This was a day that will be remembered in WorldCon history.

Unlike the previous recaps, I’m not going to go too much into the details of the day.  I want to focus on the experience of attending the Hugos.  These recap entries have been my way of recording my experience of the event.  Leading up to the Hugos, much of the day was like the previous, in terms of getting up, getting fed, and attending panels.

I was signed up for the Kaffee Klatche with John Berlyne, the same man I spoke about in yesterday’s post.  I wound up not going.  For one thing, I’d just sat with him for one-on-one time.  I admire and respect him, but I don’t want to come across as some kind of stalker, following him everywhere around the con.  For another thing, since I’d just had that one-on-one time with him, it didn’t seem fair for me to take up a limited slot at his table.  Also, breakfast with friends that morning went a little bit late.  I could have excused myself from the table, but given my other concerns, I decided it was better to stay and visit with my friends.

Melissa and I attended panels.  I took notes.  I’ll post the notes once I’m back in Sacramento.

Skipping ahead…

Melissa and I returned to the convention center all dressed up and ready for the Hugos.  This year they issued tickets with assigned seating.  I greatly appreciated this.  At ChiCon 7, I had to stand in the back the whole time, my feet aching.  With assigned seating, I knew that we’d sit down, and it would be less hassle getting to our seats.  We might even be able to see more than just the monitor.

We knew that they’d begin handing out tickets at 6PM.  The doors would open at 7PM, and the event would start at 8PM.  Our plan was to get our tickets, stroll to one of the local restaurants, have a nice dinner, then be in our seats just before the big event.

Things mostly worked out as planned.  We got to the ticket line before 6, but it already stretched long.  Melissa and I walked to the back of the line, which snaked through several halls.  Once they began handing out tickets, the line moved relatively fast, putting us on the street with tickets in hand around 6:15.

We walked to our first choice of restaurants and found it full, with a twenty minute wait.  We went on to the next choice and found the same thing.  We looked at the menu of a third, and fled because the prices were exorbitant.  I began to think we would just have to starve until after the Hugos.

It makes sense.  Everyone had the same idea.  With over 5,000 warm bodies at the convention, and a limited number of restaurants within walking distance, it was inevitable that there would be some waiting.

Fortunately, we were able to get a seat at Chili’s, right across the street.  The wait was still ten to fifteen minutes, but with the place being so close, we weren’t afraid of being late if service was slow.  Plus, we were able to pay at the table, so we didn’t need to wait for a server when it was time to leave.

We ate a mediocre dinner, then hurried to the performing arts center.  Staff efficiently guided us to our seats.  We sat in the orchestra section, with a view of the stage that was more than acceptable.

Before the award ceremony began, George R. R. Martin, John Scalzi, and a few others were interviewed.  The interview took place in another room, with the video projected on the big screen.  I did not catch the entire thing.  They were talking about the controversy around the nominations, and what could be done in future years.  I appreciated Martin’s stance the most, which was that we shouldn’t throw out the system and make broad, sweeping changes based on one anomalous year.  What we should do instead is be more active in the nomination process.

I read the program.  I noted the section that went into great detail about the “No Award” option.  The No Award option had been used five times in the history of the Hugos.  I considered the prominent placement of this message in the program as a sign of what was to come.

Finally, the award ceremony began.  A grim reaper rolled onto the stage, moving towards a Hugo in the middle of the stage.  Three women in red Star Trek outfits rushed out to stop the specter.  One of them was grabbed and taken off stage by the grim reaper’s assistant.  Another of the women drew a blaster, shouted something, and drove the grim reaper off.

I didn’t catch all of the words that she’d shouted.  She’s said something along the lines of, “You’re not going to destroy the Hugos!  You’ve already taken Terry Pratchett!” The woman that did the shouting and drove off death was Tananarive Due, one of the ceremony’s co-hosts.

The joke about Terry Pratchett earned groans all around me.  The whole message from the beginning, that someone was trying to destroy the Hugos by attacking women and people of color, was not perfectly executed or received.  With that opening, I had my doubts about how the evening would go.  I was afraid that it was going to be a very negative show.

Fortunately, it didn’t keep going that direction.  David Gerrold and Tananarive Due ran the evening, and they were witty.  Mistakes were made.  Parts of the presentation were done out of order, and several videos started at the wrong time.  The show was not perfectly executed.  However, I found David’s fumbling with the script to be authentic and endearing.  No show is perfect, and I do not believe the flubs in the show diminished the quality of it.

Specific highlights for me involved Robert Silverberg blessing the ceremony with a story, and singing Hari Krishna.  He shook a tambourine and got the audience to sing with him.

Connie Willis took the stage and spoke as well.  She was endearing and funny.  After she’d made a statement about how she would not be a presenter, I thought her presence elevated the evening, and dulled the knife edge of the conspiracy surrounding the Hugos this year.

Jay Lake was posthumously presented an award.  I found myself tearing up.  I had only met him briefly, but he was such a sweet man.  The presentation touched us all.  I hope that there is an award named for Jay Lake.

The names of those we’ve lost this year scrolled by, with familiar names like Leonard Nimoy, Terry Pratchett, and Christopher Lee.  So many names this year.  David Gerrold nearly cried afterwards.  Another deeply touching moment during the ceremony.

Then it was time for the awards.  The John W. Campbell award went to Wesley Chu.  He accepted it, said that he wasn’t going to “go political” at first, then by the end, said, “You know what?  I am going political.” Then he declared his candidacy as a Republican nominee for the presidency.  Too funny!

The Hugo awards were next, starting with all the fan categories, and the semiprozine.  Elizabeth Leggett won best fan artist, and she made a very passionate speech that ended with “BlackLivesMatter.” The rest of the award winners stuck to thanking those that supported them.

The ceremony progressed.  I don’t remember the order.  I know that best related work was the first to receive “No Award,” only because I texted the result to Michael.

The evening started with five No Awards in the history of the Hugos.  It ended with ten.

With each one, the crowd cheered, loud and strong.  Melissa sat next to me, stunned.  She said, “That’s not right.” She hadn’t followed the controversy as closely as the rest of us.  I appreciate her perspective on this matter.

History was made last night.  Not just with the number of No Awards.  The winner for the best novel is the first time a translated work has taken home a rocket.  It puts the world in WorldCon.

After the awards, Melissa and I changed clothes and joined our friends at one of the bars.  We visited, then went to bed.

As I write this, it is a little after 2PM.  Melissa and I are going to attend the closing ceremonies, then probably wander around and eat before getting on a plane this evening.  Sasquan is effectively over for us, and we had a fantastic time.  We’re looking forward to WorldCon next year in Kansas City.

Before I close this post, I want to talk about the Hugos, one last time.

The ceremony attempted to put a positive spin on the situation, and I think it succeeded.  Leading up to Sasquan, people talked about there being an asterisk with these Hugos.  That concept was embraced, even celebrated, with the creation of a wooden asterisk constructed by robots with lasers.  The ceremony had its low points, but it also had humor and laughter.  It still celebrated fandom and the fiction that we love.

The future of the Hugos looks brighter after last night.  We will not be so complacent with our nominations.  The system may change in the future.  Or perhaps we’ll change.  Perhaps we’ll be more active, making it that much harder for any individual to mess with our celebration.

We fans will go on, and the Hugos will go on.  What’s past is done, and the future is whatever we decide to make it.

But there were victims this year, and I want to acknowledge them.  For every person that made something that would have qualified for recognition this year, but your work was overshadowed or supplanted by the slates, you will be known.  I don’t know the names of every person that falls into this category.  I just know that what happened this year was not fair to you, and I hope that you will continue your work and receive the recognition that you deserve.

Melissa and I sat in at Jennifer Brozek’s Kaffee Klatche this morning.  She composed herself well, and with dignity.  But it was clear that she was still hurt by how things went last night.  It was her first Hugo nomination, but because of the one that started this controversy, her category received No Award.

When Jennifer was about to sign a card for me, she asked if she should sign it “Hugo loser or Hugo nominee?” She said it with a smile, but like I said, it’s clear that this has been rough on her.

The truth is that Jennifer Brozek is one of the hardest working individuals in the business.  She manages her time, setting herself a scheduled that stretches nine months into the future.  She doesn’t miss her deadlines.  She’s managing multiple projects at the same time, both editing and writing.  She’s methodical.  She’s knowledgeable, and dedicated to her craft.  She rarely takes vacations.

These are not the qualities of a loser.  Quite the opposite.  I have complete confidence that this will not be the last time we see her up for a Hugo.

We owe it to her and everyone like her to be involved.  We need to nominate our favorite artists and editors, and we need to vote.  If we do these things, then people like Jennifer will get the kind of recognition that they’ve earned.

This was a day of high emotions.

Again, Melissa and I rose from our bed early.  We made our preparations for the day, then went downstairs to catch a shuttle to the convention center.  The smell of smoke was already in the air.

I’m not sure what happened with the shuttle.  We arrived right at 8AM, and waited almost half an hour, but never saw it.  It either came and left early, or was off to a late start.  Since I needed to be at the pitching session by 9AM, we left on foot, and once again walked the streets of Spokane.

When I signed up for the pitching session, I didn’t realize what I was signing up for.  Thursday, I’d gone to the desk for the Kaffee Klatche signups, and the woman behind the desk said that if I filled in one of two sheets that were close to full, she could put the sheet away and make more room on the desk.  I obliged, scribbling my name on the bottom of the pitching sheet, thinking that I was going to go to a session where I’d learn how to pitch my book.

That’s not quite what it was.  I mean, I could learn how to pitch my book, but it was via pitching my book to an actual agent.  I discovered this just before getting there.

I started off nervous, and feeling like I shouldn’t be there.  The online information about the panel stated that some of the work should have been sent in advance.  Since I hadn’t done that, I felt like at any moment, a couple of burly security guys would come in, haul me up by my belt and collar, and throw me out with the words, “And you’ll never work in this town again!”

Those fears were a bit exaggerated and misplaced.  Instead, I wound up sitting down with John Berlyne, a man that I’ve seen at several WorldCons, and that I’ve admired.  His name has appeared on this blog before.  To put it mildly, I have a great deal of respect for him.  In addition to being nervous about pitching my novel, I was a little bit star struck.

I did my best.  I told him about The Repossessed Ghost and he listened and gave me some tips and advice.  He said it sounds marketable, derivative in the good way, and that I should send it (not necessarily to him) when it’s ready.  He talked about how urban fantasy had its heyday, but is now on the decline.  There were a few other things he said, but I didn’t have the mental fortitude to retain it all that well.

I thanked him, gathered up my stuff, and left.  Melissa rejoined me, and we stepped outside.  I was wound up tight, my emotions running like an engine in the red.  I calmed down quickly, and Melissa and I were able to move on to the next thing.

Keep in my mind that when I say that I was emotionally charged, it has nothing to do with acceptance or rejection.  The experience had nothing to do with that.  This had more to do with presenting something unprepared to one of my heroes.  It’s the real life equivalent to the dream where you’re on stage, and you don’t know your lines.  Or you arrive at class, where there’s a test you haven’t studied for.

From the pitch session, Melissa and I made our way to the first panel we’d be attending that day.  It started off reasonably well, but then went off the rails.  The moderator was not prepared, recovering from partying the night before, and she said some things that turned Melissa and I off.  I have some notes, which I’ll post at a later time.

A little bit peeved, we prepared to go to the next panel.  Only, there were two events I jotted down that I wanted to attend.  I wound up convincing Melissa to go to one, which I knew she’d enjoy, and I went to one I was interested in, that I thought might help me decide the course of my writing career.  Melissa went to hear George Martin and Robert Silverberg talk, while I went to learn whether or not I should self-publish, or go the traditional publishing route.

Again, I’ll post the notes to the panel later.  It was okay.  Not fantastic, but it did end with a question which I think has me decided.  That is: Do you want to have control over selling your books, and manage all the aspects of the business of your writing, or do you want someone else to sell your books, leaving you to just write stories?

Put that way, it’s easy: I just want to write stories.

Melissa and I met up for hot dogs.  We ran into Andrea Stewart and sat with her, and enjoyed lunch together.  That was nice, for a couple of reasons.  One, Andrea is a really cool person, and is in my local writing group.  For another, the next item on our agenda was attending her reading, so as long as we were sitting together, we weren’t going to miss her event.

Andrea’s reading was fantastic.  She gave Melissa a copy of her book, and after the reading, Melissa told me how much she wants to read the rest of the story Andrea read to us.  That was really nice.

After the reading, there wasn’t anything on my schedule until dinner.  We wound up following Richard Crawford and his wife Jennifer to a couple of interesting panels.  One was on adapting the human body to low gravity.  The other was about pseudoscience.  After those two panels, Melissa picked one on narrative structure and expectation.  All three panels were interesting and fine.

By the time we were done with panels for the day, it was nearly time to meet Jennifer for dinner.  We started to leave to take our bags back to the room, and discovered that the air was barely breathable, full of smoke.  It blocked out the sun.  People on the streets covered their mouths.  One person on a bike wore a full gas mask, and it seemed appropriate for the conditions.

Melissa and I didn’t dawdle.  We took the shuttle, stayed indoors as much as we could, and arrived at our meeting place with plenty of time.  We relaxed on a couches in the lobby where we were to meet Jennifer for dinner.  Melissa told me all about the Silverberg-Martin talk.  I knew she would love it, and I regretted missing it myself.

Dinner with Jennifer was very nice.  I met one of the people in her writing group, Jason, and both of them asked me about some of the stories I’m working on.  I told them at length about A Clean Slate, and they had some sound advice.  We talked about our stories, the emotions involved in putting work out there.  Jennifer told us about an early rejection letter she received, and how she’d accidentally turned down an agent’s inquiry.

The food and the company was fantastic.  I think we all had a really great time.

After dinner, we had to rush back across the street to attend the masquerade.  Denise Tanaka was a participant, and we didn’t want to miss it.  The masquerade was full of some fantastic costumes and some truly inspired presentations.  One of my favorites was in the novice division.  He came out as Groot, and apparently, he’d never done any sort of costuming before.  His Groot was perfect.

The costume presentations took a long while.  There were close to 50 entrants.  After the last one left the stage, the judges were excused to tally their results, and the artist guest of honor, whose name I can’t remember, came out to entertain the crowd with his filking.  Before he’d made it out on stage, about a quarter of the audience had made their way to the exit.  Melissa and I thought that was rude.  Then the guy said that he was going to perform for more than an hour, and Melissa and I exited, too.  We still thought it was rude, and we felt bad about it.  But we just couldn’t sit there for the whole show.

The smoke was still really bad outside.  We shuttled back to our hotel.  Melissa stayed in our room, and I went over to the party hotel to visit.  I was out for about an hour and a half, and entered into some great conversations.  Before midnight, however, exhaustion caught up with me, and I went back to my room and went to bed.

It’s been a great convention.  As I’m writing this up, I’m feeling that fuzzy in-between place, where I’m not entirely sure what day it is, or what I’m going to do next.  It’s hard to believe that I’ll be back at work on Monday.

This was a day of walking.

Melissa and I got up early by convention standards, but not quite early enough to get a full breakfast.  We wound up getting muffins and coffee from the lobby Starbucks.  Then, we hit the street and walked to the convention center.

We made it just in time to meet up with the Walk with the Stars group.  Every WorldCon has one of these in the morning.  It’s not a race.  It’s more like an amble, or a mosey.  We walked along the path into the park area.  We crossed a bridge and looked at the water flowing.  We saw ducks.  And we visited with other people attending the convention.  The exercise made the blood flow, and stretched our muscles, both physical and social.

After the walk, we sat down and let our legs rest.  I wrote yesterday’s post.  Then we were back on our feet, and attended a number of panels.

Throughout the early part of the day, my head ached.  The pain washed over me in waves, distracting me.  By 1PM, Melissa and I went back up near registration, and picked up teriyaki bowls for lunch.  After eating, I felt a bit bitter.

We enjoyed a couple more panels.  As usual, I took notes, which I’ll decipher at a later time, and post on this site.  By 4PM, we made our way to the art exhibit and looked at all the pretties.  While in the dealers room, I ran into Jennifer Brozek and got to pick her brain about a panel I knew she was on that I was going to miss.

Melissa and I walked back to the Davenport Tower, dropped off our bags, then went and had dinner at the Red Robin.  Then we made our way to the bar where Drinks with Writers was taking place.  We ran into some friends and familiar faces, mingled, and drank a little.

We stayed out as long as we could, but after being on our feet for so long, we were exhausted.  We were closer to the convention center than our hotel at that point, so we made our way to the center and caught a shuttle.  We retired to our room, foregoing the parties altogether.

I don’t remember walking this much at previous cons.  Maybe it’s selective memory?  Sasquan is really spread out, both in terms of where the panels are located, and where the hotels and parties are taking place.  I’ll have to talk to Michael about previous WoldCons he’s attended when I get home, and compare notes.

I love WorldCon.  These are my people.

Melissa and I arrived late Tuesday night, and went straight to bed.  We got up early Wednesday morning, went downstairs, and had breakfast at the hotel.  Then, it was off on a brisk walk to the convention center for registration.

We arrived relatively early.  The doors weren’t open yet, but a line had already formed.  Once inside, we had our badges and goodie bags in short order.  We were lucky.  Shortly after we wandered away from registration, someone announced that registration had a three hour delay.

The first event we took part in was the blood drive.  Again, Melissa and I showed up early so we wouldn’t have to wait too long.  We talked with the people running the blood mobile, and found out that they expected about 25 to 30 people.  It turned out that they had 25 people before they even opened the doors.

Melissa was first in to donate, and I was second.  I give blood frequently, but this time, I agreed to do something different.  I knew about giving platelets, which I’ve never done.  This was like that, only they were taking red blood cells and putting my plasma back in me.  That way, they could effectively get two units from me.  They take twice the red blood cells, and the recovery is twice as long.

It felt strange.  The withdrawal of the blood was normal enough, but part way through, the machine changed direction of the flow, and I could see fluids pumped back into me.  The plasma and saline was room temperature, which meant that it was comparatively cold going into my arm.  I’m not sure I’ve ever felt my circulatory system before.  The process changed course twice more before it was done.

I’m glad to give blood.  The only drawback this time was that it went a little longer than I expected, and I wound up missing the first panel I wanted to attend.

Melissa and I shambled away from the vampires.  We made our way back upstairs to the dealer room and looked at all the goodies.  Unlike some conventions I’ve been to, a map is posted, with a list of the different vendors.  We didn’t make use of the map or list, but it was nice to see it there.

We looked at books and shirts and costumes.  We spoke with David Malki.  He even seemed to vaguely remember me from Reno and Chicago.  We picked up some surprises for the kids.  They don’t read my blog, but on the off-chance that they decide to check it out this one time, I won’t spoil their surprise and say what it is.  But the gifts are absolutely perfect, and they’re going to love them.

We eventually made our way downstairs to the ballroom, for the opening ceremonies.  Again, we arrived nice and early, and we were able to get good seats.

Opening ceremonies began with a native American storyteller (whose name I cannot remember), blessing the convention with a song.  He then told a few stories, talking about how there is something to learn from every story.  He talked about how there are truths in the head, and there are truths that are in the heart.  His stories spoke to those truths in the heart.  He also spoke about the importance of verbal storytelling.  I thought of Michael and knew that he would approve.  It’s a real shame Michael couldn’t attend this WorldCon.  I know it’s tearing him up that he can’t be here, because he loves this event as much or more than I do.

After opening ceremonies, there was a procession that lead out to the park area behind the convention center, near the river.  Men and women from the SCA were on display, dueling.  Someone was flying a drone.  There was a booth for face painting, some tables for convention bids, and a good number of people simply mingling.  There was also ice cream.  Melissa and I each acquired a cone.

Smoke from all the fires in the surrounding areas choked the sky, and dimmed the sun to a smoldering red.  It made for a beautiful and terrible sight.

At 7PM, Melissa and I went into our first proper panel, which was about critiques and writer groups.  I had been looking forward to it especially, both for the subject matter (which, honestly, I was already familiar with) and because Jennifer Carson was one of the panelists.  I’ll write up detailed notes about the panel later.

Then it was off to the con parties!

When arranging our hotel, I wanted to make sure that we were in the same hotel as the parties, so that when I needed to go to bed, I didn’t have to go very far.  The sasquan web site mentioned that the parties were at the Davenport, so I made sure that we had rooms there.  Unfortunately, there are multiple Davenport hotels.  Our room is at the Tower, but most of the parties were actually at the Davenport Historic.  The Historic is really close to the Tower, fortunately, so it wasn’t too bad.

After giving blood, and then staying on our feet most of the day, Melissa and I were both exhausted pretty early.  We only visited a couple of parties before we called it quits and headed back to our room.  We were in bed before 11.

This WorldCon looks to be every bit as splendid as the ones I’ve attended previously.  It’s not the same without Michael, but Melissa is here with me, and we’re having a really great time so far.

Walking is great exercise.  Maybe not as great as a 10 mile obstacle course in Tahoe but it’s still great.  You work the largest muscles in your body without putting excess strain on your joints.  It’s natural movement.  It’s good for you.

But most of the time when I go walking, I’m not doing it for my body.  I’m doing it for my mind.  I clear my thoughts.  I let stress and emotions roll out along my legs and into the ground beneath me.  I unravel programming knots.  I contemplate stories.  I think.

I take a little bit of time out of every day at work to go and walk.  It’s the same route, everyday.  I go out through the back door.  I cross the parking lot towards the pond between my building and the next.  I take the path that runs along the stream, that connects the two parking lots.  Then, I go along the entire outside of the next lot, step over onto the side street, and follow it to the main street.  A right turn, and then I’m headed back towards my work place.  It’s just under a mile, with busy freeway on one side, a quiet, verdant pond on the other.

When I’m not solving a problem in my mind, or working out the details of a story, I try to be in the moment.  I listen to the cars racing by on Highway 50.  I look up at the sky, appreciating the cerulean sky and the softness of the clouds.  I imagine the vastness of space, lying just beyond the sky.  With no roof over my head, there is nothing preventing me from spinning off into the nothing, save for the Earth herself holding me to her surface.  Holding me by my feet, which I keep lifting and moving away from the concrete, like an unruly child squirming away from his mother’s embrace.

Yesterday, while walking this same route I’ve walked for more than a year and a half, I felt like a character in one of my own stories.  Details lent itself to narrative.  If you’ll indulge me a moment, I will share!

I rounded the corner onto the last street leading back to my office.  The heat of the afternoon pressed me from all sides, and I felt sweat forming in the middle of my back.  I chastised myself for not walking earlier in the day, when the temperature would have been more mild.

As I made the last leg of the trek, I spotted the corpse of a raccoon lying on the grass, near the road.  It lay on its side, its paws pulled up and its eyes closed, facing me.

“Oh man,” I said, and turned away quickly.  I thought for a moment how mild my exclamation was.  No profanity.  Then the smell hit me, and my thoughts evaporated.  I quickened my step.

As I moved past, I noticed something else out of place.  Dotting the grass and bushes along my path were dozens of pieces of notebook paper.  They were empty and lined, though not like typical, college ruled paper.

The paper littered the ground for a dozen yards or so.  I’d walked past most of it before my steps began to falter.

In a cartoon world, an angel and a devil would have appeared on my shoulder.

“Leave the world better than you found it,” the angel would have said.

“Get back to work,” the devil would respond. “This isn’t your problem.”

“But it won’t take much to pick up the paper.  It’s dry.”

“There are other people who get paid to do this.  It’s not your job.”

I turned around.  The angel doesn’t always win, but I always want him to.

I walked back to where the paper began.  I bent and picked it up, then turned to the next.  Then the next after that.  The odor from the roadkill struck me again, but I pressed on.  None of the pages were close to the dead raccoon, and I considered that a blessing.

A few minutes later, I was back on the path, a stack of blank pages in my hand.  I went into my office and dumped the pages in the recycling bin.  I sat at my desk and went back to my programming, feeling like I’d done something small, but right.

I walk almost every day.  I don’t write nearly so often.  I need to write more.  When I’m not writing, I get depressed.  I withdraw.  And apparently, when I go long enough without writing something, I start framing minor events in my life in some sort of narrative.

Writers and readers look for patterns and symmetry.  We look for connections.  We take comfort in the familiarity of the hero’s journey and fairy tale endings.  We also look for symbols, and the meaning of things.

Take, for example, Thor’s hammer.  As a hammer, it is shaped to work as a weapon or a tool.  More than its shape or function, it is a symbol of Asgard, and the persona of Thor. “Whosoever holds this hammer, be they worthy, wields the power of Thor.” It is not just the weapon of the god of thunder, it’s his symbol.

Our fiction is filled with these symbols.  Superman’s crest, and Batman’s emblem.  Dr. Who’s police box.  We see these things, and some of us have emotional reactions.  We’re taken back to the place and time where our lives were touched by these symbols.

For better or worse, these symbols aren’t confined to our fiction.  Some of these symbols are deeply personal, an aspect of what defines us.  The problem is that we don’t always agree on what these symbols mean, so those that identify the most with a symbol are most likely to feel slighted by those that do not share such a connection.

Take, for example, the “Jesus Fish.”

This is the Ichthys.  It’s simple, and its old.  To Christians, the Greek letters that form the word for this symbol stand for “Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior.” The fish also has other meanings to Christians.  Jesus was the fisher of men.  At the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus fed the congregation fish and bread.  There may be other connections that I’m forgetting.  But the point is that to many Christians, this is a symbol of Jesus Christ, as important as the cross.

Of course, the symbol itself is older than Christianity.  But in the US, if you see this symbol on a necklace or someone’s bumper, the person that placed it there probably did it because they want to express their faith.

For a time, the Ichthys was gaining in popularity.  Then another symbol started to appear on bumpers.

 

It’s kind of cute.  But what does it mean?

I’ve met quite a few people that didn’t know anything about the Ichthys.  Those people didn’t mean any offense.  One woman I spoke to about the Darwin fish on her car said, “I just like it.  The little fish evolved.”

Not all people display the Darwin Fish so innocently.  Some versions of the Darwin Fish are eating a Jesus Fish.  To them, the Darwin Fish represents evolution, winning out of creationism.  Taken a step further, the symbol stands for science and knowledge being superior to ignorance and superstition.

Whether it is intended or not, the Darwin Fish is an appropriation and mutilation of the Jesus Fish.  Understandably, folks that like their Jesus Fish might find the Darwin Fish offensive.

Should Christians be upset?  What is the appropriate response?

Let’s look at another symbol.

 

This one evokes a different emotion than either of the fishes.  Atrocities were done under this symbol.  This one reminds us of genocide.  It reminds us of hate.

If you see a swastika on someone’s bumper, what is the appropriate response?

Before you answer that, look at this symbol.

 

Before the swastika became the symbol that it is today, it was something else.  It’s much older than the Holocaust.  It is a symbol central to some religions, predating Christ.  In Sanskrit, it means “lucky, or auspicious.”  It has represented the four seasons, or four elements (sun, wind, water, earth).

Before it became a symbol of hate, it meant other, more positive things, to a great many people.

I’m not going to tell you that the Darwin Fish is as bad as the swastika.  That’s ridiculous, and it’s not the point of this post.

The point is that you cannot tell someone that they are right or wrong in the meaning they find in a symbol.

Let’s look at one more symbol, then wrap this up.

 

This one has caused all kinds of a stir recently.

To some… perhaps most… it represents slavery and racism.  Others claim that it represents Southern pride.

People are taking strong stances for or against this flag.  It’s coming down off of public buildings.  That seems reasonable to me.

Some stores are no longer selling items that feature this image.  That seems somewhat less reasonable to me, but okay.

And Warner Bros is discontinuing merchandise that features the General Lee from Dukes of Hazard.  Wait, what?

And a social media campaign is encouraging people to go and tear down the flag wherever you see it, even if it means invading and destroying other people’s property.  Seriously?

When I read about these reactions, I feel like the only adult left in the world.

Here is my opinion on how this flag should be handled.

If you are a confederate flag supporter, be considerate, and look at your community.  Acknowledge the fact that while the flag might represent something positive to you, it represents something hateful and ugly to a great many other people.  Are you prepared to offend some perfectly nice people you’ve never met?  Are you prepared to explain your stance, over and over again?  Maybe you should reconsider posting the flag publicly.  Maybe you can find some other symbol that isn’t so controversial,

Of course, if you want to fly the flag because you’re a racist douche bag, it doesn’t matter what I say here.  You’re going to find a way to be an asshole, if not with this flag, then with something else.  You’re why we can’t have nice things.

If you’re offended by the confederate flag, you’re not alone.  Change is happening, and it’s in your favor.  You’re not wrong for finding offense.  I only ask that you exercise the benefit of the doubt.  The guy wearing the confederate flag on his shirt might be a racist douche bag, but he might not be.  If you don’t know what that stranger’s intentions are, why assume the worst?

And please, don’t trespass and vandalize someone’s property.  I applaud the passion and the conviction, but being offended is not a valid excuse for willful destruction.  It won’t change anyone’s mind.  It’s only going to keep the hate and divisiveness going.

I’m 42 years old, and yesterday, I completed one of the most physically challenging adventures of my life.  I completed Tough Mudder.

This story doesn’t start at the starting line, with my heart pumping and adrenaline pouring through my veins.  This story starts much earlier than that, with something as mundane and boring as online registration.

Michael invited me to go with him, and join #GallowglasArmy for Tough Mudder.  I was just getting ready to start P90X with my son, so I thought it was a great idea.  I agreed, and we began the online registration process.

He added me to the team, and I received an email.  I followed the links, got to the registration portion, and entered all my information.  At the end of this process, they asked for some money, and I gave them my credit card information.  No problem.  It all seemed standard, to me.

I noticed at the time that I received two registration confirmation emails, about an hour apart.  I thought that was a little strange, but I didn’t give it much thought.

Months later, the day of the race was nearly upon us.  I looked at myself, and I reevaluated my decision participate.  I’d watched videos and talked to people that had done Tough Mudder, and I knew that I wasn’t ready.  I knew that I wasn’t in shape.  The P90X thing never happened, and I hadn’t been walking as much as I had been several months ago.

I decided to flake out.  There was no way that I was going to be able to make it through the course.  I did not want to die in Tahoe, or embarrass myself.  Michael might grumble and give me a hard time, but I could live with that.

Then I received the next set of emails, telling me when my start times were.  Start times.  Plural.  With two completely distinct registration numbers.  Oh shit.

Michael had paid for my registration, and when I’d gone through it, I wound up registering a second time.  That put a different spin on things.  I could walk away from my own monetary investment.  But I couldn’t do that to Michael.  I had no choice.  Flaking out was not an option.

I still had an extra registration, and I knew my son, Chris, wanted to go.  I didn’t see any reason why Chris couldn’t use the other registration I paid for.  So Chris was going, too.

Yesterday morning, around 6AM, our complete Tough Mudder team met up at my house and prepared to carpool.  Six of us were participating, with one of us going as an observer.  We needed to take two cars.  Four of us packed into my mustang, and we headed off.

Skipping past the driving and the parking confusion, we approached the first, non-official obstacle.  That is, checking in, and getting our wristbands and numbers.  Normally, this is no big deal, but I complicated the proceedings by checking in Chris with registration that had my name all over it.  Michael voiced some concerns.  I remained confident that everything would work out.

My optimism was rewarded.  Chris and I were directed to a table, and I started with an apology.  I told them that I had paid for my son, but my name was all over the registration information.  They said it was no big deal, strapped wristbands on both of us (without even checking ID!), and we were out of there without a hitch.

Here’s a picture of #GallowglasArmy before we began. From left to right, it’s Chris, me, Michael, London, Michael’s oldest son Robert, and Cody.  Cody’s girlfriend, Jenni, took the picture.

Look how clean we are!  So full of energy, ready tackle the course!

We had our own battle cry.  Michael would yell “Gallowglas Army!” and we’d all yell “Uisce beatha!” That’s the Irish word for whiskey, and it’s not pronounced how it looks.  It sounded more like “oosh kavah” when we yelled it.  Any team that’s battle cry is essentially booze has a lot going for it.

We finally arrived at the beginning of the race with a huge herd of Tough Mudders.  A man called “Coach” lead us through warm-ups and stretches.  Coach’s arms were as big around as my thighs, and he wore short shorts and an epic porn-stache.  Coach was cool, inspirational, and led us through a great warm-up.

After the warm-up area, our herd moved forward to the actually starting line, where another man gave us a truly inspirational speech.  One of the key lines of it: When was the last time you did something for the first time?  He also made it clear that our racing time was not important.  What was important was doing our best, and giving it our all.

I felt pumped and excited.  A quick countdown, and then we were off!  We charged the first hill!

The first hill is where reality set in.  You’d think after the warm-up and the rousing speeches, with all of the excitement and adrenaline, we’d tackle that hill with no problem.  We’d be buoyed up by our enthusiasm alone.  Most of the mudders around me did, but not me.

Part way up that very first hill, my heart began to race, and I started gasping for air.  I was out of shape.  Sure, I could walk forever on flat ground, but this was a hill path, covered in bark.  Furthermore, we were at an elevation where the air was thinner.  We had barely begun, and I was already facing the limits of what I could physically do.

This was what I had feared.  This was why I had wanted to flake out, and abandon the idea of doing Tough Mudder.  Gasping for breath, with my lips turning blue, and my heart trying to get to the other side of my rib cage, I felt weak and ashamed.

But I wasn’t alone.  Michael, Chris, Robert, London, and Cody were right there with me.  They weren’t gasping like I was, but they weren’t going to abandon me.  They stayed with me.  Then, they helped me move forward.  They made sure I had water.  They made sure I was breathing in through my nose, and out through my mouth.  They were there for me, and they practically carried me up that hill.

I didn’t give up.  I kept going, willing one foot in front of the other.  Michael stayed at my side, speaking encouragement.  We kept going.  I can’t say that it got easier.  It became doable.  I wasn’t alone.  And I could keep going.

I’m not sure I remember everything that happened in those 10 miles.  What I do remember, I’m not sure I remember chronologically.  There were so many hills.  Those hills killed me.  I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say we went uphill 8 miles during that course.

The hills were the main obstacle for me, but there were actual obstacles throughout the course.  The first one was a relatively short wall, which we didn’t have much trouble with.  The second obstacle involved crawling under a short stretch of barbed wire.  After the crawl, we had to pull ourselves through about 12 feet of tube, and then fall into a pool of chilly water on the other side.

Here’s a picture of our group after that second obstacle:

 

Cody, beside me with his arm around me in this picture, had just overcome his claustrophobia to make it through that obstacle.  I didn’t know it at the time.  He didn’t hesitate.  He pushed himself through it.  He told us about the claustrophobia later.

He wasn’t the only one that had to overcome personal fears in order to complete an obstacle.  Not too long after this photo, we came to an obstacle called “Walk the Plank”.  All you have to do is climb up to a platform, go out on a length of wood, and fall 15 or 20 feet into a deep, muddy pool.

Chris and I both looked at this obstacle with fear and dread.  Chris didn’t like the heights.  I didn’t much care for the plunge into the water.  But I thought about past regrets and decided that I was going to do this.  I was not going to let fear guide me, this time.  Chris was more reluctant.

I stayed with him.  I told him why I was going to go through with it.  We had a moment on the top of the platform, the rest of our team already on the other side, shouting their own encouragement.  Then, shaking with fear and adrenaline, Chris and I stepped onto our planks.  And then we jumped off.

The cold, muddy water shocked my system again.  I got out, found Chris, and hugged him.  We had done it.  We’d faced our fears, and conquered them.

I continued to be the slowest member of our group, but no one gave me a hard time for it.  Michael stayed with me the whole time.  The younger folks, with all of their energy and verve, would go ahead sometimes, but always wait for us at the next water station or obstacle.  We continued going through the course together.

One of the obstacles was called “Warrior Carry” or something like that.  One mudder needed to carry another mudder some distance.  Michael and I were together.  We looked at each other, and at the sign for the obstacle.  I suggested that we just try to find some smaller people to carry, but Michael hunkered down and prepared to take my weight.  I gritted my teeth and climbed up on his back.

As he walked, I thought about how preposterous it was.  My friend was literally carrying me through the course.  It didn’t seem fair.  I felt embarrassed.  But by that time, I’d reached the point where embarrassment didn’t have the same sting.  I’m a fiercely independent person, usually too proud to accept or ask for help, but the course had been teaching me that there is another way.  Sitting on Michael’s back, I thought about it, and tried to accept the life lesson.

Then we saw the sign that said “Switch.” And I smiled.  Michael and I switched, and I carried him to the end of that obstacle.  I was surprised I was able to do it, as tired and sore as I felt.

The course was full of surprises and self-discovery.  I don’t remember the name of the obstacle, but it involved climbing up a tall incline, putting pegs in holes as you went.  It required a lot of upper body strength.  I’d known about the obstacle in advance, and I didn’t think I’d be able to do it.  But I did it.  Some people helped push me part way up, but I pulled myself the rest of the way on my own.

Towards the end, there was an obstacle called Ladder to Hell.  It was a series of broad, horizontal planks.  You just had to climb up and over.  I stared at it for several moments before attempting it.  I had nothing left in the tank.  Did I have the energy and strength left to climb over?  I doubted it.  But then I stepped forward, pulled myself up, and found it to be one of the easiest obstacles I’d faced.

Speaking of easy obstacles, there was one called “Cry-Baby” where we were to crawl on mud through a short, closed area full of “tear gas.” This was another obstacle I’d seen in advance, and I knew that it wasn’t tear gas.  I’d been exposed to real tear gas in the Air Force.  I got down, crawled in with one eye closed, and it smelled a bit like Vick’s vapor rub.  I bonked my head on a beam, and then crawled more slowly.  Halfway through, I switched eyes.  And then I was out on the other side, feeling somewhat refreshed.

Many obstacles, I could not have completed without the help of my teammates.  There was one where we had to carry a log an insane distance, passing it through an obstruction.  We could not let the log rest on the obstruction.  That one was ridiculous, and it took a lot out of Chris.

There was “Mt. Everest,” which was basically running up a halfpipe.  There wasn’t really anything to grab onto at the top.  Other mudders that had gone before stayed up there to grab onto people and help them up.  I ran up, got some good height, but then became a dead weight that my team had to haul up.

I tried every obstacle, except one.  It was the monkey bars, and it reminded me very much of a section of the Confidence Course back in basic training.  I fell in the water back then.  I was certain I was going to fall in on this one.  I decided to try it anyway, until I felt it had become unfair.  A guy stood to the side with a hose, occasionally spraying the people waiting in line.  He would also spray people that were dangling too long.  Just before I grabbed the bars, he’d sprayed, and all of the bars in front of me were dripping wet.  I grimaced, and then walked around.

The last obstacle was “Electroshock Therapy.”  Here’s a link to a video on Facebook that captures the whole event.  We had considered linking arms.  A couple of us thought about just running through.  Instead, we raised our arms and walked together, slowly.  We got zapped.  Some of us more than others.  I might have been zapped more than once, but I only remember one sharp sting to the back of my neck.  And that’s how we finished Tough Mudder.  Strong.  Unafraid of the pain.  And together, as a team.

Today, I have scrapes and bruises and blisters.  I’m sore all over.  But I have no regrets.  I learned a lot about myself.  I limped away with some valuable life lessons.  And, chances are, I’m going to do it again.

This is a shot from the finish line.  This is #GallowglasArmy, victorious.

 

I have not read all of the posts about the current Hugo kerfuffle, but I’ve read many.  One of the posts I read, the writer said something along the lines of silence on this issues is cowardice.  Well, I certainly wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m a coward.

Another article I read said that “any writer that tells you that they do not want a Hugo is lying.” I’m not going to lie.  I’d love to win a Hugo.  My first priority is finishing something good, but Heinlein was my hero years ago.  To be a Hugo winner like him?  I don’t have words to describe what that would be like.

Honestly, I don’t know if I’m a strong enough writer to ever win such an honor.  But dreams don’t have to be realistic.

This whole fiasco with the Hugos bothers me for another reason.  My writing resurgence is due, in part, to the Hugos.  As I’ve told many people, going to WorldCon in Reno a few years ago reminded me of this part of my life that I’d neglected.  What I have not mentioned often is that I almost didn’t go to Reno.  I knew what the Hugos were at the time, but I didn’t know that they were given out at WorldCon.  When I found out, that made up my mind.  I thought back to all of those paperbacks I’d read with the words “Hugo nominated” or “Hugo award winning” on them, and I knew that I wanted to be there when the next awards were given out.  I had no idea that in going to WorldCon, I’d find my people.

So, for a myriad of sentimental reasons, the Hugos are important to me.  And that’s why I’m writing this post.

As of this writing, two people have withdrawn from their nominations.  Connie Willis won’t be a presenter.  People have said that they should hand out asterisks with the awards.  George R. R. Martin has been quoted as describing the Hugos as irreparably broken.

Before going on, let me be clear about one thing: I am not on the side of the Sad Puppies or the Rabid Puppies.  In an effort to be fair, I’ve read some of their posts and I’ve tried to keep an open mind.  And, I’ve found flaws with their most reasonable points.

Torgersen wrote about what he called “unreliable packaging.” His assertion is that you used to be able to pick up a science fiction or fantasy story and know that it was about adventure, and not social commentary.  He wrote a long post going into great detail on this, but it doesn’t hold true.  Heinlein and Asimov layered meaning beneath their adventures.  That’s one of the reasons they were so good.

One of the best articles I’ve read was all about data analysis.  One of the things I like the post is that it provides disambiguation between the Sad Puppies and the Rabid Puppies.  It also provides some interesting data about male/female ratios of Hugo winners over the years, as well as point out correlations between Good Reads ratings and Hugo winners and nominees.

Let’s be real, though.  Cold, data analysis is excellent for keeping conversations grounded, but we are way past that point now.  Good writers, innocent in all of this, have been hurt.  At least two have withdrawn from consideration for something that I dream about.

And then there’s that asshole that is saying that if he doesn’t win a Hugo, he’ll just keep doing this, year after year.  I’m not going to type his name.  I don’t think anyone should.  If you want someone out of the spotlight, then quit shining it on them.

I want the Hugos to keep going.  I have a couple of friends that were nominated this year.  I want them to have the night of their life.  I want them to win, and enjoy it, and not have to worry about their award being less than it was.  I want the tradition to continue.

I don’t have much culture to draw from.  There are no traditions that my family holds to with any conviction.  WorldCon is the culture I identify with.  I like the people that show up.  I like the celebration of science fiction and fantasy.  And I like the Hugos.

I hope George R. R. Martin is wrong about the Hugos.  I don’t want them to be forever broken.  How will I ever win one if they’re gone?

To the people that have been nominated this year: I feel for you.  Whether you withdraw or stay on, I appreciate how difficult this must be for you, and I hope for the best.

To the people that are raging about the Sad Puppies: What they did with the nominations is cheating in spirit, if not specifically against the rules.  That said, please try to keep your vitriol in check.  I’ve seen some hyperbole about feeling physically threatened by the Sad Puppies.  Don’t get this group mixed with the Rabid Puppies.  The Sad Puppies are misguided jerks, but I really don’t think they’re sociopaths.

To the people that are raging about the Rabid Puppies: I hear you.  Please try to stay civil, and not drop to the level of their leader.  I don’t expect the Rabid Puppies to be adults, so the rest of us must step up and be better people.

To everyone that loves WorldCon: Let’s learn from this.  The nomination rules can’t be changed in time for 2016, so we may have another year of this garbage, but that doesn’t mean this has to be the end.  Let’s come up with a way to fix the nomination process, so this doesn’t happen again.  My suggestion: insert an additional step to the process, at the beginning.  This first step would be open to anyone with supporting WorldCon membership, much like it is now.  Everyone can submit selections for nomination.  Then, ALL submissions would be open for vote, to move on to the next round.  Puppies could submit their slates all they want, but they would no longer be guaranteed spots the way they currently are.

 

I’ve linked to some of the articles I’ve read above.  Here are some others:

On The Hugo Awards and Dysfunctional Politics

The Hugo Awards: GamerGate Edition, 2015

Hugo Award Nominations spark Criticism over Diversity in Sci-Fi

The Hugo Awards were Always Political.  Now they’re Only Political

George R. R. Martin and others Speak Out Over Hugo Awards Controversy

Asking the Wrong Questions

Hugo Story Withdrawn

Two Decline their Hugo Nomination

 

Tonight, I’ll be playing with the River City Concert Band.

Wednesday Apr 8, 7:00PM
11211 Point East Dr
Rancho Cordova, CA

The cost tonight is $10.  That includes getting to see the Sacramento Symphonic Winds.  It’s going to be a fantastic show.

Saturday afternoon, I’ll be playing with River City Swing.  This performance is open to the public (which I take to mean “free”).

Saturday Apr 11, 12:00PM
Same location as above

Saturday evening, I’ll be playing with the ACB Convention band, at 8:00PM.  I don’t know if it is open to the public, or just to convention members.

 

Crazy, huh?

This week is full of wonderful music, opportunities to meet and play with some skilled musicians, and really lose myself in the art.

The only problem is time.  How am I going to manage my job, the volunteer hours at the convention, and the convention band practices?

Fortunately, my workplace is awesome.  They let me work a 10 hour day on Monday, an 11 hour day on Tuesday, and another 10 hour day Wednesday.  I can do half days on Thursday and Friday, which will allow me to make it to the practices.

Thursday and Friday evenings, I’m filling some stage crew volunteer slots.  I’m also doing stage crew duty on Saturday, from 1:30 to 5:00.

I’m not going to have time do any writing or editing this week.  I don’t really feel bad about it.  There are only so many hours in a day, and this week, they’ve all been claimed.  I’ll just have to write twice as much next week.

My last few posts where I’ve talked about writing have not been exactly uplifting.  I’ve talked about how I’m not writing.  I’ve talked about other ways that I’m blessed, and I’ve mentioned that I haven’t given up.  At the end of the day, my stories languished, and I felt bad about it.

Today, let’s change it up a little bit.  Today, let’s talk about an actual writing success!

This past Sunday, I needed to finish editing something to turn in to my writer’s group.  I felt pressured to get at least the first act of the novel finished.

After work on Friday, Melissa left the house with me and we headed to a Starbucks closer to our house.  A smaller venue, we sat in the corner, Melissa with her book, me with my Surface.  I hunched over my notes, and fell into my story.

Then, something wonderful happened.  I lost myself in the words.  I enjoyed myself.  I enjoyed my story!  Before I knew it, a crabby barista was telling us that we had fifteen minutes to pack up our stuff and leave.  I had completely lost track of time.

The next morning, feeling invigorated by the success of the previous evening, I made a plan to keep going.  I spent the morning editing another few chapters.  By afternoon, the kids were doing their own thing, and Melissa was off with her sister for some fun before a Garth Brooks concert.  I decided that a little Scotch might loosen me up.  Big mistake.

When it comes to alcohol, I’m a bit of a featherweight.  Alone in my garage, slightly inebriated, I thought it’d be a good idea to watch a couple of Tarantino movies.  You know, because he’s good at dialog, so it’d be like research.  Then something made me think of the movie Inception, so I put that in.  Somehow, more Scotch wound up in my glass.

The next morning, feeling a little bit hung over, I made a new plan.  More editing, less Scotch.  Melissa took me to breakfast and fed my need for greasy food.  When we got home, I returned to the garage, and tried to find whatever magic I’d found Friday night.

It took a while, but eventually, I found it.

I fell back into the story.  The stumbling block had been some seemingly insignificant detail that I needed to include near the beginning.  For whatever reason, I just couldn’t find the words.  When I found them, the flood gates opened, and I was able to tackle a chapter that had been eluding me for months.

The story drew me in.  Well after midnight, I clawed my way back into the real world, sent the story to the group, and went to bed.  I was a dragon slayer.  I was a Jedi Knight.  I had slain the monster, rescued the hostage.  I felt powerful and amazing.  I also felt exhausted.  It was time for a victory sleep.

It played out like a story, really.  Friday, the first act, introduced me to what was possible, foreshadowing what was to come.  Saturday, during the second act, my journey took a turn for the worst, and I wound up in a difficult position.  Sunday, the final act, I overcame the difficulty in a spectacular fashion, bringing the story to a satisfactory conclusion.

I still have a long ways to go with the novel, but I’m encouraged by the success.  And now that I’m warmed up, it’s time to get back to it!  Wish me luck!