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Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Sublime Convention Moments
This weekend, I survived a harrowing experience as the INVOLUNTARY emcee for Harlan Ellison's birthday party. It has left me with a sort of survivor-rush... that odd desire to recount one's life-points that only comes after going through a life-theatening ordeal. Therefore, over the next few weeks, I am going to recount my most sublime convention memories of the past 20 years. In no particular order.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I HAVE NO BALLS AND I MUST RANT
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
On Saturday, May 28, 2005, I spent 16 hours on my feet... half of it in dress shoes and a tux. I was the event coordinator for the main room of a sci-fi convention at UCLA put on by Enigma. Yeah, yeah... many of you know that that is just a glorified description of my role as the doorman for Ackerman Grand Ballroom that day... but you have to realize that I didn't volunteer for that position. I just happened to be performing in 2 of the 10 events scheduled in that room and as such I guess it made sense to put me in charge of the room (a charge which I subcontracted to Colleen and Mike when I managed to throw my weight around at one point).
There were fun moments like running a panel starring Chekov, Trip Tucker, Jake Sisko and several other luminaries. But my most sublime moment was at 1pm when I realized that I had to play emcee for the father of antagonistic pontification... Harlan Ellison. To start with, he simply refused to be coralled. He knew there was some celebartion being pulled off on his behalf and he was damn well not going to let it go off smoothly without taking his pound of flesh.
He noticed that I was attempting to take charge.
He saw me holding a microphone.
He began canvasing the audience.
Oh, he was so clever. He walked the aisles for bloody near 15 minutes. He snatched a look at my namebadge and said something like "What do you want, Mannion!? You're a tall sonofabtch aren't you?"
I expected him to say "Okay, let's do this thing" and launch into "Happy Birthday to Me".
He did not. Instead, he tore into a tuna sandwich and a bottle of water as if gaining sustenance before a battle.
I imagined that if I played my cards right, I might only need hear that particular sneering rendition of "Mannion" 3 or 4 more times.
It turned out to be just about that.
He railed against birthdays and well-wishers. Editors and writers. Co-workers and friends.
He cursed, trailed off, stomped off, lost himself in thought, found thought again through judicious use of the word "fuck" and chewed into the plastic wedge of his sandwich containter.
He feigned forgetfullness.
The crowd ate it up. Someone in the side aisle whispered "if you don't stop him he'll talk all day". I knew that like one knows a Wendy's frosty will cave your head in if you don't stop eating it when you're half way done.
He declaimed -- in response to my continued presence -- something to the tune of "Mannion, I swear I will go for your jugular and I will not let go!"
He compared me to Yoda.
He forbade anyone from wishing him happy birthday,
I began formulating a plan by which I could please the crowd with a rendition of "Happy Birthday" while keeping my own skin safe from the cornered-mole attack that I was sure Harlan held in his arsenal for people who dare contravene his wishes.
I quietly penned the lyrics to "Happy We-Wouldn't-Dare-Wish-You-Happy-Birthday To You!" as my backup plan when my main plan was to drop the mic in the puddle of sweat at my feet and mimic fatal electrovoltaic shock.
The seconds ticked by. I told myself "at 1:35 I will sneak the cake out and start cutting slices"; which became "at 1:40 I will grab the cake and give it to him to cut"; and finally "at 1:45 I will sceam 'cake!' and let Harlan pound me to oddments to a chorus of 'Mannion!' "
He paused. I went in for the wimp out. "Time for your surprise, it is".
He didn't get the reference, but I carried on anyway. He wanted the attention. I could feel that he missed my witty repartee and was perhaps saddened that I had not taken the stage with him... an equal in every way except that I have not written classic episodes of Star Trek and Twilight Zone and won numerous Hugo and Nebula Awards.
I will still call it my own personal victory. I went several rounds and was still standing. Okay, I did my best to let him viriolicize while I stayed quiet as a mouse -- but that's no loss!
I can now rest on my laurels.
Besides, I have to go get ready for the slander lawsuits.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I HAVE NO BALLS AND I MUST RANT
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
On Saturday, May 28, 2005, I spent 16 hours on my feet... half of it in dress shoes and a tux. I was the event coordinator for the main room of a sci-fi convention at UCLA put on by Enigma. Yeah, yeah... many of you know that that is just a glorified description of my role as the doorman for Ackerman Grand Ballroom that day... but you have to realize that I didn't volunteer for that position. I just happened to be performing in 2 of the 10 events scheduled in that room and as such I guess it made sense to put me in charge of the room (a charge which I subcontracted to Colleen and Mike when I managed to throw my weight around at one point).
There were fun moments like running a panel starring Chekov, Trip Tucker, Jake Sisko and several other luminaries. But my most sublime moment was at 1pm when I realized that I had to play emcee for the father of antagonistic pontification... Harlan Ellison. To start with, he simply refused to be coralled. He knew there was some celebartion being pulled off on his behalf and he was damn well not going to let it go off smoothly without taking his pound of flesh.
He noticed that I was attempting to take charge.
He saw me holding a microphone.
He began canvasing the audience.
Oh, he was so clever. He walked the aisles for bloody near 15 minutes. He snatched a look at my namebadge and said something like "What do you want, Mannion!? You're a tall sonofabtch aren't you?"
I expected him to say "Okay, let's do this thing" and launch into "Happy Birthday to Me".
He did not. Instead, he tore into a tuna sandwich and a bottle of water as if gaining sustenance before a battle.
I imagined that if I played my cards right, I might only need hear that particular sneering rendition of "Mannion" 3 or 4 more times.
It turned out to be just about that.
He railed against birthdays and well-wishers. Editors and writers. Co-workers and friends.
He cursed, trailed off, stomped off, lost himself in thought, found thought again through judicious use of the word "fuck" and chewed into the plastic wedge of his sandwich containter.
He feigned forgetfullness.
The crowd ate it up. Someone in the side aisle whispered "if you don't stop him he'll talk all day". I knew that like one knows a Wendy's frosty will cave your head in if you don't stop eating it when you're half way done.
He declaimed -- in response to my continued presence -- something to the tune of "Mannion, I swear I will go for your jugular and I will not let go!"
He compared me to Yoda.
He forbade anyone from wishing him happy birthday,
I began formulating a plan by which I could please the crowd with a rendition of "Happy Birthday" while keeping my own skin safe from the cornered-mole attack that I was sure Harlan held in his arsenal for people who dare contravene his wishes.
I quietly penned the lyrics to "Happy We-Wouldn't-Dare-Wish-You-Happy-Birthday To You!" as my backup plan when my main plan was to drop the mic in the puddle of sweat at my feet and mimic fatal electrovoltaic shock.
The seconds ticked by. I told myself "at 1:35 I will sneak the cake out and start cutting slices"; which became "at 1:40 I will grab the cake and give it to him to cut"; and finally "at 1:45 I will sceam 'cake!' and let Harlan pound me to oddments to a chorus of 'Mannion!' "
He paused. I went in for the wimp out. "Time for your surprise, it is".
He didn't get the reference, but I carried on anyway. He wanted the attention. I could feel that he missed my witty repartee and was perhaps saddened that I had not taken the stage with him... an equal in every way except that I have not written classic episodes of Star Trek and Twilight Zone and won numerous Hugo and Nebula Awards.
I will still call it my own personal victory. I went several rounds and was still standing. Okay, I did my best to let him viriolicize while I stayed quiet as a mouse -- but that's no loss!
I can now rest on my laurels.
Besides, I have to go get ready for the slander lawsuits.
Read more!
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Reunion Time
Welcome to my first post in a month!
And a special welcome to everyone from Marina High School Class of 1985!
Yes, that email was supposed to come from an anonymous email address at marina1985.com (check), but it definitely was NOT supposed to have my personal blog URL at the bottom (oops). My bad.
But hey, as long as you're here, here's what's been on my mind lately...
******************
HITCHHIKER'S GUIDE TO THE GALAXY
What an awesome remake. I didn't think they could do it. How do you turn a rambling galaxy-crossing odyssey of puns and wordplay into a feature length movie? How could it be as good as the book or even the radio and TV versions? Well, they pulled it off. It's a different beast than the original, to be sure. But it stands on its own I think. I loved it. Go see it.
******************
HARRY CHAPIN
Went to a reunion/tribute concert for him last Friday. I think it's safe to say kids these days have never heard of him. Heck, his music doesn't even get turned into elevator music or commercial music. Still, he made every one of his songs into a story. Or maybe everyone of his stories into a song. Heavy stuff at times. But then again he also sang songs about 30,000 pounds of bananas. You will most likely remember him for "Cat's in the Cradle", though.
******************
SOFTBALL
If you fumble the ball twice in right field, everyone on the opposing team will start hitting to right field. Doesn't matter if they are right handed or left handed, the bastards will aim right for you. And then the heat is on. That's allright. It's all fun. I do exactly the same thing. It's just wierd to have it done TO me for once.
And a special welcome to everyone from Marina High School Class of 1985!
Yes, that email was supposed to come from an anonymous email address at marina1985.com (check), but it definitely was NOT supposed to have my personal blog URL at the bottom (oops). My bad.
But hey, as long as you're here, here's what's been on my mind lately...
******************
HITCHHIKER'S GUIDE TO THE GALAXY
What an awesome remake. I didn't think they could do it. How do you turn a rambling galaxy-crossing odyssey of puns and wordplay into a feature length movie? How could it be as good as the book or even the radio and TV versions? Well, they pulled it off. It's a different beast than the original, to be sure. But it stands on its own I think. I loved it. Go see it.
******************
HARRY CHAPIN
Went to a reunion/tribute concert for him last Friday. I think it's safe to say kids these days have never heard of him. Heck, his music doesn't even get turned into elevator music or commercial music. Still, he made every one of his songs into a story. Or maybe everyone of his stories into a song. Heavy stuff at times. But then again he also sang songs about 30,000 pounds of bananas. You will most likely remember him for "Cat's in the Cradle", though.
******************
SOFTBALL
If you fumble the ball twice in right field, everyone on the opposing team will start hitting to right field. Doesn't matter if they are right handed or left handed, the bastards will aim right for you. And then the heat is on. That's allright. It's all fun. I do exactly the same thing. It's just wierd to have it done TO me for once.
Read more!
