Gatecon Part 2 - RDA autograph session on Saturday
After Sabine Bauer's public talk, we broke off into a separate group to discuss individual stories that we had submitted to her. I had been eagerly awaiting this event with the excitement and fear of an author who is finally going to meet a publisher and find out whether her writing is terrific or trash.
Unfortunately, this meeting was overlapping with my autograph session with Richard Dean Anderson. We were told that we could attend the session the following day if we missed it on Saturday. But I and two of the others were scheduled to work as volunteers during the next autograph sessions with Mr. Anderson. I entered the room with the trepidation of a greyhound dog visiting his veterinarian. Though my feet were firmly planted on the ground, I wanted to skip and hop like Muhammed Ali in the boxing ring. I asked myself, "Should I leave to wait in line with the other excited RDA fans? Or should I stay for this much more educational and fulfilling meeting with fellow authors and a published author?" I decided to stay until 1/2 hour into the 2-hour window of RDA's session.
After the first 20 minutes of the 1 1/2 hour writer's group was spent on only one of the ten writers, I started to get more anxious as I did the math. I was slated as the 9th writer to be reviewed. Let's see, 200 minutes divided by 60 means that I will completely miss the RDA session. So I gracefully blurted out that we needed to move on to the next writer. Don't get me wrong, I was just as anxious to find out what the group had to say about my writing. I kept calming myself down with reminders that they would allow me into the next session. As my body insistently requested egress from the room, my mind flashed freeway warning signs like, "You've stayed this long you might as well sit still until your story comes up for review." "You're just going to stand in line waiting, and then you'll kick yourself for not being in the writer's group."
After the last story was reviewed, we got up as a group and attempted to leave. But every guest and staff person in that hotel must have been loading and unloading the darned elevator. There was no staircase in this section of the hotel. I wanted to complain to the management, but I couldn't get off the danged floor to do so. After 20 agonizing minutes - that unbelievingly moved the minute hand five positions - we got on the elevator. We all went tearing through the crowded connector hallways from the South to the North tower. I have no recollection of the journey other than to say that there should be a passing lane or at least the availability of a semi horn when traversing that particular walkway.
Finally, we got to the line. There were about five people left in the queue and a couple who showed up after we got there. Rather than being too excited and anxious, I felt a sense of peace. I relaxed and moved more toward the back of the line as people more eager than I gravitated toward the front.
As my heart rate calmed, I noticed a large crack at the edge of the closed door. Magically, as I moved, I could just make out the large, tanned frame of a man hunched over a table. That's when my cheek muscles contracted into the widest grin known to man - or so I thought until I looked at the others in line. Non Gatecon people would have thought we were waiting in line for the stupid-assed-grin contest.
Wait! The door opened! We all peeked inside as four people were quickly ushered in. My heart raced as the gorgeous tanned man looked over at us at the same time that we looked at him. Oh my God! Look cool. He mustn't see how excited I am. Face, would you wipe that grin off? Just as quickly as the door opened, it closed off the view and we waited some more.
I was astounded when I noticed that the woman in front of me was also from the writer's workshop. That meant that there were five of us who had been reining in our desire to bolt from the room. To those of you who could never fathom delaying and risking the loss of RDA's autograph, this is an indicator of how much we liked Sabine's workshop.
Back to the story. The woman in front of me in line was Astra. I had read and re-read her stories, so she was familiar to me. She had an interesting poster that she had picked up at an overseas con. It was made of a stiff plastic and the characters were actually impressed into the material. She already had most of the autographs on it, but there was an obvious missing signature under the picture of Jack O'Neill. We talked about how she never thought she would get that elusive signature, but here she was - one of the chosen who had won the lottery. There were others in that hallway, but I have to recollection of who was there or what was said.
The door opened again and we left the noisy bustle of the hallway to enter the muffled quiet of the narrow suite. There were about eight or nine chairs facing a table. I was pleased to see that there were only two people behind me in line. In some insane way, I thought it would mean that my favorite actor would spend more time with us because we were at the end of the long line. Hey! You think of all the strategies you can when you are trying to maximize your limited time with The Man.
Where was I? Yes, we sat patiently and watched as people patiently took their turn at the table. We came into the room toward the right of the table (facing it), but the line moved across the front until we approached to the left of the table. Facing us at the table were two individuals. On our left was Becky Preen. It was obvious that she had a calm and friendly relationship with Mr. Anderson as he would occasionally look to her and exchange unspoken comments or shorthand looks.
Mr. Anderson deserves his own paragraph or two. First impression - Wow! He is more handsome in real life. I've never said this about anyone before, but . . . . he has a really sexy neck. Yes, I know. It sounds weird, but until you've seen his manly, tanned skin with a fringe of contrasting silver hair (which has a LOT of darker hair in it by the way) right in front of you . . . . Needless to say, I would have loved to bury my face in his neck and breath in. Before you ask, I don't remember smelling anything. I'll leave that up to others who experienced his hug (those lucky dogs). Ah yes, his chest. He has a swimmers chest. He is much larger in person than he looks on television. And I don't mean fatter. He really doesn't look fat. A friend who did hug him (Hi Alexa) said that he was hard and muscled. She did not feel any flab. . . and she prolonged the hug as long as possible. (Did I mention lousy lucky dogs?)
Now lets talk about his manner. He is a definite Midwestern boy. For those who are not from the States, that just means that he is polite, sincere, and respectful toward others. He looked tired, and he should have been. He had done almost a two-hour, on-stage session that morning; he had done a morning photo session; and he was at the end of hours of autographing. He also had to do the auction that evening. I commented to Corin Nemec (that's another story :-) that everyone who meets Mr. Anderson wants a piece of him. How he manages to keep in a good mood is beyond me. But it was apparent to me that he was wilting around the edges. But he still looks damned fine.
Astra and I were sitting there with stunned grins as we struggled to stay toward the entryway. We were occasionally asked to move down, but since there was no one behind us, we lagged behind in order to keep him in our sights rather than looking at the backside of fawning fans. At one point, I thought my heart would stop as he looked my way. It was my wake up call that I had to get it together and rehearse what I was going to say.
The woman at the door said to tell him jokes or funny stuff. She said that that was when he was the most animated. Okay! That meant I had to throw out my fawning over his acting skills or any of the other million things I thought of to say. What if I talk too long and bore him?
Oh God! Dinky and Jolene are up. That means Astra and I are coming up. Much too soon and after waiting forever, it was Astra's turn to stand with The Man. Since there were usually two people up at the same time, I stood to her left. He was quite interested in her poster and they had a discussion of where he would sign. He clarified the position and the color of the marker before carefully signing his name. Did I mention that I was two feet away from RDA? OMG! After he signed her poster, Astra showed him the photos that she had taken of his and other Stargate action figure posing with other miniatures. The photos had comic-book captions and appeared to tell a story. He asked her where she got such small furniture and asked if she had taken the pictures and made the book herself. She responded that they sold such items and that, yes, she had made the book. He sounded impressed and smiled. I think he asked Becky to look at them also. It was pretty impressive. I must mention that she attempted to show me the same book later because she had no recollection that I was there. I wonder why. (grin) She left the table when she was done and then . . . it was my turn.
I took a breath and thrust my copy of Kate Ritter's book into Becky's hands. I nervously fluttered the pages until I found the one I wanted (even though I had already marked it ahead of time). She placed the book in front of him and he briefly looked up at me as he asked if I wanted it personalized. I said that I just wanted his signature. He flipped the page that I had so carefully chosen and he started looking at the other pics of Jack O'Neill. But then he moved back to my desired pic of Jack in dessert fatigues and chose a dark marker.
I wrote down the rest of the conversation after I walked out the door, but can't guarantee it is in the correct order nor in complete sentences. Hey! Wait until it's your turn for an autograph or picture and see how calm, cool, and collected you'll be.
Me: " I must tell you that I have a Singapura kitten. No matter what he is doing in the house, as soon as MacGyver comes on, he stops what he is doing and runs to the TV set to watch. Especially if the character is mixing chemicals. Then he starts to bat at his head." I demonstrated, but thankfully not at RDA's head.
Mr. Anderson: with a big, Mac smile "Thank you for telling me that. What's his name?"
Me: "Barney Rubble."
Mr. Anderson: "Aw!" Pause, then deeper voice that I swear was just for me. "That's nice."
Me: seeking to identify with RDA "I swear he thinks he's a dog."
Changing subject. "Are you enjoying yourself?"
Mr. Anderson: Incredulously - "Yeah!" Calmer - "Actually, I'm a little tired." (I could just see Jack in that one.)
Me: hopeful eyes "Do you think you'll come back?"
Mr. Anderson: Ernest T. Pratt voice - "You couldn't keep me away!"
Me: "Good, cause we really, really enjoy having you here."
Mr. Anderson: "Thank you. I enjoy being here."
Moment of silence and then I left.
I stumbled blindly toward the door, but the kind volunteer waiting there gently directed me back to the table where I had checked my purse and all my worldly possessions (slight exaggeration). I had wondered what that numbered ticket was that I had clasped in my hand; seriously, I had no recollection of taking it when I checked my purse. While standing at the table, I gathered my wits and carefully closed my book to avoid smudges. (I don't remember picking it back up.) I walked carefully and slowly toward the door to get out. I didn't want to leave. It all happened so fast that I don't even remember his face. I must have blacked out.
When I exited into the hallway, there was an animated woman there who stopped me. She said that my face was so radiant that she had to stop me to find out what I had experienced. It was so pleasing to find someone who wasn't jealous, but who seemed genuinely happy for me. But that was generally that attitude of most of the con-goers. As I related the experience, it seemed that she hung on my every word. I think that it helped calm me and cemented the experience. I asked her her name and she said she was Rosio from Florida. She became an important part of my Gatecon experience and I asked her to sign my volunteer shirt. I don't want to forget any of it.
I still can't get over that fact that The Man talked to me face to face. If only I could remember. If only . . . .
There, Ms. Traycer, is my narrative of the three minutes. (grin)
Unfortunately, this meeting was overlapping with my autograph session with Richard Dean Anderson. We were told that we could attend the session the following day if we missed it on Saturday. But I and two of the others were scheduled to work as volunteers during the next autograph sessions with Mr. Anderson. I entered the room with the trepidation of a greyhound dog visiting his veterinarian. Though my feet were firmly planted on the ground, I wanted to skip and hop like Muhammed Ali in the boxing ring. I asked myself, "Should I leave to wait in line with the other excited RDA fans? Or should I stay for this much more educational and fulfilling meeting with fellow authors and a published author?" I decided to stay until 1/2 hour into the 2-hour window of RDA's session.
After the first 20 minutes of the 1 1/2 hour writer's group was spent on only one of the ten writers, I started to get more anxious as I did the math. I was slated as the 9th writer to be reviewed. Let's see, 200 minutes divided by 60 means that I will completely miss the RDA session. So I gracefully blurted out that we needed to move on to the next writer. Don't get me wrong, I was just as anxious to find out what the group had to say about my writing. I kept calming myself down with reminders that they would allow me into the next session. As my body insistently requested egress from the room, my mind flashed freeway warning signs like, "You've stayed this long you might as well sit still until your story comes up for review." "You're just going to stand in line waiting, and then you'll kick yourself for not being in the writer's group."
After the last story was reviewed, we got up as a group and attempted to leave. But every guest and staff person in that hotel must have been loading and unloading the darned elevator. There was no staircase in this section of the hotel. I wanted to complain to the management, but I couldn't get off the danged floor to do so. After 20 agonizing minutes - that unbelievingly moved the minute hand five positions - we got on the elevator. We all went tearing through the crowded connector hallways from the South to the North tower. I have no recollection of the journey other than to say that there should be a passing lane or at least the availability of a semi horn when traversing that particular walkway.
Finally, we got to the line. There were about five people left in the queue and a couple who showed up after we got there. Rather than being too excited and anxious, I felt a sense of peace. I relaxed and moved more toward the back of the line as people more eager than I gravitated toward the front.
As my heart rate calmed, I noticed a large crack at the edge of the closed door. Magically, as I moved, I could just make out the large, tanned frame of a man hunched over a table. That's when my cheek muscles contracted into the widest grin known to man - or so I thought until I looked at the others in line. Non Gatecon people would have thought we were waiting in line for the stupid-assed-grin contest.
Wait! The door opened! We all peeked inside as four people were quickly ushered in. My heart raced as the gorgeous tanned man looked over at us at the same time that we looked at him. Oh my God! Look cool. He mustn't see how excited I am. Face, would you wipe that grin off? Just as quickly as the door opened, it closed off the view and we waited some more.
I was astounded when I noticed that the woman in front of me was also from the writer's workshop. That meant that there were five of us who had been reining in our desire to bolt from the room. To those of you who could never fathom delaying and risking the loss of RDA's autograph, this is an indicator of how much we liked Sabine's workshop.
Back to the story. The woman in front of me in line was Astra. I had read and re-read her stories, so she was familiar to me. She had an interesting poster that she had picked up at an overseas con. It was made of a stiff plastic and the characters were actually impressed into the material. She already had most of the autographs on it, but there was an obvious missing signature under the picture of Jack O'Neill. We talked about how she never thought she would get that elusive signature, but here she was - one of the chosen who had won the lottery. There were others in that hallway, but I have to recollection of who was there or what was said.
The door opened again and we left the noisy bustle of the hallway to enter the muffled quiet of the narrow suite. There were about eight or nine chairs facing a table. I was pleased to see that there were only two people behind me in line. In some insane way, I thought it would mean that my favorite actor would spend more time with us because we were at the end of the long line. Hey! You think of all the strategies you can when you are trying to maximize your limited time with The Man.
Where was I? Yes, we sat patiently and watched as people patiently took their turn at the table. We came into the room toward the right of the table (facing it), but the line moved across the front until we approached to the left of the table. Facing us at the table were two individuals. On our left was Becky Preen. It was obvious that she had a calm and friendly relationship with Mr. Anderson as he would occasionally look to her and exchange unspoken comments or shorthand looks.
Mr. Anderson deserves his own paragraph or two. First impression - Wow! He is more handsome in real life. I've never said this about anyone before, but . . . . he has a really sexy neck. Yes, I know. It sounds weird, but until you've seen his manly, tanned skin with a fringe of contrasting silver hair (which has a LOT of darker hair in it by the way) right in front of you . . . . Needless to say, I would have loved to bury my face in his neck and breath in. Before you ask, I don't remember smelling anything. I'll leave that up to others who experienced his hug (those lucky dogs). Ah yes, his chest. He has a swimmers chest. He is much larger in person than he looks on television. And I don't mean fatter. He really doesn't look fat. A friend who did hug him (Hi Alexa) said that he was hard and muscled. She did not feel any flab. . . and she prolonged the hug as long as possible. (Did I mention lousy lucky dogs?)
Now lets talk about his manner. He is a definite Midwestern boy. For those who are not from the States, that just means that he is polite, sincere, and respectful toward others. He looked tired, and he should have been. He had done almost a two-hour, on-stage session that morning; he had done a morning photo session; and he was at the end of hours of autographing. He also had to do the auction that evening. I commented to Corin Nemec (that's another story :-) that everyone who meets Mr. Anderson wants a piece of him. How he manages to keep in a good mood is beyond me. But it was apparent to me that he was wilting around the edges. But he still looks damned fine.
Astra and I were sitting there with stunned grins as we struggled to stay toward the entryway. We were occasionally asked to move down, but since there was no one behind us, we lagged behind in order to keep him in our sights rather than looking at the backside of fawning fans. At one point, I thought my heart would stop as he looked my way. It was my wake up call that I had to get it together and rehearse what I was going to say.
The woman at the door said to tell him jokes or funny stuff. She said that that was when he was the most animated. Okay! That meant I had to throw out my fawning over his acting skills or any of the other million things I thought of to say. What if I talk too long and bore him?
Oh God! Dinky and Jolene are up. That means Astra and I are coming up. Much too soon and after waiting forever, it was Astra's turn to stand with The Man. Since there were usually two people up at the same time, I stood to her left. He was quite interested in her poster and they had a discussion of where he would sign. He clarified the position and the color of the marker before carefully signing his name. Did I mention that I was two feet away from RDA? OMG! After he signed her poster, Astra showed him the photos that she had taken of his and other Stargate action figure posing with other miniatures. The photos had comic-book captions and appeared to tell a story. He asked her where she got such small furniture and asked if she had taken the pictures and made the book herself. She responded that they sold such items and that, yes, she had made the book. He sounded impressed and smiled. I think he asked Becky to look at them also. It was pretty impressive. I must mention that she attempted to show me the same book later because she had no recollection that I was there. I wonder why. (grin) She left the table when she was done and then . . . it was my turn.
I took a breath and thrust my copy of Kate Ritter's book into Becky's hands. I nervously fluttered the pages until I found the one I wanted (even though I had already marked it ahead of time). She placed the book in front of him and he briefly looked up at me as he asked if I wanted it personalized. I said that I just wanted his signature. He flipped the page that I had so carefully chosen and he started looking at the other pics of Jack O'Neill. But then he moved back to my desired pic of Jack in dessert fatigues and chose a dark marker.
I wrote down the rest of the conversation after I walked out the door, but can't guarantee it is in the correct order nor in complete sentences. Hey! Wait until it's your turn for an autograph or picture and see how calm, cool, and collected you'll be.
Me: " I must tell you that I have a Singapura kitten. No matter what he is doing in the house, as soon as MacGyver comes on, he stops what he is doing and runs to the TV set to watch. Especially if the character is mixing chemicals. Then he starts to bat at his head." I demonstrated, but thankfully not at RDA's head.
Mr. Anderson: with a big, Mac smile "Thank you for telling me that. What's his name?"
Me: "Barney Rubble."
Mr. Anderson: "Aw!" Pause, then deeper voice that I swear was just for me. "That's nice."
Me: seeking to identify with RDA "I swear he thinks he's a dog."
Changing subject. "Are you enjoying yourself?"
Mr. Anderson: Incredulously - "Yeah!" Calmer - "Actually, I'm a little tired." (I could just see Jack in that one.)
Me: hopeful eyes "Do you think you'll come back?"
Mr. Anderson: Ernest T. Pratt voice - "You couldn't keep me away!"
Me: "Good, cause we really, really enjoy having you here."
Mr. Anderson: "Thank you. I enjoy being here."
Moment of silence and then I left.
I stumbled blindly toward the door, but the kind volunteer waiting there gently directed me back to the table where I had checked my purse and all my worldly possessions (slight exaggeration). I had wondered what that numbered ticket was that I had clasped in my hand; seriously, I had no recollection of taking it when I checked my purse. While standing at the table, I gathered my wits and carefully closed my book to avoid smudges. (I don't remember picking it back up.) I walked carefully and slowly toward the door to get out. I didn't want to leave. It all happened so fast that I don't even remember his face. I must have blacked out.
When I exited into the hallway, there was an animated woman there who stopped me. She said that my face was so radiant that she had to stop me to find out what I had experienced. It was so pleasing to find someone who wasn't jealous, but who seemed genuinely happy for me. But that was generally that attitude of most of the con-goers. As I related the experience, it seemed that she hung on my every word. I think that it helped calm me and cemented the experience. I asked her her name and she said she was Rosio from Florida. She became an important part of my Gatecon experience and I asked her to sign my volunteer shirt. I don't want to forget any of it.
I still can't get over that fact that The Man talked to me face to face. If only I could remember. If only . . . .
There, Ms. Traycer, is my narrative of the three minutes. (grin)