This is my first Father’s Day without him.

In my mind and in my heart, I’ll always see him like this.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!

Irene looked out the dining room window this morning and saw this turtle at the base of our red hot pokers in the garden. By its coloring, I think we’ve already seen it 3-4 times this season in various parts of the garden and yard.

This has been amazing year for turtles here—in the past month, we’ve already rescued around 6-8, maybe more, from the middle of roads alone, plus the ones we’ve seen ambling along on our own property.

And when you lose count of something like that, you know that life is good!

I was quickly skimming the front matter to the newly arrived Year’s Best Science Fiction earlier today to learn from Gardner Dozois’ Summation whether there was anything I’d missed in 2008. When I got to the list of people who had died since the previous Year’s Best, I thought, hmmm, I wonder how many of them were older than me when they passed and how many were younger? (What can I say? Maybe once you turn 50, those sorts of things pop to mind.)

So as I continued skimming, not really counting, but just getting a general idea, feeling rather light-hearted and thinking it might even be amusing to report the split in numbers over on my Twitter feed, I was unprepared to come across this (click to view at a more readable size):

I was stunned to see that my father, who died on January 27, was on the list. I never expected to see such a thing, especially not mere months after his death, and so, three days before Father’s Day, I wept.

Thank you, Gardner, for including Dad.

I wrote here on Sunday morning that I would probably have no further comments to make about the Stoker Awards weekend until enough time had passed that anything I would have to say would be historical, a looking back after my return home rather than something written during the heat of the event.

It turned out that I was wrong.

For after I’d made my goodbyes and headed to the airport to catch my 2:00 p.m. United flight which would end up with me arriving in Dulles slightly after midnight, after I’d twittered that I guessed the gathering of the tribe was over, at least for me, after I bumped into Jeff Strand and Lynne Hansen making their own return trip home and we sat for awhile and talked of past and future cons, I heard an announcement come over the loudspeaker—United was seeking a lone volunteer to yield his or her seat for another passenger in exchange for a coupon good for one round-trip ticket to anywhere United flew within the contiguous United States.

I dashed to the front of the crowd, and said, hey, I’m your man. Why? Well, for one thing, I’ve been going to an awful lot of cons. The Nebulas in April, now the Stokers, next month Readercon, the month after that the Montreal Worldcon, and I’d sort of decided that attending this year’s World Fantasy Convention in San Jose was iffy, especially considering I wanted to save cash for next year’s Worldcon in Melbourne. Before making this Stoker trip, I’d already decided that if offered a chance for a free future flight, I’d take it.

The problem was, my flight was a complicated one, in that I had to get to Denver in time to catch the fight which would bring me home. There weren’t any later Burbank flights which could accomplish that, and if I was bumped, I’d have to spend the night. If you can put me up in the Marriott that’s only a few hundred yards away, I’ll take the deal. And since I turned out to be the only volunteer, they said, no problem. (more…)

There’s so much I want to share about yesterday—the thrill of sitting next to John Farris for an hour as we autographed, brunch with Ellen Datlow, hanging out in the bar with Stephen Jones and Mandy Slater discussing zombies and the pride of work done well, watching the Mathesons interviewed from the front row and tossing out a few questions, listening to Maria Alexander read, the fun of the pre-banquet cocktail party, and more—but I am unlikely to do that today, as I’ve only six hours left here in Burbank and it makes more sense to squeeze the last drops out of the Stoker Awards weekend today than to spend time blogging about yesterday. Which means that if I share further about any of those things, it will likely be as something historical rather than contemporaneous reporting.

But I did want to pop up briefly to say, yes, I lost last night. But I’m OK with that. The competition was fierce, and so there was no shame in any of the writers or works who or which did not end up with a trophy. More importantly than that, even though I would dearly love one of those little houses one day, I find that I am quite Zen about it. You know that Stephen King line, “It is the tale, not he who tells it?” I’ve often paraphrased him, and continued the thought.

It is the tale, not he who tells it … not the awards … nor the reviews … nor any other non-literary aspect of writing. (more…)

Last night at the Gory Ghoul Ball, F. Paul Wilson sang the Tom Snider song “All Right Guy.” What’s that, you say? You missed it? Too bad. If only there was a way for you to have been there.

Wait! There is. Unfortunately for Paul, I happened to be there.

The room was dark, so the footage isn’t as clear as I’d wish, and the camera gets a little shaky near the beginning, when I’m moving to avoid letting the dancers drift into the frame. But hey, it’s better than not getting to hear Paul sing and play the guitar at all.

For those wishing to follow along, here are the lyrics (the official ones, anyway):

Well just the other day, I was sitting around in my house.
I had that new book with pictures of Madonna naked.
I was checking it out.
Well, just then a friend of mine came through the door,
She said she’d never pegged me for a scumbag before.
She said she didn’t ever want to see me any more,
And I still don’t know why!
I think I’m an all right guy.
I think I’m an all right guy.
I just want to live until I’ve got to die.
I know I ain’t perfect, but God knows I try.
I think I’m an all right guy.
I think I’m all right.
Well maybe I’m dirty and maybe I smoke a little dope.
But it ain’t like I’m going on TV
tearing up pictures of the Pope.
And I know I get wild and I know I get drunk,
But it ain’t like I’ve got a bunch of bodies in my trunk.
My old man used to call me a no-good punk,
And I still don’t know why!
I think I’m an all right guy.
I think I’m an all right guy.
I just want to live until I’ve got to die.
I know I ain’t perfect, but God knows I try.
I think I’m an all right guy.
I think I’m all right.
Well, the other night, The cops pulled me over outside a bar.
They turned on the lights,and ordered me out of my car.
Well, I was only kidding when I
called them a couple of dicks,
But still they made me do the Stupid Human Tricks.
Now I’m stuck in this jail with a bunch of dumb hicks,
And I still don’t know why!
I think I’m an all right guy.
I think I’m an all right guy.
I just want to live until I’ve got to die.
I know I ain’t perfect, but God knows I try.
I think I’m an all right guy.
I think I’m all right.

Oh, go ahead, sing along. You know you want to. Besides, Repairman Jack would.

So … about last night. L.A. local Eunice Magill took Scott Browne, Derek Clendening, Gene O’Neill, Gord Rollo, and me under her wing because she was saddened by the fact that all we’d do for meals was walk across the parking lot to the Greek and Chinese restaurants there. So we hopped into cabs for the Universal Studios CityWalk and wandered until we got to the Karl Strauss Brewery, where we tortured poor Gord with foods apparently not found in places where people eat poutine. Foods such as avocado, for instance. He took it well, but I suspect that without the beer (or three) he would have attacked us with his fork.

We talked about the mentors we admired, some still in this world, such as Dennis Etchison, and others not, such as Algis Budrys and Tom Disch. (I dedicated my chapbook The Hunger of Empty Vessels to those last two. We discussed our con-going and geographical histories. We kibitzed with the waitress, who not only took us in stride because, well, she’s forced to endure even louts with a smile, but as we were pleased to see by our bill below, which contained a vampire smiley face in addition to the standard one beloved by waitresses everywhere, Kara seemed to get us.

I couldn’t linger, because I was slated to give a reading at 7:30 p.m., and so Gene and Scott and I headed back. (more…)

I’m much too fried to offer a full report on the rest of the day, since my body insists on remaining on West Virginia time rather than switching over to Burbank’s. But here’s at least a taste …

I came down to meet my dinner companions only to find one of them, Gene O’Neill, autographing signature sheets for the upcoming lettered edition of The Hunger of Empty Vessels, which meant that I was waylaid to sign them as well. I didn’t have time to finish the batch, because the rest of the motley crew had assembled, and we needed to head out early to make sure we got back in time to take part in the evening’s activities.

Here we are in front of the Marriott, ready to set out in two cabs for a restaurant that isn’t immediately across the street:

For those of you unfamiliar with these faces because you have better things to do than eyeball Post Office wanted posters, that’s Scott Browne, Gene O’Neill, me, Gord Rollo, Eunice Magill, and Derek Clendening. To find out where we ended up and how the rest of my evening went, you’d better check back later … because I heard the pillow call my name.

Once I picked up my badge and bag of goodies at registration, I wandered the restaurant looking for friendly faces and found David Hartwell, Kathryn Cramer and their kids about to dive in for breakfast. They invited me to join them, and though I wasn’t hungry, I sat for chatted with them as they ate. We talked about the plight of Paul Williams (go donate now), plagiarism in the romance, horror, and SF fields, and the subtle differences between the crowd at a World Horror Convention and those who show up at the Stokers.

Out in the lobby, I ran into Roy Robbins, publisher of my chapbook The Hunger of Empty Vessels:

If you’re reading this post at the Stokers, head to the dealers room and go buy a copy from him. If not, why not hurry over to the Bad Moon Books site and order one? (more…)

Around 6:10 p.m. last night, I stepped from the shower, towel wrapped around my waist, and heard a violent banging at the door. It was Gene and Gord coming to get me to head over to the Dark Delicacies signing. I stepped into the hallway, joking, as I held tightly to the towel, that I was all set to go—and the door almost shut behind me, keys still inside!

Wouldn’t that have allowed me to make a grand entrance!

After quickly tossing on some clothes, we cabbed it over to the bookstore, where I met an old friend out front:

But more conversational and attractive friends waited inside. Wandering the densely packed aisles, I had a chance to chat with Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Ellen Datlow, Maria Alexander, F. Paul Wilson, Tom Monteleone, Stephen Jones, Many Slater, Peter Atkins, Dennis Etchison, Cody Goodfellow, Rain Graves, John Skipp, Matt Schwartz, Sharan Volin, John Everson, owner Del Howison, of course, and on and on and on—so many others I’m sure I’ve left many out. There wasn’t time enough for all that needed to be said, but then, cocktail parties are like that. There’s still an entire weekend to come in which to track them down and trap them. I promise to let them keep their pelts, however. (more…)