I-Con 19

Originally published April 28, 2000, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1380

This past weekend was I-Con 19, the nineteenth science fiction convention held at the University of Stonybrook in beautiful Long Island. When I first started attending the con back in its earliest days, one small building housed the entire thing. The entirety of the dealer’s room took up exactly one medium-sized classroom. Now the dealer’s room requires the entirety of the gargantuan athletic center, and programming is spread out among three buildings. It’s easily the largest annual convention in the tri-state area, and possibly in the East Coast (although I’m not sure where the attendance figures compare to Dragon*Con.) The downside of “Schlep Con,” as I sometimes refer to it, is that because everything is so spread out it can be, well… something of a schlep.

To say nothing of the fact that it can make scheduling a bit of bear for the programming participants. For instance, I was booked on one panel in one building from three to four PM on Saturday, followed by another panel from four to five in a totally different part of the campus. It’s annoying enough to be late for things under ordinary circumstances. To be blocked into a schedule that absolutely precludes you from being on time (unless you bolt early from another commitment) is extremely irritating. And I can tell you from personal experience that there is nothing quite like I-Con in the rain. There’s nothing better than dashing into a convention with your sneakers squish-squishing from the two inches of water its absorbed in your cross-campus trek.

Fortunately enough we were blessed with sunny skies and pleasant weather this go-around.

Herewith some tales of I-Con:

* * *

I-Con doesn’t just resemble Dragon*Con in terms of size. It’s also the convention that most frequently tends to double-book me, i.e., schedule me opposite myself. This go-around, I was blocked for an 11 AM Saturday panel about writing in other people’s universe while simultaneously being required to be on stage handling the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund auction. I opted for the latter, because I figured the former was fairly obvious: Everyone who writes is writing in someone else’s universe, because the fact is that we are all living in Elvis’ universe. So that’s that.

I was absolutely dreading the auction. The I-Con auction last year was—to use the cliché—pulling teeth. And that was when Harlan Ellison was the auctioneer and I was merely his humble flunky. I’ve never seen so many people sitting on their hands and watching the entertainment without once leaping into the fray. And this year I was flying solo. I do okay at auctions, but I don’t have Ellison’s flay-’em-alive-and-make-’em-love-ya skill.

I arrived at the auction site, which was on one blocked-off section of the athletic center floor where all the main speakers were. Immediately I felt my heart crumbling; attendance was, to say the least, light. There couldn’t have been more than thirty, forty people tops in the stands. Going on the rule-of-thumb that not more than ten percent of the people attending are going to participate, this looked to be absolute torture.

Desperate, I figured, “Okay… these are New Yorkers. New Yorkers respond to two things: Insults and bribery. Let’s go for both.”

So I got up on the platform and said, “I just want you guys to know that we have done these auctions all over the country… down South, on the West Coast, Midwest. And of all the audiences who have attended these auctions, the I-Con audiences have been absolutely the best. The most supportive. The most generous. You’ve been terrific.” Then I paused a beat and said, “April Fool.” (And since it was, in fact April 1, it made sense.) “Actually, I continued, “You guys are the pits. Really. I’ve never seen deader audiences.” And I proceeded to upbraid them for five minutes.

I informed them that, in regards to comics retailers being allowed to carry on their business unmolested, in the words of Indiana Jones’ dad, “Our situation has not improved.” Respect for the First Amendment out there has become so nil, that I cited a recent instance where a woman wanted a retailer to come down in price on a Pokemon card. The retailer wouldn’t do so. Warning him that he was making a mistake… that she had powerful friends, that she knew the “type of stuff” he was selling there, and that he would regret this… she departed vowing revenge. Next thing the retailer knew, he was being arrested and charged with displaying adult material. Understand: He hadn’t sold it to kids. He wasn’t going to sell it to kids. Kids couldn’t even browse it. But because it was in the store, and a woman didn’t like his Pokemon prices, the guy was now up a creek and turning to the CBLDF for help (which we were providing, of course.).

And then, after getting the audience annoyed, I turned around and announced a contest. I was (and am) working on the next Star Trek: New Frontier novel. It’s to be the first ST:NF hardcover, due out in November. In the book, the character of Commander Shelby gets her first command. “She’s going to need a crew,” I told them. The challenge I issued was thus: Everyone who was a winner at that day’s auction would become a crewmember on Shelby’s vessel, the Exeter. Furthermore, rank would be determined by how much money was spent by the individual. The person who spent the most money in the course of the auction would be the second in command. Lowest bidder got to be a quickly disposed of redshirt (i.e., security guard).

Long story short: It worked. The auction raised over $2200 for the CBLDF. Interesting, Naomi Basner of “Friends of Lulu” wasn’t able to stay, but she asked to make a donation to the CBLDF of $1, making her the lowest “winner” and qualifying to be a short life-spanned redshirt. “I just want to die,” she said, which under other circumstances might be considered a cry for help. This being an auction, I took her up on it. I’ll probably drop an anvil on her during a holodeck simulation.

* * *

I combed the dealer’s room in futility looking for, as always, for a “Sailor Moon” toy that I’m not even sure exists. Ariel insists that the character of Chibi wields a “Chibi Bell” that she uses to activate her powers. If one exists as a toy, Ariel—whose main goal in life at this point is to go to Japan and meet Chibi, being (at eight years old) a little unclear as to the problems of animation versus reality—desperately wants one. A survey of the football-field-sized dealer’s room turned up nothing. Anyone out there know anything about this?

At least I made Gwen happy. I found her a CD collection of songs from the long ago (but apparently not forgotten) Jem and the Holograms TV show. Remember that? The one with the song, “Jem is truly outrageous,” written by someone who never cracked a dictionary to see what the word “outrageous” means?

* * *

Single most embarrassing moment for me of the convention: I was standing at a bookseller’s table and this pleasant-looking guy, mid to late 40s, with short dark hair and round glasses, comes up to me and says, “Peter! Hi! How you doing!” I smiled politely, greeted him back, but it was clear in my eyes that I didn’t recognize him. He picked up on it, smiled lopsidedly, and said, “Richard Hatch.” Great. Wonderful. We’ve done half a dozen conventions together, and I watched him back in the Battlestar Galactica days, and I didn’t recognize him.

To make myself feel better, I floated the question on my board on AOL, asking people what the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to them at a convention was. I got a variety of responses, including the following from “Rembert,” describing his experience when he was a department head at the Atlanta Worldcon back in the eighties:

“My first wife was bored and wanted something to do, so I got her a ‘job’ helping check for badges at the dealer’s room. She tried to stop a gray-haired gentleman from getting in without a badge. He was, of course, Ray Bradbury, the con’s Guest of Honor. To commemorate the moment, one of the dealers made her a badge: ‘Bradbury, Shmadbury, you still need a badge.’ Not long after, I found myself single again.”

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.)