17: SciFi is Not for Sissies; Westercon 66: A Skeptic Comes Home

Bacchanalia Unbound at the Ale-Moot

“Adonie, divine and most horrible of lords, we beseech thee in the name of thy son on Earth, The Emperor, that reigns eternally, Emp Adams, to make of this day a wonder for mortals who worship you…We importune thee, Adonie, on this festive occasion of the first Ale-Moot, to keep our heads together despite what we may quaff…Father of the divine Emp, on thy name grant us a day of beauty and happiness!  Amen, let it be so.”  The Emperor’s Invocation opening the first (and only) SASSAFRASS Ale-Moot, June 1975

“Memories from that time are mostly vague and often are only remembered stories detached from any real personal identification.  I have never resolved what part I played. I usually think I simply identified the core without being a member of it, at best an observer. And so your recollections of the stories/myths from that time evoke a curious nostalgic pathos for whatever I was and probably still am. At the center of the Bacchae is the running away from self to be absorbed into the collective and in the story once joined to the collective the self is torn apart...well, sorry about that, not sure where that came from, let's simply say the Emp never resolved the Dionysian/Apollonian dichotomy.”  John “The Emp” Adams, June 2013

The Ale-Moot, the Con-Dome and Feed

In early 1975, there was a “coup” in SASSAFRASS: Outlaw Fandom managed to convince everyone else in the Society that a different approach would be preferable and new leadership was needed.  So instead of the usually elected “President, Vice President, etc.”, an “Emperor” was somehow “appointed”.  My recollection of these events is almost non-existent, but what we do know from extant club notes is that shortly after the new regime (including a “Lord Prime Minister” and “Ministratrix of Protocol”) took over, an alternative to the annual December Yule-moot was planned.  Instead of being inspired by the Old Norse pagan midwinter festival or the feast of the nativity, it would take for inspiration the Summer Solstice, and celebrate beer, bashing and bawdiness. 

The event started around noon at a park on the first day of summer.  It began with The Emp’s “coronation”, culminating in his invocation/prayer (which is excerpted above).  Next came a fencing exhibition, followed by a banquet and some songs from Happy Jack.  There was bashing, poetry, an auction, and awards for best costumes.  It seems the police showed up toward late afternoon, but the event continued nonetheless.  There were a lot of people; “regular” fans mingled with Outlaw Fandom and it was considered a huge success, paving the way for The Emp’s acceptance for many months to come.  Something even bigger needed to come next.

Art by Jim McLeod; Layout by Terry Whittier

"Con-Dome One will take place in the breathtaking high Painted Desert of Arizona.  There will be no 'organized' huckster rooms, art exhibits or masquerade, although we encourage such events to happen spontaneously.  However, we shall present to those who attend such incredible experiences as the first night's mass pilgrimage to The Dome, planned so that the setting sun will present a spectacular visual display, a visit to nearby Indian ruins where attendees will be able to physically touch the remnants of a civilization that perished 10,000 years before, and a nightly light show consisting of the undiminished glory of 100,000 stars highlighted by a continuing barrage of meteoric flaming stripes."

Emboldened by the success of the Ale-moot, SASSAFRASS decided to sponser its first convention, scheduled to be held on the Ale-moot's one year anniversary.  But of course, it wouldn’t be like any other convention.  Dubbed Con-Dome, this would be held in the desert outside Flagstaff, Arizona.  Some of us knew the owner of a geodesic dome out in the middle of nowhere, and convinced him to host a science-fiction convention.  We threw out everything anyone knew about conventions, and made up a program and schedule of events unlike any other.  We sent out invitations to about 20 writers; about half of them responded: none of them accepted our “offer” and several of them were vitriolic and insulting with what they wrote back.  Of course, this probably had a lot to do with the invitations themselves; they were supposed to consider themselves “honored” to even be invited, and would have to absorb on their own most of the costs involved in making the somewhat difficult trek there.  Needless to say, Con-Dome had to be canceled.

As was mentioned earlier this month, I chose not to read Mira Grant’s Blackout because it was the third in a trilogy, so instead I’m reading the first in that trilogy, Feed, which was nominated for a Hugo when it first appeared.  I knew my idiot glee regarding the three nominees I already read couldn’t last, and that seems to be the case here.  Which is not to say I don’t like this book, or don’t want to finish it, or even that I won’t read the next two books, but it is a “letdown”.  I’m almost done with it, and will most certainly complete it before Westercon starts in four days, and so will hold off with comments for another day or two.

In any case, after a month, tomorrow is my next scheduled appointment with Dr. Akrabu.  I was supposed to be done reading all five 2013 Hugo nominees, but as suspected, was unable to complete what he prescribed.  It remains to be seen how the good doctor will take this, or if he will be able to help me further.   

To Be Continued        

16: SciFi is Not for Sissies; Westercon 66: A Skeptic Comes Home

E Hoffman Price with SASSAFRASS shirt

“The solicitude of Linda’s voice, the seductiveness of her perfume, her very presence as they sat in the artificial twilight of the Domes of Venus, tempted him to abandon his plan to sail at once for Terra, venture among the savage Terrestrians, and get possession of that enormous ruby they called the Fire of Skanderbek.”  E Hoffman Price, “Exile From Venus”, Planet Stories, May 1951

On the occasion of SASSAFRASS’ fifth anniversary, Happy Jack designed a commemorative t-shirt.  Across the top were the words “Outlaw Fandom”.  Below that was the yin/yang circle with SASSAFRASS scrolled across the middle.  A vertical sword blade was visible behind these images, with a line on the blade, representing the “fuller”, or groove down the center of the blade (sometimes called a “blood groove”).  To the right of the blade’s tip was a foaming beer mug with the number one, representing the Society’s victory over LASFS at the 1975 Westercon’s beer drinking smackdown.  To the left of the blade’s tip was the Ozzie “axion”, a symbol representing their 1978 science fiction punk rock opera. 

Berlin 1990: Cindy "Princess Violetta" Rushkin

Three members of Outlaw Fandom were in Ozzie (named after the big band leader/’50s sit com star, NOT the heavy metal dude), and though the band was not a “sci fi” band, many of its songs had sci fi subject matter, including its biggest hit, “Android Love”.  As part of radio station KZAP’s 10 Anniversary, Ozzie took these tunes, wrote a half dozen more, and bundled it all together for Berlin 1990: “The world was crumbling into ruin.  The terrorist nuclear device that obliterated the first and last of the deep-space habitats was the match igniting the overpopulated and impoverished Earth to flame…In all the black and bloody world there was but one small place that did not stink of the corruption of death…Behind The Wall lay the last city of the world.”

Planet Stories: Exile From Venus

 

Outlaw Fandom found a fellow traveler in pulp writer E Hoffman Price, who was generous with recollections of his exploits with friend HP Lovecraft, including their ill-fated, fetid days in New Orleans.  At a con around that time, OF was proud to present Price with a brand new SASSAFRASS shirt, little thinking he would immediately excuse himself and  return shortly thereafter with a drink in his hand and the shirt on his back!  We all toasted the pulps, SASSAFRASS' newest member, and fantastic literature.  RIP, E, seeya down the road, you are the best!

As explained before, because Mira Grant’s Hugo nominee Blackout is the third book in the Newsflesh trilogy, I opted to read the first in that series instead.  I’m over halfway through Feed, which was also a Hugo nominee in 2011.  More on that later.

To Be Continued      

#2 Baggies and Furs (Ten at Fifty)

You'd see 'em wearin' their baggies
Huarache sandals too

"Surfin' U.S.A." - The Beach Boys

The Beatles had probably already covered "Roll Over Beethoven" on the BBC before Brian Wilson conceived the idea of having a "listing song" like "Land of a Thousand Dances" or the later "Dancing in the Streets", but focused on surf culture. But he focused on another similar Berry song, "Sweet Little Sixteen", to be the engine of those lyrics. The song diverged somewhat from the jangly style of Dick Dale or The Ventures, which were associated more with the early surf sound, but had no little relationship with Jan and Dean's "Surf City" from the same year, focusing on tightness in both the harmonies and the driving rhythm.

The Beach Boys have recently proved they still have the chops:

The surf sound this song exemplifies didn't prove to have a lot of staying power, but definitely established the cultural imperative that keeps many non-surfers wearing "baggies" and flip-flops in the Western States to this day. And the likes of "Surfin' U.S.A." and "Surf City" are almost certain to be played on some stations for another fifty.

Dressed in all pink, 'cept my gator shoes, those are green
Draped in a leopard mink, girls standin' next to me
Probably shoulda washed this, smells like R. Kelly's sheets

"Thrift Shop" - Macklemore

This is yet another collaboration between a rapper and, sort of, a pop singer, but it's reversed relative to "Suit and Tie" or "Scream and Shout" - the nominal artist is the rapper, and the guest, Wanz aka Michael Wansley, is the "singer". Wansley is an unusual case as well, since this collaboration catapulted him into stardom, after years spent as a Software Quality Assurance Engineer (something I happen to know about) while moonlighting as an R&B singer.

"Thrift Shop" appears to have gathered more than its share of scorn, including this observation from one blogger:

Undoubtedly, “Thrift Shop,” which also features the singer Wanz, is a hip-hop song, though one that bears almost no connection to hip-hop as a living genre.

- and he says that like it's a bad thing... the comment "for people who don't like rap" keeps surfacing, among those who blog about hip-hop, in connection with this song. It is built on a very repetitive, but pleasantly angular, sax riff, and decries the materialism of rap culture, making the point that recycled clothing can be as much a statement as new, and perhaps with more creative potential. It spawned a substantial fad of thrift store buying, not a new thing though:

And in fact, Barbra Streisand's cover of the flapper era song generated its own Goodwill Fandom. But I suspect that this song's divergence from whatever might be construed the hip-hop center will not represent any direction that will last even as long as surf music.

Guest Blog: The Long Con and the Short Grift

(or:Two Cents from Happy Jack)

Part 1 – Down Where the Drunkards Roll

You can be a gambler

Who never drew a hand

You can be a sailor

Who never left dry land

You can be Lord Jesus

All the world will understand

Down where the drunkards roll

Down where the drunkards roll

-     Richard and Linda Thompson

 “Fandom is not a normal hobbyist group. It has been suggested that, if sf ceased to exist, fandom would continue to function quite happily without it.”

-     John Clute and Peter Nicholls, The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction (1995)

“Look carefully at the differences between a reader and a fan, terms that are used almost interchangeably in much of the available work on sf reading.  A sci-fi reader is someone who likes to read sci-fi.  An sf fan is someone for whom sf is a facet of his/her social life or of his/her identity.  Not all readers are fans.”

-     SCI FI 101, Kim G. Kofmel, Library Journal, September 1, 2004

“I would never join a club that would have me as a member.”

-     Groucho Marx

William Fuller has been writing very eloquently about our adventures in science fiction fandom and the conventions of the 1970s.  I’m not sure what I can add to the tale but, then again, why should he have all the fun?

Yes, I am a reader, an addict of science fiction, fantasy and horror. Although my literary diet is not exclusive to speculative fiction, it contains a distinct preference toward it.  It’s been that way for a very long time.  But I am not a fan, I am areader.  I thought I wanted to be a fan when I discovered fandom existed but found out fairly soon that I wasn’t cut out for it.  And fandom, I think, soon felt the same about me.  Fandom, like religion, is another example of what happens to people when they believe in something and get together to celebrate it. All too soon, it is no longer about the object of admiration, adoration or worship but more about recognition and status within the community, bureaucracy, politics, turf wars and schisms. 

During the 1970’s I and my friends had a great time approaching fandom in much the same way the Visigoths approached the Roman Empire; as rude and raucous barbarians at the gates.  From my current perspective, “Outlaw Fandom,” which WF has mentioned previously, was a foreshadowing of the punk movement just then lurking over the horizon.  Influenced by Hunter Thompson, Charles Bukowski, The Merry Pranksters, The Yippies, Frank Zappa, Carlos Castaneda, Captain Beefheart and whatever drugs and alcohol could be had, we were seized with an absolute determination to rock and mock the complacency of the established order.  Fandom had rules and rituals that clearly separated those on the inside from those on the outside.  And we never liked to be merely “outside.”

And so we wandered the halls of anonymous looking hotels, passing ourselves off as rogue journalists and often making a nuisance of one kind or another.  One thing we found absolutely remarkable about science fiction conventions was the accessibility of the authors to the fans and the readers.  I am in awe of writers.  And I am always grateful for the worlds and people they have painted my imagination with.  Going to Baycon in 68 was like going to a convention of rock stars without needing a backstage pass. 

"... don't drink too much, and if you drink too much go to your room ..."

- Mary Kay Kare, the "Miss Manners" of fandom,

Science Fiction Culture by Camile Bacon-Smith

But, of course, it wasn’t too long before we abused the privilege of that accessibility.  We, SASSAFRASS, had arranged for a drinking contest with LASFS to be held at the Westercon in Oakland in 1975.  Was it a scam to get free beer?  I can neither confirm nor deny that allegation.  Despite our best efforts, which included one of our team pouring beer into his boots, we were soundly trounced by the Southern Californians, championed, in the end, by a woman with truly prodigious capacity.  There’s a bit of a blur following the conclusion of the contest but I do recall finding myself in a hotel room, ranting and raging at Poul Anderson and Larry Niven.

I asserted that they couldn’t write about war because they hadn’t served; they hadn’t experienced the blood and the mud and the jungle like I had in Viet Nam.  Of course, I had never been in the military, never been farther West than Catalina Island nor further East than Washington, D.C.  I’m not sure if I was ejected or staggered out but it’s a miracle I wasn’t tossed out of the con altogether. I would like to believe that maybe I was entirely incoherent and that the exchange was more hallucination then sodden performance.  But I’m pretty sure it happened exactly that way.

And of course there were other incidents, like pissing off Ray Bradbury by going on and on about Truffaut’s Fahrenheit 451 which Bradbury absolutely loathed and praising Rod Steiger’s performance in The Illustrated Man (equally despised).  I saw the literal truth of the old saw, “hot under the collar,” as Bradbury’s fury slowly rose and reddened his face starting from the neck and moving up, just like in the cartoons.

Then there was the time that I was excoriated by Harlan Ellison for snidely inferring that his attention to the business side of things somehow lessened his worth as an artist.  “You’ve got to bare your fangs, motherfucker,” Harlan shouted at me, followed by a full serving from his extensive buffet of insults. 

Valuable lessons learned at the feet of the masters.  That’s what it was all about.

[to be continued] 

15: SciFi is Not for Sissies; Westercon 66: A Skeptic Comes Home

Wrap-around Program Cover by Russ Manning

“western tanagers yellow and black   red heads   scrabbling for spilled popcorn   their movements take milliseconds   followed by frozen moments two or three magnitudes longer   sometimes four or five magnitudes   thus a visual illusion of  instantaneous motion between one stillness and another   for each ecstatic instant   we must an anguish pay”  2312

“Our stories go on awhile, some genes and words persist; then we go away.  It was a hard thing to remember.”  2312

The first Witchcraft and Sorcery Convention in October, 1971 at the Los Angeles Hilton Hotel was monumental for Outlaw Fandom.  It was there that we met and/or, for Reality News, interviewed Ray Bradbury, Forrest J Ackerman, Jack Kirby, Robert Bloch, E Hoffman Price, and others.  Price was the shiniest, craziest diamond in this solid sack full, overflowing with stories and memories regarding his days writing for the pulps, and especially those days with his friend, HP Lovecraft.  Bjo Trimble, this year’s Westercon Costuming Special Guest (along with husband John), was in charge of the art show, and it was at this con that a séance was held to contact Bela Lugosi.  Unbelievably, we were actually embraced by a host of fans and guests; Price would become a life-long friend who we would stay in contact with and run into several times in the years to come.

It was also at this convention that OF stalwart Macho Marty was “seduced” by a fan predator who we nicknamed El Bastardo.  Bastardo was a sleazy pseudo-“fan” who evidently hung out at conventions preying on attractive young women.  He was pretty disgusting in his own right, but the fact that he was married only made it worse.  That first night, he brought us to his home in Newport Beach, where his utterly charming wife gave us our first taste of Jack Daniels, which she affectionately referred to as her Tennessee sippin’ whiskey.  This of course only endeared her to us, but while we were sippin’, El Bastardo was making his moves in another room.  MM, though pretty tough on many levels (hence her nickname), was no match for this privileged, deep pocketed lothario.  Things just got worse in the following days; needless to say, just before we left LA, unbeknownst to MM, El Bastardo endured some very deserved “unpleasantness”.

I have finished reading my third Hugo nominee, 2312.  It is without a doubt not only one of the best sci-fi books I think I’ve ever read, but just an outstanding achievement, well written, great pacing, fascinating characters, an “experimental” approach to story-telling – I know, I’m just repeating stuff I’ve said in previous posts, but I’m here to tell you it holds up extremely well through to the end.  I have not read any other Robinson, but that will change, and I would LOVE to enter this world he created again.  HIGHLY recommended.

And now it’s on to 2013 Hugo Nominee number four.

To Be Continued

14: SciFi is Not for Sissies; Westercon 66: A Skeptic Comes Home

The Queen of Sacra Fandom: Laurine White

“Jim McLeod: Mr. Mcleod is probably not a new name to people who have been reading or looking at science-fiction fan publications.  His artwork illustrates many zines, and will also be prominently displayed at this year’s Worldcon.  His fanzine, Interplanetary Cornchips (co-edited by the indubitable Dale Goble), is in its seventh issue, with an eighth planned for September (expect it in December!).  SASSAFRASS, the science-fiction society he spearheads, plans to hold a convention in Sacramento in a few years, despite its entire membership being almost thrown in jail three months ago (admittedly, most likely because of Outlaw Fandom).  With a can of Coors in one hand (which we do not hold against him), a Rapidograph in the other, and a befuddled, dazed haze in his eyes, Mr. McLeod unleashes a steady stream of fine art that T!L!R! is please to be a part of.”  Contributor Note from True!Lust!Romances!, The Journal of Outlaw Fandom, Premier Issue, September 1972

Extracts (SASSAFRASS) (with apologies to Kim Stanley Robinson)

were evidently gathered together at the home of Jim McLeod for their first meeting.  Exactly when this occurred is disputed, but 1972 or ’73 seems to be the year.  The founders appear to be McLeod and Dale Goble, who brought in about a dozen other fans, and Jack Hastings (who McCloud and Goble had met at a convention), who brought along a few friends.  Ideas were exchanged and goals established, including a regular monthly meeting schedule.  According to various accounts, the alcohol consumption at that first meeting

soon became apparent that standouts included Laurine White and Ken Nahigian.  These were fans of the purest, most intense nature, “true fans” who loved and lived science fiction in a way most of the others could only dream of.  Bright and attractive, with minds that were forever flying in imaginative winds, they led most of the discussions and had the greatest insights into the sci fi world.  Ms. White was especially provocative and innovative; she was probably the first person in Sacramento to delve into “kung-fu Hong Kong movie” culture almost 20 years before it became “fashionable” in the Nineties, hosting her own gatherings/film showings at her house.  She without question earned her nickname as the Queen of Sacramento Fandom many times over.  On the other hand, she and Nahigian’s view of splinter group “Outlaw Fandom”

invited for the first time to the annual Yulemoot.  Unfortunately, during the mathom exchange, the Emperor, who had just recently been “elected” by Outlaw Fandom to “lead” SASSAFRASS, upset with the gift he had received, began loudly cursing and threw his gift across the circle of celebrants, which was almost as large as the room where it was held.  Several large gentlemen, probably members of the Society for Creative Anachronism, sprang up from their chairs and headed in his direction, as the other Outlaw Fandom attendees

even though the Alemoot was intended as Outlaw Fandom’s answer to the Yulemoot.  Held on the first day of summer, it was a ribald, bacchanalian gathering of OF, others in SASSAFRASS, bashers from the

SASSAFRASS and the Los Angeles Science Fiction Society should strictly follow these rules:

1. One beer to be consumed every 15 minutes until only one team remained
2. Puking would result in that participant's disqualification
3. Five members per team
4. Two appointed, impartial monitors would accompany any participant who left to use the bathroom
5. Foul language and/or

To Be Continued

13: SciFi is Not for Sissies; Westercon 66: A Skeptic Comes Home

Self Portrait

Interlude: Living Science Fiction, Dhalgren, and Summer Solstice in Stockholm

“He shrugged. Confusion was like struggling to find the proper way to sit inside his skin.” Samuel R. Delaney, Dhalgren, 1975

(Note: In commemoration of this first day of summer, the author takes a break from what has come before and what will follow.  Below are two entries from the author’s daily journal of his European journey in 1979.  Drawings are also by the author from his journal.)

May 9, over the Atlantic Ocean: Am about halfway through Dhalgren on this seemingly never-ending flight to Amsterdam.  Have been reading it for five or six hours, seeping in its intensely unpleasant brew of disturbing images and actions.  Can feel myself undergoing some kind of transformation, like we’re on the way to Bellona and The Kid is waiting there to take me on some unspeakable journey.  Is this “living science fiction”?  Got to stop reading, but I can’t.  Is it the book, my exhaustion, something else?  My skin is crawling.

June 14, Koln, Germany: We awaken around 9 AM and take our leave of the Hotel Dom.  We go in search of food and discover we are once again unwittingly in the middle of another holiday, a Christian celebration only observed in some parts of the country, clergymen in their finest leading hordes of Germans down the main streets, a lot of incense and singing and blaring “announcements” over loudspeakers that seem to be everywhere.  We need money, but now everything in Cologne is closed.  We stop at the side of a street.  I reach in my backpack for Dhalgren, figuring I’ll get in a few more pages.  It is missing.  It is gone, and I don’t know how or why.  Thank God.

June 22, Stockholm, Midsummer Holiday:  We drive to an island about an hour from Paul and Eva’s house.  We all are to spend Midsummer night with Bill and his girl friend Crystal.  The small house is in a wooded rural area, very close to a lake.  Donna and I and Tom will sleep in tents outside.  When we arrive, we go out to the jetty that Bill and some friends have constructed.  It reminds me of the short film of the same name, somewhat unsettling.  The view is magnificent.  There are many mosquitoes, but for some reason they don’t bother us on the jetty.  It’s around 7 PM and the sun is brightly shining, as it will for the next five or six hours.  We polish off a couple bottles of wine and it is time for dinner. 

Donna in Stockholm

What a meal: raw salmon with a mustard/dill sauce, pickled herring with sour cream and chives, potatoes, salad, cheese, wasa, bread, beer and more wine.  Then starts the Midsummer tradition: we all sing a song, take a full shot of akvavit, down a forkful of herring/sour cream/chives/potato, and wash it down with a gulp of beer.  This goes on for a few hours.  Donna is tired and tries to get me to help set up our tent, but the time never seems right, as we continue singing, “Ghost Riders in the Sky”, “Eight Days a Week”, Donovan’s “Colours”, and more.  Paul agrees to help Donna with the tent.  I stay up another hour or so, singing and talking, and as the darkness finally falls, somewhere after midnight, I go to the tent, but Donna refuses to let me in because I did not help put the damn thing up.  So I take my sleeping bag to the jetty and spend the night alone by the lake.

To Be Continued