2) Tearing around the wastelands of Orange County with Jason Stoddard, Andrew Tisbert and Daryl Gregory and subjecting them to the dueling vocals of Henry Rollins and William Shatner. I don’t think Andrew has recovered yet.
3) While manning the bar at the Interzone party, a man stuck his head around the corner and said, “What’s a limp-wristed liberal got to do to get a glass of white wine around here?” “Well, just how limp-wristed are you?” I ask, and he puts his hand at a ninety-degree angle. And as I pour for this well-deserving limp wrist, I see the man’s name badge an realize it’s Kim Stanley Robinson. I put down the bottle, ask for his pardoning my oncoming fanboy moment, and burble about Pacific Edge and how cool it was to read since I grew up in Costa Mesa. And he thanked me for liking what he called “one of his favorite forgotten novels,” and we talk a little about how ridiculous Orange County’s changed (he grew up in Tustin), and I give him his wine, and everything was great until later that night when I got lost in the parking structure while trying to find my car.
Now, did anything blow? The hotel food. The hotel beer prices. And the thought that the next Worldcon will be in Yokohama, which means it’s probably going to be trickier to have all these cool people assembled in the same place again. But the idea of karaoke with this crowd? I can get behind that.