Worldcon special double issue: It’s all about the cats... and sex! (at last!)
(Versione italiana)
It’s all about the cats: Worldcon 1st part
It’s all about the... towels? - Worldcon 2nd part
It's all about the panels and towels - Worldcon part III
As you may see from the double cover, kindly provided by Anna, this issue of my Worldcon adventures isn’t just special, but even double.
Let’s go back then where we stopped the last episode.
Once I have overcome the shock for the unexpected ‘Don’t Panic’ towel, a tired and hungry Ian Watson urges me once again to hurry. So, we head to the SFWA room (and don’t ask me what it is, it’s all in the linked page), where Ian leaves us to reach his room, while we gorge ourselves on cakes and other titbits. In the meantime someone is
knitting, while the BBC shows news about Robin Cook’s death which is instantaneously linked by Roberto Quaglia to Wim Duisenberg’s death and to the London attacks, in one of his pseudo-conspirationist theories which leaves me quite dizzy. Luckily, besides the carrot-pie, there’s some savoury food as well, cheese I think, maybe just some nasty cheddar, but at that moment it’s ok.
Then we go away, and, in the lift we take on the way to our destination, I narrowly miss stamping on Greg Bear’s feet (no pix available). Such things happen only at Worldcons.
The next scrounging mission is accomplished in the ASFA room, where we are greeted by an exuberant Asiatic-American girl who wants to know everything about me and who shows us the book of the Hugo award winning masterpieces made by artists in the fantastic field.
At a given moment, I see it’s almost time for my rendezvous with Cadigan. I get rid of Quaglia, take evasive action and suddenly realize:
a) I don’t have a book by Cadigan for the autograph session, which makes me feel ashamed, as I have introduced myself as a “fan in disguise”. I just can’t act as a real journalist.
b) on the other hand, I risk to act as a perfect idiot, because the batteries of my digital recorder and of my video camera - which I’m supposed to use to take a photo of her - have both gone dead.
First I panic, then I look for a plug to recharge the video camera, but I realise - I had forgotten - that British plugs are not at all like Italian ones, nor like French ones. Cursed Europe of differences! I pass to plan B: I switch on my laptop, which is of course agonising as well since there’s no way to recharge its battery either, and I plug in the video camera as long as I can. As for the recorder, well, I have new batteries, so I just change them.
Next step: Dealers’ Room to find one of Pat’s books, possibly not Mindplayers, because it should already be at my parents’ house, buried somewhere among my university dissertation books. Useless to say, all the dealers had some of them. Before I needed one. All sold out.
Eventually, just in front of the autograph session, I manage to find Synners, used of course, for the modest sum of 3 pounds.
She’s just adorable. She makes me sit down near her, behind the table where she is signing autographs (imagine the fans’ envy!), answers to all the foolish questions I ask her with my shaky recorder, and in the end she lets me take a photo of her.
Now, she’s one of my contacts on Flickr and I’m one of hers.
What do sex and cats have to do with all that? Don’t be impatient, ever heard about suspense?
For the moment, let’s skip useless details and go to the Hugo. Oh, no, sorry, there’s just one ‘useless’ detail I can’t skip: in the meantime, I have also met Alain Le Bussy and some of the French-speaking people.
Well, I arrive at the Armadillo with Silvio, Elisabetta and three more Italians I had never met before. At the entrance a security guard urges me to leave my rucksack at the cloakroom, but I am allowed to keep my laptop. Thank goodness, because I need it to go on recharging the battery of my video camera.
The introductory speech is pronounced by Kim Newman and Paul McAuley (‘Paul: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen ... Kim: Bon soir, mesdames et messieurs ...’). Thanks to them, we become aware of being in a parallel dimension, where the Hugo award is so called in honour of Victor Hugo and France is ‘The only remaining super-power, her atomic empire stretches from Grand Quebec and the Duchy of Louisiana, and through the Emirates d'Afrique Nord to the chain of Ariane Orbital Satellites whose friendly Rayons de Mort enforce the Pax Francais upon a grateful globe.’. It’s definitely worth reading in its entirety, if you’re not too eager to know everything about sex… oups, I mean cats. And here’s the list of the awards.
I feel as if I was at the Oscar Night, certainly nothing to do with the Premio Italia!
Follows the winners’ group photo (mine are awful, this is one of them), then back to the hotel (the hostel, in my case) to get prepared to the parties.
And here comes the action.
***
When I get to the Hilton I’m hungry. I search for food at the various parties, just to be disappointed: there are actually some canapés, I get to find some cheese, but surely I’m not going to have dinner. I console myself by starting to fill the void in my stomach with vodka. That’s the reason why I might say that any resemblance between what I’m going to tell and real life individuals is purely chance.
Like an hallucination, Roberto Quaglia materializes right in front of me. He’s entertaining other hallucinations of Teutonic origins, to whom I am introduced. Among them, the German Perry Rhodan publisher, Klaus N. Frick. He reminds me someone familiar. It will take at least an hour, a few glasses of vodka and possibly of beer as well (I don’t remember if the beer came before or after the revelation, but any resemblance between what I’m telling and real life time is purely chance as well) before I understand that the person he resembles has nothing to do with science fiction - strictly speaking, I mean, although we all know that everything is science fiction. He’s the splitting image of Friends’ TV series Chandler. Dizzy with alcohol, I expect to see any moment Monica coming around. He confesses he has never seen Friends. Maybe because he just lives inside it.
While Robert Silverberg appears and disappears at not so regular intervals and China Miéville hangs around with a tall girl he just seems not being able to get rid of, who is actually his girlfriend, I suddenly realize there’s a competition going on for me between two young guys, whose names will remain secret to avoid unpleasant consequences. Just be sure that any resemblance between these guys and real life individuals is purely chance.
One is a friend of Klaus’, another German, tall with long black hair and blue eyes. The other is a Turkish-Canadian boy that Roberto has introduced to me in a perilous moment of lucidity, when he has suddenly recalled my passion for Turkey. Both too young and apparently too frail for my taste. But it’s no time for being fastidious. They are male, cute and sexually active. What more can I wish for?
The Turkish guy marks me closely, the German at the beginning pretends not to care and tries other female options. But as soon as the Turk walks away a moment, the German pulls me to one of the parties and asks me: ‘Is that your Italian boyfriend?’ Boyfriend? ITALIAN? Bof. I answer he’s neither, I’ve just met him. He’s visibly annoyed. Here starts a match with no holds barred, which I partly miss because I leave for a moment to talk and have some fun with Anna. When I come back, I find a surrealistic situation. The German is speaking Turkish, and the Turk, amused, replies in English: ‘Your Turkish is worse than my German’. I don't know if it's the fault of the vodka, of the beer, or of the late hour, anyway I’m beginning to feel a bit confused.
Too bad they can’t make friends, I would willingly satisfy them both, being a human sandwich has always been my secret dream. To avoid Turkish-German-Canadian diplomatic incidents, I realize I must choose. The decision I take is based on an abominable calculation: the German leaves in the morning, the Turk stays till the following evening. If all goes well, I kill two birds with one stone.
Moreover, the Turk makes the mistake of walking away once again. Weak bladder. The German takes advantage of the situation: ‘What about looking for a pub?’ We also invite Chand… I mean, Klaus to come with us. And here there's something I must say: of them all, he’s the one whose company I appreciate the most, even though he doesn’t show any interest in me and I have none in him. Maybe just because of that. However, Klaus turns down the invitation. He has already had his dose of amusement watching the two cocks pecking each other over the hen, it’s time for sleep.
I run away from the Turk with the German. But I haven’t thought of taking care of my bladder, so romanticism turns into a chase to the first pub or bar with a toilet available. Too late: apparently, at 2 AM everybody’s in bed in Glasgow. Worse than Lyon.
The boy, who hasn’t even touched me yet, and looks frustrated by not being able of finding a place suitable to the situation, eventually decides to invite me for a tea in his hotel. I accept enthusiastically, my bladder is thankful.
Actually, he prepares the tea. But it’s destined to get cold.
***
I have skipped the rest because I know you are mostly interested in the cats part, and I don’t want to keep you waiting too long. Moreover, with no pictures it’s not the same.
I don’t remember if I’m back at the hostel at 6 or 7, however it’s daytime. At 8 o’clock I’m up and running, eager to use my new towel.
At the Exhibition Centre I take my breakfast with Watson and a Hungarian guy who already was with us the day before, whose name I don’t even try to remember (I mean, you know, Hungarian names…).
Then, I start a new panel tour.
Here my memory doesn’t help. I only know there’s a moment when I meet Anna, but I can’t remember if at the politics panel or before. I think before, probably at the Fan Lounge, where at a given moment I find her intent on posting on Live Journal. Oh yeah, the only day I haven’t brought my laptop because the battery has been completely sucked up by the video camera, she discovers that the Fan Lounge is the only place in the Exhibition Centre where the wi-fi connexion is FREE. I'll hate her forever.
However, for the politics panel, all I know is that I feel as if I was dreaming: they speak and I understand strictly nothing. Until Anna says out loud what I have been thinking all the time: ‘I must go to sleep’. And she boldly leaves, while I stay a bit longer, victim of my own pride. But reason ends up by overcoming it: it’s totally useless, I can’t follow what they’re saying. I go away too. This is an eloquent picture of me, taken by Anna, I don’t know exactly when.
Let’s come now to the cats, at last. At noon, the program has:
- Easy Japanese for Fans: What’s the Japanese Phrase for “Could you sign my Hugo?” or “Where’s the nearest public toilet?” or “My Hovercraft is Full of Eels”. All things which might actually turn out to be useful at Nippon 2007.
- Crafting Sex Scenes: There’s the long silken hair, the heaving chests, the upright member: how do you write a believable sex scene? What about when the sex isn’t consensual? There’s a fine line between prurience and realism. Uhm. I have already had my dose of sex, let’s see if there’s something else.
- The Strugatsky Brothers & Their Role in SF. This looks interesting, but…
- it’s not even comparable to: What the F*** is it About Cats? We all know about the weird connection between SF writers and cats. Why? And what are the best and worst examples?
Let’s be clear: I’m not greatly interested in cats, but, since it has been the big leitmotiv of this convention, I can’t miss the chance.
Well, either they all have thought the same thing as I, or it’s no urban legend that fantastic literature fans are big cat lovers: the room where the meeting is held is certainly small, but it doesn’t make it the less impressive to see it full to the point that I’m obliged to sit on the floor, like others. And like Anna, when she arrives without having planned to meet there.
The panel, with the participation of Alma Alexander, John Meaney e Irene Radford, speaks of cats, as you have already understood (I hope). Everyone sings the praises of their feline's brave deeds, but all in all I don't see what all this has to do with science fiction. If I remember right, someone tries a parallel between the independence of the animal and the typical character of the writer, but I don’t have the impression that the question has been deeply analyzed. However, I must admit we have seen some beautiful pictures.
Ten minutes before the end, Anna and I get curious about the sex panel: will it be as crowded as the cats one? We run downstairs and have a look at the room. Mumble… Well, actually the room is bigger, but it’s filled only by half. It would seem sex lovers are about as many as cats lovers. Something to think about. We wonder then if sex lovers would accept to curl up on the floor as the cats lover did.
The convention, for me, ends more or less here: one more Scottish lunch with Anna and one of her many American friends at the Exhibition Centre restaurant, and I go back to the hostel to get some sleep. And to get ready for the last evening, the Dead Dog Party, where people are supposed to finish the Real Ale. Here we meet Terry Pratchett
, and Anna and others approach him for a chat. And here I find the Turk again. With a lopsided smile, he asks me if the previous day we had found a pub. I just say: ‘I don’t remember, I was too drunk’. I don’t think he has believed me, but he must have understood the meaning: no use asking more questions.
He doesn’t cling to me all the time, as the night before, but he’s equally nice, he doesn’t look offended by what happened. I almost hope I will be able to repeat the performance. But I will never know if he would have accepted, we are too tired and decide to leave early. A kiss on the cheek and see you… at the next Worldcon?
Oh, I forgot to say one thing: the German was not frail at all.
It’s all about the cats: Worldcon 1st part
It’s all about the... towels? - Worldcon 2nd part
It's all about the panels and towels - Worldcon part III
As you may see from the double cover, kindly provided by Anna, this issue of my Worldcon adventures isn’t just special, but even double.
Let’s go back then where we stopped the last episode.
Once I have overcome the shock for the unexpected ‘Don’t Panic’ towel, a tired and hungry Ian Watson urges me once again to hurry. So, we head to the SFWA room (and don’t ask me what it is, it’s all in the linked page), where Ian leaves us to reach his room, while we gorge ourselves on cakes and other titbits. In the meantime someone is
knitting, while the BBC shows news about Robin Cook’s death which is instantaneously linked by Roberto Quaglia to Wim Duisenberg’s death and to the London attacks, in one of his pseudo-conspirationist theories which leaves me quite dizzy. Luckily, besides the carrot-pie, there’s some savoury food as well, cheese I think, maybe just some nasty cheddar, but at that moment it’s ok.
Then we go away, and, in the lift we take on the way to our destination, I narrowly miss stamping on Greg Bear’s feet (no pix available). Such things happen only at Worldcons.
The next scrounging mission is accomplished in the ASFA room, where we are greeted by an exuberant Asiatic-American girl who wants to know everything about me and who shows us the book of the Hugo award winning masterpieces made by artists in the fantastic field.
At a given moment, I see it’s almost time for my rendezvous with Cadigan. I get rid of Quaglia, take evasive action and suddenly realize:
a) I don’t have a book by Cadigan for the autograph session, which makes me feel ashamed, as I have introduced myself as a “fan in disguise”. I just can’t act as a real journalist.
b) on the other hand, I risk to act as a perfect idiot, because the batteries of my digital recorder and of my video camera - which I’m supposed to use to take a photo of her - have both gone dead.
First I panic, then I look for a plug to recharge the video camera, but I realise - I had forgotten - that British plugs are not at all like Italian ones, nor like French ones. Cursed Europe of differences! I pass to plan B: I switch on my laptop, which is of course agonising as well since there’s no way to recharge its battery either, and I plug in the video camera as long as I can. As for the recorder, well, I have new batteries, so I just change them.
Next step: Dealers’ Room to find one of Pat’s books, possibly not Mindplayers, because it should already be at my parents’ house, buried somewhere among my university dissertation books. Useless to say, all the dealers had some of them. Before I needed one. All sold out.
Eventually, just in front of the autograph session, I manage to find Synners, used of course, for the modest sum of 3 pounds.
She’s just adorable. She makes me sit down near her, behind the table where she is signing autographs (imagine the fans’ envy!), answers to all the foolish questions I ask her with my shaky recorder, and in the end she lets me take a photo of her.
Now, she’s one of my contacts on Flickr and I’m one of hers.
What do sex and cats have to do with all that? Don’t be impatient, ever heard about suspense?
For the moment, let’s skip useless details and go to the Hugo. Oh, no, sorry, there’s just one ‘useless’ detail I can’t skip: in the meantime, I have also met Alain Le Bussy and some of the French-speaking people.
Well, I arrive at the Armadillo with Silvio, Elisabetta and three more Italians I had never met before. At the entrance a security guard urges me to leave my rucksack at the cloakroom, but I am allowed to keep my laptop. Thank goodness, because I need it to go on recharging the battery of my video camera.
The introductory speech is pronounced by Kim Newman and Paul McAuley (‘Paul: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen ... Kim: Bon soir, mesdames et messieurs ...’). Thanks to them, we become aware of being in a parallel dimension, where the Hugo award is so called in honour of Victor Hugo and France is ‘The only remaining super-power, her atomic empire stretches from Grand Quebec and the Duchy of Louisiana, and through the Emirates d'Afrique Nord to the chain of Ariane Orbital Satellites whose friendly Rayons de Mort enforce the Pax Francais upon a grateful globe.’. It’s definitely worth reading in its entirety, if you’re not too eager to know everything about sex… oups, I mean cats. And here’s the list of the awards.
I feel as if I was at the Oscar Night, certainly nothing to do with the Premio Italia!
Follows the winners’ group photo (mine are awful, this is one of them), then back to the hotel (the hostel, in my case) to get prepared to the parties.
And here comes the action.
***
When I get to the Hilton I’m hungry. I search for food at the various parties, just to be disappointed: there are actually some canapés, I get to find some cheese, but surely I’m not going to have dinner. I console myself by starting to fill the void in my stomach with vodka. That’s the reason why I might say that any resemblance between what I’m going to tell and real life individuals is purely chance.
Like an hallucination, Roberto Quaglia materializes right in front of me. He’s entertaining other hallucinations of Teutonic origins, to whom I am introduced. Among them, the German Perry Rhodan publisher, Klaus N. Frick. He reminds me someone familiar. It will take at least an hour, a few glasses of vodka and possibly of beer as well (I don’t remember if the beer came before or after the revelation, but any resemblance between what I’m telling and real life time is purely chance as well) before I understand that the person he resembles has nothing to do with science fiction - strictly speaking, I mean, although we all know that everything is science fiction. He’s the splitting image of Friends’ TV series Chandler. Dizzy with alcohol, I expect to see any moment Monica coming around. He confesses he has never seen Friends. Maybe because he just lives inside it.
While Robert Silverberg appears and disappears at not so regular intervals and China Miéville hangs around with a tall girl he just seems not being able to get rid of, who is actually his girlfriend, I suddenly realize there’s a competition going on for me between two young guys, whose names will remain secret to avoid unpleasant consequences. Just be sure that any resemblance between these guys and real life individuals is purely chance.
One is a friend of Klaus’, another German, tall with long black hair and blue eyes. The other is a Turkish-Canadian boy that Roberto has introduced to me in a perilous moment of lucidity, when he has suddenly recalled my passion for Turkey. Both too young and apparently too frail for my taste. But it’s no time for being fastidious. They are male, cute and sexually active. What more can I wish for?
The Turkish guy marks me closely, the German at the beginning pretends not to care and tries other female options. But as soon as the Turk walks away a moment, the German pulls me to one of the parties and asks me: ‘Is that your Italian boyfriend?’ Boyfriend? ITALIAN? Bof. I answer he’s neither, I’ve just met him. He’s visibly annoyed. Here starts a match with no holds barred, which I partly miss because I leave for a moment to talk and have some fun with Anna. When I come back, I find a surrealistic situation. The German is speaking Turkish, and the Turk, amused, replies in English: ‘Your Turkish is worse than my German’. I don't know if it's the fault of the vodka, of the beer, or of the late hour, anyway I’m beginning to feel a bit confused.
Too bad they can’t make friends, I would willingly satisfy them both, being a human sandwich has always been my secret dream. To avoid Turkish-German-Canadian diplomatic incidents, I realize I must choose. The decision I take is based on an abominable calculation: the German leaves in the morning, the Turk stays till the following evening. If all goes well, I kill two birds with one stone.
Moreover, the Turk makes the mistake of walking away once again. Weak bladder. The German takes advantage of the situation: ‘What about looking for a pub?’ We also invite Chand… I mean, Klaus to come with us. And here there's something I must say: of them all, he’s the one whose company I appreciate the most, even though he doesn’t show any interest in me and I have none in him. Maybe just because of that. However, Klaus turns down the invitation. He has already had his dose of amusement watching the two cocks pecking each other over the hen, it’s time for sleep.
I run away from the Turk with the German. But I haven’t thought of taking care of my bladder, so romanticism turns into a chase to the first pub or bar with a toilet available. Too late: apparently, at 2 AM everybody’s in bed in Glasgow. Worse than Lyon.
The boy, who hasn’t even touched me yet, and looks frustrated by not being able of finding a place suitable to the situation, eventually decides to invite me for a tea in his hotel. I accept enthusiastically, my bladder is thankful.
Actually, he prepares the tea. But it’s destined to get cold.
***
I have skipped the rest because I know you are mostly interested in the cats part, and I don’t want to keep you waiting too long. Moreover, with no pictures it’s not the same.
I don’t remember if I’m back at the hostel at 6 or 7, however it’s daytime. At 8 o’clock I’m up and running, eager to use my new towel.
At the Exhibition Centre I take my breakfast with Watson and a Hungarian guy who already was with us the day before, whose name I don’t even try to remember (I mean, you know, Hungarian names…).
Then, I start a new panel tour.
Here my memory doesn’t help. I only know there’s a moment when I meet Anna, but I can’t remember if at the politics panel or before. I think before, probably at the Fan Lounge, where at a given moment I find her intent on posting on Live Journal. Oh yeah, the only day I haven’t brought my laptop because the battery has been completely sucked up by the video camera, she discovers that the Fan Lounge is the only place in the Exhibition Centre where the wi-fi connexion is FREE. I'll hate her forever.
However, for the politics panel, all I know is that I feel as if I was dreaming: they speak and I understand strictly nothing. Until Anna says out loud what I have been thinking all the time: ‘I must go to sleep’. And she boldly leaves, while I stay a bit longer, victim of my own pride. But reason ends up by overcoming it: it’s totally useless, I can’t follow what they’re saying. I go away too. This is an eloquent picture of me, taken by Anna, I don’t know exactly when.
Let’s come now to the cats, at last. At noon, the program has:
- Easy Japanese for Fans: What’s the Japanese Phrase for “Could you sign my Hugo?” or “Where’s the nearest public toilet?” or “My Hovercraft is Full of Eels”. All things which might actually turn out to be useful at Nippon 2007.
- Crafting Sex Scenes: There’s the long silken hair, the heaving chests, the upright member: how do you write a believable sex scene? What about when the sex isn’t consensual? There’s a fine line between prurience and realism. Uhm. I have already had my dose of sex, let’s see if there’s something else.
- The Strugatsky Brothers & Their Role in SF. This looks interesting, but…
- it’s not even comparable to: What the F*** is it About Cats? We all know about the weird connection between SF writers and cats. Why? And what are the best and worst examples?
Let’s be clear: I’m not greatly interested in cats, but, since it has been the big leitmotiv of this convention, I can’t miss the chance.
Well, either they all have thought the same thing as I, or it’s no urban legend that fantastic literature fans are big cat lovers: the room where the meeting is held is certainly small, but it doesn’t make it the less impressive to see it full to the point that I’m obliged to sit on the floor, like others. And like Anna, when she arrives without having planned to meet there.
The panel, with the participation of Alma Alexander, John Meaney e Irene Radford, speaks of cats, as you have already understood (I hope). Everyone sings the praises of their feline's brave deeds, but all in all I don't see what all this has to do with science fiction. If I remember right, someone tries a parallel between the independence of the animal and the typical character of the writer, but I don’t have the impression that the question has been deeply analyzed. However, I must admit we have seen some beautiful pictures.
Ten minutes before the end, Anna and I get curious about the sex panel: will it be as crowded as the cats one? We run downstairs and have a look at the room. Mumble… Well, actually the room is bigger, but it’s filled only by half. It would seem sex lovers are about as many as cats lovers. Something to think about. We wonder then if sex lovers would accept to curl up on the floor as the cats lover did.
The convention, for me, ends more or less here: one more Scottish lunch with Anna and one of her many American friends at the Exhibition Centre restaurant, and I go back to the hostel to get some sleep. And to get ready for the last evening, the Dead Dog Party, where people are supposed to finish the Real Ale. Here we meet Terry Pratchett
, and Anna and others approach him for a chat. And here I find the Turk again. With a lopsided smile, he asks me if the previous day we had found a pub. I just say: ‘I don’t remember, I was too drunk’. I don’t think he has believed me, but he must have understood the meaning: no use asking more questions.
He doesn’t cling to me all the time, as the night before, but he’s equally nice, he doesn’t look offended by what happened. I almost hope I will be able to repeat the performance. But I will never know if he would have accepted, we are too tired and decide to leave early. A kiss on the cheek and see you… at the next Worldcon?
Oh, I forgot to say one thing: the German was not frail at all.