It’s time to head to Providence, Rhode Island for the third annual StokerCon, where I was able to break bread with three fascinating creators—long-time friend Paul Di Filippo, plus two of the con’s Guests of Honor, Victor LaValle and Elisabeth Massie.

Paul Di Filippo has published more than than 200 short stories—which as you’ll hear, I teased him about as conversation began—and has appeared in such magazines as Asimov’s Science Fiction, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction,  Interzone, and many others. Some of those stories have been collected in The Steampunk Trilogy, Ribofunk, Fractal Paisleys, Lost Pages, Little Doors, Strange Trades, Babylon Sisters, and many, many others. And then there are the novels, such as Ciphers, Joe’s Liver, Fuzzy Dice, A Mouthful of Tongues, and Spondulix. He’s been a finalist for the Hugo, Nebula, British Science Fiction Association, Philip K. Dick, Wired magazine, and World Fantasy awards. He was also my go-to reviewer back when I edited Science Fiction Age and then, for the Syfy Channel’s Science Fiction Weekly.

Paul’s the one who suggested Angelo’s Civita Farnese as our venue. The Italian restaurant was opened in Providence 1924 by Angelo Mastrodicasa. Paul’s entree of french fries with meatballs, a combination I’ve never seen before, turned out to be one of Angelo’s signature dishes, started during the Depression as a way for customers to fill up without emptying their wallets.

We discussed why the first story he ever wrote was Man from U.N.C.L.E. fan fiction, the pact he made with a childhood friend which explains why he owns none of the Marvel Comics he read as a kid, what caused the editor who printed his debut story to make the bold claim it would be both his first and last published piece of fiction, how his life changed once he started following Ray Bradbury’s rule of writing at least 1,000 words per day, why he’s written so much alternate history and for which famous person he’s had the most fun imagining a different life, why after a career in science fiction and fantasy he’s begun a series of mystery novels, what happened to the never-published Batman story he sold DC Comics which we never got to see, and much more.

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

I received a package from Paul Di Filippo today containing a CD of ukulele music. I guess he could hear my caterwauling all the way up in Providence and wants me to stop making noises as if someone or something was being tortured. Sure do appreciate it, Paul.

But that’s not the thing Paul’s trying to tell me that’s sending a message I don’t want to hear.

You see, Paul decorated the envelope with clippings from old magazines and newspapers, the way he always does before popping anything in the mail. The front was a humorous collage, but as for the back, well, that was made up of a single large ad (a version of which seems to have been published in the 1947 Johnson Smith & Co. catalogue) which strongly implied there was something lacking about me.

The ad began:

In your business and social affairs—meeting and dealing with other people—have you the cold, “icicle” type of personality that constantly repels others and keeps them at a distance?

And it only went downhill from there …

(more…)

I dreamt that I came downstairs within my actual house and stepped into my actual kitchen (not a common occurrence in my dreams, as they so often take place in previous houses or apartments or in residences I’ve never seen in real life but am not surprised to be living at in dream) into an extremely sunny kitchen. Irene is sitting directly under one of the skylights, ablaze in a beam of sunshine. I tell her that I’d just that moment received an e-mail from Marvel Comics hiring me to work as a proofreader for a week. She seems a bit puzzled, and it’s only when I see her expression that I am, too, for it’s only in that instant that I think—how exactly as I supposed to be commuting each day from West Virginia to Manhattan? Or if I stay in a hotel, won’t that cost more than I’ll earn? That issue arose as if I’d never thought of it before, and trying to figure out how the job was supposed to work, I woke. I’m often thrust from dreams when I realize that there’s something I haven’t realized before.

I also dreamed that I was giving a symposium on how to get published, not at a science-fiction convention, but on a college campus. I’m standing in front of an audience in an auditorium and rattling off markets. When I try to tell them about a writer who’ll be editing three themed anthologies, his name escapes me, and as I stand up there saying things like, “oh, you know who I’m talking about,” all I can remember is the name of his son, and so I say that it’s River’s dad, and then his name comes back to me—Tim Pratt. Now in real life, Tim isn’t editing anything fiction-related (as far as I know), so don’t start sending him your manuscripts! But in the dream, he was. And as those in the audience scribbled down the information, I moved on to other actual markets.

And still I continued to dream, though I’m not sure whether the next scene can be considered an entirely new dream or an extension of that second one …

I was hanging with Paul Di Filippo on a college campus, each of us stretched out on different couches on the first floor of a massive dormitory. And as we lounged there, for some reason I was thinking of what would happen if the building with its hundreds if not thousands of students were to be cut off from the rest of the world. I suggested that everything would soon turn all Lord of the Flies inside.

“Nah,” he said laconically, and with a smile. “I’m sure everything would be all right.”

“Why?” I asked. “Is that because people from Rhode Island don’t ever go all Lord of the Flies?”

Which is the first time I realize that the campus is in Rhode Island. I don’t hear Paul’s answer, because then I wake.

In the night’s final remembered dream, Maureen McHugh steps up to me carrying a baby. In the dream, it seems to be hers. She sits down, and then I suddenly notice Ellen Datlow is also there, and instead of any of us ever saying anything, we instead watch as Maureen feeds the baby Cheerios, because all we’re capable of is oohing and aahing over the cutie pie.

And then I wake for the final time and put an end to dream.

In my final dream of the morning, I’m at a minor league baseball stadium with Paul Di Filippo. We’re not paying much attention to the game itself as we sit in the bleachers, though, entertaining ourselves more by eating stadium food and drinking our bottled water than we are with what’s happening on the field. In fact, as I get up to head over to a nearby snack bar to restock us, I never even notice that a foul ball is heading our way. It bounces once against an empty seat and lands right in my hand, surprising me. The crowd reminds me to hold it high over my head to claim it. As I do, I can hear a small boy cry out, “That was supposed to be my ball!”

I walk down to the bottom of the bleachers, and the player who had hit the ball comes over to autograph it. I look at the ball as I hand it over, and it’s nothing like an official baseball. (I know this because in real life I once caught one and had it signed by Cal Ripken, Jr.) Instead, it seems solid rubber, is green, and has already been signed by others many times before.

As the player, who turns out to be nicknamed Sparky, signs the ball, we joke, but he tells me to keep it clean since we’re being picked up by live television. While we banter, I’m thinking that perhaps I might turn the ball over to the child who’d bawled about wanting it, but then the player asks my name, and autographs the souvenir to me directly, which kills that idea. (more…)

It’s been months since I last shared an example of the fanciful envelope art of , so let’s take a look at another piece.

Click on the image above to view at a larger size, and on the tag below to see other examples.

I dreamt last night that I was staying at a beach house with friends, among them John Clute, Paul Di Filippo, and the character Rajnesh Koothrappali from the TV series The Big Bang Theory (as opposed to Kunal Nayyar, the actor who portrays him).

Those of us who aren’t Indian are cooking up our specialties so that Raj can experience other cuisines. I wish I could remember what John and Paul whipped up, but I can’t. However, I decided to make bagels, which my real-life self hasn’t prepared in a while, but which I once used to bake quite often.

I tore through the small kitchen looking not only for the proper ingredients, but also for the correct implements, such as cookie sheets and a pot big enough in which to boil the bagels. But I couldn’t find them, and so I suddenly found myself transported to the streets of Queens, where I’m searching for what I need.

I end up buying them from an old Japanese lady, and wake during the transaction, never making it back to the beach house.

So no bagels for you, guys!

The ever-entertaining Paul Di Filippo has begun a new blog, which seems like the perfect time to share another of the artful collages his uses to befuddle the U.S. Postal Service. In the image at right, a band of thugs comes calling, which is exactly how my mail is usually delivered.

As for that new blog of his, it’s called Weird Universe, which, according to its mandate, “explores every aspect of a human and natural cosmos that is not only stranger than we imagine, but stranger than we can imagine.” Paul’s co-conspirators in this new project are Chuck Shephard, who many of you already know as the brains behind News of the Weird, and Alex Boese, the curator of The Museum of Hoaxes.

If you head over there today, you’ll read about two-headed snakes, learn about the impending shortage of pink flamingo lawn ornaments, and sing along to an anti-LSD anthem.

As I’ve shared here before, Paul Di Filippo has for years been sending me envelopes decorated with collages culled from old magazines, newspapers, and comic books. Here’s yet another example of his envelope art, which sends a Lady in Red searching for me through a casino.

If only I could manage to look that debonair in reality!

But thanks to the Spring 2008 issue of The Paris Review, the secret of Paul Di Filippo’s inspiration has been revealed at last! (more…)

Here’s another example of how Paul Di Filippo bedeviled the Post Office year after year.

I have no idea who these smiling, finger-snapping guys are—Used car salesmen? Shriners? Madison Avenue ad men?—but they managed to march to my old address in Maryland without delay.

I never thought I’d come face to face with Robert Heinlein again—after all, SFWA’s first Grand Master passed away in 1988—but thanks to an old liquor ad and another envelope collage from , I did.

I don’t know what the U.S. Postal Service thought about it, but I loved it. (However, I’m not the one who had to decipher the address.)

Click on the image at right to see more clearly what Paul felt I felt about the encounter.

Maybe if I start hitting that Kinsey Blended Whiskey, I’ll get a chance to see Heinlein a little more often …