Spoolzine Issue #3: LONCON SPECIAL

Loncon:  Where dreams come true

 Drowned Puppies (Editorialzzz)

Sad Puppies huh? What-the-Christ-on-a-unicycle was that about?

Simple:  about three months longer than it ever should have been (i.e.: not at all). Basically, SP was a short-sighted blundering attempt by author Larry Correia to show up the Hugo awards as a backslapping commie love-in of inconsequence. 

Now I'm in no position to argue the toss either way (though I'm probably biased against any endeavour calling itself Sad Puppies or any other cutsie internet bullshit, even if it were a kickstarter for an ebola cure) but I do believe in diversity in SF.

Unlike swathes of my leftie comrades, however, I don't fall off the diversity-moped three-quarters down the lane:  conservatives should have a say about the future and, if a groundswell of rightwing SF authors and readers believe themselves disenfranchised we should at least hear them out (we can always wipe the foam off our shoulders later), but...

But style, as Flaubert observed, is everything. 

If Mr Correia had actually meant any of what he claimed he'd have approached the more respectable end of the conserva-skiff-irati (David Webber, say, or Gene Wolfe or noted libertarian Yogi Bear), convinced them of his point and then collectively presented their case in a reasonable way. Yes, of course the notion would have been mocked by the left, but it might have swayed a lot of the middle ground. It might have worked, or came close enough to Hugo-snatching that it de-facto worked.

But not our Larry. No dice. Why go to all that moderately hard work when you can figuratively waltz into the party and call everyone a c*nt? Strangely, this tactic put a lot of people's backs up, people who normally wouldn't be arsed to vote but now did. Severely.

The result? An almost entirely progressive award handout and a Worldcon that suddenly felt vital and empowered (Trust me, I was there after the ceremonies:  it was like Woodstock with shitter T-shirts). So the (uh...) 'Sad Puppies' campaign made the Catiline Conspiracy look like Tom Clancy's Rainbow-fucking-Six and conservative SF as a serious voice was damaged. And yet...

And yet it probably raised Six-gun Larry's brand awareness as a WWF wrestler-themed, take-no-prisoners, 'stop-yet-gibber-jabber' sort of author. Which, consciously or not, was probably the whole point.

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AUTHOR PHOTOS

Congratulations to Kameron Hurley for winning Hugos for stuff. Y'know, whenever I look at this publicity photo I think I've just said some ill-thought comment that I'm about to bitterly regret. Which, now you mention it, I may well just have.

Mind you, with this one I feel like I'm explaining to Damien Walter that the huge drugs shipment me and my thugs were picking up from the docks got blown up by a mysterious masked vigilante. And now I'm concerned by the large automatic pistol on his desk...

And, er, the least said about this one the better...

Which Reminds me... Drowned Puppies II

Of course, the moment Larry Correia truly dropped trouser and plopped in his own cornflakes was when he put bigot and moral weakling Vox Day (Soon to be played by Dolph Lungdren in the motion picture 'Universal Prick') on the (Christ...) 'Sad Puppies' slate.

Or, arguably, that was when Larry shat in Vox's porridge instead (not an image you want to see on Deviant Art any time soon). Why? Because Day is the only individual who came out truly badly in this. Think about it:  remember how scary Lord Gaga was before this years Hugos? He seemed almost a threat didn't he, almost? Because he had the biggest blog-followsip in SF, remember? Six million people had bought his books...

The result? Almost sod-all votes. Out of five nominees he came sixth, below 'no award', quickly earning him the borg-name Six of Five.

Vox argued that winning was never the point and, to be fair, at no point did he ever claim he would. However, the Hugo fiasco has deeply hamstrung Vox's overall strategy. For years he's been pushing the absurd myth of an SF blueshift/pinkshirt divide (I'd say he was more blackshirt meself), a concept very much built on the fascist three-point shimmy, i.e.:

1:  Talk up a lost golden past (old-school SF) 

2: Claim historical humiliation by a secretive cabal (Liberals, feminists) 

3:  Promise a return to said golden age through triumph of will (currently still pending).

This triumph would surely happen, we were told, for the statistics could not lie. Most SFF fans were 'blue shirts' (Here VD was most definitely wrong; I've performed a survey and, by any metric, 100% of SFF fans are too busy whacking off to Oglaf). And, lo, every one of us waited for the novelette award with baited knickers.

And the result came through and Vox Day is happily now irrelevant (Hugo awards have a way of reputation-popping blogarseholes. Requires Hate stopped blogging fairly soon after an independent campaign failed to even get her nominated). Seriously, how is Vox gonna top the last year? And when was the last time you checked his blog since the Hugos? Bluff well-and-truly blown.

Ultimately, I think, he and his 'Dread Ilk' were the hopelessly romantic side in this little war. They honestly believed they would just somehow... overcome. For once, the left (and the middle) were the pragmatists.



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WORLDCON PHOTOS:

There are Loncon members with OCD still trapped on these stairs as I write this.

Look at this smug bastard. He visited Loncon in this robot avatar while still safely squatting on his sofa at home. Be funny if someone had rushed in and shot him and then his avatar was going around in circles and no one at Loncon cared. Wouldn't it? Wouldn't that be funny? Yeah? OK, so he nicked my girlfriend. I'm not bitter...

A great time wuz had at Loncon by all. Tragically, though, we all ended in the acid-stewed belly of this vast metal caterpillar.

Meanwhile, Journalist Laurie Penny was at Loncon. But never mind that. Here she is using the #Ferguson Twitter hashtag to really drive home the injustice of the Ferguson shootings and subsequent police brutality:  

STAR LETTER!!!!

Dear Spool,

Loncon made a big huzzenfuzz about achieving gender parity on panels. But as this photo shows, Fantasycon achieved parity in all departments.

Stuff in up your bum, Loncon. Right up.

Yrs

Michael Fantasycon (Fantasycon chairman)

STAR LETTER II!

Dear Pidgin-man,
                              I write regarding the letter above in this issue. Perhaps if Mr Fantasycon has strong feeling about panel parity at cons he'd like to discuss it with a snooker ball in a sock round the back of his head in a dark car park when he least expects it.

Yrs,
Cynthia Loncon (Loncon enforcer)


(Spoolnote:  Next years Fantasycon and Worldcon will be held simultaneously on the Jeremy Kyle show) 



And Now...   A GENUINE SF ANECDOTE:


So me and Geoff Ryman go ahead of the gang to see if the bars still open in the hotel next to the centre where Loncon's being held. Giddy with booze but good long striding legs the pair of us. 

I've only really just met him. Geoff's just finished presenting the Hugos and is buoyed up by the sense of a duty well-performed. He's got this damn fancy burgundy suit and a tiara some convention once made for him. It's about as masculine as a tiara can get, or maybe Geoff just lends it a masculinity. Anyway, he's like a lounge version of Tywin Lannister (i.e.: cool).

Inside the hotel bar the air is warm and the music bassy but low. The bars stopped serving yet everyone's just hanging around, languishing on sofas or floating by the bar. No sharp movements, everything like a tableau.

'Check this out,' Geoff says to me. 'What's going on here? Every classically goodlooking member of the speculative fiction community are here.'

True enough. Looking around, I see that Dutch writer with the cheekbones; they glint like a stealth cruiser passing some alien sun. Sublime faces and toned biceps all around. You'd think this was a GAP advert, not a con.

'The beautiful people,' I mutter. 'We can't possibly stay here.'

Geoff smiles at me, his tiara reflecting the neon of beer adverts above.

'Speak for your fucking self.'  

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                                                                         FIN

SPOOLZINE: Laughs because it chooses not to cry.

EXCLUSIVE: Guests Avoid Larry Correia At House Barbecue

(Alton, Kane County, Utah) Witnesses report libertarian SF author Larry Correia (41) has been seen irritating guests of Peter and Mary Broxbourne at their garden barbecue, held to celebrate Peter's promotion.

“I'm still not sure who invited him exactly,” says Mary (32). “Peter's friend Andre sure keeps some wacky company—9-11 nuts, that kind of thing—so I asked him, but no. To be honest, I never saw Mr Correia arrive.”

Correia, New York Times Bestselling author and fan-lauded creator of the man-punches-werewolf sub-genre, was first witnessed demonstrating press-ups on the Broxbourne's patio.

Dressed in desert storm camo trousers and cap, a tight t-shirt with President Obama's face photoshopped to resemble The Joker from the Dark Knight with the caption 'SOCIALIST' beneath it (analysts suggest the idea was to provide extreme contrast with the Joker's essential nihilism and mockery of societal control, though research continues) and fannypack (bumbag), Correia entered Peter Broxbourne's friend circle by offering swigs from his half-sized bottle of Maker's Mark, all of which were declined.

“He just started talking about his trash talk on the internet,” says Emilio Sandoval (24). “No one asked him.”

“See, there's all these libtard asswipes in science fiction now,” Correia was heard to say, “saying all the wimminz are victims, all men—white men—are inherently evil and misogyny is everywhere. You know: the usual.” Correia, who, like many right wing self-published SF authors likes to lengthily respond to and take apart critical reviews of his work on his blog and sees nothing undignified in that, continued: “I've spent TIME teaching women firearms, but if I use the word 'pussy' I'm suddenly part of RAPE culture, whatever the hell that is, right?”

When Sally Pearson (28) countered that she definitely found the word demeaning and unpleasant, Correia responded: “Hey, my lady, I got nothing against PUSSY but I sure as hell don't wanna BE one. Amirite guys? Amirite? Can I get a witness here? Yeah...”

The social circle dispersed fairly rapidly at that juncture, with individuals breaking off and joining other guests. Demonstrating his tactical flexibility and military training Correia fell back to the barbecue itself, therefore allowing him--Thermopylae-style--to corner anyone wishing to acquire food.

“Buddy,” he was heard to say to one guest, “let me tell you who the REAL criminal is, because it sure as hell ain't George Zimmerman! Amirite? Have you read my novels? Werewolves get freakin' PUNCHED! I. SHIT. YOU. NOT!"

Correia (who, like Margaret Thatcher, the Ayatollah Khomeini and Sesame Street muppet 'The Grouch' believes 'straight up, no-chicken shit, tell-it-like-it-is honesty' to be a virtue) was seen to get progressively more drunk, choosing to sing choruses of Bloodhound Gang singles at distracting levels and telling anyone who'd still listen what a round from an M24 sniper rifle would do to someone's head.

As of going to press, Correia was last seen doing an MC Hammer dance impression to a passing group of bemused teenagers.  

COUNTER-GUESTPOST!!! "Screw you, Meniscus; Science Fiction is about MEN!!!" by Randy Midiclorean

 (That guest post on sexism in SF by Nick Meniscus caused quite the online furor, so much so I had to delete almost all the comments for fear of libels and looking a bit like Twitter.

One of the commenters demanded the right to counter-post and, although Spool Pidgin does not necessarily agree with his opinions, balance has to be observed (he also funded our kickstarter, so...). 




Seriously, answer me:  have you ever seen a space rocket that looks like a vagina? Nope, didn't think so...


Space rockets are a thing that exemplifies another thing:  Science Fiction (in the fiction-writing game we call this a metaphor. You're welcome). Space rockets look like they do (and, by extension, science fiction) because MEN MADE THEM. Men with slide-rules and tweed suits that gently smelled of pipe tobacco.


Men that Mr Nick Meniscus can never hope to live up to. Meniscus is that wretchedest of beasts; a woman-servile 'new man' gamma male who thinks you CAN get to the moon in a labia-plated capsule, or that the complex problems of the cold war could have been solved by firing diaphragms at Moscow. Too busy fussing over his 'inner child' to ever return call his inner-Burt Reynolds. Sickening.


Listen to me, Meniscus you limey jackrag-  women were never meant to strut about the SFnal domain, period. It is a literature of male concerns, male problems, like how to convince tri-brained arachnids not to invade earth (The answer is lasers). To allow women to do so is akin to allowing them to walk into that place only Paul Mau'dib--Dune's Quizatch Hadderack--can freely enter, and I don't think even YOU want a space messiah with tits.

Or DO you?

Randi Midiclorean's latest graphic novel.

Don't get me wrong, women are human too (In much the same way Diet Fanta is still part of the Coca-cola family), but when God devised evolution some 6000 years ago, he mandated females maintain the cave's hearth, clean its kitchenette and bear children. Their brains are not suited for hamstringing mammoths or planning space opera trilogies. More likely they'll foot massage the mammoth and douse the publishing contract in potpourri. That's science. Evo-psych science (You'll find it in Leviticus).


I tell you, everything's gone to France (That's one worse than hell). In the last decade alone, the percentage of men (OK, white men) writing SF professionally has dropped from 94.23% to a woeful 92.64%.


How far can this go? 75%?  65%?  Fifty percent?!?! How the hell is that representational?  What's that buzzing sound, you ask? I'll tell you:  C.L. Moore whirling in his grave!


But it's not all a wasteland full of asexual goblins like Nick Meniscus worshiping a cyber-titan Jane Fonda. At mine, Larry Correia and Vox Day's male-only writer's workshop, PhalluS-F, true SF soldiers on. We eat barbecue, crit stories and sniff each other's armpits so as to synchronize our testosterone. I hope, dear reader, it heartens you to picture that. Trust me: there's still hope, still time to turn back, which--for me--is the only way forward.


Ad Astra, brothers!


-Randy Midiclorean, author, has a Prometheus Awards and six cease and desist orders. 


Follow up here...