My trip to Manhattan to record episodes of Eating the Fantastic started off with Ellen Datlow and a Ukrainian lunch, followed by Craig Engler and a BBQ dinner. And now, at the request of this episode’s guest, it’s time for deli at Ben’s New York Kosher Delicatessen.

My guest loves Ben’s more than any other NYC deli, and who am I to turn down Barry N. Malzberg, who among other things, was winner of the first John W. Campbell Award for his novel Beyond Apollo, and both a Hugo and Nebula Award finalist for stories I published when I was the editor of Science Fiction Age magazine?

One unusual aspect to this episode is that it features as mere onlooker a writer deserving of his own episode someday—Paul Di Filippo, who felt compelled to come along and witness this recording. After all, the first of his more than 100 published stories was a Malzberg homage!

Barry and I discussed why being able to sell his first drafts was so important at the beginning of his writing career, how his debut short story collection came to be published under the pseudonym K. M. O’Donnell, what it was like to edit both Amazing and Fantastic magazines during the late ’60s, the identity of his greatest discovery during his years at the Scott Meredith Literary Agency, what’s up with the long-promised movie version of Beyond Apollo, how Harry Harrison could have (but didn’t) shut down the filming of Soylent Green, and more.

Here’s how you can nosh with us— (more…)

My grandfather, Nathan Goldstein, would be very ashamed of me right now. Were he alive, that is. Lucky for me, Grandpa Nat died more than 20 years ago.

Let me explain.

Irene and I got together last night with Karen and Charlie Newton, Sharon and Frank Patry, and Risa and Sandy Stewart at Charles Town Races and Slots for dinner and, well, what did you expect—racing!

Before heading to the track, I asked the person who knows more about racing than anyone I know—Barry Malzberg—for advice, and whether he wanted me to place any bets for him. The only thing he told me was—bet Jackson Bend to Show in the Preakness. Which I did.

I’ve never seen the local track as packed as it was last night. It’s as if every gambler within driving distance decided to turn up and wager. Once the Preakness started, and the crowd began screaming, all I could think was, “Where’s Grandpa Nat?”

My grandfather was a bookie, you see (I’ll tell you the whole story someday), and as I looked around at the shouting, the cursing, the veins popping on foreheads, I almost expected to see him there.

Jackson Bend ran third for most of the race, dropped back going into the final turn, and didn’t regain any ground by the time the broadcast cut off reporting on the standings. So I thought, “oh, well,” tucked the ticket into my pocket, and went off with my friends to have dinner before the local racing began. (Those of you who paid attention to who finished where in the Preakness already can tell where this is going.)

After a wonderful dinner, we returned to the track, where I actually won three of my bets on the local races. Here I am after I put $2.00 on Little Runner to Show in the third race. My $2.00 turned into a whopping $5.60.

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In last night’s dream, Irene and I are at a science-fiction convention walking through the halls of a hotel, heading toward a ballroom at which a cocktail party is being held. As we near the room, we bump into David Hartwell, and continue along with him, chatting. Once in the vast, high-ceilinged, and crowded room, we grab drinks, split up, and proceed to mingle and schmooze. As I stand there, drink in hand, surveying the crowd, I realize that I don’t know what day it is. Is the Hugo Awards ceremony still to come, or have I missed it?

I spot David again, this time standing by a small table with Marty Greenberg. I go over to ask them, because if the Hugos are that night, I need to head back to my hotel room and change into a suit. But before we can talk, we’re suddenly no longer at a World Science Fiction Convention …

… but instead in the cul-de-sac of Woodview Drive, the street on which I used to live over in Maryland from 1989 until 2004. I’m standing in front of my old house with Irene and Marty and David, but also with Lois Gresh, and they all have luggage, as if they plan on staying with me for awhile. There’s a problem, however, I tell them—I don’t live there anymore. We need to head over the West Virginia, where I’m living now.

So I get into my Jeep and drive down the street. I don’t get more than a quarter of a mile before I realize that my guests are not in the Jeep with me, they’re instead walking alongside it. I decide that this is silly, that we won’t get very far that way, and so stop, get out, and tell them to get in. But once I do, the vehicle is no longer something large enough to carry us all, but rather a motorized golf car, open to the air on all sides. Perhaps four people could fit inside, but not a fifth, and certainly not the luggage as well. (more…)