A Recap
So there I am, in line to meet the man. I've never met him, by the way, so this is a particularly momentous occasion. It is also an occasion of complex, layered emotions, for as we all know, I was a very big fan of ol' George's for a long time. I mean, quite a few years ago, he wrote three pretty awesome books that I still enjoy to a large degree, and he wrote at least one short story in the 70's that I liked. But then, it became all about the money, and the miniatures, and Wild Cards, and the Jets, and delays, delays, delays, and the whopping crapfest that is AFFC. And as I and many of George's fans became more disgruntled, and began to question the man's priorities, he and his die-hard fans pushed back, calling us ungrateful, self-righteous, and undeserving of George's magical, delicate genius. Blog comments were censored, tempers flared, and George ordered that all his detractors were welcome to file complaints on their own blogs. This, of course, I took to heart, and Pesci soon joined me, and then others came, and then still others, and lines in the sand were drawn. And this combative atmosphere has settled upon the embattled legions of fans and anti-fans, with both sides raising the cry: When Will the Book be Finished?
And with all of this in my background, I found myself in line at C2E2.
Now, a bit of background regarding the day: despite having a generally enjoyable time at C2E2, I was not in a particularly positive mood regarding George's appearance. I had shown up at George's first signing of the day, which ended at 1:00, around 12:45, only to find that he had already left, and would be back at 3. Was I surprised that George had left 15 minutes early? I think you know the answer to that.
I spent the middlin' hours walking around a rather solid convention; while I haven't been into comics for quite a long time, I can get on board with good artists, cool sculptures, and the very occasional hot girl in a Supergirl outfit. (Or a slutty Alice in Wonderland...jesus christ.) So I've got plenty to entertain myself in the meantime.
Finally, around 2:45, I got myself in line, and I was about 20 people deep in the line. Max Brooks was signing autographs at the next table, and interestingly enough, the Max Brooks line was much, much longer that George's. But hey, whatever. Zombies are awesome, and I can give Max credit for his role in encouraging the recent spate of quality zombie films (Shaun of the Dead, 28 Days Later, Zombieland), even though there is a much higher quotient of terrible ones. Both the signings are starting at 3, and at a few minutes past three, Max's line starts moving as he meets and greets his fans promptly.
Meanwhile, the GRRMlins and I stood still, waiting, as ol' George had yet to arrive.
The Avatar booth employees repeatedly rerouted the end of George's line, as they didn't want the people in the back to block foot traffic. You see, there was a soft pretzel booth behind George's line, and a Nacho cart off to the right, and I could help but wonder if those had been deliberately parked there.
So five minutes go by. Ten, Fifteen. The girl behind me in line is keeping a watchful eye on the curve in the newly-arranged line, because she is paranoid that people will cut in front of her, delaying the autograph she plans on getting on the "Winter is Coming" plaque she holds in her hand. I ask her where she got it from, and it is apparently the display plaque for the Longclaw replica that she owns. Delightful.
Ten minutes go by. There is a man in line who looks remarkably like George if he had lost a bit more hair on top and trimmed a few inches off the beard. This gentleman has a suitcase on a rolling cart, and he is lecturing everyone within earshot about how to tell the difference between a first edition hardcover and a first edition book club hardcover. The crowd smiles appreciatively as Max Brooks continues to chug through his fans, while the GRRMlins grow impatient.
Fifteen minutes goes by. No sign of George. The tension and annoyance is palpable. I hear several reassuring comments as I stand in line. I hear comments about how the HBO series won't take, I hear worries that George won't make it long enough to finish the series. My partner in line asks me a few surreptitious questions about FTBG, about how many people in line had probably read it or knew who I was. I decided to keep that under wraps, because I wasn't prepared to deal with having the girl behind me yell at me for twenty minutes, or having a bunch of oily-handed bog dwellers rise up and lynch me in the middle of McCormick Place in Chicago. There are a lot of bad places to meet an untimely end, but I think standing in line at a comic book convention might be one of the worst places to go that I can imagine.
And that's the thing about the purpose of my visit, something I had mulled over repeatedly in anticipation of C2E2. I thought about what I do with FTBG, why it was started, and our philosophy regarding the form and content of this site. I've always maintained that I will welcome intelligent arguments with George's detractors. I believe in free speech, and the fact that George censors comments on his blog was one of the primary reasons i started FTBG. I have never posted on NAB, I've never shown up at one of George's readings throwing red paint and trying to ruin people's good times. Because I think that everyone deserves to be heard--George, his fans, the Brave Companions...and me. People are welcome to read my blog or not, to agree with me or disagree, and I will respond to their challenges, questions, and arguments as necessary.
So was I there to abuse George? To yell at him? To cause a scene and get myself kicked out, or ruin a good time for him or for the other people in line to see him? Absolutely not. Because he, and they, are all entitled to their opinions, just as I am entitled to mine. If I could be afforded ten minutes to sit down with George and ask him some challenging questions, I would love that. But I knew that the 30 seconds or so I would have in front of him wouldn't allow me to do much of note, and that he wouldn't give me any real answers if I did throw some hardballs at him. I knew that there is a time and place for everything. I knew what I wanted, and this was the time and place.
"THERE HE IS!" screams the girl behind me, like she just spotted the last soldier humping his way out of Mogadishu. Everyone turns, and there's the old captain himself, far shorter and far larger than I had ever imagined, slogging his way to the Avatar booth.
It's now 3:20, and in a few minutes, the line begins to move. I get closer, and closer, and finally, it's my turn. There's a handshake, and George is quite friendly, I'll give him that. He's all smiles, his voice is oddly high-pitched, and he seems genuinely glad to meet me:
See? Who would've thought that these two guys weren't best friends? (That's right, GRRMlins, I was the guy in the brown coat. SUCK IT!) Which is great, because there's really only one thing I want: a sign of support from the big guy himself. Because hey, maybe I don't have a library tower, and an assistant who wears only hotpants, and a basement full of waterlogged copies of Wild Cards 12: Ante Up. But I'm a writer, and he's a writer, and I like to think that maybe--just maybe--we've helped to inspire each other to work just a little bit harder. I know that's true on my end, and as for him, well...I think this says it all:
I will, George. I will keep my sword sharp, even if you and your GRRMlins are at the pointy end. You do the same, and thanks for supporting FTBG!
And with all of this in my background, I found myself in line at C2E2.
Now, a bit of background regarding the day: despite having a generally enjoyable time at C2E2, I was not in a particularly positive mood regarding George's appearance. I had shown up at George's first signing of the day, which ended at 1:00, around 12:45, only to find that he had already left, and would be back at 3. Was I surprised that George had left 15 minutes early? I think you know the answer to that.
I spent the middlin' hours walking around a rather solid convention; while I haven't been into comics for quite a long time, I can get on board with good artists, cool sculptures, and the very occasional hot girl in a Supergirl outfit. (Or a slutty Alice in Wonderland...jesus christ.) So I've got plenty to entertain myself in the meantime.
Finally, around 2:45, I got myself in line, and I was about 20 people deep in the line. Max Brooks was signing autographs at the next table, and interestingly enough, the Max Brooks line was much, much longer that George's. But hey, whatever. Zombies are awesome, and I can give Max credit for his role in encouraging the recent spate of quality zombie films (Shaun of the Dead, 28 Days Later, Zombieland), even though there is a much higher quotient of terrible ones. Both the signings are starting at 3, and at a few minutes past three, Max's line starts moving as he meets and greets his fans promptly.
Meanwhile, the GRRMlins and I stood still, waiting, as ol' George had yet to arrive.
The Avatar booth employees repeatedly rerouted the end of George's line, as they didn't want the people in the back to block foot traffic. You see, there was a soft pretzel booth behind George's line, and a Nacho cart off to the right, and I could help but wonder if those had been deliberately parked there.
So five minutes go by. Ten, Fifteen. The girl behind me in line is keeping a watchful eye on the curve in the newly-arranged line, because she is paranoid that people will cut in front of her, delaying the autograph she plans on getting on the "Winter is Coming" plaque she holds in her hand. I ask her where she got it from, and it is apparently the display plaque for the Longclaw replica that she owns. Delightful.
Ten minutes go by. There is a man in line who looks remarkably like George if he had lost a bit more hair on top and trimmed a few inches off the beard. This gentleman has a suitcase on a rolling cart, and he is lecturing everyone within earshot about how to tell the difference between a first edition hardcover and a first edition book club hardcover. The crowd smiles appreciatively as Max Brooks continues to chug through his fans, while the GRRMlins grow impatient.
Fifteen minutes goes by. No sign of George. The tension and annoyance is palpable. I hear several reassuring comments as I stand in line. I hear comments about how the HBO series won't take, I hear worries that George won't make it long enough to finish the series. My partner in line asks me a few surreptitious questions about FTBG, about how many people in line had probably read it or knew who I was. I decided to keep that under wraps, because I wasn't prepared to deal with having the girl behind me yell at me for twenty minutes, or having a bunch of oily-handed bog dwellers rise up and lynch me in the middle of McCormick Place in Chicago. There are a lot of bad places to meet an untimely end, but I think standing in line at a comic book convention might be one of the worst places to go that I can imagine.
And that's the thing about the purpose of my visit, something I had mulled over repeatedly in anticipation of C2E2. I thought about what I do with FTBG, why it was started, and our philosophy regarding the form and content of this site. I've always maintained that I will welcome intelligent arguments with George's detractors. I believe in free speech, and the fact that George censors comments on his blog was one of the primary reasons i started FTBG. I have never posted on NAB, I've never shown up at one of George's readings throwing red paint and trying to ruin people's good times. Because I think that everyone deserves to be heard--George, his fans, the Brave Companions...and me. People are welcome to read my blog or not, to agree with me or disagree, and I will respond to their challenges, questions, and arguments as necessary.
So was I there to abuse George? To yell at him? To cause a scene and get myself kicked out, or ruin a good time for him or for the other people in line to see him? Absolutely not. Because he, and they, are all entitled to their opinions, just as I am entitled to mine. If I could be afforded ten minutes to sit down with George and ask him some challenging questions, I would love that. But I knew that the 30 seconds or so I would have in front of him wouldn't allow me to do much of note, and that he wouldn't give me any real answers if I did throw some hardballs at him. I knew that there is a time and place for everything. I knew what I wanted, and this was the time and place.
"THERE HE IS!" screams the girl behind me, like she just spotted the last soldier humping his way out of Mogadishu. Everyone turns, and there's the old captain himself, far shorter and far larger than I had ever imagined, slogging his way to the Avatar booth.
It's now 3:20, and in a few minutes, the line begins to move. I get closer, and closer, and finally, it's my turn. There's a handshake, and George is quite friendly, I'll give him that. He's all smiles, his voice is oddly high-pitched, and he seems genuinely glad to meet me:
See? Who would've thought that these two guys weren't best friends? (That's right, GRRMlins, I was the guy in the brown coat. SUCK IT!) Which is great, because there's really only one thing I want: a sign of support from the big guy himself. Because hey, maybe I don't have a library tower, and an assistant who wears only hotpants, and a basement full of waterlogged copies of Wild Cards 12: Ante Up. But I'm a writer, and he's a writer, and I like to think that maybe--just maybe--we've helped to inspire each other to work just a little bit harder. I know that's true on my end, and as for him, well...I think this says it all:
I will, George. I will keep my sword sharp, even if you and your GRRMlins are at the pointy end. You do the same, and thanks for supporting FTBG!