Con Virgin Tests the Waters

by Danielle L. Parker

In general writers don’t like to appear in public forums in their flesh. Politicians and lawyers are the usual suspects making big bucks from exhibitionism.

But for those who live in their heads, the ultimate geeks as we are, getting us to go somewhere in person is like digging the pearl out of the oyster. We make slippery sucking sounds and hide and the pimple we yield isn’t worth the struggle.

Friends tried to get me pounding the trail at the local book stores with my new book The Infinite Instant. One well-intentioned monster tried to hound me into an appearance on Coast to Coast AM. I had a panic attack at the thought of following Green Unicorns Spotted in Indianapolis or Cop Mates with Alien Female and Fathers Two-Headed Twins. (Look, I’m only a simple storyteller. We lie by virtue of the profession, but I recognize real art when I see it. I’m not worthy to kiss those boots).

So I’d never been to a science fiction convention. Never. No doubt my expectations of meeting rampaging Klingons or drunken Captain Kirks soliciting more bodacious aliens in the lobby didn’t encourage me. But a friend put on a stranglehold and delivered me to Radcon.

Radcon, for those who don’t know, is a small event held in Pasco, in the southeastern corner of Washington State, downwind from the real science fiction of the Hanford Nuclear site (hence “radiation convention”). Is there a more appropriate location?

So, did I meet Klingons? Just two of them. One was shorter than I was, and I’m 5’4”. The other looked like the real thing, and probably rides a Harley home. But he was a gentle sweetie who let me take a photo standing beside him. I’m assuming the Klingon phase he coached me to say was not a naughty one. He just didn’t seem the type.

Fans were more interested in playing in the past. Men in Utilikilts (men: this is a fashion females can love. We get to see your legs!) roamed the halls as security guards. A retro Wonder Woman standing in huge platform heels, all two hundred plus pounds squeezed into corsets and red, white, and blue shorts, was an awesome sight. She scared me.

Cavaliers in feathered hats cut a stylish dash. Steam punk and Goth ruled (note to Goth guys: get some muscles). Left over Renaissance Faire costumes did double duty. Samurais and fantasy warriors swashbuckled.

And a woman named Jen had a most fantastic, incredible, jaw-dropping costume, of hand-wrought chain-mail, hand-tooled leather, and fur. She ought to stand in a museum. I can’t imagine the hours of craft that went into making that tour de force.

Of course the costumes are the free eye-candy. The core of any con is gaming. A few town-hall sized rooms were set aside for the purpose. That’s where I saw the pasty-faced pimple-cheeked crowd hang. I think they ate and slept, but I wouldn’t swear to it, and I bet they didn’t take baths. That atmosphere had a lot in common with hard-core casinos.

Same atmosphere of intensity and oblivion to even the latest quake shaking the bowels of nearby Glows In The Dark Hanford. Women (girls might be the more appropriate term) sprinkled the mix but I don’t think the geeks noticed. (Did I mention pasty-faced? Lots of gender imbalance, but I think I already advised my fellow gal pals to look for a Utilikilt with interesting knees instead).

All of the above probably fits the stereotype of science fiction conventions most have. But there were family events busting out all over the place. A big show with live raptors, including the golden eagle that calmly messed on the carpet to the laughter of the crowd. Art work shows and a busy bazaar.

Author book signings (I sold two books to addicts who bought one of everything. Not even the racy cover of The Infinite Instant went over in this economic climate).

Continuous panels devoted to myriad topics: writing, art, modeling, science, you name it. There was even one on the proper proportions of beef to pork in meat loaf. Famous authors attended that one. Meat loaf as art.

Most of all, people enjoyed something outside the daily grind in a nice way. You could have brought your little tykes to this convention (well, if they had given Wonder Woman a cape). I liked it just that way.

I saw no drunks. though there may have been some in private rooms. People who made friends over year after year of shared conventions got the chance to bond anew in the hotel coffee shop. And that seemed to be the biggest draw of all.

I, for my part, met Mr. Jerry Wright of our own Bewildering Stories in the flesh for the first time. That was a pleasure. I was really searching for Gandalf, so I didn’t spot him, but he spotted me right away. (Maybe he is Gandalf, or golly, maybe I do look like those awful pictures. Oh dear).

Jerry helped pitch my lonely first novel to moths who wandered too close to our table. We have a souvenir picture in issue 330 (I blame the red faces on the camera, or maybe Wonder Woman).

We met a hoary ancient of science fiction’s golden years, Mr. John Dalmas (who sold a lot more books than I did). Patricia Briggs did an even brisker business as the hometown favorite. And I spoke on a panel where another panelist and I talked at the same time far more than chance should have allowed.

So guess what? It was fun. I forgave my bullying friend. I can’t speak for all conventions, of course. But next time Radcon comes up, go. And take the kids. They’ll love the eagle.