Conflux - April 2004
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Friday 23rd Arrive in Canberra at 11.30am, after 3½-hour bus ride (note:
Pioneer/Greyhound busses are extremely comfortable – the toilets at their
depots, on the other hand, are like WWI trenches), and immediately check into
the City Backpackers’ Hostel, just five minutes’ walk from Rydges. I’m
feeling extremely nervous; firstly, I've never before stayed in a shared dorm
before (the room I’ve booked has nine beds!); secondly, this is the first
major social event I’ve been to since the medication kicked in, and I’m not
sure how I’m going to handle being in company again (if you don’t know what
I’m talking about here, just forget it); and thirdly, as a member of the
organising committee, I’m painfully aware that my inexperience in this area
has the potential for complete disaster. Today I’ll find out if all my
preparations have been sufficient. My worries about the room are quickly dispelled: it’s a hell of a lot
nicer than anything I’ve ever seen in a YHA hostel. Nice clean linen. No
suspicious smells or stains. No chalk outlines on the floor. Even the share
bathroom is modern and clean. Hope I don’t turn out to be the snoring,
farting one in the room! Settle in, then spend an hour walking around the city centre. I spent
a decade living here in 1996, and literally nothing has changed: same shops,
same buildings, same weather. a manikin in one of the lingerie shops appears
to have been moved slightly to the left at some point, but I can’t be
entirely sure. Okay, before I begin to sound like a typical Sydneyside
Canberra-basher, let me just say that It’s also very quiet. The city seems almost deserted. A lone white
hatchback passes me as I amble around the city circuit towards Rydges. As
with the few other multistorey buildings in the city, Rydges seems to have
been purposefully built away from the surrounding two-level shopping
district, which contributes further to the sense of spaciousness. I can feel
myself relaxing more with every step. By the time I reach the hotel, I’m
almost comatose. First stop is in the foyer of Rydges (which, again, has not changed
since I worked as the DJ here in ’95-’96), where Deb Biancotti, Ben Payne,
Justine Larbalestier and Scott Westerfeld are sitting about discussing the
sort of things we writers usually discuss (i.e. sex and alcohol). Robert
Stephenson joins us, looking nervous, as though he suspects professional
assassins to be lurking amongst the fans. Could be. I feel an obligation to
mention that, in person, Rob is a lovely person; via email, he may not come
across quite as well. Greetings exchanged, I head up to the second level
where the ‘con is being held. It’s a hive of activity: the Traders’ Room is
bustling as sellers set up their wares, hotel staff are rushing to and fro
carrying A/V equipment, vacuum cleaners, table cloths, coffee, and –
disturbingly – traffic cones. Has Justin Ackroyd finally jack-knifed his
traditionally enormous bookselling table? Various fellow committee members are just putting the finishing
touches to the registration set-up. Lots of greetings are exchanged, plus
introductions between folks who have only communicated via email before now.
I already know Donna Hanson, of course, plus Mark Loney, Trevor Stafford,
Rose Mitchell and Sue Batho, as well as Robbie and Dea Matthews, and Richard
Womack. Introductions to Nicole Murphy and Greg Toohey are quickly made
(“This is Chuck McKenzie – a very funny man.”) before everyone settles back
into organisational mode. I assist in manning the registration desk as
registration opens at 2.30pm, collecting items for the Auction tomorrow,
selling ‘con T-shirts, and fielding questions from confused con attendees. I
say ‘fielding’ rather than ‘answering’, because – being woefully ignorant
regarding details of the program, layout of the hotel, or anything else that
a con-goer might conceivably want to know – I invariably find myself running
to Donna to find out the answer. I’m feeling as useful as boobs on a chook.
Even more worrying, nobody seems to be able to definitively answer any of my
questions regarding duties that have specifically been assigned to me: “Do I
need to fill out these auction sheets like this?” “Ummmmm…yes, that sounds
right…”. I’m going down in flames already. Lots of familiar faces are beginning to drift by the table: Joel
Shepherd (who introduces me to the lovely Fiona McIntosh), Erika Lacey (long
time no see), Rob Hood, Cat Sparks, Bill Congreve and Michelle Marquardt,
Leigh Blackmore, Keith Stevenson, Karen Miller, Maxine McArthur, Sean
Williams and the bewitching Kim Selling, among many others. As I sit filling
out paperwork, I hear Edwina Harvey’s familiar voice calling my name, and I
look up to see her standing before me. Edwina and I have been corresponding a
great deal recently, due to our mutual ongoing eyesight problems – we
vision-impaired need to support each other, after all! - so I give her a warm
smile. She gives me a warm smile back. I wave. She waves back. I stand up. So
does she. I realise I’m looking into the mirrored door of the lift, and that
Edwina is actually standing beside me. Somebody hand me a white cane,
already! See, this is what I like most about conventions; the opportunity to
catch up with people whom you wouldn’t often see in other social situations.
I also get to meet a number of people with whom I’ve only ever communicated
by email, or whose names I know only through the grapevine: Tessa Kum, Karen
Herkes, Chris Andrews, Trent Jamieson, Gillian Pollack, and so on. I’m
extremely disappointed to hear Kate Orman hasn’t been able to attend, due to
illness. Ditto Lee Battersby and Lyn Triffitt (and after I lugged all my Devo
and Madness CD’s to play at the Masquerade – ungrateful bastard, Lee!).
However, I’m compensated in getting to finally meet Rowena Lindquist/Cory
Daniells in person, having received a great deal of undeserved praise from
her in the past regarding my writing, and I thank her for her
much-appreciated lapse in taste. Richard Womack and I are rostered to run the desk from 6.30 to 8.30 –
which of course corresponds with both the ACT Writers’ Centre cocktail party
and the opening ceremony. Everyone is glammed up, chatting excitedly, and
there’s a real sense of occasion in the air. Richard and I eyeball the crowd
enviously. Ah well, never mind, we say: we probably won’t be missing much
with the Opening Ceremony. Au Contraire. Gales of laughter drift from
the Lake Superior room. Thunderous applause and cheering. Ye gods! It’s
starting to sound like a bloody rock concert in there! Smiling bitterly, we
attend to our duties as efficiently as possible. At 8.30 I clock off and rush to the Lake Superior room, where I’m
taking part in tonight’s Great Debate: That There is Evidence That
Intelligent Extraterrestrial Life Has Visited Earth. It all seems to go quite
well, especially given that few of us have actually prepared anything in
depth. I suspect that my team – comprising Antony Searle, Rob Hood, Michael
Barry and I - has an advantage in arguing the positive, as the comic
possibilities are endless. Obviously this has occurred to the negative team
as well, and the strain is evident. Poor old Sean McMullen eventually has to
be dragged screaming from the podium by his team-mates after his brain
implodes. In the end, our team wins. After the debate, a very nice man named Tim Reddan (a self-confessed
‘older fan’) comes up to introduce himself and offer congratulations, then
offers to buy me a drink in Cahoots Bar downstairs. Never one to turn down a
drink (ask anyone), we retire to the bar. It’s a very nice bar, which I don’t
recall being open when I last worked here. Wood panelling and a lush carpet
gives the place an air of warmth and opulence, and I feel instantly relaxed.
Tim introduces me to a lovely lady called Anna Tambour, who has been
nominated for Best New Talent in the Ditmars. This is her first convention,
and she’s feeling a little overwhelmed because she doesn’t know anyone. Having
been in the exactly the same boat not so long ago, I take her under my wing,
and we spend the next hour or so discussing the Australian speculative
community, with me promising to introduce her to various key figures, and she
advising me on potential fiction markets. Gerald Smith and Eric Lindsay are
sitting nearby, and periodically lean in to join in the discussion. There’s a
lovely cosy atmosphere to it all, which hasn’t always been present at other
‘cons I’ve attended. Or it could just be all the beer I’ve been drinking. Eventually, though – reminding myself that tomorrow is another busy
day filled with Official Duties - I reluctantly excuse myself from the warmth
of the bar, and brave the bitter chill of Canberran night as I trudge back to
the hostel. The roads are still virtually deserted. A lone white hatchback
passes me as walk. Surely not the same one as before? As it turns out, I’m not the snoring, farting one in the room. That
honour goes to the three burly Irish backpackers who are already sound asleep
by the time I creep into the dorm. The place smells like the inside of a
packet of cheese-and-onion chips, and sounds like the bison enclosure at the
zoo. As I drift off to sleep, I fervently hope that nobody lights up a
cigarette first thing in the morning… Saturday 24th The first thing I see when I wake up is a pair of large, naked
breasts. Which, I must admit, is not the worst sight in the world to wake up
to. The breasts are attached to a statuesque East-German girl, who greets me
warmly as she wanders about the dorm picking up articles of her clothing from
the floor. I’m not sure what the etiquette is here. “Nice boobs” just doesn’t
seem an appropriate conversation starter, despite them being well and truly
on show. It’s also impossible for me to maintain eye contact as we chat, so I
opt for staring out the window as she dresses. Finally, much to my relief,
she exits the room, and I’m able to pole-vault down from my bunk. My sense of relief is short-lived: looking at my watch, I see that
it’s already 10am. I’m late! Shave and shower, then practically sprint to the
‘con (athletic type that I am, this constitutes a brisk amble), arriving in a
sweaty, breathless, highly agitated state. Just like my sex-life. My
discombobulation isn’t helped by the fact that, moments after I arrive, the
rush begins: late arrivals are pouring in to register, convention t-shirts
are selling like hotcakes, and boxloads of stuff for the auction are waiting
to be tagged – the latter being my particular duty. This task takes me right
through to 2pm (taking a break only to buy a copy of ‘Agog! Terrific Tales’
at the official launch) when I’m required to mind the Lake Geneva room during
a panel on Envision. I’m still fairly agitated, not least because I’m nervous
about tonight’s This Is Your Life tribute (about which more shortly), and I
need to get out and buy some items for it – which is going to be difficult,
seeing as I’ll be booked up until about 5pm, which is when Canberra seems to
close of an evening. As it turns out, the Envision panel – chaired by Rowena - is
extremely interesting, which helps settle my nerves. At 3pm the room is
vacated, and set-up for the auction begins. I switch into overdrive, running
back and forth, ferrying boxes of stuff to Justin Ackroyd. Justin, in turn,
is efficiently arranging the items on a trestle table, and delegating duties
to a team consisting of myself, Danny Heap, Julian Warner, and four of the
biggest, muscliest guys I’ve ever seen outside of a steroid lab. Are they
expecting the auction to get rough? Hope not – I wouldn’t want to
inadvertently injure anyone as I cower screaming on the carpet. At 3.15, with the auction due to start, all of three people have
turned up. It occurs to Justin and Danny that potential attendees – seeing
‘3.00 – Set Up’ and ‘4.00 – Auction’ on their programs, might have missed the
‘3.15 – commences’ printed discreetly between the two headings, and may be
under the impression that the auction doesn’t begin until four. Executive
decision: Justin opts to begin the auction at 3.30. In the meantime, being
the shy retiring type, I opt to run around the ‘con like a loon, alerting
people to the new starting time. Then it’s back to the auction room, taking
my place at the front desk, equipped with various lists on which to fill in
the pertinent financial information. 3.45 – the auction finally begins. I’ve always enjoyed attending ‘con
auctions. There are certainly bargains and rarities to be had. However – and
those who prefer not to attend auctions because they’re not into that sort of
thing, take note – the best thing about Natcon auctions is the Justin &
Danny show. These guys are not only consummate professionals in running the
serious business of auctioning goods, they are also a fantastic double-act,
extremely funny and witty, and certainly as entertaining (if not more so) as
anything else on the program. The auction finally winds up around 6pm, one of the last items
auctioned being a hand-made wooden box containing issues 1-12 of Andromeda
Spaceways Inflight Magazine. ASIM’s own spruiker (and maker of the box), Ian
Nicholls, takes charge of auctioning the item, regaling the audience with a
full history of the wood used to make the box (‘These trees first evolved in
Africa…’). Ian manages to pack five minutes’ worth of fascinating background
information into what seems like only an hour. Then, when everyone’s asleep,
he calls for bids. Minimum bid is $80, and indeed, bidding goes as high as
$40 before the item is passed in. Auction over, Julian Warner and I divvy up the proceeds. I’m quite
impressed with the amount of cash raised for various fan funds. While Julian
continues to calculate, I run about with wads of cash, trying to find their
owners. It’s amazing how warmly people treat you when you come to them
offering money! Makes you wonder why the bank tellers who accept your
deposits are such miserable pricks. 6pm, and I hit the town in search of a bottle-shop, fish-shop, and
dinner, in no particular order. As ever, the town is deserted (aside from a
passing white hatchback), and pretty much everything seems to be closed,
apart from a few clubs and some restaurants in the centre of town. I end up
dining at an Irish-themed venue; lots of rustic decoration, beer in
pint-glasses and ‘home-cooked’ style meals. Best steak sandwich I’ve ever
had, although I’m not sure the pesto foccacia is traditional Irish fare.
Afterwards, a helpful waitress directs me up the street to a bottle-shop,
where I purchase a can of Guinness, some exotic-looking Japanese beer, and a
bottle of Penfolds Red, then hasten on in search of a fish shop (for reasons
which will be explained shortly). No dice. Well, two out of three ain’t bad,
so I hasten back to Rydges to prepare for the This Is Your Life tribute. I’m extremely nervous about the tribute: I’ve been planning it for
six months now, and there’s just so much that could go wrong. For a start,
the subject of the tribute – Bill Congreve – isn’t aware that he’s the
subject, and may well make a break for the exit as soon as he realises what’s
going on. Thankfully I’ve managed to at least ensure his attendance by
telling him that the tribute is actually for Robert Hood, and would Bill be
kind enough to get up and say a few words? But whether Bill, a fairly private
person, will actually speak to me again afterwards is another matter. The
Guinness I’ve purchased is intended as a tranquilliser for Bill; the Japanese
beer and the wine as a gift to mollify him after my massive public betrayal.
The fish were intended to be used in a re-enactment of Monty Python’s
Fish-Slapping Dance, one of Bill’s favourite sketches – however, as 9pm
approaches, I realise that it’s probably for the best that I was unable to
secure them. ‘Respected Editor Beats Former Friend To Death With Fish’ is a
headline I’d prefer to live to see. Time for a nerve-steadying drink. Popping into Cahoots, I’m surprised
to see Rob Hood and Robin Pen conducting their Daikaiju Flash Fiction
competition in the corner. They were due to occupy one of the rooms, but a
small turnout has seen the comp moved (by Rob and Robin) to the bar. Sitting
in, I’m treated to two of the three entries being read out by their authors,
both extremely amusing. First prize goes to Iain Triffit for a brilliant
piece about world religions settling their differences using giant robot
replicas of their respective deities. Hope to see it in print soonish. 8.50pm, and time to push on to the tribute. There’s a reasonable
crowd waiting to see the show. It’s difficult to publicise an event like
this; on the one hand, you can’t tell too many people who the tribute is for,
lest word of it gets back to the intended victim. On the other hand, if you don’t
tell anyone what’s going on, you risk ending up with an empty room. Thus, the
event has been billed as a ‘surprise tribute to a well-known (and
unsuspecting) member of the genre community’ (which could be anyone), while
I’ve been discreetly spreading the word amongst Bill’s friends and colleagues
over the past couple of days. About 100 people eventually roll up. Bill is
not among them, which throws me into an instant panic. However, as 9pm hits,
he appears on the arm of his partner Michelle Marquardt (who’s in on the
whole thing), enthusing about all the embarrassing things he’s going to say
about Rob tonight. Very difficult to keep a straight face, especially with
Michelle grinning at me over Bill’s shoulder. The attendees take their seats, and I give a brief introductory
speech. Sean McMullen, resplendent in full formal attire and top hat (!)
rises to his feet in order to escort our victim to the Parkinson-style couch
on stage. It’s a beautiful thing to watch: moving around the room, Sean
pauses briefly before Rob (grin of anticipation from Bill), moves away, walks
up and down the aisle, back to Rob (even bigger grin from Bill), before
striding over to Bill and doffing his hat. “I’ve always wanted to take my hat off to you, Bill,” he says to Bill
(whose grin of horrified realisation is frozen on his face). The response,
“You bastard!” rises above the applause, as Bill is lead up onto stage and
deposited upon the couch, Sean taking up position at Bill’s side to prevent
escape. Here it is, then, the fruition of months of planning and worry, of
surreptitious information gathering from Bill’s many friends (particularly
Michelle and Rob). And – much to my relief and gratification - it all goes
very well. The biographical information I’ve compiled turns out to be
accurate for the most part. Bill is generally forthcoming when questioned
about his private life, and if any of my queries throw him, he certainly
doesn’t show it. The guests who have been asked to come up and speak about
Bill – Sean McMullen, Rob Hood, Sean Williams, Kyla Ward, Ben Peek, Michelle
Marquardt and Cat Sparks – all deliver interesting and heartfelt
dissertations on Bill’s impact upon their lives. Michelle’s beautifully
honest answer to my dreadful question, “What attracted you to Bill?” literally
brings a tear to my eye. Only two nervous moments during the tribute: the first is when I
happen to glance at my watch halfway through, and realise that we’ve already
used up the hour allotted to us. Fortunately nobody is due to use the room
after us, although I cop heaps afterwards (mostly from Robin Pen) about
running a two-hour alcohol-free event. The second moment comes when Cat
Sparks gets up to speak. I’d thought it might be cute, as a closer to the
tribute, to have someone actually get up and say rude things about Bill.
Naturally, I thought of Cat. And while Cat has been looking nervous all
afternoon at the prospect of doing this, she very quickly hits her stride,
unleashing a torrent of pent-up frustrations. Although bloody funny – by the
end of it I’m literally crying with laughter – as Cat’s voice gets louder and
more high-pitched, and the abuse of Bill becomes more heartfelt, I find
myself facing the prospect of having to cut in so as to avoid bloodshed.
Fortunately, Cat’s stream of invective soon trickles to a halt, and a few
words from myself (and a quick, fish-less re-enactment of the Fish-Slapping
Dance from Bill and myself) concludes the tribute. Is Bill still talking to
me? A big hug from Bill seems to indicate so, instantly making the months of
work well worth it. Down to Cahoots for a celebratory drink. A small party of interesting
people are lounging about in the foyer, so I decide to sit in. Deb Biancotti,
Russell B (what does the ‘B’ stand for?) Farr, Justine and Scott, Sarah Endacott
(who – it must be said – is looking rather foxy. Clarion obviously agreed
with her), Bill and Michelle, and a lady I don’t know, who is sitting
opposite me: a beautiful, voluptuous creature who I catch looking at me
whenever I try to sneak a surreptitious glance at her (later, she confides to
me that she was waiting for me to ‘be funny’. Damn that reputation!). In low
tones, I ask Deb who she is. Lily, I’m told. Lily Chrywenstrom? I ask, and
earn Deb’s instant admiration for being able to pronounce Lily’s surname
without effort. Of course, being christened Chuckstinathous
McKenzieothipopoulos makes me highly sensitive in such matters. As we sit
about discussing the usual (sex, alcohol), a pair of slender female arms
suddenly wrap themselves around my neck from behind, hands rubbing
affectionately at my chest. The look on everyone’s face is priceless.
However, I’ve already recognised the mop of hair spilling over my head as
belonging to Claire McKenna. “This man,” she says, “this man is a lovely,
lovely man. He’s so lovely, but he’s married! Lovely, lovely man!” And with
that, she’s gone. It’s very hard to continue any sort of meaningful conversation after
a scene like that, so I retreat to the bar for a quick one (drink, that is),
then head back to my lodgings for the night. The Irish wind-section are
already gearing up for the night, but the German stripper is mercifully
curled up in her doona. Two days of official committifying have left me
utterly knackered, and – with the bulk of my ‘official’ duties over for the
con - I’m looking forward to having a ‘free’ day tomorrow. Sunday 25th Wake early, though not early enough to get to the Anzac Day dawn
service. I feel a bit guilty about this: I was one of those snotty misguided
kids who thought that Anzac Day represented the glorification of war.
However, as an adult who understands a little more about what the day truly
represents, I never fail to get a bit emotional whenever April 25th
rolls around. Simultaneous feelings of intense sadness and pride. Watch
‘Australian At War’ sometime (an excellent doco) and you’ll know the feeling
I mean. I decide to make amends (ha!) by going out for a proper breakfast.
End up going to McDonald’s instead – it’s the only thing open, and cheaper
than real food. Canberra city square is a weird place to walk through first
thing in the morning; deathly quiet and lifeless. Except for the white
hatchback circling a nearby cul-de-sac. Enormous black crows sit atop the
bollards scattered around the square (I kid you not), eyeing me off with
beady yellow optics. Creepy. Then the voices start. I can hear voices,
snatches of conversation whispered in my ear. “Over here!” “Here!” “Hey, come
over here!” But there’s nobody there. I’m
starting to freak out, when I notice the speakers and motion sensors
set into the wall I’ve just passed. Recorded voices; obviously someone’s idea
of multimedia artwork. Not the sort of thing that someone with a
psychological illness wants to be subjected to. After breakfast, I skip gaily to the ‘con (attracting doubtful stares
from the locals), getting there at 9am. A free day! No more official duties!
Deb is in the same boat, and we spend a few moments jumping up and down
excitedly. Then we begin to wonder what the hell we’re going to do with all
this free time. Well, I know what I’m going to do – spend some money in the
Traders’ Room! It’s the first time I’ve really had a chance to look around the
Traders’ Room; lots of lovely stuff to buy. Edwina Harvey’s there with her
Celestial Cobbler wares (I buy nothing, but make a donation to the Juvenile
Diabetes fund); the ASIM table, selling copies of the issue edited by Edwina,
which I do buy a copy of (God I’m nice to that woman!); lots of second-hand
books; Agog! Press / Orb Speculative Fiction, Homosapien Press (introduce
myself to Julie Bozza), CSFG and associates, and Bill manning the MirrorDanse
Books / Infinitas Bookshop table. I sidle up to Michelle and check once again
– just to be sure – whether Bill is really okay with last night. Apparently
so. Bill rises from his seat and enfolds me in a bear hug. This is a good
sign. I reciprocate by buying books (all part of his evil plan, no doubt).
Justin Ackroyd is set up next door, pushing books on unsuspecting readers. He
knows your tastes and weaknesses, folks – and he always has a book just for
you, hidden under the counter! I always feel an obligation to buy lots of Australian publications at
these sort of events: not that I’m suggesting for a moment that Australian
publications aren’t worth buying from bookshops, etc, but there’s something
especially satisfying in buying something written by someone who is attending
the same event as yourself, and whom you can approach and chat to, get to
know better. Or maybe I’m talking through my arse. I pick up a copy of the
CSFG anthology ‘Machinations’ (edited by Chris Andrews, who I’ve been
chatting to), and Chris Lawson’s ‘Written In Blood’, amongst others. There are lots of interesting folk swarming through the room now, so
I begin to introduce myself to people. One of the downsides of being ‘in’
with the authorial crowd is that everyone always assumes that I know
everyone, which in the past has usually resulted in me standing around shyly
awaiting an introduction that never comes. Nowadays, I just barge up to
people and force myself upon them, whether they like it or not. I do this now
to Kim Wilkins, to whom Deb is chatting in the foyer. Kim is a breathtakingly
gorgeous woman – classically beautiful, with jet black hair, ivory skin and
luscious eyes, so of course my first words to her are “Plagh wafgh wu
luuuuur!”. However, Kim must be used to tongue-tied males, because she smiles
ravishingly, and nods. I should say at this juncture that I’m well aware I tend to describe
the women I meet at this convention in drooling tones; so, lest readers think
me some sort of misogynist letch, allow me to mention that there are also
many extremely good-looking men attending Conflux – Paul Haines, Scott
Westerfeld, Sean Williams, and Trevor Stafford, to name a few. And, if my
bread were buttered that side, I’d no doubt be raving on about them. But it
ain’t, so I’m not. I will just say, though, that if I’d known there were so
many fabulous-looking women attending science-fiction conventions back when I
was young(er), I’d have gotten into the scene when I was still single. A clean-shaven man who looks a bit like Richard Harland approaches
me. It is, in fact, Richard Harland. I congratulate him on his successful
shave. He passes on congratulations from his wife Aileen for “looking less
solid” than when she last met me. God bless that woman’s diplomacy! Richard
enquires after my health, and I gross him out with vivid details of the
operations I’ve been having on my eyes. Kim Wilkins, overhearing the
conversation, rushes up and dazzles me with a perfect smile. “A syringe
through the eyeball?! Fantastic!” I suspect that Kim is the only beautiful
woman I could ever hope to attract with such talk, but I make a mental note
to try it out more often anyway. Certainly around Kim. Back into the Traders’ Room and through to the Art Show. Les Petersen
has really outdone himself; large white panels are carefully arranged to form
a gentle maze through which one can wander, feeling as though one were in an
actual art gallery. The artwork itself is breathtaking: brilliant acrylic
starscapes, dragons painted on silk scrolls, cartoons and prints, pencil and
charcoal studies, techno-sculptures by Rob Stephenson (will the value of
these escalate if he dies during the ‘con?), beautifully detailed brushwork
on tiny pebbles by Marilyn Pride (I think), disturbingly pneumatic acrylic
sculptures by Lily Chrywenstrom (was she the model?), and a framed copy of
the cover art for Maxine McArthur’s ‘Time Future’. $2,250?! I look closer.
It’s not a copy. I drool a bit, but I wouldn’t even get that much for my
kidneys, so I forget it. Catching my eye in particular are some fantastic
cartoons by Brian Smith; a psychotic Mr Squiggle battles the Aliens, grasps
the severed head of the Predator. Appeals to my sense of humour, but I’ve
never much been into buying art so I content myself with admiring the works
at length before heading off to buy lunch. Donna catches up with me on the
stairs, and tells me that I need to catch up with Sam, the Rydges functions
manager, who will show Sean Williams and I how to use the DJ equipment in
Bobby McGee’s nightclub during the combined Masquerade and disco tonight. I
head down to the front desk, but Sam isn’t due in until later. So – to lunch. Outside the hotel I bump into Karen Miller, leading a pack of people
in the same direction I’m headed. She introduces me to the extremely cute
(there I go again!) Ella McCay as we head off to the City Arcade in search of
Kingsley’s… Let me just say that the very best thing about Canberra – the very
best thing – is Kingsley’s. Kingsley’s is a small ACT hot chicken franchise
that achieved brief nationwide notoriety when the GST came in, after getting
in strife for advertising their value meals with the slogan ‘same old price –
GST free’. I really wish these guys would expand their operations into NSW,
because their chicken subs are absolutely to die for; the rolls are always
soft, the chicken is lean, moist and tender, and the gravy…ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,
the gravy! I mention this to Ella, who tells me that the locals tend to like
Kingsley’s more for their chips. I make a note to try them. Arriving at the
Arcade, we all mill around seeking out our preferred lunches – and I promptly
lose the rest of the group! Maybe my ravings about chicken scared them off.
Ah, well. I order a large value meal and sit in the food court, savouring
every bite. The chips are excellent – hot, crisp and tasty. Yummo. Pathetic how excited I can get over a fast-food meal, innit? After lunch, I head back to the ‘con. A white hatchback passes me.
Astonishingly, there are road workers working on the city circuit. Let me say
that again. Road workers. Working. On a Sunday. Truly astonishing. Given that
Sydney road workers don’t seem to do any work on even their busiest days, in
a city like Canberra, on a Sunday, during a long-weekend, I would have
expected an unattended sign saying ‘Men At Home’. Or perhaps a few corpses
lying in the road. As I pass the busy mob, their lilting tones drift across
the bitumen like the call of a flock of native birds, a soothing backdrop to
the Australian landscape: “Whaddyafuggindoin’yafugginfug?” “Fugyayafugginfug!Fuggitanthefugginfug!” “Ahhhhfugyathen.Garnfuggoffyafuggingfuggwitfugger!” The atmosphere of the ‘con seems to have mellowed when I arrive back.
Instead of the frantic bustle of the last two days, people are drifting
unconcernedly between panels and sipping coffees in the foyer. It took some
major haggling on the part of the committee to get Rydges to set up and food
and beverage service on the second floor – but I bet Rydges are glad they did
it now! Purchasing a fortifying espresso, I discover – rather belatedly –
that my blue committee badge enable me to purchase food and drinks at
half-price, so my coffee costs me a mere $1.75 instead of the full painful
$3.50. My god! – the sheer power we committee members wield! I wander
downstairs, finding the hotel foyer all but deserted, but I sit and chat for
a while to Russell B (what does the ‘B’ stand for?) Farr, the lovely Grace
Dugan, and Brendan Duffy. Claire McKenna drifts past, and I discreetly quiz
her on last night’s shenanigans after drawing her attention with a cry of:
“Oi! Claire! Want another crack at my nipples!” Claire’s explanation is that
the back of my head looks exactly like that of her boyfriend, Eric. Um…okay.
But Claire is aware that Eric isn’t actually attending the ‘con, right? “Oh,
of course,” says Claire, as if talking to a very stupid child. “But you looked
just like him.” Indeed. 2pm: I’m doing a panel on speculative humour with Tansy Roberts,
Robbie Matthews, Stewart Barrow, and Ben Peek (the funniest man in the
world), To my surprise, it’s a full house – which makes all of us wish we’d
prepared something interesting to say. Or indeed, prepared something to say.
We manage to muddle through, though, and even raise a couple of laughs. It’s
Stewart’s first panel ever, so Robbie and I delight in ‘teaching’ him all the
things you’re supposed to do as a panellist – such as changing seats halfway
through, or practicing Chinese rifle drill, no doubt confirming Stu’s opinion
that we’re a pair of complete twats. The Ditmar Award ceremony begins at 3pm. Sitting with Cat and Rob, I
suddenly find myself feeling very nervous. I’m up for two Ditmars myself this
year, in the short story and novella/novelette categories, and given the
quality of the works I’m up against I know for a fact that I’m not going to
win. However, going to an awards ceremony in which you’ve been nominated for
something is a bit like taking an AIDS test; no matter how certain you are
that the result will be negative, moments before the result is announced your
stomach does a back flip as you suddenly wonder if there’s maybe the tiniest
chance of a positive result after all. But I needn’t have worried. Lots of
deserving people do win, however, including Les Petersen, Cat Sparks, and
Kirsten Bishop. Given that Peter MacNamara will not be with us not longer,
the presentation of the Peter Mac Award by an extremely emotional (and, for
once, non-shtick) Jack Dann inspires in the audience the sort of reverence
usually reserved for Anzac Day services (somewhat appropriately). Ceremony over, I go back to hotel reception and manage to get hold of
Sam, who takes me off to Bobby McGee’s to go over the equipment. Sean is tied
up with a panel (oo-er!), so I’ve promised to fill him in on the details
later. I get a severe case of Déjà vu as I enter the nightclub.
Absolutely nothing has changed in the eight years since I last spun vinyl
here, apart from the removal of a couple of railings, and the addition of a
podium to the middle of what used to the dance floor. Even the dust looks
like it’s been here since last century. Bobby McGee’s is a remnant of the
great ‘novelty US-style restaurant’ boom of the early 90’s; ‘themed’ fittings
(such as Hawaiian-style chill-rooms), number-plates and lacquered roadkill
nailed to the walls. A lizard holding a beer can? Hilarious! Still, it’ll
serve our purposes tonight. The equipment has actually been simplified since
I worked here, which suits me fine as I’ve not touched a mixing desk in five
years. Sam shows me how to operate everything, and I arrange to have the club
left open so I can come in and practice a little before the night begins. In the meantime, I head off into the city for an early dinner. Alone
again, but that’s kinda the way I like it after rubbing shoulders with the
masses all day. Back to the Irish theme place for traditional Irish fish ‘n’
chips, then drop by my lodgings to pick up my CD case, and return to Rydges
at 6.30pm. I’m surprised to find, after a few shaky mixes, that it all starts
to come back to me. I’m in the groove, back on the mix, yeah man! I am the
mix-master! MC McKenzie! I am the God of DJ’s! Dear God. Was I this much of a wanker eight years ago? Probably. 7pm, and Sean joins me and my rapidly-expanding ego in the booth. Do
we have a game-plan? Nah, let’s play it by ear. Sean’s collection of
embarrassing 80’s tunes rivals my own, instantly cementing the bond between
us. I demonstrate the use of the equipment. Sean tells me the microphone’s
all mine – he wants nothing to do with it! Poor fool; he may well be trying
to wrestle it from me by the end of the night. At 7.30 the first masqueraders
begin to file in, lining up at the bar with their complimentary drink
vouchers in hand. Many of them have obviously gone to a great deal of effort:
lots of gorgeous frocks and dresses, tight-laced bodices and gilt-edged
masquerade-style masks. And that’s just the guys. Lily Chrywenstrom is
wearing a dress emphasising her cleavage to such an extent that her chest
actually enters the room a full thirty seconds before she does. Donna Hanson
is running around dressed as a Greek goddess, there’s a bloke (?) in a
bug-eyed monster mask, and someone dressed up as Gary Dalrymple in a Star
Trek uniform (upon closer inspection, it turns out to be Gary Dalrymple. In a
Star Trek uniform). Kim Wilkins is dressed superbly as a ‘20s flapper. Les
Robertson is decked out in a full Tartar/Saracen costume that looks as though
it must weigh a tonne. It suddenly occurs to me I haven’t actually worked out
when and how the costume procession is going to be run. I’ve never actually
seen one done. Do we run it early? Late? Do we simply call out the winners’
names, or do we take time out to have a proper march around the dance floor?
A sinking feeling slowly encroaches, but I handle it a professional manner by
continuing to pretend I know what I’m doing. By this time, the nightclub is filling up nicely, with the crowd
tapping their toes to some slow funky beats. After a brief welcome from
myself over the mic, Sean whacks on some New-Wave classics, and people hit
the dance floor. Shortly after, Sean McMullen and Maree Pavletich come
looking for me to find out how the masquerade is going to run. Within
seconds, it becomes patently obvious that I have no idea what I’m doing, so
Sean (thankfully!) takes charge, and is nice enough not to look down his nose
at me for being incompetent. An hour into proceedings, the music stops and
all costumed folk are called onto the floor to have their photos taken –
singly and in groups – while masque judges Bob Eggleton, Greg Benford, Sean
and Maree observe from the sidelines. Photo op over, the judges retreat to a
table outside the club to ponder their decision. Greg asks to hear some
Rolling Stones while he judges, and I’m happy to oblige. Bob wants to hear
some Abba. After a set of three ‘Stones songs, plus Meatloaf’s ‘Paradise by
the Dashboard Light’ (which makes Bob a happy boy), it’s time to announce the
winners. Sean and Maree take the podium, then bring it back and stand on it.
Lots of prizes to give out. ‘Best Punk Teddy-Bear’ goes to Justin Ackroyd,
for reasons that will be obvious to anyone who’s ever seen him. By this time
Justin has left the room, which saddens me greatly. I’d donated a copy of my
novel ‘Worlds Apart’ as his award, an act – given that he loathes the book –
specifically judged to give him the shits. There are prizes for Best Greek
Goddess (Donna Hanson, by now pissed as a newt), and Best Goth on the Floor
(Aileen Harland), and finally first prize, going to Les Robertson for his
spectacular warrior cozzie. And then it’s back to the party. Lots of disco
and 80’s stuff, and I’m happy to find that most requests fit in with what
we’re playing. Everyone seems to be having a great time, and the dance floor
is rarely less than full. Highlights include Bob Eggleton strutting his funky
stuff to ‘Dancing Queen’, Sean McMullen attempting to break-dance, and a
bunch of folks attempting some traditional Irish dancing to ‘Come on Eileen’.
Sean and I work well as a team, I think – we’re certainly having fun –
although I begin to suspect that I’m monopolising the mixing desk a bit.
However, if Sean notices this, he’s far too polite to mention it. By midnight
(closing time) the joint is still jumping, so we seek special dispensation
from Sam to extend the night by another half-hour, and spend the remaining
time working through the backlog of requests. Sean puts on ‘Vienna’ as the
final track, and finally gets to have a dance with Kim. Lights up, and the crowd clears out. Sean and I pack up the booth,
and head off to the hotel foyer for a post-mortem. The usual crowd is there,
discussing the usual stuff. Eventually I drift off. A gent called Michael (I
forget his surname) has invited me to a room party, so - still on a high and
wide awake - I decide to check it out. A few people have already arrived by
the time I get there, including Michael and family, and Rob Cox and family.
Discussion quickly comes around to the worthy subject of ‘My Favourite SF
Author’. Then ‘Favourite Fantasy Author’. Then ‘Horror Author’. There’s a
really nice casual atmosphere to the gathering, with plenty of red wine and
barbeque shapes to curb the late-night munchies. Robert Hoge and Kate Eltham
(both looking suspiciously groovy and refreshed) make an appearance. So too
does Lily, who drags her bloke into the room for a moment, says ‘hi’, then
bolts. Odd. By 3am I’m feeling like I should call it a night – I haven’t been
up this late since…well, since I used to DJ for a living. Saying goodnight, I
totter back to the hostel, extremely happy with the way tonight has turned
out. I fall asleep almost as soon as the methane atmosphere of my dorm hits
me. Monday 26th Insanely, I awaken at 8am, feeling fantastic. Arrive at the ‘con by
9am, do the rounds, say hi to everyone. Most of the Masquerade attendees are
looking a little worse for wear, but are all being very complimentary about
the performance Sean and I put on last night, so I forgive them for looking
hung-over. I’m determined to rid myself of the remaining six copies of
‘Worlds Apart’, so I deposit them on the registration desk, telling Nicole
that she can give them away to any interested parties. At 10.45, I attend a
panel on the CSFG, chaired by Michael Barry, with Chris Andrews, Monica
Carroll, Maxine McArthur, Trevor Stafford and Mik Bennett sitting in. The
detailed discussion of the roots and goals of the CSFG is very interesting;
all the more so because I seem to be the only member of the audience who is
not also involved in some way with the CSFG. Much of the behind-the-scenes
scuttlebutt comes directly from the audience, rather than from the
panellists, giving the panel a comfortably conspiratorial atmosphere. The CSFG panel is followed directly by a ‘Critics’ choice – best of
2003’ panel in the same room, which I stay put for. Bill Congreve, Ron
Serdiuk (of Pulp Fiction bookshop) and Jason Nahrung discuss their personal
faves, and I’m kept busy noting down their recommendations in my notebook.
Tip to emerging writers: put an airship in your novel, and Ron will almost
certainly both stock and recommend it. Panel over, I decide to run into the city to grab a late lunch – but
first, it’s over to the Art Show to pick up a print of Brian Smith’s ‘Alien
Vs Aliens’ cartoon. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this piece,
and – at only $20 – I’d hate myself if I didn’t secure a copy. I run out to
get lunch. Upon returning, I throw caution to the wind and invest in a copy
of the companion print, ‘Big Game’, with Squiggle holding the Predator’s head.
I also notice that Nicole has managed to giveaway a few copies of ‘Worlds
Apart’. Determined to be rid of the publication, I give a copy each to
Nicole, Sue and Karen Herkes – all of whom immediately devalue the book by
having me sign it. Anyone out therewith an unsigned copy should keep hold of
it – it’s probably unique! And now, for the committee, the process of packing up begins:
registration and trader tables are returned to storage; the art show maze is
broken down; bins are emptied and quickly refilled; traders’ goods are packed
away. The second floor begins to look very stark and empty. I’m back to
running around madly, trying to help as many people as possible in order to
facilitate a smooth conclusion to the ‘con. I assist Les Petersen in breaking
down the art show, and working out the logistics of where the various bits
and pieces need to be left. Then I’m helping to stack traders’ tables and
heap soiled table-cloths. Finally, as the closing ceremony approaches, I
assist Jon Blum in recovering a lost bag. This involves both of us retracing
his steps over the past four days, running in and out of various rooms and
panels (and on one occasion – much to my amusement, and the panellist’s
bemusement – hoisting up the table cloth at the front to the panellists’
table to peer underneath, attracting cold stares from the woman whose legs he
appears to be ogling). Eventually, we find the missing bag at hotel
reception, where it was handed in earlier. Jon thanks me profusely. Then he
realises he’s mislaid his jacket too… Finally, everyone shuffles into the Lake Superior room for the
closing ceremony. I’ve been asked by Les to give the ‘Time Future’ artwork,
which has not yet been sold, to Donna for auction, which I do. I can’t help
but notice the slip of paper now attached to the frame. ‘Minimum bid: $10’.
Drool. MC Nick Stathopoulos begins by running through the usual thanks and
congratulations, then – tying in with his opening ceremony presentation that
I missed - ‘transports’ us through time from 2004, back to 1974 (from whence
he’d originally transported us all to get to the ‘con – still with me?). In
keeping with this theme, he also takes great delight in pointing out temporal
anomalies arising from the journey – such as having younger and older
versions of the same person in the same room (Alan Stewart and Greg Benford,
for example – very obviously one and the same person). After having much
well-deserved praise heaped upon her for the successful planning and running
of the ‘con, Donna Hanson takes the opportunity to hand out a few gifts,
thank a few people, etc, then calls up Sean McMullen, Bob Eggleton, Greg
Benford and Karen Herkes in turn to each say a few words. All are extremely
complimentary regarding not just Conflux, but the quality of Australian ‘cons
in general. Then Donna hands over to Nick and Justin to auction off the ‘Time
Future’ artwork; bidding quickly rises to $500, at which point Justin reminds
the audience that Maxine celebrated her birthday yesterday, and it might be nice
to put in a group bid to buy the painting for her as a present. With ‘the
group’ bidding against one other individual, the painting is at last secured
for Maxine at around $900. A heart-warming end to the ‘con, and Maxine is
very obviously moved. As the attendees file out, scattering to their rooms, cars and homes,
the committee members rush around for final inspection of the premises. Donna
invites us all to a combined Dead Dog / birthday party at her place, but I
politely (and regretfully) decline, as it’s all too much effort to organise
getting all the way out there and all the way back afterwards. There’s always time for a drink,
however, so I head to Cahoots. Not many people in there when I arrive; a
group of writers at the bar, a group of fans in the corner. I end up sharing
a drink with Bill, Rob, and the lovely Lily. Rob and Bill drift off
eventually, but Bill pops back with half a bottle of champagne as a ’thank
you’ for the tribute. After sipping appreciatively for a moment, I turn
around to find that all the writers have buggered off to have dinner. I’m a
little put out not to have been invited, but Lily’s company more than makes
up for the snub. After chatting for a bit, she invites me to join the fannish
group who remain in the corner of the otherwise deserted bar; Danny Heap,
David Cake, Sue-Anne Barber and others, all of whom kindly welcome me into
the fold. Over an extremely tasty Pub-style dinner rustled up by our
bar-goddess Grace, the guys keep me entertained with in-depth discussion of
misrepresentation of fans by the media, fannish sexuality and the hedonistic
nature of fandom in general, and a great deal of extremely juicy gossip
regarding well-known fannish figures (none of which I can repeat,
unfortunately). As the evening wears on, I decide that I’m going to have to
make a point of hanging out with the fannish contingent at conventions a
great deal more from now on – these guys are a hell of a lot of fun! Eventually, though, I reluctantly make the decision to leave. It’s Oh, hang on – ‘con’s over. You don’t need to know what happened next… |