One can learn a great deal from science fiction conventions. Plotting, characterization, common pitfalls
and basic craft – a well-run con can always teach you something. The trick, as Spock tells you in The Wrath of
Khan, is to remember.
I did not. My first
mistake stemmed from lingering too long after a reading, gabbing away as they
moved the chairs in the room from stadium style to circle. The alarms went off in my head. Run when they circle chairs. Run. I
did not do this, either. Two minutes later
I found myself in the far corner of an improv lesson. Yes. A
comedy improvisation workshop designed to God knows what at a sci fi con.
The session made me laugh.
Everyone in the room had a quick wit and, by nature of the convention
itself, a general understanding of the audience. I sat, trembling at the thought of doing
something and having it flop, or doing nothing and being one of those guys who
doesn’t participate, who thinks himself above all this. As a ‘starship captain’ and ‘Klingon’ searched
the ‘mall’ for a ‘rouge gerbil’ I realize this is my moment. I scampered across the floor, chirping “Oh no
not again,” until stunned by a ‘phaser.’
For whatever reason, everyone laughed, the workshop soon ended
and I got on to the business of science fiction business. Midway through the next day, I decide to go
for a swim. The hotel pool is gorgeous
and I had a lot of toxins to work out of my system. Because the pool is nine floors down and
through the lobby, I wear my street clothes and change in the changing
room. I do laps for 20 minutes, get out
and . . . drip. No towels. No lifeguard, no humans, no towels.
I can’t dash through the lobby and up the elevator sopping
wet. Nor can I put my clothes back
on. I take the only other options I see
available. I get naked, smack the big
silver button on the hand-dryer, crouch down and slowly rotate like gyro meat
on a spit. I turn and turn squeegeeing
myself for what feels like 30 minutes.
Then another guy walks in.
I stand up. He looks at me. Confused.
Then he tilts his head a bit and asks, “Aren’t you that gerbil?”
The sad thing is that anyone attending a science fiction
convention must have read Douglas Adams’ Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. And anyone who as read that book – even just the
first few pages – knows that, and I paraphrase: A towel, the Guide says, is
about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have.
Never forget what you learn at your next con. Never forget your towel. Oh, and don't panic.
Lol!
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