Conflux2 - April 2005
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Friday 22nd 6:30am: Awaken feeling like a zombie (you can
never find one when you want one, can you?). Son’s second birthday party the
day before, and I spent the day rushing back and forth with giggling toddlers
hanging off me like monkeys on a tree. The more sensible fathers had
retreated inside for a beer.. Frantic shave, shower and pack, farewell the
Non-Fannish Wife and As-Yet-Undecided Son, then head off in the company car
(free petrol – yay!) to pick up Edwina Harvey. 9:00am:
Arrive in Edwina’s street, and suddenly go a blank on which number she lives
at. I give her a call on the mobile. “Hi Ed, I’m out in the street and I’m -”
a guy walks past, leading a pony, “- looking at a pony.” Bizarre. “Is it 7 or
17 you live at?” Turns out to be 12. I offer to carry her case to the car. It
weighs approximately a tonne. I suspect it’s full of delicate ceramics, and
the noise it makes as I slam it into the boot confirms this. And then we’re
off, puns flying all the way. It’s pretty smooth sailing, with very little
traffic on the road. The only awkward moment occurs when Edwina reaches for
the bottle of Diet Coke nestled strategically between my thighs, and misses.
Accidentally, she says. 12:15pm:
Arrive in Canberra, and spend a good ten to twelve seconds pointing out the
various tourists attractions to Edwina as we scoot around the city circle to
Rydges. I fling Edwina and her luggage from the car, then – pausing only to
say a quick hello to Deb Biancotti, Karen Miller and Donna Hanson, who are
milling around reception – I drive off to the hostel where I’ll be staying.
Parking turns out to be a cinch – about half the city circle roundabout is
occupied by a vast car park. Parking for two hours costs $2, but will be free
over the weekend. Free parking in the middle of a city! To put it in
perspective, this would be like parking free in the Pitt Street Mall, or on
the steps of Flinders Street station. Bizarre and charming. The ACT
Backpacker Hostel hasn’t changed a bit from last year. There’s still a faint
whiff of flatulence in the air as I check in. Turns out I’m actually in the
same room as last year, a share-dorm with bedding for nine people. There are
no other occupants yet, so I take a few minutes to settle in. There’ll be
little chance to do this once the topless German girls and farting Irishmen
arrive (see last years’ Conflux report). 1:00pm:
Head off to take a look around town. 1:10pm:
Finish looking around town, and return to the hostel. Seriously,
I do love Canberra. It’s clean, quiet and uncrowded, with all necessary shops
and facilities available (although admittedly a far smaller range than in
Sydney or Melbourne). My only gripe about Canberra, when I lived here in ’96,
was that it was difficult to make friends. Most of the population seemed to
be made up of frighteningly insular groups: army boys, uni students, public
servants, and locals who’d spent their entire lives amongst the same
surroundings and people. I’d probably find it quite pleasant living here now,
though, having since been befriended by many lovely folk in the local SF
community. The only
thing I still hate about Canberra is that FREAKY TALKIN’ WALL in the City
Square – some sadist’s idea of art, which plays recorded voices at you as you
pass it. It catches me by surprise as I saunter by. Glad I brought spare
underwear. 2:30pm:
Back to Rydges to check in at registration. Karen Herkes is already hard at
work, juggling ‘con-related duties with trying to keep her young daughter
Tara occupied. Tara’s specialty, it seems, is face painting. Would I like to
have my face done? Huh? Would I? Huh? In my book, telling a kid ‘maybe’ when
you have not the slightest intention of letting her anywhere near you with a
pot of grease paint is not technically a lie, and it seems to keep her happy.
I am handed my very own ‘Con Bag – goody! – which contains a very
nicely-produced souvenir booklet, and about 17,000 flyers. Cool! Now I can
wallpaper my house. 3:30pm: Other
committee members are beginning to surface – Trevor Stafford, Nicole Murphy,
Rose Mitchell, Chris Andrews - as well as some of The Usual Con-Going
Suspects: Zara Baxter, Rob Hood, Cat Sparks, Robbie Matthews and his daughter
Steph, Lily Chrywenstrom, Stu Barrow and his lovely wife Jenny, Bill
Congreve, Michelle Marquardt. Not to mention the all-important Guests Of
Honour; Terry Dowling, Maxine McArthur, and Jennifer Fallon. The first floor
of the hotel, where the ‘con is taking place, is beginning to bustle. Traders
are bumping their wares into the enormous room set aside for Hucksters and
the Art Show. Committee members are charging around doing Important Stuff.
Aware, as usual, that I have thus far contributed very little to the planning
of this ‘con, I begin to follow them around asking if they need any help with
anything. Do ya? Huh? Do ya? Do ya need any help? Eventually, Nicole takes
pity on me and directs me to a just-arrived truckload of heavy-looking
partition stands that need to be carried from downstairs up to the Hucksters’
room. A number of volunteers (most of them female) have already lined up to
move the (extremely heavy, as it turns out) partitions, so I do my bit
with some vocal encouragement for those already staggering towards the stairs.
“C’mon, Sparks,” I tell Cat, “put your back into it!” “Piss off,” she
suggests. With all
the partitions dragged upstairs, under the expert direction of Les Petersen
we begin to assemble and arrange them into something resembling a tiny maze
in the corner of the room. Deb nearly gets lost several times trying to
navigate her way out, and it strikes me that this area would make a great
crèche for con-goers with littlies. Just shove ‘em in and forget ‘em. 5:00pm:
Finished with partitions, I head down to Cahoots Bar for a beer. Others have
had a similar idea, and I end up sinking a few schooners (of light!) in the
corner with Cat, Rob, Zara, Laurie Brown, Kate Eltham and others. Eventually,
I begin to feel guilty about sitting around while the rest of the committee
are slaving away upstairs, so I head back to the rego desk. There, I bump
into Yunyu, the Triple J Unearthed-winning artist whom Trevor and I have
drafted to sing at the opening cocktail party and the masquerade. We chat
briefly, then she asks about the logistics of setting up her equipment in the
foyer. Terrified by the prospect of having to take actual responsibility for
something, I opt to find Trevor (who, I tell Yunyu, is much more
knowledgeable about…stuff). Now, where could he be..? 6:00pm: By
complete coincidence, my hunt for Trevor leads me back to Cahoots. Hi guys!
Stay for a drink? Well, I really do need to find Trev – you’re buying? Well,
okay then. 6:30pm:
Hey, we’re missing the opening ceremony! 7:00pm:
Hey, we’re still missing the opening ceremony! I’d better order a
burger to fortify myself for the walk back upstairs. 7:25pm:
Regretfully (and rather unsteadily), I make my way back upstairs, to find
that Trevor has appeared, and Yunyu’s equipment has been set up. Everything
okay here? Good, good. Glad I could help. I stagger over to the rego desk to
see if I can ‘assist‘ Karen Herkes. Need any help, Karen? Huh? Do ya? Do ya
need any help? Apparently not, so I stick my head around the door of the room
where Jennifer Fallon is giving her GOH speech, just in time to catch her
saying that she ‘d love to know what sort of religious significance future
archaeologists would impress upon her remains if she were buried with a
pewter dragon, an electric kitchen knife, a bowling ball, and a vibrator
(several days later, Chris Barnes relates to me his theory that the
archaeologists would simply take one look at the various artefacts and say,
‘Oh look, it’s Jennifer Fallon!’). 7:30pm:
The cocktail party kicks off with the launch, by Simon Brown, of the CSFG
anthology of Kaaron Warren’s work, The Grinding House. I’ve never met Kaaron
before, and - from my vantage point at the back of the crowd - I can’t
actually see her as she gets up to speak. A mystery woman! How exciting! Note to
self: I must get out more. The launch
over, Yunyu begins her set. I’ve kinda been dreading this moment: ideally,
the ‘con attendees will enjoy us doing something a little different at the
opening cocktail party, but then again they mightn’t. I wait with baited
breath. Yunyu starts off with one of her ‘ghost ballads’, and the applause
from the attendees nearest when she finishes is a great relief. As she
continues her set, a small crowd of attendees move closer, the applause
growing with each new song. Success! Reassured, I begin to drift about the
crowd, shmoozing. Zara Baxter corners me and tells me to buy a copy of the
Gastronomicon anthology/cookbook, ‘cos she’s got a piece in it. Isn’t the
launch for this tomorrow? Yes, she says, but you should buy one now and avoid
the rush. I really am spectacularly easy, and she knows it. Still, at just
$10, it’s certainly value for money. One thing
that both unsettles and warms me is the fairly significant number of people
who come up to me during the party and quietly congratulate me for being so
open about my recent battle with clinical depression, telling me that they
know what I’ve been through as they also are sufferers. There’s obviously a
lot of it about. I posted all the details of my illness on my website about a
year previously (which makes me realise how seldom I get to meet up with some
of these people) because my shrink suggested it as a form of therapy: if
everyone knows about it, I can’t pretend there’s nothing wrong. Simple. Also
slightly unsettling is the number of attractive women who greet me warmly as
I wander around. Not a bad thing in itself (I’m no fool!), except that, while
they all seem to know who I am, I’ve not the faintest idea who most of them
are. I don’t think I’ve dated any of them (or even gone out with them, for
that matter). Must be old age. Or bromide in the Canberra water… 8:30pm:
Cocktail party still in full swing, I retreat to the lounge suite on the
other side of the rego desk, joining Robbie Matthews and Michael Barry, both
of whom are later contributing with myself to a panel on Lovecraft. Seems a
bit like having the Three Stooges talk about Tolkien, but what do I know
about programming? Michael is busy constructing a non-Euclidian hat from
straws and tinfoil, which will apparently shield his brain from the Elder
Gods. Far, far too late, methinks. Robbie has some notes ready. Good Lord –
we were supposed to prepare for this? Still, at least Michael isn’t
prepared either, right Michael? Michael points out that he has the non-Euclidian
hat. Dammit. I’m going to have to rely upon my wits, which means I may as
well go home now. Still, all is not lost. There’s still time to make hasty
preparations before the panel starts, so of course I opt instead to construct
a super-long straw from Michael’s leftover materials, through which I attempt
to suck beer from a glass. The straw is so long, the beer goes flat before it
reaches my mouth. Bleugh! See? says Michael. It’s the Elder Gods at work.
Now, if the straw had been non-Euclidian… 9:30pm:
The cocktail party breaks up, and the panel programme begins. The ‘con
booklet mentions a Daikaiju panel, but I’m not sure which room it’s in.
Committee member, and I know sod-all. Mind you, nobody else I ask seems to
know either – not even Rob Hood, who’s running the panel with Bob Eggleton.
But eventually the room is found, and Rob ‘n’ Bob deliver a highly
entertaining and enthusiastic dissertation on the joys of absurdly big
beasties to a regretfully small audience. 10:30pm:
The combination of alcohol and it being way past my bedtime (sad old git,
ain’t I?) is weighting my eyelids as I stagger to my panel. Karen Herkes’
Virtual Ghost Tour of Canberra is still in session, so we wait ‘politely’ for
her to finish (Cough, cough, a-hem, isn’t this panel supposed to
finish now?, etc). The little I hear of the ‘tour’ sounds really cool,
though. Taking our
seats, Robbie, Michael and myself are joined by Steph, who is there solely to
keep an eye on the cute plush Cthulhu doll (hers) that Robbie has pinched for
use on the panel. Much crap is talked, mostly by myself and Michael (although
at least Michael’s crap is entertaining). Robbie manages to impart some
actual Information Of Interest to the audience, but I’m still quite glad the
audience didn’t have to pay to get into this specific panel. Oddly, the
audience seems to dig us. Wish I could remember exactly what I said, so I can
re-use it. 11:30pm:
Down to Cahoots for a quick drink, then drag myself back to the hostel. My
dorm is still largely unoccupied, apart from a guy who has taken up occupancy
of the bed directly opposite mine. Staring silently at me through coke-bottle
specs, he’s the spitting image of Harry Potter. He also looks like the sort
of guy the neighbours later describe as being ‘so quiet’. Despite this, I’m
asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. Should have put on pyjamas first,
really… Saturday 23rd 8:30am:
Awaken to find Harry Potter gone. Probably still out burying bodies. Rise,
shower and dress (in that order), then off to that quaint little Scottish
restaurant McDonald’s for breakfast (completely forgetting that Edwina had
generously invited me to quote her room number at Rydges in order to receive
a free continental breakfast!). 9:30am:
Arrive at Rydges, and take the opportunity to look around the Hucksters’
Room. The line-up includes Dymocks, Mirrordanse Books/Infinitas Bookshop,
Agog! Press, Celestial Cobbler/ASIM, Cre’atures (plush fantastical beasties),
Conflux3 and Conjure, CSFG, and Greg Toohey’s second-hand books, with the Art
Show featuring works by Brian Smith, Shane Parker, Marilyn Pride and Bob
Eggleton, among others. Aware of having extremely limited funds this year, I
do the sensible thing of picking out all the things I want to buy, then
vowing not to actually purchase them until the last day of the ‘con, so
hopefully they’ll have been sold and I won’t go broke. Clever, eh? 10:00am:
Rego desk duty. Not as exciting as you might expect, but you do get to meet
lots of interesting people. One of my specific duties is to inform people
that poor Jackie French – who was due to arrive today – has suffered a heart
attack and won’t be able to attend
Later, I hear that Jackie was worried we’d be cross with her for
‘flaking out’! To show we’re not, we send around some boys with a big bunch
of flowers to break her legs. The desk
seems to be doubling as a traders’ table, with small piles of goods spread
along it: Conflux and Dragoncrosse t-shirts, small press publications, and so
on. I’ve brought along a box of 80-odd copies of Worlds Apart with me (as
well as a few desk lamps donated from my shop) to give away as prizes, but I
don’t think we’ve got 80 prizes slated, so I decide to start thinning the
pile by putting a stack of them on the table with a big ‘Free – Please Take
One!’ sign on them. I know many authors who would frown upon such behaviour,
but these books have been gathering dust under my bed for a very long time,
and I’ll be glad to see the back of them. Besides, folks are always happy to
receive a freebie, and I like making people happy. Quite a number of books
are taken over next hour, some of which I’m asked to sign. I also give a pile
each to Rob and Edwina, suggesting they offer them as a giveaway with
whatever publication they happen to be flogging. As a result, neither of them
end up selling anything. 11:30am:
Rose Mitchell arrives, stops to chat for a while, then realises she was
supposed to be on a panel that started half an hour earlier. The topic: How
To Run A Convention. I suggest that she staggers in there now, waving a
half-empty glass of champagne, and slurring on about how important it is to
be punctual at these events. Well, it’s a laugh, innit? Oddly, Rose declines
to do so. 12:30pm:
Rego duties over for the day, I head off to attend a belly-dancing class with
Helen Patrice. The class has already begun as I arrive, with the other
attendees standing barefoot in a circle around a microscopic blonde woman. I
surreptitiously take a seat, looking forward to a relaxed perve. ‘Oh, no you
don’t!’ says Helen. ‘You attend, you dance!’ Reluctantly, I join the circle.
There are about ten of us; one other bloke, the rest women, ranging in age
from a grandmotherly type to fifteen year-old Steph Matthews. Helen begins by
showing us how to rotate our hips in the familiar belly-dancing fashion. To
my surprise it’s not all that difficult to manage, and I’m soon shimmying at
least as well as the next overweight hairy baboon. Helen is a great teacher,
proficient in Idiot-Proof Instruction (a godsend for me), and very
entertaining. Much of the class is punctuated with comments on the best way
to maximise boob-usage in order to get tips when dancing in restaurant, each
comment immediately followed by an apology to the younger attendees. As we practice
the more vigorous moves, Helen keeps asking whether anyone is experiencing
any discomfort. Everyone denies it, but after forty-five minutes of
hip-shimmying, hand-waving, stomach-rippling and so forth, I feel as though
I’ve been wrestling with a gorilla. But enough about my sex life.. I’ve
greatly enjoyed the class, and vow to look into taking up belly-dancing as a
regular thing. 1:15pm:
Wandering through the Traders’ Room again (covet, covet!), I manage to miss
the launch of the CSFG Gastronomicon. Good thing Zara forced me to buy a copy
the previous night! Time for
lunch. I walk into the city to visit Kingsley’s, the best chicken franchise
in the world, and indulge in one of their subs with chips. God, I miss
Kingsley’s! On the way back, the bastard talking wall catches me again,
speeding the passage of lunch through my alimentary canal. 3:00pm:
Back to the ‘con. Time to seek out our hotel liaison to book a set-up time
for tomorrow’s masquerade. I am introduced to an affable young guy named
Paul, who agrees to open up the nightclub for Yunyu and myself tomorrow at
6.00pm. I run upstairs to let Yunyu know. “We already organised them to open
it up at 5.00pm,” she tells me. Oh. Have I mentioned that you’re welcome to
put some of your CDs out on the Rego Desk for sale? She points. They’re
already there. Well…okay then. Glad I could help. Richard
Harland seeks me out, wanting to discuss our ‘plan of attack’ for the Great
Debate this afternoon. Plan? We need a plan? Preparing for the debate this
year has been a bit of a roller-coaster ride for me: originally drafted to
argue the Affirmative on ‘Fantasy Has Had A Greater Impact On World Culture
Than SF’, I’d spent a couple of months working on my argument, only to be
told a week before the ‘con that I’d actually been selected to argue the
Negative. Somewhat peeved, I agreed to do so, so as not to rock the boat.
Thus, a week of frantic work on preparing a Negative argument. Then, this
very morning, an offer by Karen Miller (arguing the Affirmative) to swap places.
Hurrah! (he cried, exhaustedly). Richard,
who is obviously taking this debate far too seriously, suggests that we each
outline our arguments so that we don’t end up contradicting each-other. Good
idea. Richard, Jennifer Fallon and Paul Ewins each take a moment to discuss
how they’ll be talking about the effects of fantasy fiction on pre-industrial
society and world culture in general, and the failure of society to
accurately follow the lead of SF. I take a moment to discuss how I’ll be
royally taking the piss, and the discussion goes downhill from there. I think
it’s around the time that Jennifer begins to describe her ultimate fantasy
(two eighteen year-olds) and the demands of female fans to read all the ‘hot
boy-on-boy action’ that ‘obviously gets cut from her books’ before
publication, that an exasperated Richard drifts away. 4:00pm:
Back to Cahoots. There are no other ‘con attendees there, but quite a number
of middle-aged golfer types, who seem to be in town for the ANZAC service on
Monday. A nice quiet drink is interrupted only by the continual squawkings of
one of the group who looks and sounds like a fat, half-plucked cockatoo. 4:30pm:
The Great Debate begins, ably MC’d by Greg Toohey. This years’ effort seems a
little flat, despite brave and energetic arguments from both sides, possibly
due to a lack of foolish behaviour. It’s all so sane and rational, until
Anthony Seale (arguing the Negative, with Keith Stevenson, Russell
Kirkpatrick and Karen Miller) gets up and does a piss-take that puts my own
piss-take to shame, thereby deservedly securing a win for his team. Mind you,
it seems that the Affirmative was fighting a losing battle right from the
start: when asked by Paul Ewins ‘Who here is automatically going to vote for
the Negative, no matter what?’, over half the audience put their hands up. 5:30pm:
Off to the panel featuring Inventive Entertainment, where those hoping to
break into TV and movies will be given an opportunity to make a pitch. The
guys from IE give an introductory talk about the whys and wherefores of their
company, then ask if anyone in the audience is interested in making a pitch
in front of the rest of the group. A few hesitant hands go up, and the
pitchers are asked, one-by-one, to get up and do their stuff. It all seems
extremely Hollywood, with the IE guys responding well to phrases like ‘it’s
Lord of the Rings meets Troy’ / ‘I Robot meets Blade Runner’ / ‘Lost meets
‘The Truman Show’, etc. Some interesting ideas are pitched (as well as some
that make Battlefield Earth sound like a Nobel Prize-winner), but everyone is
sworn to secrecy, so I’m not at liberty to the discuss the fantastic
forthcoming ‘Alien meets Benny Hill’ project. The guys especially seem to
like Mirren Hogan’s idea for a TV series based upon her own web comic. I’ll
keep my fingers crossed for her! 6:30pm: I
head downstairs towards the bar, but am intercepted by Cat, who invites me to
join them from dinner. Aha! The guilt trip generated by last years’ ‘con
report is obviously working. Cat, Rob, Deb, Chris Barnes, Alinta Thornton, a
young lady named Jess and myself wander into the Civic Square. Rob knows of a
good (cheap) Chinese restaurant, but when we get there it’s chockers. We end
up at Woodstock, as ACT ‘congoers so often do, and order a round of pizzas.
The pizzas here are really good: thin, crispy crusts, with minimal topping,
so the flavours don’t overwhelm each-other. Aussie pizzas usually sport a
super-thick doughy crust with an entire buffet piled on top, which make
eating one a bit like consuming a tomato-pasted doona. No competition to the
Woodstock fare. Deb and
Rob need to rush back to the ‘con to sit on separate panels, leaving the rest
of us to polish off the pizza. ‘Anyone for the last piece?’ ‘No, you
have it.’ ‘No, that’s okay.’ ‘Okay, well I’ll have it then.’ ‘Can I
have a small piece before you grab it?’ ‘Oh, look, why don’t you have
it?’ ‘Well, only if you don’t want it…’ While Cat talks to herself,
the rest of us surreptitiously finish the pizza, then stagger off into the
night, groaning under the pressure of far more pizza than is good for us. Have I
mentioned before just how quiet Canberra is? Have I? At night, it’s like an
above-ground cemetery with lights (and not many of them, at that). In
demonstrating this point to my travelling companions, I walk across the main
four-lane road bisecting the city centre at pensioner-on-Zimmer-frame speed.
No cars visible in either direction. I lay down in the middle of the road,
then have a short snooze. Still nothing. If this was Sydney, they’d have
taken the lack of vehicles as an indication that this was unused land, and
put up a couple of apartment blocks. 8:30pm:
Chris and Alinta head up to Chris’ room ‘for a room party’ (suuuuuuuuure!),
while the rest of us drift into Deb’s panel on ‘Writing Short Fiction’. Deb
is chairing. This is a woman who has resisted every effort I have ever made
to thrust her into the limelight, and here she sits, happily (and
comfortably) directing proceedings! Cheek! She gives me a nervous glance as I
enter: over dinner, I’d promised to ask ‘difficult’ questions at the end of
the panel. Every time she looks in my direction, I grin evilly, and the
growing tension seems to give her an edge. Chuck McKenzie, motivational
grinner. 9:30pm:
Back to Cahoots with the usual suspects, including Keith Stevenson and Louise
Katz. Cat is looking dazed, and I suspect the non-stop action of Conflux,
coming so soon after the non-stop action of Swancon, is taking its toll. Soon
after I arrive, she staggers off to bed. Everyone else seems to be in a party
mood, however, which is a good thing, as we’re all happy to move on to Chris’
room party when he finally comes downstairs to find out where we rude
bastards have vanished to. And so the party continues with myself, Alinta,
Zara, Kate, Stu, Jenny, and Nicole Murphy. Chris passes around the Honey
Vodka (yow!), and, as our level of intoxication grows, we settle into an
animated discussion of Keith Stevenson’s Cock (that is, the anthology
entitled ‘Cock’, which Keith Stevenson is co-editing). I’m sure that by now
everyone has heard most of the jokes, but here’s a few of the stand-outs
(oo-er!): Keith
Stevenson’s Cock is a big undertaking – let’s hope he doesn’t blow it! I look
forward to the day when a bookseller slaps Keith Stevenson’s Cock down on the
counter in front of me. I can’t
wait to stick my nose into Keith Stevenson’s Cock. And from
Zara Baxter, the ultimate cover-blurb endorsement: ‘Cock is the bukkake on
the face of Australian publishing’. Midnight:
The party winds down, and I stagger back to the hostel. As expected, the room
has filled up with flatulent Irish backpackers. We should probably add
flatulent Irish backpackers to ‘the list’, along with death, taxes and
Daddos. End up having an erotic dream about one of the other committee
members, so hot that even the bed starts sweating. And no, I’m not telling
who. Sunday 24th 9:00am:
Awaken to find the room smelling like a week-old omelette. Ergh. Hope nobody
lights up. Upon
arriving at Rydges, I take a final, wistful look around the Traders’ room.
After much browsing, I purchase a second-hand James White anthology from Greg
Toohey. Greg very generously throws in a Mick Farren novel I’ve been eyeing
off for the past few days. I have no idea who Mick Ferren is, or if he’s a
decent writer, but according to the cover blurb, the novel features
space-wasps with ‘awesome brain-implosion powers’, and there simply aren’t
enough space-wasp-with-awesome-brain-implosion-power stories around these
days. 10:00am:
Time for my panel on ‘Humour in Speculative Fiction – the Darker Side of
Light’, with Stu Barrow and Anna Tambour. As usual, I’ve done very little
preparation for this, but having participated in so many panels focussing on
variations of the same theme over the past six years, it all comes very
easily. Anna brings a refreshing wealth of non-genre insight to the
discussion. Certainly the audience seem to enjoy themselves (and, hopefully,
us), and we leave feeling quite satisfied with ourselves. 11:15am:
Rego desk duty. Everyone is looking extremely weary today, shuffling
listlessly from one panel to another. Very different from the excited energy
of day one, but I suppose it’s to be expected. A
wild-eyed, curly-haired fella in a thick coat approaches me. No, not Tom
Baker, but Danny Lovecraft (cool name!), who writes genre poetry. We chat for
a bit, then he asks if I’d mind him putting some of his poetry collections on
the rego desk. Of course I don’t. I notice that many of the other goods have
been whittled away – we’re out of Conflux t-shirts, several of Yunyu’s CDs
have been purchased, and I’m down to the last twenty copies of Worlds Apart.
Better put those aside, in case we need extra prizes for the masquerade. Helen
Patrice wanders by on her way to a panel, but opts to stay and chat to me for
almost an hour (not that I’m complaining, of course - I wish more attractive
blondes would talk to me!). We discuss such issues as belly-dancing (oddly
enough), sleazy writers (names are named – but shan’t be repeated here!), and
the embarrassment that comes with constantly forgetting your husband’s name
(hers, not mine). I also learn that she’s a practicing witch, and a bit of a
dirty bitch to boot. I tell her so. ‘Thank you!’ she grins, with an evil
glint in her eye. I end up promising to be her groupie (the fact that I’m
under 40 qualifies me), which may well entitle me to free belly-dancing
tuition if I ever move back to Melbourne… 12:15pm:
My rego desk shift is over, but I simply can’t be stuffed moving. Until I
realise that, with my afternoon fairly jam-packed, this may be my final
chance to grab some lunch. Down to Cahoots for one of their excellent burgers
and (cue gasp of surprise!) a beer. You know,
it’s just occurred to me that I probably come across as a bit of a wino in
these ‘con reports, so allow me to set the record straight. I’m not. However,
I was a full-blown alcoholic from about the age of 19 through to the
age of 24; a side effect of working the clubs as a DJ. It’s just too easy to
mix work with socialising, and everyone wants to buy the DJ a drink. Ten
beers a day was pretty average, sometimes followed by a couple of glasses of
spirit to clear the palette. It wasn’t until I woke up naked next to someone
unfortunate (on a whole lotta levels!), that I realised I actually had a
problem. So I gave up drinking, cold turkey, shook violently for two days
(yes, I was that bad), and didn’t touch a drop for a year. Since then,
my tolerance for alcohol has greatly diminished. I used to be able to drink
all night and still stand without assistance. Now, two drinks and I’m
anyone’s, which is why I’m careful not to drink around that sexy Garry
Dalrymple. Anyhoo, nowadays I don’t drink much at all, except when I’m at ‘cons
(ref. the Swancon 26 incident, of which we shall never speak again), or
whenever my wine-fancying parents come to stay (it makes the pain go away). The burger
is a long time coming – the one consistent gripe I’ve heard this weekend
regarding Rydges is the slowness of service – but worth it. I wolf it down,
then it’s back upstairs for the launch of Rob Hood and Robin Pen’s Daikaiju!
anthology. 1:15pm:
The launch is lots of fun. Cat opens with a demand that everyone buy a copy,
then Rob ‘n’ Bob pretty-much reprise their panel from Friday night, talking
about their passion for the giant monster genre, and the excitement that the
antho has generated overseas pre-release. Chris Barnes, Richard Harland,
Michelle Marquardt and myself take turns in reading from our respective
stories. It all goes very well, but – as I point out to the audience – the
prospect of doing a reading after Richard has done one is extremely daunting.
If you’ve ever seen Richard read, you’ll know exactly what I mean. If you
haven’t, let me just say that although everyone attending was expecting the
inevitable sound effects, Richard’s highly realistic shriek of agony
mid-reading still made the front row of the audience poop themselves. Readings
over, the audience descends upon the book table in a buying frenzy, and we
contributing authors suddenly realise we have no pens with which to sign
autographs. I volunteer to grab some from the rego desk, but am intercepted
halfway there by an attractive blonde woman wearing leather. Yippee! Helen Patrice
has obviously used her witchy powers to grant my wish. The woman turns out to
be Sonja Goernitz, a young German (hello!) reporter, and editor of
Writers magazine. Earlier in the month, Trevor had contacted me to mention
that Sonja would be staying in the same hostel as I, and asked (on her
behalf) whether I’d be interested in sharing a room. Obviously, she was aware
of my reputation as a mild-mannered homosexual who would never think improper
thoughts about an attractive blonde German girl. Um, anyway,
in the event, I pointed out to Trevor that, while I was quite open to the
idea of sharing, it was unlikely that Sonja and I would end up in the same
room as I was bunking down in a nine-bed dorm, and thus the topic had been
dropped. So here’s
Sonja, introducing herself and saying how much she’s been looking forward to
meeting me. Meanwhile, I can hear the cry for pens getting louder. As
politely as possible I excuse myself - promising to chat properly later on -
grab a handful of pens from the rego desk, and nip back to the Traders’ Room
for what turns out to be a signing frenzy! All in all, an extremely
successful launch. 2:30pm: I
attend a panel on ‘Current Trends in SF, New Weird & Fantasy’, run by
Lily Chrywenstrom, Bill Congreve and Rob Hood. It’s all extremely
interesting, though tending to run off at odd tangents (the fault of the
audience rather than the panellists) if not watched closely. Fortunately,
Lily mercilessly drags the topic back on-course whenever the audience
attempts to hijack it. In the right boots, that woman could be marching into
Poland. 3:30pm:
I’m tempted to go to the Small Press Publishing panel, run by Cat, Lily,
Keith and Kaaren Sutcliffe, but decide instead to head back to the hostel to
recuperate. I’ve got a big night ahead of me. We have
two new additions to the dorm: a couple of young, busty (so sue me for
noticing!) French girls, who are parading around in very little as I arrive.
I do my very best to ignore them (beyond a friendly hello, and careful
maintaining of eye-contact), and spend, oo, several seconds sprucing myself
up for the masquerade. Spruced, I pack up everything that I won’t be needing
between now and tomorrow morning – I intend to head off first thing – and
head back to the ‘con, clutching my carry-case of CDs. 4:30pm: I
stop by the rego desk. What time are we looking at packing up? Five-ish?
Perfect. I head for Cahoots, but am intercepted by an extremely excited
Michael Barry. No, not that excited, thankfully. “Is that Jennifer
Fallon over there?” he drools lustily. “I hear she’s a bit…naughty!” I
ask if he’d like me to introduce him. Oh, yes, me and Jennifer go way
back. “Jennifer? This is Michael, a sad fawning fanboy. Be gentle with him.”
And so, to Cahoots. 4:35pm.
Glug. Ahhhh. 5:00pm:
Arrive back at the rego desk to find that pretty much everything has been
packed away. Is there anything else I can help with? Apparently not. Art Show
partitions? No, Rydges will be dismantling them themselves. I nod. Well, glad
I could help. And so,
the Closing Ceremony begins. Dealing with the most important issues first,
various articles of lost property are reunited with their owners. Then come
the various Art Show awards. Judges Choice: Shane Parker. Best 3D Art:
Michael Kraaz. Best 2D Art: Shane Parker. Best Amateur: Brian Smith (of whom
I’m a massive fan). Best Professional: Nick Stathopoulos (at this point, Bob
Eggleton gets up to do ‘the hair thing’ – whipping his long hair back and
forth over his face like a headbanger – and the balding Nick follows this up
with his own (groin-related) version). Best in Show: Shane Parker. Donna
Hanson takes a moment to thank the guests, followed by Trevor getting up to
spruik Conflux3. A very impressive line-up of guests, including Ellen Datlow,
but at $220 per membership (I’m sure I heard that right!), I’d have to sell
my body to afford it. Hm. Let’s see…the going rate when I last sold my body,
at age 24, was $50 a night, so…allowing for aging, loss of stamina, growing
paunchiness, etcetera, the rate now should be… Maybe I
should just start saving up now. Chris and
Zara get up to plug ConSyder, the first Sydney convention in 14 years,
followed by Kate Eltham, who invites everyone up to Brisbane for next years’
Natcon. It’s a tough call to make an event sound exciting after Trevor’s just
trotted out Ellen Datlow, but Kate does promise – and I quote – ‘a fucking
great weekend’. And so the Closing ceremony…closes. I grab a box of
masquerade prizes from Donna, stop by Bobby McGee’s to deposit the goods in
the DJ booth, then - 5:30pm:
Burger and beer at Cahoots. I never said I wasn’t a burgerholic, did
I? 6:00pm:
Back to Bobby McGee’s to familiarise myself with the equipment. Yunyu and her
entourage are already setting up their equipment. The DJ booth has been
opened up, the equipment turned on. The sound rig is easy enough to work out,
but the lighting is another matter. I press one button, and the club is
plunged into darkness. Oops. I go to Rydges reception and ask whether it
might be possible to send in someone who knows what they’re doing, to show me
the ropes. A guy called Warren arrives shortly after, points vaguely at a
couple of buttons, connects a couple of plugs, then leaves, telling me that
it’s all on automatic sound chaser, so I don’t need to touch anything. After
he’s gone, it occurs to me that I will need to touch the lighting
controls at some point, so that we can hold the masquerade parade without
blinding the participants. One of these switches must pause the lights,
surely… I touch one button, and the club is plunged into darkness. I go back
to reception and sheepishly ask them to send Warren back. Warren comes back,
alters some connections, and takes time to show me what the buttons actually do
(all while hardly rolling his eyes at all). Lights
overcome, I try a practice mix. And – as expected – I’m crap. Hey, you
try maintaining a skill you only use once a year! After half an hour of
torturing the bar-staff, however, the old rhythm comes back. 7:00pm:
People begin to wander into the club, so I drop the mix and put on some
light, funky stuff. A fair few folks are in costume, which is a good sign,
and by 7.30 the club is almost as full as last year (not bad, considering
we’ve got about half the number of attendees!). And so the night kicks off. Definitely
a party crowd; the floor doesn’t empty for the rest of the night (well, once,
but who knew that putting on the Hamsterdance would kill the mood?), and the
crowd seems to dig the mix of mainly 70’s and 80’s stuff, with a little
classic rock thrown in. In fact, I don’t recall playing a recent dance song
all night. The crowd congas to Hot, Hot, Hot and steps along with the
Nutbush. As with last year, I actively push for people to request tracks, and
the songs most people ask for fit beautifully into the playlist. Nick
Stathopoulos asks for Popcorn. Bob Eggleton asks for ABBA. AC/DC for Helen
Patrice (and yes, she belly-dances to it!). I even play a song for Bob that
he requested last year, but which I didn’t have at the time: Kung Fu
Fighting. That’s gotta be some kind of record.. At around
9.30pm, the music stops and the masquerade parade begins. Although the
advertised theme was ‘VooDoo HooDoo’ (a nod here to Ella McKay, for her
voodoo priestess cozzie, and Trudy Canavan and Paul Ewins for their
life-sized, living voodoo doll, complete with gigantic pins sticking out of
him), the theme on the night seems to be ‘cleavage’. Lily, Nicole, Jenny, and
Jennifer’s yummy web minx (whose name I never got) are all likely to have
someone’s eye out, and Donna Hanson – having vowed to give Lily a run for her
money – looks as though she’s stuffed two bald-headed midgets down the front
of her dress. Robbie Matthews also has great boobs, but has concealed them
beneath his ‘Gamer’ costume, which consists of ragged sneakers, ragged jeans,
ragged t-shirt, ragged beard, and ragged ponytail topping a ragged head. He
later wins a prize for his ‘efforts’. Most
masqueraders are happy to strut their stuff for the cameras. For others,
public display obviously seems like some sort of exquisite torture, and it
takes much prompting from a twat with a microphone to drag them out onto the
floor. Their nerves probably aren’t abated any by the fact that – having to
MC this event from outside the DJ booth, which necessitates playing
the same song over and over throughout the parade (easier to hit the ‘repeat’
button than anything else when you’re reaching in from outside) – I end up
playing Herb Alpert’s A Walk In The Black Forest seven times in a row. Parade
over, the judges – Bob, Jennifer and Maxine – slink off (to the bar, I
reckon) to consider their verdict, and Yunyu prepares to do her set. It takes
her a few moments to prepare, so I take the opportunity to play some Really
Bad Music, knowing that I have a captive audience who are hanging out to find
out who wins the masquerade. Chucking evilly, I play Chirpy, Chirpy, Cheep,
Cheep – the worst pop song ever – and bugger me if people around the room
aren’t tapping their toes in time to the music! Bob Eggleton rushes up. “Man,
this is my all-time favourite song!” Oho! A challenge! Okay then,
let’s see how they like On Top Of The World by The Carpenters! Now people are
singing along! Bob rushes up again. “Man, this is my all-time second
favourite song!” I give up! Fully
prepared now, Yunyu does her set, and it goes really well; a more up tempo
set than her previous one, which suits the atmosphere perfectly. The crowd
gives her an extremely warm send-off as she finishes. And now,
the masquerade results. Jennifer begins presenting the awards, and it quickly
becomes obvious that she intends to award a prize to pretty much everyone in
the room. Crap – do we have enough prizes? I quickly make up four or five
‘major’ prize-packs (consisting of book-packs, signed Jennifer Fallon novels,
desk lamps, etc), and smaller prizes – copies of Worlds Apart. Within
minutes, everyone in the room owns a copy. Except for Robbie, who – deserving
only a second-rate prize for his ‘costume’ – receives two copies. Yes,
anything for a laugh, that’s me. As Jennifer finishes the presentation, Cat
comes up and demands that we have a special ‘Best Cleavage’ award. I, of
course, am outraged by such a sexist suggestion. No. Absolutely not, Cat. No
way. Not on your nelly. Not in a million years. No, no, no, no, no. Unless, of
course, you’re happy to announce it, Cat… Cat does
just this, selecting appropriate competitors from the crowd, while I try to
hide my outrage by pointing out a few busty wenches she’s overlooked. The
judging is initially left to Nick Stathopoulos, who rushes down to the dance
floor and urges the contestants to jump up and down on the spot. However, he
is quickly dragged away, foaming at the, er, mouth, so Cat invites audience
applause to pick the winner. Donna Hanson wins, and receives a very nice
bottle of red. Second and third place winners each receive a desklamp. And –
yes – a copy of Worlds Apart. Fourth and fifth-place winners get a warm
embrace from me. Eventually I pole-vault back to the booth, and it’s back to
the music. Midnight:
The night concludes with a rousing rendition of New York, New York, which
brings everyone in the room down to the dancefloor in a great big
leg-kicking, shoulder-hugging circle. Noice! Lights up, pack up, off to
Cahoots for a well-earned beer. It’s a
very cheap round – everyone wants to buy the DJ a drink. God I miss DJing! I
settle into a corner with the usual bunch, as well as Sonja, with whom I’m
soon deep in conversation, discussing writing, life-stories, and the pain of
long-distance relationships. Alinta and Kaaron Warren sit opposite me,
grinning evil grins and making fruity remarks. What’s a good nickname for a
guy called Chuck, they wonder aloud. “I know!” says Alinta. “What’s the male
version of MILF?” “BILF?” suggests Kaaron. So it’s Chuck the BILF, which soon
becomes Chucky Filth. Hey, don’t ask me to explain, I just drink here. 2:00am: Reluctantly, I decide to head
back to the hostel. I’ve an early start. Sonja begs a lift, as she’s staying
in the same digs. As we head out, several people ask Sonja if she needs a
lift. “No, is alright,” she says. “I am going back with Chuck.” I get some
extremely funny looks as we leave together. Heh! Let ‘em wonder. 2:30am: Back at the hostel, after
promising to keep in touch, Sonja and I part company. I carefully tiptoe into
my dorm so as to not wake my roomies, and slip into bed. If I can get a
decent six hours’ sleep, I figure I’ll be fine for the drive home. 4:00am: Jerk awake as the Irish
Backpackers enter the room with all the silence and catlike grace of a herd
of elephants falling through the roof of a homewares shop. The raucous
bastards spend the next ten minutes conversing at the top of their lungs,
while I lie there thinking ‘Surely they’ll shut up in a minute!” Eventually,
one of the French girls – who obviously has more balls than me – savagely
tells them to shut the fuck up. One of them unwisely makes an off-colour
‘witticism’ (I use the term very loosely) in response, and that’s it: the
girls and I all snap, spitting abuse until the lads wisely shut up and go to
bed. Soon after, we’re wishing they were talking again. Their snoring is
deafening. 9:30am: I
rise, shower and finish packing. The French girls are still giving the Irish
backpackers dirty looks, but my whispered offer to help bury the bodies
elicits a rewarding smile as I leave. And so,
home. Mixed emotions today. There’s something depressing about heading home
after a ‘con. It’s great to get back to the family, of course, but ‘cons are
such a great form of escapism; so many interesting things to do and see and
talk about, so many great people to meet – again, or for the very first time.
Putting faces to folks you’ve only ever heard of before, or maybe chatted to
over the internet. Socialising over an overpriced coffee, or arguing amiably
over a beer (or five). It’s like a little alternative universe for
speculative fans, with none of the distractions or discomforts of reality.
The Canberra ‘Cons have always been like that, and it’s something I’m going
to miss. You see, a
month earlier, my wife and I made An Important Decision… Over the
past ten years, my wife and I have moved from Sydney to Canberra, to
Melbourne (my home town), and back to Sydney - home for the past seven years.
Now, with a youngster in the family, Sydney becoming an increasingly
expensive place to live, ongoing health issues, and so on, our need for a
better quality of life is finally taking us back to Melbourne. To stay. Once
and for all. Probably. A September departure seems likely. I’ve made
some absolutely brilliant friends here, in both Sydney and Canberra. They all
know who they are, and – while the internet has certainly made the world a
smaller place – I’m going to miss them terribly. Wherever Megan, Max and I
end up settling, they’ll all be expected to come down and stay with us. My entire
life as an active fan and writer has been spent in Sydney. The people who
have supported me through good times and bad are all here. The prospect of
leaving is frankly terrifying. And yet… Melbourne
has a booming SF community too, doesn’t it? And I do know some people down
there… I wonder how Continuum compares to Conflux..? |