A decidedly slow awakening but for good reason: Marcel had desired to make omelets for all for breakfast, and while they are delicious, they take time. No matter for me, as oddly enough there was only a single panel that interested me. Our friend Amanda had wanted to bring taco truck lunch for all of us at the con; I knew the idea was likely not going to succeed (due to the difficulty of getting six people to all not be in panels at the same time before 5 PM), but she seemed to want to do it badly, so I just let her give it a shot. Well, they made good midnight snacks later.
The Rasputin outfit is more comfortable than the Boer costume, but requires more prep because I have to wear a wig and mousse my beard back to the brown it once was (a messy process). Jane, seamstress of my Rasputin outfit, was elated to see me in it for the first time. I’ll probably be on her business’s Facebook site, doing the freaky eyes for the camera.
Most of my day was spent socializing, except for one abortive panel at which an author (I’ll give the name privately if someone gives me a good reason to want to know) proved to be a full-dress horse’s ass. The subject involved gender and writing. Three of the panelists (two women, one man) were on time and at their assigned posts, and the discussion began down some productive lines of exploration. Perhaps fifteen minutes in, the fourth (male) panelist arrived with apologies. He then conceded to construct Fort Conceit on the table in front of him: a small fanned-out wall of perhaps a dozen of his titles in paperback. It is customary for panelists to display a book or two, especially if it’s new, but to display your complete works is absurd. It looks like you are saying:
“I have more stuff in print than these other clowns.”
“I fear that you haven’t heard of me at all, so I’d better prove I belong.”
“I have an ego the size of Idaho and it spills over into British Columbia.”
I already didn’t like him when he committed a sin of panelism: he failed to shut up and listen to the discussion for a while. Another: he used his outside voice. Thus, when he began to debate with his fellow panelists, he sounded like a double fool. As he shattered the urbane, thoughtful ambience with what may have been thoughtful views if taken at face value, he had no way to know he was retreading ground already covered in the discussion. I put up with it for about five minutes and left, and I am quite loath to leave a panel between the first five and last five minutes. My bro John was forty seconds behind me, having reached similar conclusions.
All in all a fairly normal Radcon Saturday otherwise, except that the wind put a damper on the fire dancing troupe. They performed anyway, of course, and did their very level best, but gusts were too high for some of their best stunts. One weakness this year: their music was lame. Not loud enough, not fierce enough. Their crowd fluffers had a hard time keeping the audience excited, which is normally not a problem with the fire dancers.
Later on, Jenn and Marcel pretended to be interested in the dance/rave, and I pretended that there was a a chance they’d want to stay for it, mainly because it was their first con experience and I wanted them to at least explore everything to their hearts’ content. Mission accomplished. My feet felt like I’d had an ‘enhanced interrogation’ by then, so anything that let me take a seat and relax was a winner for me. We weren’t even motivated to bother seeking out room parties Saturday; by trying to create a secure area where all parties must be, with Security providing the ID checks, they have in essence destroyed room partying. Either that or I just don’t get invited to the real ones.
As with the usual Radcon Saturday, by then I just didn’t give a damn, I was so tired and footsore.