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…)

Since I am far too fried from a combination of jet lag and partying, any report on my doings of this evening will have to wait until tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, let this photo of Matt Schwartz, Tom Monteleone and me at the Dark Delicacies signing signify what I no longer have the energy today to put into words—that a lot of fun was had.

For additional images, check out my flickr stream.

And now—to bed!

I seem to have abandoned new media for newer media, or old new media for new new media, or however you want to describe it, as can be easily discerned by anyone who’s been following me here as well as on my Twitter feed. I used to make posts on an almost daily basis—44 in December ’08 alone, for example—but since starting to tweet, that’s fallen way off. I’ve only made two LJ entries in May, not counting this one.

Instead of posting mini-essays here, I’ve been using twitter multiple times per day, and letting those updates transfer to my facebook page. Here, for example, is what you would have seen had you been following my twitter feed yesterday while I attended Balticon. (more…)

I started the day at 10:00 a.m. at the WGA/SFWA mixer, which tossed the print writers and the visual writers in the bar together with fruit, cheese, and muffins in the hopes that we’d all just get along, instead of starting a rumble. We seemed to behave professionally. No drinks were tossed, and all of the silverware in the room was used for its intended purpose.

I did try to mingle, as the organizers of the event intended, so I tried to stay away from the usual suspects, though that was hard. Who would not want to discover, via a conversation with Michael Cassutt and Craig Miller, that they’d gone to grade school together? The longest conversation I had with any single person was the time I sat with D. C. Fontana (below), and probably bored her to tears reminiscing of the time I got her autograph at the first Star Trek convention back in 1972. She did her best to smile and tolerate me as we talked of the old days at the Statler-Hilton Hotel.

As the event died down, I took a shuttle bus over to the UCLA campus with Connie Willis, Cynthia Felice, Sheila Williams, John Moore and others so we could attend the Festival of the Book. Connie headed off to sign books at a bookstore’s booth, but Sheila and I wandered the massive campus in search of the auditorium housing the Grand Masters panel on which Robert Silverberg, Harry Harrison, and Joe Haldeman would pontificate. (more…)

Based on this entry’s time stamp, I should be asleep, since my head only hit the pillow about five hours ago, but my body thinks it’s back home, and that it’s already 8:00 a.m., and long past time to be awake. So here I am, typing up my thoughts on the first day of the Nebula Awards weekend in L.A.

For me, the weekend started not at the Luxe Hotel, but at the airport, where Jim Kelly and John Kessel, who’d rented a car for the weekend, met me at United’s baggage claim. We were all coming in on different airlines at around the same time, which allowed for us to meet and then have lunch together. We drove to the hotel while comparing notes on two foreign conventions we’d attended—my 2002 trip to Cuba and their recent trip to Columbia. At the Luxe, we quickly dumped our bags, picked up our badges, and headed off for lunch at Musso and Frank, Hollywood’s oldest restaurant.

As John drove, he pointed out various locations in the life of Preston Sturges, whom John had researched for his homage story “The Miracle of Ivar Avenue.” (And yes, after lunch, we did end up walking briefly along Ivar Avenue.) The restaurant was filled with dark wood paneling and ghosts, the latter since Mary Pickford, Edward G. Robinson, Cesar Romero and other stars used to dine there. At meal’s end, in the bathroom, I couldn’t help but think … hmmm, I wonder if Cary Cooper once stood right here where I’m standing? (OK, maybe that was too much information … ) (more…)