Geoffrey Girard has abs of fuckin' steel.
Posted on 2007.06.18 at 14:26Current Mood:
tired
Hypericon weekend was kinda like the tune "Sun/Rise/Light/Flies" by Kasabian. I'll leave you to interpret the implications of that as you will.
More specifically: I sold some books, made some converts (both podcast and Murky Depths), and met up with a kaleidoscopic rogues gallery of freaks, geeks, and writers. Which I guess is sort of a redundant statement, but anyway. I sat on a couple of panels that were at least eight times as tolerable as I thought they were going to be, despite the hotel bar's karaoke machine being right on the other side of the fucking wall (the City of Angels theme? Seriously?). The only podcasting related one featured myself and Mark Kinney from the All Games Considered podcast (with an assist from moderator Brian Cooksey). So, yeah, not exactly a new media crowd. Five people showed up. Fortunately they were all into it and I ended up digging the whole hour. One chick actually took notes throughout, which was almost mindblowing to me.
The programming was not all peaches and cream, however. My reading was an abortion. For real. If we didn't live in a manic theocracy I'd donate it for stem cell research. I've chosen to blame the organization of it. I was scheduled at 7:00 p.m. when everybody who wasn't doing programming was at dinner. And the "reading room" was an actual hotel room, complete with kingsize bed. You walk in, take one peek at the set-up, and think to yourself, "They're either gonna make amateur porn or try'n sell some Amway up in this piece." So, really, the deck was stacked against me like a motherfuckin' Dagwood from the jump. Oh well. You gotta pay your dues.
I also had to listen to, among others, some chick who writes historical fantasy and doesn't believe in internet research talk mad smack about present tense narratives. Did you know they're a current and damaging trend? Seriously. They're unnecessary. They're DISTRACTING. THEY'RE A SCOURGE UPON FICTION!! THEY'RE THE LITERARY EQUIVALENT OF BOY BANDS!!!! THEY ARE ATTACKING THE CITY!! WE MUST FLEE!!
It was news to me. But after contemplating it for a while, here's what I suggest: Take "had" and "was," stick one up your urinary tract, ram the other in your rectal canal, eat a big meal, and then COMBUST INTERNALLY YOU PRETENTIOUS PRESUMPTUOUS CLOSE-MINDED JUDGMENTAL LAST CENTURY COCK LORDS.
So, yeah. I respectfully disagree.
But. Stragglers aside, this weekend delivered an absurdly decent time. I finally got to roll with![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
anne_stringer at a con, which was loveliness in leather. Much like Anne herself. Minus the leather part. I signed copies of Tattered Souls for the likes of Geoffrey Girard, Mari Adkins, Jenn Stark (who reads my blog, and whom I've promised to remember fondly in my writing), and BRAM STOKER-NOMINATED publisher/editor Jason Sizemore (no doubt trying to buy back his personal safety, which I still intend to make my plaything after the slights the stocky hillbilly bastard committed against me). Anne and I did revolving room parties, each one more like the final scene from Pretty in Pink than the last, with many of the aforementioned folks, as well as the Sinister Minister, The Playa King himself (that's like The Player King from Hamlet but with mad style), Maurice Broaddus. And, finally, the barely clad Rubenesque ladies of Big City Burlesque erected their own private wing in my spankatorium.
My personal Miss Congeniality ribbon goes to Geoffrey Girard. Although he does have what it takes to wear the crown proper. I mean, just look at the dude. Anti-drug PSA Rachel Leigh Cook's hair, abs of a young Johnny Weissmuller, mouth like Robert Downey. Both figuratively and literally. But seriously, the man has rapidly become one of my own personal heroes. His opinions and insights are sharp as razor blades, and the way he delivers them is not unlike a swarm of forty-four caliber bullets smashing through a pane of glass. I dig that about the guy. Love his work, had more fun than the back row of high school algebra sitting next to him on panels, and he's a double-fisted drinking madman after hours on top of all that. So what if his name looks like a badly alliterated comic book moniker. Really.
So I'm calling the whole thing a win. Oh, yeah. Anne got carded Saturday night and wasn't allowed to drink when she couldn't produce valid ID. This was classic.
Pix to follow.
More specifically: I sold some books, made some converts (both podcast and Murky Depths), and met up with a kaleidoscopic rogues gallery of freaks, geeks, and writers. Which I guess is sort of a redundant statement, but anyway. I sat on a couple of panels that were at least eight times as tolerable as I thought they were going to be, despite the hotel bar's karaoke machine being right on the other side of the fucking wall (the City of Angels theme? Seriously?). The only podcasting related one featured myself and Mark Kinney from the All Games Considered podcast (with an assist from moderator Brian Cooksey). So, yeah, not exactly a new media crowd. Five people showed up. Fortunately they were all into it and I ended up digging the whole hour. One chick actually took notes throughout, which was almost mindblowing to me.
The programming was not all peaches and cream, however. My reading was an abortion. For real. If we didn't live in a manic theocracy I'd donate it for stem cell research. I've chosen to blame the organization of it. I was scheduled at 7:00 p.m. when everybody who wasn't doing programming was at dinner. And the "reading room" was an actual hotel room, complete with kingsize bed. You walk in, take one peek at the set-up, and think to yourself, "They're either gonna make amateur porn or try'n sell some Amway up in this piece." So, really, the deck was stacked against me like a motherfuckin' Dagwood from the jump. Oh well. You gotta pay your dues.
I also had to listen to, among others, some chick who writes historical fantasy and doesn't believe in internet research talk mad smack about present tense narratives. Did you know they're a current and damaging trend? Seriously. They're unnecessary. They're DISTRACTING. THEY'RE A SCOURGE UPON FICTION!! THEY'RE THE LITERARY EQUIVALENT OF BOY BANDS!!!! THEY ARE ATTACKING THE CITY!! WE MUST FLEE!!
It was news to me. But after contemplating it for a while, here's what I suggest: Take "had" and "was," stick one up your urinary tract, ram the other in your rectal canal, eat a big meal, and then COMBUST INTERNALLY YOU PRETENTIOUS PRESUMPTUOUS CLOSE-MINDED JUDGMENTAL LAST CENTURY COCK LORDS.
So, yeah. I respectfully disagree.
But. Stragglers aside, this weekend delivered an absurdly decent time. I finally got to roll with
anne_stringer at a con, which was loveliness in leather. Much like Anne herself. Minus the leather part. I signed copies of Tattered Souls for the likes of Geoffrey Girard, Mari Adkins, Jenn Stark (who reads my blog, and whom I've promised to remember fondly in my writing), and BRAM STOKER-NOMINATED publisher/editor Jason Sizemore (no doubt trying to buy back his personal safety, which I still intend to make my plaything after the slights the stocky hillbilly bastard committed against me). Anne and I did revolving room parties, each one more like the final scene from Pretty in Pink than the last, with many of the aforementioned folks, as well as the Sinister Minister, The Playa King himself (that's like The Player King from Hamlet but with mad style), Maurice Broaddus. And, finally, the barely clad Rubenesque ladies of Big City Burlesque erected their own private wing in my spankatorium. My personal Miss Congeniality ribbon goes to Geoffrey Girard. Although he does have what it takes to wear the crown proper. I mean, just look at the dude. Anti-drug PSA Rachel Leigh Cook's hair, abs of a young Johnny Weissmuller, mouth like Robert Downey. Both figuratively and literally. But seriously, the man has rapidly become one of my own personal heroes. His opinions and insights are sharp as razor blades, and the way he delivers them is not unlike a swarm of forty-four caliber bullets smashing through a pane of glass. I dig that about the guy. Love his work, had more fun than the back row of high school algebra sitting next to him on panels, and he's a double-fisted drinking madman after hours on top of all that. So what if his name looks like a badly alliterated comic book moniker. Really.
So I'm calling the whole thing a win. Oh, yeah. Anne got carded Saturday night and wasn't allowed to drink when she couldn't produce valid ID. This was classic.
Pix to follow.