Here we are at the last day of Albany Anthrocon, and I can't help feeling I haven't had much to say about it; haven't captured even the outward appearance of the thing, let alone its spirit. Instead I seem to have concentrated on peripheral things, moments on the sidelines; as if I'd been sent to report on some important event, but ended up neglecting the tumult of the great gathering, and instead peering out the window at odd things happening across the street. Whether this is good or bad I don't know, but I imagine it will continue to happen.
On this final full day of the con, I met Brian someoneorother; a really nice man who sold my Footrot Flats books and refused to take a commission, and declared he was going to up and move to Australia. This must have been on one of my last trips into the dealer's room. My very last trip was made without my con badge, which I had managed to misplace (I must have found it again, because it's blu-tacked to the doorframe over there.) In any case this sudden anonymity on my part caused a surprising reaction from security, who refused to let me in the door. Now this was my first con, and I imagine there is some good reason why a person shouldn�t be let into the dealer's room just before closing, on the final day, without a con badge, but the impression I got was that my badgelessness might be an indication that I was carrying plastic explosives. They agreed, after a while, to a compromise, whereby one of them would accompany me at all times as I strolled around the room - to what purpose I'm not very sure. Eventually I had the idea to find someone in the room who'd recognise me, and vouch for the fact that I wasn't a member of Sinn Fein, or worse, the vice squad. I attracted Groat's attention, who acknowledged that I was 'that bastard from Tasmania', and my minders detached themselves.
Sometime that day I also attended the art auction, at which my modest bids on a couple of Carspecken prints were quickly overtaken. In fact prices in general at the auction seemed to me to be nearly twice as high as those I saw the next year at CF9 (where I actually managed to buy some pieces.) Nevertheless it wasn't a complete waste of time, as I got to see the remarkable and effusive Samuel Conway in action (at least I think that's who it was. Correct me if I'm mistaken.) As there seemed to be some delay in getting the items into the room on time (I presume that due to some error the task had been given to furries), this mercurial, lab-coated character covered with some impromptu entertainment, whose content, if I remember, had something to do with his career as a chemist.
The other thing which happened around this time - (I promised back on Day 2, that I'd get to this) was the second occasion of my being warned off talking to an animal. I wandered into a large room, in which some professional-furry types were gathered. There was a dog there. I went to communicate with him or her, and a woman quickly intercepted this attempt, and made it clear that he or she ought to avoid my company. In retrospect this maybe makes more sense in the context of a furry con than it did on a Massachusetts back-road, but I'm left with a lingering curiosity as to whether Americans tell their pets not to talk to strangers.
There was, by this stage, a slight pre-sentiment of sadness to proceedings. Perhaps it was only me, but I felt that as the con was drawing to a close, feelings were both amplified and superimposed, such that there was a slightly desperate pleasure to be taken in those last hours.
I was to spend most of those last hours at The Outback Steakhouse. This, I think, was Ron Orr's idea. Perhaps there were plans to go out for dinner on the final night of the con, but I suspect some strings were pulled in regards to the choice of venue.
We headed off into Albany around dusk. My group rode with Big Bad Wolf, in a new and expensive car which he claimed was fitted with a device by the company he worked for, which made it perform like an old, cheap one. i.e. it restricted it to a maximum speed of 65 mph. As it turned out, we were never to come anywhere near testing the efficiency of this device, because we drove behind Xydexx, whose car had evidently been fitted with a device which barely permitted it to move at all. (Despite his assertion on aff some time ago, that he is some sort of later-day Fangio, I can attest that Xydexx's driving pace barely keeps pace with the continental drift. A couple of times we thought about getting out and strolling up to ask if something was wrong, but we didn't want to ruffle any fur.)
We did eventually arrive, however - and a few preliminary things need to be said about The Outback Steakhouse(s).
Firstly, you never see any of this food in Australia. That might seem a minor detail, but I thought I'd mention it.
Secondly, no-one in Australia actually drinks Fosters. It's a quite horrible beer (except for the light bitter they brought out recently). I don�t know a single person that drinks it; yet it's the only Australian beer on the menu at TOS. Well nevermind, I had some Canadian boutique beer, which was more interesting anyway.
Thirdly, whoever writes those menus does not understand Australian colloquialisms at all. I brought this to the attention of the staff at an TOS in MD, but they didn�t seem to think it mattered. It probably doesn't, but I insist on mentioning at least this one glaring error. Australians to not have a plural version of 'mate'. The Outback Steakhouse makes various entreaties to its clientele based on this misconception - generally in the form of invitations like "Come on in, mates!" (it is apparently a global misconception. I've seen Australian-themed German businesses doing the same "Hey, mates!" thing, too.) No, peculiar as it might seem, 'mate' is purely a singular form of address. I'll admit that its usage in this singular form is every bit as widespread as you are led to believe. Everyone calls everyone 'mate'. My mother calls me 'mate' sometimes. I lived with a German-Australian who called everyone 'man', but he was a rarity. However, Australians do not walk into a room and say "G'day mates!", or "Hello there, Mates!" Let's be clear: you are thinking of _pirates,_ not Australians. How this confusion originated I don't know, though a logical guess might be Erol Flynn.
Anyway the Outback Steakhouse shovelled bloody great amounts of food onto our plates - the most alarming of which was a pile of chips covered with fried eggs, or melted cheese, or both (this may in fact be the reason why my cholesterol is still high, 18 months later, after 6 months of vegetarianism.) I subsequently developed a taste for Buffalo Wings at a TOS, but that's another story (and not surprisingly, you don't see them in Australia either.)
With my at my table were Ann, Kimba, BBW, Torrle
When we got back to the hotel things were winding down - or winding up. It's hard to say. It was a bit like the last days of the Roman Empire. A group of artists had flopped down in the registration area. Groat was waving a bottle of top shelf around and bellowing uncouth things. Kimba started playing a Dr Demento tape. Tirran produced a bottle of some alarmingly coloured liquor, which I was just drunk enough to take an interest in. Someone came up to me wearing a badge that said "I'm not yiffy". He said he knew (of?) me and was really pleased to meet me. I don't know who he was, but he was a really nice guy. Some episodes of Kimba were screened in the video room (or was this another night? It's all becoming blurry this late in the day), and someone made annoying and banal remarks all the way through it. Oh - this was MiSTing, right? Finally, in a strangely melancholy mood, I collared Flep and Alex, and a grand piano, and forced them to listen to the end part of Yes's 'The Gates of Delirium' - which seemed to sum up my feelings at the time, somehow. Last week, Flep said it's the first thing he thinks of when he remembers the con. I'd been eyeing that piano for days, and I don't know why it took me that long to put myself behind it. He said it was the first time he'd glimpsed into my soul, or that I'd really made contact, or something like that. I'm afraid he was probably right.
And that was pretty much that, for Albany Anthrocon. Tomorrow we're off to Canada, with a brief stop at the second-funniest-smelling town in the US.
