I never did really tell you about Worldcon, did I? Somehow I never quite found the right way to present the experience. For one thing, it wasn't wild and crazy and full of fabulous oddities. It was just another large, sprawling convention, ho hum, tra la la.
Well, not exactly.
I arrived on Thursday evening, but didn't plan on being able to register until the next day. When I wandered into the con suite at the Marriott I discovered there was an evening registration table. Oh, hey, I said affably, can I get my con stuff now? Photo i.d. required, the young woman replied sharply as though I planned to pull a fast one. Okay, I said, taken aback, I don't have my driver's license on me. Could you just tell me where the fanzine lounge is? No, she said self-importantly. That room is for con attendees only and without a badge they won't let you in. I narrowed my eyes. Listen, sweetheart, I said, it's not a classified piece of information. But you haven't got a badge, she insisted. Sure I do, I said wearily, it's right there in front of you because you won't hand it over. Just verify the info and tell me where the goddamn room is. Sorry, she shot back, can't help you if you haven't got a badge. I gave up. I don't know why anyone would get off on being in charge of registration material but there's always a clot of these ninnies at conventions. I turned to the other people sitting at the table, one of whom was the co-chair of the previous year's Worldcon in Glasgow, Martin Easterbrook. He kindly told me where the fanzine lounge was and I trekked off in search of friendlier faces.
Later that night I saw the young woman again at an open bid party for the 2001 Worldcon. She was chatting with Ben Yalow, a veritable convention god due to his infinite good sense and long years of experience being a Secret Master of Fandom. I moseyed up next to him and got a huge hug as he interrupted their conversation to greet me enthusiastically. She looked dismayed and slightly wary. Suddenly, I had become a somebody instead of a nobody who could be bullied about i.d.. I smirked. Low of me, but I did. I can't help it if some people worship Ben as a god. To me he's this really terrific, smart, slyly hilarious fellow whom I've known for 15 years or so, and who happens to excel in an area of fandom that I don't pay much attention to: con running. Me, I do fanzines and therefore worship different gods. Ben has gone almost totally silver haired lately which lends a certain veracity to the mental image I have of him as a silverback in con running circles. That's him on the left.
Moshe Feder was said to be looking for me, and I hunted all over the crowded room parties for him accompanied by Dana Siegel and Midge Reitan, my favorite midwestern bad girls. It was hot and crowded, and I had that miserable cold so I ate stick after stick of freezer pops. I said hi to Bruce Pelz (who kissed my hand), Greg Ketter, Richard Lynch, and Steve and Elaine Stiles. I couldn't stop staring at a young lady with the oddest figure I've ever seen in spandex. Her breasts and hips were practically exploding out of a very tight homemade corset outfit. We're talking major engineering here. Dana had some fairly ripe commentary about the spandex encasing her enormous legs like bright blue sausages. Eventually and rather arbitrarily, we located Moshe who has let his hair grow long. I nearly didn't recognise him with his long, waving curls. If he'd been wearing bellbottoms I would have thought I'd slipped into a 70's timestream. I was very happy to see him. He is the kindest, most generous man in New York and I know this from personal experience.
Moshe spirited us away to his room to try a Japanese drink I'd expressed interest in but never expected to find: Calpis. It was a concentrate from which he obligingly mixed up several glasses for us to try. It looked and tasted like a mild, milky lemonade if you can wrap your brain around such a concept. It's recommended as a milk substitute for lactose-intolerant kids, apparently. We tried to come up with ways to improve the odd flavor and decided alcohol, preferrably Midori, would do the trick. We didn't have any, though. I stayed up much later than I'd planned and Moshe walked me back to my hotel. We talked about the unique architecture of Baltimore, admiring several buildings in the early morning quiet. I love wandering streets at night when no one's around. The buildings are like characters in a novel with distinct personalities, and I am only a momentary flutter on the edge of their vision with my short lifespan and erratic meanderings among the giants in the heart of the city.
Friday morning I went over to the convention center and signed in. As I hovered over the registration table waiting for the geek in his button-bedecked t-shirt to find my name I looked up and directly at Patrick Nielsen Hayden, one of my favorite people on earth. He was suitably amazed and leapt into the air with exaggerated surprise; I wasn't expected, you see. Seeing him right off the bat was splendid. He directed me to where I could find his wife Teresa, another one of my favorite people on earth. That's her on the left. The timing was perfect and we were all free for lunch so I got to have a long, comfortable gossip with them both. Since Patrick is senior editor at Tor in charge of science fiction, getting a chunk of his time at a con is sheer good luck. Normally, he has to rush around meeting up with authors and agents and so on. Teresa, also a Tor editor, is a favorite panelist at cons so I have often gone most of a day without catching her alone. Sometimes I can't believe we've been close friends for 17 years. We've only ever lived in the same city for a couple of years. Luckily, I can see both of them at conventions regularly, and I virtually always stay with them when I'm in New York, so the continuity has been excellent. Still, it's not as much fun if I can't do more than say hello in passing. Cons are fun for me depending heavily on how many of my friends are there and can spend time with me. This con was starting off with all the right people.
To be continued . . . .
