Denvention

For the third time in sixty years, the World Science Fiction Convention has come to Colorado. I have been to science fiction conventions before, StarCon, ComiCon, et cetera. I have attended Klingon speaking workshops and panel discussions on which super hero would win in a fight, all night Robotech marathons, and other similarly pathetic events. Picture, if you will, the spectacle: costumes, spock ears, obese Xena impersonators, virgins of every shape, size and species!

Now flush all of that. The WSFS is something completely different. Oh, there were people in silly garb here and there, but we could have counted them on our fingers. This was not a fan convention; this was serious business. The typical attendee was a slightly obese male, age 50-60, Libertarian, with a pony tail and a bolo necktie, a writer of dubious merit and credentials. I was pleased to note that out of the thousands of attendees, I was among the most attractive.

The events were reflective of the attendees. The first one we went to was "Tales From the Slush Pile". Three editors read selections from the most terrible submissions they had ever received, including one which asked the burning question, "What if Sir Lancelot was a dolphin, and King Arthur a teenage girl?" Hilarity, to be sure, but a little bit uneasy--what if some of the writers were in the audience . . .?

I confess: I was out of my depth by a wide margin. Sure, I've read Science Fiction, and am informed enough about it to teach a class on it. But I was a low level demon in nerd hell. I went to an entire seminar devoted to the later works of Robert Heinlein, thinking that I had read some of his stuff and would find it informative, but I was abased. Every person in the room seemed to have his entire oeuvre memorized. I couldn't think of a single relevant thing to say. There were similarly intricate panels on politics in Sci-Fi, the best 20 novels of the last 20 years (some of which I added to my reading list), and the like.

But the piece de resistance was to come at the end of the evening: the Hugo Awards ceremony. It was a big to do, although everyone's version of formal dress was a bit . . . upholstered. the award itself looks the same every year, but a new base is designed by the host city. Denver commissioned a cheap looking plastic mountain, cloying with foil stars. It looked terrible, and the award itself is basically a vibrator.

Well-played Colorado. I was surprised that many of the recipients didn't come to receive their awards in person. Of course, some of them were big name movie directors or producers, and Michael Chabon won for best novel--no doubt he's too busy fellating kittens. But Connie Willis, a Colorado native, was the only winner of a big award to take the triumphal walk to the stage, wave to the cameras, and make a brief speech--just like you see on Oscar night.

In short, maybe the Hugo awards aren't as big a deal as I had thought. If people don't even bother to come receive them, that's one giveaway. The other clue is the categories for which they are offered, including one that I consider a travesty: best fan writer. that translates into my mind as "Best guy who couldn't get his work published, but is a really enthusiastic!!!" I guess when the WSFS rolls into Denver again in 20 years, I might pass.