute.
Finally Sally Woehrle – a lot more relaxed now – assumed the podium and began, introducing again the
convention Guests. Leslie Turek, Tom Smith (his mobie raised to the stage via mini-elevator, thanking all
in “Smoke-ane”), Vonda McIntyre (who called her GoHship “the highest honor my profession can give”),
David Gerrold (“Namaste!” he said, praising the SF community), and Brad Foster (who was awed and
grateful that Sasquan had, through Kjell Lindgren’s nametag, taken his artwork into space). Speaking of
Kjell, a farewell film was shown, and Sally
mentioned that the good doctor had been the one
to contact Sasquan and ask to participate – not
the other way around. Kjell Lindgren – trufan!
Nina thanked the convention, her English less
hesitant now. Most movingly, Sally introduced
the late Bobbie DuFault’s husband, who thanked
the major players in the con – Sally, Glazer, etc.
– for bringing his lady’s dream to fruition.
Those major players – the Area Heads – came
out to present Sasquan Hero Awards to various
convention workers, tokens to be worn about the
neck. Jenny from NASA was promised one,
Robbie Bourget, Cherise Kelley for her superlative work on the
newsletter – and the principal designer of the hyper-successful
souvenir book, the most beautiful woman on Earth, Rose-Marie
Lillian. I cannot lie: I’d nominated her, and also led the applause as,
giggling, she trotted to the front to receive her honor.
Finally, Sally asked the MidAmeriCon II reps to come forward.
Their con will run August 17-22, 2016. Rosy and I met at the first
“Big MAC”: we really hope to be there. Sally lifted The Gavel and
brought it down, WHAP!, jumping in surprise at how loud it
sounded when she brought the end to Sasquan, the 73rd World
Science Fiction Convention.
Outside, we chatted with Tony and Suford Lewis and Brad and
Cindy Foster, and then joined the Lynchi, Naomi Fisher, Pat Molloy
and Gracie, David and Diana Thayer, and a cool surprise
companion, fan artist supreme Marc Schirmeister for a dinner burn
at a renowned Spokane restaurant, Luigi’s … yes, across the street (and a parking lot). As you can
surmise, it was a fine feast – Marc was great company, with cool conversation about old movies and
‘toons. But it was touched with melancholy, too. Everyone was prepping to leave. The Lynches planned
for an early exit the next day, Seattle the goal – if Rich’s back held out, he said, they’d take in a Mariners
game. The convention’s end was breaking up that old gang of mine …
This picture? Schirm – discovering that his knife in fork were magnetized.
The Dead Dog Party at 8 that evening was pretty lame, so we blew it off and after checking out the Grand
bar to see if anyone had lost any professional writers there. returned to our hotel. Back at the Red Lion, we
were glad to find that the hotel carried AMC on its cable, and ended the day grooving to the premiere of
Fear the Walking Dead.
Everyone was leaving – except us. Thanks to the lateness with which we’d secured our plane reservations,
we had an extra day in Spokane, and thanks to Melanie Herz, we had someone to spend it with.
Melanie is a Florida fan who knows Joe
and Patty Green and is a fine friend to La
Belle. We met her for breakfast at the
Doubletree – greeting Astrid and Greg
Bear, Jerry and Suzle at nearby tables –
and talked Ms. Herz’ experience with
kaffeeklatsches before adjourning for
Spokane’s nearby municipal park. The
wind being favorable, it was a glorious
day, and as you can see from these photos,
we had a spiffy excursion. The giant
Radio Flyer wagon was actually a kids’
slide – I took the steps down – and the
carousel we rode was over 100 years old.
A preter-naturally stunning teenaged blonde, solemn in the way only teenaged girls on the cusp of
feminine power can be, gave us tokens to ride the merry-go-round; I claimed to Rosy that my own ageless
cute-os-ity was to credit, but she said the girl just didn’t want to waste them. Maybe she recognized
someone on the brink of his second – or third –
childhood.
The epic attraction of the park was the gondola ride
over the Spokane River, and its “falls.” Rich was
only one of the many urging us to take the ride, and
it was indeed exhilarating. The river tore down the
steep slope of the rapids in a fervent white froth as
our gondola car swayed on its cable, sometimes
mere inches, sometimes many feet from the
ground, or water. Beautiful stuff –what Washington
State can be when not ablaze. Another cute teen –
with an adorable Minnie Mouse voice – let us in
and out of our car. This one was a brunette.
Millennial lads, start your engines.
Afterwards, we found ourselves outside an IMAX
theatre, where we discovered Everest would be
playing in a matter of minutes. Rosy and I are
absolute saps for mountaineering movies – we
faunch madly for the fictionalized Everest to open
this September – so in we went. Very nice IMAX –
am I correct in recalling that the first such theatre
opened at the 1964 New York World’s Fair? Very
fine movie, too, about a supremely frightening
incident on Chomolungma – the day climbers
found themselves lost in the mother of all blizzards
and 11 of them froze to death.
But the final message of the movie was poignant and powerful. One of the survivors, and the summiteers,
was the son of Tenzeng Norgay, the Sherpa who, with Edmund Hillary, first stood atop Everest in 1953.
Norgay Jr. said that, at the summit, he felt that he could speak to his father, who died at 71, and that his
father replied, “You did not have to come so far to see me. I always knew you were worthy of the
mountain.”
Pardon me, but that blows me away.
We adjourned to Steelhead’s for lunch – I had the grilled
cheese with salmon and onion sandwich again – after
which the ladies went off to window-shop, and I went
back to the hotel. I packed, copied notes into my diary,
andtried not to think about the flights the next day – all
the diagonal way across America back to Orlando.
Anti-climax. The weather was ideal across the country. I
gave myself neckstrain staring out the window at the
American turf below, watching it change from arid
mountainous glory to patchwork farmland to the green
of forests. Once or twice we passed over sprawling
silver cities, and lakes, and rivers I thought I knew, and I
tried not to think of the thunderstorms predicted to await
us when we got over central Florida.
Which … weren’t there. Instead, as we delved toward
Orlando, we swooped and curved about fluffy cumulus
clouds, whiter than white, encountering nary a bumble
of turbulence. (The next day the area was a’flash with
lightning storms. Lady Luck, I owe you.) The Florida
heat fooshed up from the gaps in the boarding tunnel, a
coarse reminder of where we now were. In the fortnight
that followed, I whipped out a couple of bureaucratic
duties – arranging for staff reimbursements, toting up
advertising debts from the program book – and now that
I’ve written it up for posterity, Sasquan is done.
But in getting done, the Worldcon Nobody Wanted
made some important points. First of all, it proved itself
worthy of its victory in 2013. Bobbie DuFault’s dream
had labored under a rather mean-spirited cloud of
resentment and suspicion from Jump Street; the concom
dispelled that cloud with competence, generosity and
care. Secondly, it handled a unique and potentially
devastating assault on Worldcon tradition with
imagination, wit and strength, and in doing so renewed
respect for that tradition and established a new understanding of what fandom stands for. I don’t think it’s
going too far to say that Sasquan was a historic World Science Fiction Convention – worthy of the
mountain.
I’m proud that we were part of it.
A few scenes from Sasquan.
The balloon loons were
among many masquing
maniacs enlivening the
convention. The statue is of
Columbia astronaut Michael
Anderson, a Spokane native.
The inscription reads “Keep
the Dream Alive.”