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I was rugged up against the cold, walking down the street towards the convention hotel. A guy walked up towards me, unshod and slightly unclean, hair stringy down his back. I smiled at him from habit, my eyes sliding away, shoulders hunched inwards.

"Good morning!" he said just as I passed.

"Good morning," I replied, twisting backwards, feet still moving forwards.

"You have a lovely smile," he continued.

"Thank you."

"You've the loveliest smile I've seen today. People have said good morning, but you've the loveliest smile."

"Thank you very much," said I, walking backwards now, ever closer to the hotel but not game enough to present him with my back.

"Have a good day!" he called as I carried myself further away.

"You too!"

And then he was gone.

I faced forwards once more, firmly on track, and another man slowed just as I was to turn the last corner.

"Hello," he said, and waited for my attention.

"Hi." I looked slightly off to the side of this man's head.

"Are you Indian?" he continued, looking somewhat eager.

"No, South American."

"Oh. Sorry," and with that, continued on his way.

( Finally I get to the convention... )

Holy Respectability, Batman!

Comics making the adaptation to film, beginning with DC -- the first Superman was deemed acceptable, and then went downhill from there. Superman, the man, after some discussion, is now hailed as very creepy due to his entrance into his son's bedroom without his parent's knowledge, to watch over him.

Batman, the first Burton, was deemed acceptable; the second less so, and then the others horrible, except for when we came to the reboot -- all right, on the road again, with both Jokers (Nicholson and Ledger) considered excellent evil guys.

Swamp Thing and The Return of Swamp Thing were considered bad, and "Heather Locklear looks way too happy in the poster" of the latter, said one of the panellists, who was grinning away in the arms of the Thing.

Shaquille O'Neal was in Steel, a superhero who makes his costume out of steel from a junkyard; is as far a description as we got, other than it was horribly bad. Catwoman had howls of derision, deservedly so.

Onwards to Marvel, and Captain America -- the costume! So bad! The first movie had a blue motorcycle helmet with "A" painted on it; the second movie, not a sequel, had very limited release and then was shelved.

Fantastic Four was done many years ago, only to hold onto movie rights; it screened for a week in Italy and was very bad, the heroes grinning cheesily in the poster. Not redeemed by the ones made recently, either.

Mention was made of Alan Moore's comics being made into movies, and how he must be spitting mad. All bad, including the latest, went the opinion. Sin City was all right, but now is responsible for the scene-by-scene retellings being done, which don't work except for vignette movies.

( Lots of panels, with possible spoilers for latest seasons of Heroes and Battlestar Galactica. )

Yesterday was a write-off; few panels sounded interesting, and so there were few I went to, and those two were:

Women Characters in Comics

I arrived late for this. As I rocked up they were showing an alternate version of Supergirl and her massive knockers, and pointing out the typically drawn female dimensions are out of whack, with huge boobs, teeny waist, muscular thighs, and skimpy clothing. As if a real female warrior would look like this, and then pointed to Gabrielle of Xena as a real athletic woman, with six-pack and muscly arms. No huge boobs and tiny waist there, and so she was deemed "fat".

(Although here I feel obliged to point out that Gabrielle lost most of her clothing as the seasons went on, and the buffer she got the tinier the top and the skirt.)

( Read more... )

After my jaunt to Fremantle, I returned to the backpackers to get suited up for airconditioning -- although not enough, for I was still cold -- and settled in for a day of conventioneering.

Top 10 SF & F TV show - Vote!
This was a completely chaotic panel! There was so much hubbub from the audience that shows called out could hardly be heard, and some of the things were amusing beyond belief. Darkwing Duck? Aeon Flux? Roger Ramjet? No, really. There were lots of animated series named, so many that I think next year there ought to be a separate animated SF series panel, so they can be done justice, for they were always going to be outvoted by the likes of Dr Who.

There were more, and although there were over 80 shows listed, few of them were serious contenders. In fact, the series listed at first -- Dr Who, Buffy, Angel, Firefly, were the ones with the most votes. Enterprise got only three votes, and when Hercules and Andromeda were wiped off the board someone called out "Kevin Sorbo exits the building!", and deservedly so. Andromeda was such a waste. It seemed to have some promise, and then when Sorbo got his production hands all over it that was the end, my friend.

Some series probably would have gotten more votes, except for that people hadn't seen them yet. True Blood, Primeval, Being Human, were all listed; I hear they're all right but hardly any hands went up. Despite this day and age of broadband and downloads, there are still the few without the werewithal.

( Long description and discussion of Friday panels )

I'd hardly arrived at the sign-in desk yesterday when I was collared by a male fan, who I didn't recognise at first. Who was this fellow? It clicked after he began on a familiar spiel. Being a bit lost, I sat down at the bar with him for a beer, and then it was too late: I was locked in until I could find an excuse to leave.

It became one of those horrible scenes where the guy starts in on how beautiful you are, while looking at your boobs. I found a reason to leave -- a good one, I wanted to find my co-panellist -- and got out, finding others to hide behind.

Just now as I was leaving the convention hotel he stood at the door, smoking with another fan.

( Read more... )

My stomach churned with nervousness as the train neared Roma Street, the train station nearest to the convention hotel for Conjure, this year's National Science Fiction convention; the one I was to be Fan Guest of Honour at. I'd gotten an e-mail from the convenor only the day before, telling me that there were five panels I was to be on as well as put in a presence at the opening and closing ceremony.

The first panel was only minutes after I was going to arrive, the next right after, and then came the opening ceremony. At ordinary conventions where I don't have to be on panels I get nervous and twitchy; this time I just about squeezed off Ben's hand, he whom I had dragged along with me to experience all things science fictiony.

I need not have worried. The first panel was on fanzines and whether they would survive, and as I suspected there weren't too many present. I didn't prepare for this or any subsequent, but for none need I have worried, as the other panellists were all too keen to fill in any silent spots -- not that there were any -- all by themselves. Bill Wright was staunch -- as were half of our audience of five -- that fanzines were only deemed so if they were paper, and Eric Lindsay was just as keen that electronic fanzines are as viable. Had I said anything it would have been to agree with Eric, but as it was I drank water and looked at Eric blankly when he suggested that a one-off if I wrote a fanzine on my sail would be art, not a fanzine.

( And the rest! )

Arriving at the convention in middle of yesterday meant I was a wee bit late for the Gaiman reading -- something funny from some book I am not certain of. The bits of the film based upon his work, Mirrormask, were very strange indeed. I am not certain I would like it -- what works fine in the paper medium at times does not make easy translation to film. It looked completely bizarre and like an exercise in CGI.

It's just as well that I think so, because Sony hasn't picked up distribution rights in Australia and if I want to know what the story about I'll be having to read the book. There is a letter writing campaign being organised -- petitions do not work, so everyone was encouraged to send physical (not electronic!) letters. One letter is symbolic for a hundred people or suchlike.

( The few panels I attended )

The "Worst Ever" panel ran overtime, and everyone was kicked out of the room while things were set up for the closing ceremony.

After the ceremony I walked back to the backpackers despite it having finished sufficiently early that I could have caught public transport. I needed the time; I cried as I walked back (on the dark part of the street) and otherwise felt horribly insulted and sorry for myself.

( I was invited to be fan guest of honour for the natcon, but you would be forgiven for not knowing. )

I miss my yacht. That was the first thing which came to mind when I arrived in Melbourne yesterday, and I moped a little as I trudged around the city seeking a place to rest my head. This was a little more difficult than in previous years, for back then the places were not so choosy.

"A Proof of Age card is not good enough," said the places this time around. "You need a driver's licence or a passport." I do not have either, needless to say, and a big lump of horror and self-pity appeared in my throat. "Oh, but there's a place you might go to which isn't so particular. They're not very good, though."

Any backpacker's which does not put me into a room full of guys is just fine by me. When I queried this identity proof oddity of Melbourne's I was informed that locals have a tendency to check in, steal everything they can, and then chuff off. Licences or passports give those running a backpacker's a feeling that they've more control over customers.

( Seeking stripping work )

Before long it was Friday itself and the reason I had come to Melbourne, Continuum (the annual science fiction convention), was starting.

( It should be called Gaimancon )

Waking up after a night of heavy drinking and looking into the mirror to realise that you look two dress sizes smaller is a scary thing. It makes me realise that my mother had something going when she did her exercise to "sweat" and lose weight that way; it also made me realise that I was so dehydrated I was likely going to keel over and die any second. I went on an immediate hydration program, supplemented with caffeine and other fortifying things. People want to be thin, but not ever quite that badly!

It's day four of the convention now, and I do see the reasoning behind a couple of people saying that perhaps a five day con is a tad excessive. You just cannot stay awake and booze up and remain outside of a vegetative state. If it can then it's by people far stronger than I.

I keep up my habit of avoiding panels, although I did make it to a few over the past couple of days. One of these was the tremendously popular -- I could almost swear the whole con was present in that room -- panel about the creation of a television series. Ostensibly about that, but really more about the media version of a popular Perth comic, presented by the witty and most entertaining creator of the comic, Grant Watson. If more panellists could be as informative and funny as that I would probably make it to more panels! ... Probably. To move from the couch is at times -- most especially at one's seediest best -- a tad too difficult to do.

It was on this couch that I saw something on a man that I do not often see: a French braid. This was on the groom of the wedding to occur that very day. It was my inspiration when another who was going to be involved with the wedding appeared, his hair tied back haphazardly with a rubber band. Rubber band! I dressed him down for such mistreatment of hair, and then proceeded to braid his hair up, ending in two little pigtails which bounced around jauntily as he moved. I kept watching him all night and giggling as the little curly bits went boing! boing! boing! as he chatted away.

( Upon which I play with more hair and introduced to religion of different kinds. )

There are some things that one must not do at a convention. I have discovered one of them: reading the future program and discussing with panellists the idea of supplementing their panel with one's own experiences of stripping. It is at this point that I kind of -- and in no way this is a dramatic change -- sober up and realise that there is just a chance, perhaps more than a wee bit, that you have made an idiot of oneself.

( XXX alcohol F***ING IDIOT XXX )

While I did not ultimately get to sleep yesterday for very long, the hour or so I managed upon getting to a hostel perked me up for the rest of the day. I needed energy to reintroduce myself to all the people who didn't seem to remember me. I looked too different, I assume, or so said Richard Harland all over again. But he says that every time. At least the important people remembered me, glasses or no glasses, tan or no tan!

Apparently I have gained some notoriety as the fan who is now a yachtie. I didn't realise that anyone at all would know about it, and have been deluged by a barrage of questions, some the more usual kind that non-yachtie types assume ... that you can go anywhere, anytime, not realising that one's bound the weather and winds now, and that the only way you are going to travel at will is by transport other than sea.

The most fun, however, has to be the hen's night I participated in. I didn't really know the fan to be married, but I'd met her earlier in the day and thought it might prove interesting considering who was organising the event -- callistra and Kylie. There were hints of spurious events to happen, and it only fuelled my curiosity further.

( Adults only need apply. )