I had yet another run-in with the dreaded lunch room candy machine. Occasionally, I have been known to deposit money in this machine and in return have been rewarded with sweet, sweet candy.
Yesterday at lunch, I decided to need a Twix bar. It cost $1.00.
I deposited my coinage, four quarters. But the fourth quarter was returned; our candy machine is known for its random rejection of coins of recent vintage. I was 75 cents in, but I still needed another 25 cents to complete the purchase and receive my sweet, sweet candy.
All was not lost, as I also had a twoonie, more than enough for my chocolate-craving induced purchase. (For our non-Canadian viewers, a twoonie is a $2 coin). However, before depositing the twoonie, I felt I had better retrieve my three quarters. I pressed the coin return button and the machine promptly spat out three dimes. 30 cents.
"What the [expletive deleted]?" I shouted. Somehow my three quarters had been transmogrified into 3 dimes. The machine just ate 40 of my cents!
"[Expletive describing a physical act deleted] machine!"
But still the Twix bar called. Yes, I was out 40 cents, but I still had the twoonie, so I still could buy my bar and satisfy my caramel and chocolate covered cookie lust.
Against my better judgment, I dropped my twoonie in the slot. I pressed the button. The Twix bar fell from the rack into the retrieval slot at the bottom of the machine. And my change... my change... where's my $1.00 change?!?
"[Expletive describing a bodily function deleted]! Where's my [expletive describing the physical act of love deleted] change??!?"
The machine kept my change. Why? I don't know. It certainly wasn't out of change because a moment ago it had just eaten three of my quarters!!!
"[Expletive describing anatomical parts deleted]!!"
I had paid $2.40 for a Twix bar! This wasn't the first time the candy machine had eaten my money and short-changed me. I vowed to never ever buy another piece of sweet, oh so sweet candy from this mechanical hell spawn again.
Never!
"Never again! I'd sooner starve! Or crash from a sugar low than to risk my precious money on your unpredictable mechanical folly! Curse you, you mechanical [expletive describing the physical act of a love with a small domestic farm animal deleted]!"
Today, I dutifully deposited $1.00 and quietly ate my blessed Twix bar.
I am so weak.
originally published in UTOH #18, October 2006
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Geek of the Week
Name: Reed T. Paulson
Age: 22 (in Vulcan years)
Blue pill or red pill? Blue pill
Pet Peeve: Still can’t get over the fact that they cancelled Star Trek: The Animated Series (the glommer was so cool!)
Career: Works part-time as a soccer goal post on Saltspring Island
Fannish Claim to Fame: Creator of Odo/Neelix fiction
Favorite Book: Star by Pamela Anderson
Favorite TV Show: Baywatch (but only the Pamela Anderson years)
Favorite movie: Barb Wire
Best Pick-Up Line: You’re almost as hot as T’Pol!
Worst Pick-Up Line: You’re almost as hot as T’Pol!
Secret No One Knows: Still lives in his parents’ basement (didn’t have the heart to move upstairs after they died)
text by John W. Herbert
Photoshopped by Karl Johanson
Thursday, June 07, 2007
The Great Lies of Fandom
#1: The zine is in the mail.
#2: I’m going to concentrate on my writing.
#3: Sure, I’ll volunteer for the convention.
#4: You really deserved to win.
#5: Gee, Frank, it looks almost natural.
#6: I’m a Trekker, not a Trekkie!
#7: Not only will we break even, but, heck, I think we might even turn a small profit.
#8: This is a genuine signed, first edition.
#9: You know, in most sf clubs the ratio of women to men is three to one.
#10: What a lousy con! I’m not coming back next year!
#11: The next issue will be on time. I promise.
#12: That was the best con ever! I’m going back next year!
#13: And we guarantee your room at Norwescon will be in the quiet wing.
#14: No, really. The spandex gives your costume a slimming effect.
#15: I made it myself.
#16: The new Star Trek series is the best yet.
#17: You know, my first costume looked just like that.
#18: I was an extra on The X-Files.
#19: You’re the first.
#20: This club would be so much better if I was in charge.
#21: Don’t worry. The hotel will be glad to have us back next year.
#22: The Last Dangerous Visions will be out next year.
#23: When I get more free time, I’ll get all caught up on my fanac. (thanks to Harry Andruschak for this one)
#24: Let me borrow your Red Dwarf tapes. Nothing will happen to them.
#2: I’m going to concentrate on my writing.
#3: Sure, I’ll volunteer for the convention.
#4: You really deserved to win.
#5: Gee, Frank, it looks almost natural.
#6: I’m a Trekker, not a Trekkie!
#7: Not only will we break even, but, heck, I think we might even turn a small profit.
#8: This is a genuine signed, first edition.
#9: You know, in most sf clubs the ratio of women to men is three to one.
#10: What a lousy con! I’m not coming back next year!
#11: The next issue will be on time. I promise.
#12: That was the best con ever! I’m going back next year!
#13: And we guarantee your room at Norwescon will be in the quiet wing.
#14: No, really. The spandex gives your costume a slimming effect.
#15: I made it myself.
#16: The new Star Trek series is the best yet.
#17: You know, my first costume looked just like that.
#18: I was an extra on The X-Files.
#19: You’re the first.
#20: This club would be so much better if I was in charge.
#21: Don’t worry. The hotel will be glad to have us back next year.
#22: The Last Dangerous Visions will be out next year.
#23: When I get more free time, I’ll get all caught up on my fanac. (thanks to Harry Andruschak for this one)
#24: Let me borrow your Red Dwarf tapes. Nothing will happen to them.
The Way the Future Should Have Been
It was the event that rocked Fandom to its very foundations – twisted
it, shook it, dismantled it, and reassembled it. Paralleling the real-life
transformations occurring at the same time in Eastern Europe, another legendary event forced an unexpected, surprising and, ultimately, an unsure and evolving revolution on Canadian Fandom.
For it was ten years ago, as the Soviet Bloc began its disintegration, that Fandom entered into the abyss and emerged as a different creature on the other side. What began as Fandom’s annual party became an epoch-shattering maelstrom of grave soul searching and frantic debauchery. It was simply Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House.
We start at the beginning, and for Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House, the beginning was Robert Gunderson.
In 1952, in a tiny, run-down ramshackle of a house on the wrong side of the tracks, with a leaky roof, cracked window panes, and broken shutters, a lone dog howled under a crescent moon. In March of that year, this poverty-stricken family welcomed a new life into this world. A small, beautiful boy with tiny hands and fingers, but big, bright eyes that shone like blue suns. He was the apple of his father’s eyes, and the baby’s smile warmed his mother’s heart. He was a perfect baby. He hardly ever cried, ate when he was supposed to, even slept when he was supposed to.
Their shack was next to the old CN line, and every night ol’ 342 would come through, two miles of grain cars bound for Vancouver, clickety-clack, clickety clack, sounding a thunderous roar that shook the cardboard shingles off the roof of their shack. After the train had passed every night, Dad would go outside and try to replace the cardboard shingles by stapling them back in place, but most times they couldn’t afford staples so he would just lick them into place. (In the winter, it was easier. Dad would just spit into a bucket all day and come nightfall, he would pour the bucket of spit over the roof and freeze the shingles in place.)
But the next night, ol’ 342 would return, like a mobile earthquake snaking along the ground, tremors rattling, subsonics shaking, and a rumble rumbling that you could hear in your stomach and feel in your bones. But through it all, through the sharp squeals of steel wheels on steel tracks, through the bleating blasts of the train’s horn, through the sudden bright bursts of light as the train’s headlight shone through the hole in the wall where the living room window ought to have been, the little baby slept all night, with nary a whimper nor a dream disturbed. Five blocks away from this family lived ten year-old Robert Gunderson. And it was Gunderson who would eventually take Canadian Fandom down its most wildest trip.
Not much is known about Gunderson’s early years, save that his father installed in him a deep love of goats. In one of his few known interviews, Gunderson described his first encounter with science fiction: “I was at high school one day and my Business Sabotage teacher dragged me into an empty classroom. My first thought was, ‘Oh no, not again,’ but she had a film projector set up and somehow she had managed to obtain a bootlegged copy of 2001: A Space Odyssey. So we watched it. And I thought, hey, here’s a film with no dialogue. Wow, that’ll make writing screenplays easier, not having any dialogue. But the really puzzling thing was that it was, what? 1968? Yeah, 1968, and so here I was 26, eight novels published, and I was still going to high school.” (The Monthly Monthly #25).
He quit school and hit the road, as many young people did in 1968, with Kerouac in one pocket and not a care in the other. He eventually made it to the legendary Woodstock concert later that year where he even managed to emcee the show for a while, using the stage name Lumpy Gravy.
By this time, though it seemed he was young and carefree, Gunderson had already established a considerable literary reputation. “Gunderson [was] one of those unsung outlaw heroes of SF and of modern culture,” observed noted ex-Saskatchewanian Dave Panchyk in Under The Ozone Hole Number Ten. “[H]e spent his childhood at the knee of the aging ‘Great Beast,’ Aleister Crowley, then went on to move in the same literary circles as William S. Burroughs at the end of the fifties, while he was still barely more than a teenager. It [was] at this point he wrote The Space Inside and Mymidon, two seminal classics now out of print.” Clearly, in his youth Gunderson was a talent to watch. But what happened? Panchyk has a theory: “Golgotha on Mars, his stunning third novel, appeared several years too early for him to become a hero of the New Wave. Had he not been more proud than Philip K. Dick, who kept himself alive with pot-boilers, he would have eclipsed that man’s talent.”
So Gunderson was too young to be Old School, but too old to be New Wave. Clearly, luck and fate were factors here. But in December 1994 when Panchyk offered the above assessment, it was not known that Gunderson had indeed written more than his share of pot-boilers and novelizations, most under various assumed names: John Norman, William Shatner, V.C. Andrews, Fabio, and Alan Dean Foster. This information has only come to light since his passing by the release of various documents by the NSA and Interpol. (The only novel to appear after 1975 with the Gunderson moniker was Charlie’s Angels: Angels in Chains. This was a printer’s error and recalled immediately, and reprinted with the byline “Max Franklin.” A Gunderson Charlie’s Angels is extremely rare and valuable.)
By the mid-seventies and into the eighties and nineties, he was reduced to writing media tie-in novels (Chekov Must Scream!), and ghost writing novels by others (George Lucas). But why did he fall in with this group of degenerates instead on any other? Again, Panchyk offers some insight. “[Gunderson] was a degenerate, certainly. And yes, he killed.” All the more curious in light of the events that conspired to keep Gunderson from actually attending Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House.
But we are ahead of ourselves. After Woodstock, Gunderson vanished from sight for a number of years, until he turned up in Edmonton in the early seventies. In a profile by Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House alumnus Sally Mander in Under The Ozone Hole Number Five, Gunderson recalls (in his final interview) stumbling into an ESFACAS meeting in Edmonton quite by accident: “Somehow, a rug on the floor got rolled up and I tripped over it.” He also recalled that “…all the famous ESFACASians were there: Silvestri, Williams, Horner, Steiner, Goldenthal, and Badalamenti – before her breakdown, of course.”
This initial meeting which brought together Gunderson and ESFACAS is well remembered in Edmonton Fannish circles. Robert Runté remembers it well: “Gunderson stormed into the room like a race car on nitro. He dominated the meeting. He was one of those people that just drew you in. You couldn’t not look at him. Magnetic. There was a fire behind his eyes that blazed like hot coals that last an eternity. Plus, he could speak Esperanto so we could finally watch our copy of Incubus and figure out what was going on! At least, that’s what Randy Reichart told me that some guy who might have been there said.”
Cath Jackel remembers every detail of that meeting vividly: “I wasn’t there.”
It is interesting to note that Gunderson, who up until this point had kept his contacts with fandom to a minimum, knew of the reputations of the these people, who are the equivalent of the First Fandom of ESFACAS. Obviously he was keeping abreast of the fannish world, even if he himself was not an active participant. This was about to change. He continued, “I suppose none of the young people today remember these guys now, but they started ESFACAS, and they made ESFACAS tick. They were its heart and soul. It’s a good thing I never joined.”
In 1977, Gunderson moved to Vancouver to attend McGill University. Unfortunately, McGill is in Montréal. While earning money to move to Montréal at a lesbian S&M club, Spikes ’n’ Dykes, Robert met Monika Bandersnatch, part-time waitress and full-time deviant. She in turn introduced him to Angst Philben, former CIA weapon specialist, and the three of them discovered they shared two mutual interests: sf and goats.
The three of them bonded instantly, thanks in part to a terrible glue accident, but even despite that, there is no question they were three kindred spirits. Gunderson: “Well, Angst and Monika got on real well, and after I’d been over to their place with my video camera a few times, they let me in on their BCSFA plans. They said fandom needed a place to go to celebrate fannishness and goats. They said BCSFA would be the ideal way to do it! Wow! Our own club! Then they let me in on their plans for having a Worldcon in 1989. They even had a name for it: Worldcon in 1989. So we started having meetings, and formed an arsenal and stuff at their place while we installed the pulleys and winches. It was great! That’s where we met Bill Froog.”
Although Froog was later to play a significant role during Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House, for now he remains a small player in our story. It is Angst Philben, speaking to this reporter exclusively only on the condition that I guarantee his anonymity, who now continues the story. “Someone said that some other group was called BCSFA. So I called up Len and said, ‘Are you gonna give us any trouble?’ He said no, but this other group was already called BCSFA. They had the name first. Well, we were devastated. We didn’t know what to do.”
There was little the group could do. Only a large-scale assault could solve the problem. Angst quickly built up the arsenal, Monika gathered the whips and chains, Gunderson wrote Welcome Back, Kotter: Barbarino Flunks Out, and Bill made cookies. But even though their claim to the name BCSFA was in jeopardy, their Worldcon plans continued unabated. For a while, it seemed that Worldcon in 1989 was going to rest simply on the fannish laurels of the Gunderson name. For although it was clear that Philben was the more heavily armed, it was Gunderson who was the filthy pro. But soon, a slight navigational error was to change Worldcon in 1989 forever.
The night of the raid finally came. BCSFA historian R. Greame Cameron, citing several fannish sources of the era, describes what happened in BCFSAzine #234. “At the time, BCSFA met on the first Sunday of every month. Now for some reason, a group of people in a car drove by the clubhouse on the third Thursday of this particular month. What was really strange was that they had a map out and were arguing over directions. The car sped by quickly, never stopped, and just kept going. William Gibson, who as you recall was a member of BCSFA, just happened to be walking by at the time and said, ‘Hey! Isn’t that the guy who wrote Golgotha?’”
Angst Philben takes up the story: “Finally, we challenged them to a rumble, but they never showed, probably because we made a wrong turn in Delta and ended up on the ferry to Victoria.”
And it was on this simple ferry ride that Robert Gunderson, Angst Philben, Monika Bandersnatch and Bill Froog met their destiny. It was here that fate cast to them both their salvation, and their destruction, a quest they should have refused, and yet a challenge they had to take. It was here, for the first time, that they met Myles Bos, goat farmer.
“We later made up this story about lightning bolts,” said Philben, “and none of that happened but the air seemed charged with electricity when we met. And it was, actually. St. Elmo’s fire. Good thing the ferry wasn’t filled up with hydrogen.”
“It was like people meeting for the very first time,” said Bandersnatch. “You say hi, and then they say hi. And you don’t know what else to say so you say hi again and smile like a moron.”
Gunderson never talked about this first meeting much but clearly the others thought he was excited. Myles was a goat farmer, and Gunderson could now see ways to combine his two passions, sf and goats, in ways that he never before imagined while not sleeping.
Myles was excited, too. In a recent interview in ConTRACT, he said, “My lawyer has advised to make no comment at this time.”
As the group exchanged banal chit chat, Gunderson’s mind was racing. How to tie together goats and sf? Except for those wild parties at V-Con, it had never been done successfully before! But it was when Myles casually mentioned that his family had a small goat farm that he saw it all.
“[Gunderson] suddenly screamed,” said Philben. “I thought he was in pain, like maybe he’d eaten some ferry food or something. But no! He’d had an idea! ‘Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House!’ he shouted. ‘Goats! Goats! Goats!’ When he started shouting about goats, once again I was sure he’d had some ferry food!”
Well-known cynic E.B. Klassen offers a much different version of events. “Look, I started it, okay? I was thinking out loud around a table at Mac’s 24 Restaurant that conventions were just getting too big. 3,000, 4,000 people – who needs that? Why not something smaller, more personal, more intimate? So I thought of having a con in Sooke. And someone else, it may have been Steph[anie Johanson], maybe Karl [Johanson], I dunno – it was four in the fucking morning! – anyway, someone said that Myles had a farm! And goats! Well that was it! We cooked that one for a good couple of hours and then John [W. Herbert] took it all home and made up the original Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House flyer and the rest is history. We made buttons, hats, updates – sometimes we got worried that we may actually have to put this thing on. Eventually we even told Myles about it.”
Klassen’s revisionist version of events is interesting because this “group” he describes were not the only ones to try and steal credit for Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House, but they certainly were the most famous. In fact, certain members of this “group” (Dan Cawsey, Karl Johanson and John W.Herbert) kidnapped Myles and forced him against his will to appear on The Ether Patrol radio show, where they were interviewed by Barry Rueger. Clearly, this was a desperate act by a bunch of poor, wretched souls who could only gain the most marginal moments of self-worth by attaching themselves to a grand and glorious idea that they wished had been their own. In fact, this group of reprobates were seen at numerous mid-1980s conventions with a flimsy cardboard faux Myles which they attempted to pawn off as the real thing. They even went so far as chair a panel at V-Con 14, where they insisted they were the driving force beyond “Myles-Mania.” (A tape recording of this travesty was made, but, sadly for the lovers of justice, it is said to have gone missing, much like Kennedy’s brain.)
And for those who still believe the fantasy tales of this group of fannish wannabes, it was no less an intrepid journalist than Garth Spencer himself who first broke the story of the cardboard Myles in the almost near legendary Maple Leaf Rag #22. After exhaustive research, he reported: “Through careful investigation, I have found the proof that there are two Myles Boses! Shocking, but true. The Myles we see at school and at official Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House functions is bright, alert and waves his hand constantly. The other Myles, the one we see picking through garbage cans, sleeping beneath park benches, sneaking in the back doors of buses looks like death. He is the real Myles. The other one, the healthy, happy one, is made of cardboard.”
An outrage, to be sure. But clearly the Myles mythos was striking chords in fandom. As the cult of Myles’ personality grew, so did the unsolicited monetary contributions, the publicity, the mania, and the goat cheese. And so did the false claims of creation. But Spencer put most, if not all, of these claims to rest because of his massive effort and undercover work in what surely ranks as the pinnacle of fannish reporting in this country, Maple Leaf Rag #22. (Still, so intrepid were the forces of evil in this country that the story still persists to this day that the Myles-related stories in Maple Leaf Rag #22 was in fact written by John W. Herbert, including a brief quote by E.B.Klassen, as he, as early as 1986, takes claim for the initial creation of Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House: “…But really, the whole thing was my idea.” But we know that this is untrue, that Herbert did not nor will he ever posses the imagination capable of such fabrications, and that Klassen’s comments are only the words of a poor, deluded Albertan.)
It was Spencer who, even at this early stage, sensed the danger ahead and tried to shout warnings. His career is noted for being on the cutting edge of the sf convention subculture, and knowing its ins and outs. Convention organizers from across the nation (and yes, even Ontario) would constantly seek out Spencer for his advice and sage wisdom. His exposé of the Constellation Con affair would be his life’s work, and surely given his reputation, his word must be given credence and precedence over the ravings of nut cases like Klassen, Herbert and Johanson.
Spencer tried to make sense of it all in his editorial in Maple Leaf Rag #22. But he failed. Still, he offered these parting comments. “What really picks my bottom is the sheer stupidity of some people. I mean, I was here. I could have helped. They were flying blind. I have sight. I have vision.”
And now again, we are ahead of ourselves. Now we must turn to Myles: where did he come from?
Like Gunderson, our knowledge of Myles’ childhood years is now lost to the ages. But clearly, he was exposed to goats at an early age. The first Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House flyer describes Myles as “…born into a family of goat herders. He knows everything there is to know about goats. He tried sheep once but it was to no avail. Goats were in his blood.” It is important to remember that Myles had rejected sheep – it is this fact that was to be the ultimate downfall of Myles, Gunderson, and the rest.
We must now look at the Myles/Gunderson relationship. In many ways, they were very similar. They both shared a love of science fiction, and suffered from terrifying bouts of goat lust. Yet they were also vastly dissimilar – Gunderson was nobody’s fool whereas Myles was everybody’s.
But the public was clearly taken with the Myles image. As noted previously, once Gunderson combined the ideas of an sf convention and goats, Myles became the obvious figurehead for the operation.
Worldcon in 1989 became Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House.
And how did Gunderson take this sudden change in focus? With Myles and his goats aboard, Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House suddenly became a viable commodity, whereas riding on Gunderson’s coattails, Worldcon in 1989 was going nowhere mighty fast. Now, it was different. The release of the initial Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House flyer spawned worldwide interest. Letters were received from all over Canada, the United States, England, and even Australia. Everyone was shocked and amazed by the response, and no one more than Gunderson. And one can’t help but believe that he became insanely jealous.
In a transcript of a discussion in the rare unnumbered issue of Maple Leaf Rag, the stress of suddenly being relegated to number two in the pecking order was plainly evident. Consider this exchange:
Garth Spencer: But what about the Ringworld?
Robert Gunderson: Screw the Ringwormworld! It’s a very nice concept and all, but unless we make it off this dust ball, Ringworlds and Dyson spheres and Imperial stormtroopers and Mork & Mindy aren’t going to mean dick! Do you understand?
Garth Spencer: I’m not sure. I think you just insulted my favorite tv show.
Robert Runté: Has anything Gunderson said made any sense?
Part of this outburst can be explained by the fact that Gunderson was under pressure from Pocket Books whilst writing the Mork & Mindy novelization (under the name “Ralph Church”), but certainly not all. Gunderson’s ego was taking a beating at this time. Consider his comment to E.B.Klassen from the same transcript: “Just don’t preach your commie/left wing politics around us, you pinko.” Clearly, Gunderson was confused and mistaken, as Klassen has always been a well-known conservative, and currently serves as the Agriculture critic in the Reform Party shadow cabinet in Ottawa.
The conflict was taking its toll on Gunderson. In the Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House Update #1, Gunderson interviewed Myles and the result was a tension filled and extremely uncomfortable dialogue.
Robert Gunderson: Whose idea was it that Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House should take place at your house?
Myles Bos: Yours, Robert. You know that.
Gunderson: Ah, Myles –
Bos: Why did you ask me that? The whole thing was your idea.
Gunderson: Myles, shut up. You –
Bos: Why are you here, anyway? Who let you into my bathroom? I’m trying to get a little privacy – Is that a microphone?
Obviously, there was no love lost. In an exclusive interview for this article, Myles volunteered to set the record straight. “My lawyer,” he said, “has advised me to make no comment at this time.”
Then, to add even more strain to Gunderson, there was the Lloyd Penny affair. Gunderson had decided to raise money for Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House by auctioning off the position of Professional Guest of Honour (or ProGoH). Penny, a fan from Ontario, claimed to have sent money to the Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House organizers (Gunderson) in a bid for the position. Gunderson never received any money. Penney took his complaints public. In the Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House Update #4, he wrote “Yvonne witnessed it going in the envelope. What IS going on here?”
It was obvious what was going on. It was another attempt to wrest fame from Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House. The proof was that Lloyd was supporting a rival group from the United States.
“Pennygate” proved to be the final straw for Gunderson. He went to Ottawa for a vacation, claiming he needed rest and recuperation. Instead, it was just another bizarre turn in the life (and deaths) of Robert Gunderson.
Late in the evening August 4, 1985, at the height of the Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House feeding frenzy, his rented canoe was found floating upside down on the Rideau Canal. A large piece appeared to be bitten out of it. Gunderson himself was missing and presumed eaten.
Fandom was shocked. Bandersnatch, Philben and Froog were equally shocked. Ichthyologists were shocked that there were sharks in the Rideau. Myles, experimenting with electricity at the time, was shocked perhaps most of all.
Always eloquent, Candas Jane Dorsey perhaps said it best for everyone: “Wasn’t there something in the Globe and Mail about man-eating sharks in Ontario or something? Didn’t I read that somewhere….? I dunno.”
Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House was now in serious trouble. Myles, although immensely popular, was clearly just a figurehead and not capable of taking over the day-to-day operation of the convention. Behind the scenes, Froog, Philben and Bandersnatch bickered and fought. A public façade of normality was maintained, but it was a cheap charade – on the inside, everything was falling apart. Still, Myles struggled to hold it together. He was quoted at the time saying, “My lawyer has advised me to make no comment at this time.”
The stress of it was getting too much even for Myles. In a letter published in Maple Leaf Rag, he wrote “Garth, you’ve got to help me. These people are crazy. They really want to have Worldcon at my house. I’ve tried everything! I’ve tried ignoring them, I’ve tried playing along with them, I’ve tried Zen. I’ve even moved – twice!! Nothing’s worked!”
Myles was clearly being pushed to the edge by forces beyond his control. His mind was snapping. “They know where I live and where I go to school and they always follow me. Sometimes they hide in the shadows or trail behind me at a discreet distance. Sometime they don’t hide at all! They brazenly walk out in daylight and everyone knows they’re following me but no one helps me. And sometimes, I never see them at all. But I know they are out there…. watching…. waiting….”
Myles abandoned the project. Saving his money, he stowed away on a passing cruise ship as it sailed to Nepal.
The internal struggles continued, and finally it was Froog who emerged as the head of the survivors, who now maintained an uneasy alliance. But a rival group, working all this time behind the scenes, were now ready to make their move.
The rival group of science fictions fans was called the IFS. This moniker, they claimed, stood for “Imaginative Fiction Society,” but secretly it stood for something more sinister. For this group harboured a dark, dank secret. They were sheep lovers. They loved sheep. A lot. An awful lot. You could say they were close to sheep. Very close. Whenever they could. Without getting caught.
The IFS group, lead by a Scottish sheep farmer, whose initials were David Gordon-MacDonald, were fanatical anti-Goatists, and they stopped at nothing and stooped to anything to discredit the Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House endeavour.
They attempted to recruit Adam Charlesworth to their ranks. He recently recalled, “No, John, I have a life. I’m not going to talk about this anymore. It’s over. I’m out of fandom. People can make the break and carry on. You don’t see E.B.Klassen’s name in fanzines anymore, do you? He did it. He made it back. You should be following his example.”
E.B.Klassen also recalls, “The IFS sabotaged everything. Once they got that after hours petting zoo going, well, Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House was toast. Nothing got done because Froog and Philben were spending all their time at the petting zoo.”
And so Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House petered out and faded away, a victim of entropy and ennui. And where are they now? Bill Froog invested in Netscape and made a fortune. Then lost it. Monika Bandersnatch changed her name to Kim Campbell and went into politics. Angst Philben played steel guitar in Tommy Hunter’s band for a while, but then moved into the gold-mining business with a company named Bre-X. Currently, he is living under the name “Brian Mulroney” somewhere in the Cayman Islands. Myles, as noted, eventually settled in Nepal, and now makes a meager living there as a part-time yak racer and a Microsoft network technician. (Despite what transpired, today he has only kind words to say about the whole affair: “My lawyer has advised me to make no comment at this time.”)
And how has the Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House affair affected the next generation of Fandom? Roy Fisher put it most succinctly: “Well, I didn’t know any of those guys, and really, I’d never heard of any of it. It had no discernable effect on me at all. I have nothing more to add. I just haven’t heard of it. Who are you, anyway?” Michelle Wilson remembers her family gathering around the fire, once a year, as the tale was told and passed down through the generations. “Yes, my family sure loved A Christmas Carol. But who was this Myles guy?”
And the whole affair still resurfaces occasionally in the fannish media. “You are NOT going to like what I will be saying about it,” John Mansfield recently told the editors of Under the Ozone Hole.
But the final twist of our tale is the strangest of all. In 1991, Robert Gunderson resurfaced, apparently alive. In Under the Ozone Hole Number Five, he was reluctant to discuss the incident, claiming that when he was attacked in his canoe, he struck his head on something underwater and developed amnesia. “The next thing I remember is waking up in 1991 as the Progressive Conservative MP from High River!” He denied rumours about being involved in a nefarious plot in Central America, insisting that all those pictures of himself with Oliver North were fakes.
Fake pictures or not, the rise of poorly written media tie-in novels during Gunderson’s disappearance suggests that if he was in Central America during that time, he was continuing his chosen career as a writer. He continued writing until his untimely death in June 1994, in a strange and as yet unexplained inner tube rafting accident in the Gorge waterway in Victoria, BC. His body was never recovered. Only the inner tube was found. It was damaged and torn with what appeared to be strange bite marks....
it, shook it, dismantled it, and reassembled it. Paralleling the real-life
transformations occurring at the same time in Eastern Europe, another legendary event forced an unexpected, surprising and, ultimately, an unsure and evolving revolution on Canadian Fandom.
For it was ten years ago, as the Soviet Bloc began its disintegration, that Fandom entered into the abyss and emerged as a different creature on the other side. What began as Fandom’s annual party became an epoch-shattering maelstrom of grave soul searching and frantic debauchery. It was simply Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House.
We start at the beginning, and for Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House, the beginning was Robert Gunderson.
In 1952, in a tiny, run-down ramshackle of a house on the wrong side of the tracks, with a leaky roof, cracked window panes, and broken shutters, a lone dog howled under a crescent moon. In March of that year, this poverty-stricken family welcomed a new life into this world. A small, beautiful boy with tiny hands and fingers, but big, bright eyes that shone like blue suns. He was the apple of his father’s eyes, and the baby’s smile warmed his mother’s heart. He was a perfect baby. He hardly ever cried, ate when he was supposed to, even slept when he was supposed to.
Their shack was next to the old CN line, and every night ol’ 342 would come through, two miles of grain cars bound for Vancouver, clickety-clack, clickety clack, sounding a thunderous roar that shook the cardboard shingles off the roof of their shack. After the train had passed every night, Dad would go outside and try to replace the cardboard shingles by stapling them back in place, but most times they couldn’t afford staples so he would just lick them into place. (In the winter, it was easier. Dad would just spit into a bucket all day and come nightfall, he would pour the bucket of spit over the roof and freeze the shingles in place.)
But the next night, ol’ 342 would return, like a mobile earthquake snaking along the ground, tremors rattling, subsonics shaking, and a rumble rumbling that you could hear in your stomach and feel in your bones. But through it all, through the sharp squeals of steel wheels on steel tracks, through the bleating blasts of the train’s horn, through the sudden bright bursts of light as the train’s headlight shone through the hole in the wall where the living room window ought to have been, the little baby slept all night, with nary a whimper nor a dream disturbed. Five blocks away from this family lived ten year-old Robert Gunderson. And it was Gunderson who would eventually take Canadian Fandom down its most wildest trip.
Not much is known about Gunderson’s early years, save that his father installed in him a deep love of goats. In one of his few known interviews, Gunderson described his first encounter with science fiction: “I was at high school one day and my Business Sabotage teacher dragged me into an empty classroom. My first thought was, ‘Oh no, not again,’ but she had a film projector set up and somehow she had managed to obtain a bootlegged copy of 2001: A Space Odyssey. So we watched it. And I thought, hey, here’s a film with no dialogue. Wow, that’ll make writing screenplays easier, not having any dialogue. But the really puzzling thing was that it was, what? 1968? Yeah, 1968, and so here I was 26, eight novels published, and I was still going to high school.” (The Monthly Monthly #25).
He quit school and hit the road, as many young people did in 1968, with Kerouac in one pocket and not a care in the other. He eventually made it to the legendary Woodstock concert later that year where he even managed to emcee the show for a while, using the stage name Lumpy Gravy.
By this time, though it seemed he was young and carefree, Gunderson had already established a considerable literary reputation. “Gunderson [was] one of those unsung outlaw heroes of SF and of modern culture,” observed noted ex-Saskatchewanian Dave Panchyk in Under The Ozone Hole Number Ten. “[H]e spent his childhood at the knee of the aging ‘Great Beast,’ Aleister Crowley, then went on to move in the same literary circles as William S. Burroughs at the end of the fifties, while he was still barely more than a teenager. It [was] at this point he wrote The Space Inside and Mymidon, two seminal classics now out of print.” Clearly, in his youth Gunderson was a talent to watch. But what happened? Panchyk has a theory: “Golgotha on Mars, his stunning third novel, appeared several years too early for him to become a hero of the New Wave. Had he not been more proud than Philip K. Dick, who kept himself alive with pot-boilers, he would have eclipsed that man’s talent.”
So Gunderson was too young to be Old School, but too old to be New Wave. Clearly, luck and fate were factors here. But in December 1994 when Panchyk offered the above assessment, it was not known that Gunderson had indeed written more than his share of pot-boilers and novelizations, most under various assumed names: John Norman, William Shatner, V.C. Andrews, Fabio, and Alan Dean Foster. This information has only come to light since his passing by the release of various documents by the NSA and Interpol. (The only novel to appear after 1975 with the Gunderson moniker was Charlie’s Angels: Angels in Chains. This was a printer’s error and recalled immediately, and reprinted with the byline “Max Franklin.” A Gunderson Charlie’s Angels is extremely rare and valuable.)
By the mid-seventies and into the eighties and nineties, he was reduced to writing media tie-in novels (Chekov Must Scream!), and ghost writing novels by others (George Lucas). But why did he fall in with this group of degenerates instead on any other? Again, Panchyk offers some insight. “[Gunderson] was a degenerate, certainly. And yes, he killed.” All the more curious in light of the events that conspired to keep Gunderson from actually attending Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House.
But we are ahead of ourselves. After Woodstock, Gunderson vanished from sight for a number of years, until he turned up in Edmonton in the early seventies. In a profile by Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House alumnus Sally Mander in Under The Ozone Hole Number Five, Gunderson recalls (in his final interview) stumbling into an ESFACAS meeting in Edmonton quite by accident: “Somehow, a rug on the floor got rolled up and I tripped over it.” He also recalled that “…all the famous ESFACASians were there: Silvestri, Williams, Horner, Steiner, Goldenthal, and Badalamenti – before her breakdown, of course.”
This initial meeting which brought together Gunderson and ESFACAS is well remembered in Edmonton Fannish circles. Robert Runté remembers it well: “Gunderson stormed into the room like a race car on nitro. He dominated the meeting. He was one of those people that just drew you in. You couldn’t not look at him. Magnetic. There was a fire behind his eyes that blazed like hot coals that last an eternity. Plus, he could speak Esperanto so we could finally watch our copy of Incubus and figure out what was going on! At least, that’s what Randy Reichart told me that some guy who might have been there said.”
Cath Jackel remembers every detail of that meeting vividly: “I wasn’t there.”
It is interesting to note that Gunderson, who up until this point had kept his contacts with fandom to a minimum, knew of the reputations of the these people, who are the equivalent of the First Fandom of ESFACAS. Obviously he was keeping abreast of the fannish world, even if he himself was not an active participant. This was about to change. He continued, “I suppose none of the young people today remember these guys now, but they started ESFACAS, and they made ESFACAS tick. They were its heart and soul. It’s a good thing I never joined.”
In 1977, Gunderson moved to Vancouver to attend McGill University. Unfortunately, McGill is in Montréal. While earning money to move to Montréal at a lesbian S&M club, Spikes ’n’ Dykes, Robert met Monika Bandersnatch, part-time waitress and full-time deviant. She in turn introduced him to Angst Philben, former CIA weapon specialist, and the three of them discovered they shared two mutual interests: sf and goats.
The three of them bonded instantly, thanks in part to a terrible glue accident, but even despite that, there is no question they were three kindred spirits. Gunderson: “Well, Angst and Monika got on real well, and after I’d been over to their place with my video camera a few times, they let me in on their BCSFA plans. They said fandom needed a place to go to celebrate fannishness and goats. They said BCSFA would be the ideal way to do it! Wow! Our own club! Then they let me in on their plans for having a Worldcon in 1989. They even had a name for it: Worldcon in 1989. So we started having meetings, and formed an arsenal and stuff at their place while we installed the pulleys and winches. It was great! That’s where we met Bill Froog.”
Although Froog was later to play a significant role during Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House, for now he remains a small player in our story. It is Angst Philben, speaking to this reporter exclusively only on the condition that I guarantee his anonymity, who now continues the story. “Someone said that some other group was called BCSFA. So I called up Len and said, ‘Are you gonna give us any trouble?’ He said no, but this other group was already called BCSFA. They had the name first. Well, we were devastated. We didn’t know what to do.”
There was little the group could do. Only a large-scale assault could solve the problem. Angst quickly built up the arsenal, Monika gathered the whips and chains, Gunderson wrote Welcome Back, Kotter: Barbarino Flunks Out, and Bill made cookies. But even though their claim to the name BCSFA was in jeopardy, their Worldcon plans continued unabated. For a while, it seemed that Worldcon in 1989 was going to rest simply on the fannish laurels of the Gunderson name. For although it was clear that Philben was the more heavily armed, it was Gunderson who was the filthy pro. But soon, a slight navigational error was to change Worldcon in 1989 forever.
The night of the raid finally came. BCSFA historian R. Greame Cameron, citing several fannish sources of the era, describes what happened in BCFSAzine #234. “At the time, BCSFA met on the first Sunday of every month. Now for some reason, a group of people in a car drove by the clubhouse on the third Thursday of this particular month. What was really strange was that they had a map out and were arguing over directions. The car sped by quickly, never stopped, and just kept going. William Gibson, who as you recall was a member of BCSFA, just happened to be walking by at the time and said, ‘Hey! Isn’t that the guy who wrote Golgotha?’”
Angst Philben takes up the story: “Finally, we challenged them to a rumble, but they never showed, probably because we made a wrong turn in Delta and ended up on the ferry to Victoria.”
And it was on this simple ferry ride that Robert Gunderson, Angst Philben, Monika Bandersnatch and Bill Froog met their destiny. It was here that fate cast to them both their salvation, and their destruction, a quest they should have refused, and yet a challenge they had to take. It was here, for the first time, that they met Myles Bos, goat farmer.
“We later made up this story about lightning bolts,” said Philben, “and none of that happened but the air seemed charged with electricity when we met. And it was, actually. St. Elmo’s fire. Good thing the ferry wasn’t filled up with hydrogen.”
“It was like people meeting for the very first time,” said Bandersnatch. “You say hi, and then they say hi. And you don’t know what else to say so you say hi again and smile like a moron.”
Gunderson never talked about this first meeting much but clearly the others thought he was excited. Myles was a goat farmer, and Gunderson could now see ways to combine his two passions, sf and goats, in ways that he never before imagined while not sleeping.
Myles was excited, too. In a recent interview in ConTRACT, he said, “My lawyer has advised to make no comment at this time.”
As the group exchanged banal chit chat, Gunderson’s mind was racing. How to tie together goats and sf? Except for those wild parties at V-Con, it had never been done successfully before! But it was when Myles casually mentioned that his family had a small goat farm that he saw it all.
“[Gunderson] suddenly screamed,” said Philben. “I thought he was in pain, like maybe he’d eaten some ferry food or something. But no! He’d had an idea! ‘Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House!’ he shouted. ‘Goats! Goats! Goats!’ When he started shouting about goats, once again I was sure he’d had some ferry food!”
Well-known cynic E.B. Klassen offers a much different version of events. “Look, I started it, okay? I was thinking out loud around a table at Mac’s 24 Restaurant that conventions were just getting too big. 3,000, 4,000 people – who needs that? Why not something smaller, more personal, more intimate? So I thought of having a con in Sooke. And someone else, it may have been Steph[anie Johanson], maybe Karl [Johanson], I dunno – it was four in the fucking morning! – anyway, someone said that Myles had a farm! And goats! Well that was it! We cooked that one for a good couple of hours and then John [W. Herbert] took it all home and made up the original Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House flyer and the rest is history. We made buttons, hats, updates – sometimes we got worried that we may actually have to put this thing on. Eventually we even told Myles about it.”
Klassen’s revisionist version of events is interesting because this “group” he describes were not the only ones to try and steal credit for Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House, but they certainly were the most famous. In fact, certain members of this “group” (Dan Cawsey, Karl Johanson and John W.Herbert) kidnapped Myles and forced him against his will to appear on The Ether Patrol radio show, where they were interviewed by Barry Rueger. Clearly, this was a desperate act by a bunch of poor, wretched souls who could only gain the most marginal moments of self-worth by attaching themselves to a grand and glorious idea that they wished had been their own. In fact, this group of reprobates were seen at numerous mid-1980s conventions with a flimsy cardboard faux Myles which they attempted to pawn off as the real thing. They even went so far as chair a panel at V-Con 14, where they insisted they were the driving force beyond “Myles-Mania.” (A tape recording of this travesty was made, but, sadly for the lovers of justice, it is said to have gone missing, much like Kennedy’s brain.)
And for those who still believe the fantasy tales of this group of fannish wannabes, it was no less an intrepid journalist than Garth Spencer himself who first broke the story of the cardboard Myles in the almost near legendary Maple Leaf Rag #22. After exhaustive research, he reported: “Through careful investigation, I have found the proof that there are two Myles Boses! Shocking, but true. The Myles we see at school and at official Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House functions is bright, alert and waves his hand constantly. The other Myles, the one we see picking through garbage cans, sleeping beneath park benches, sneaking in the back doors of buses looks like death. He is the real Myles. The other one, the healthy, happy one, is made of cardboard.”
An outrage, to be sure. But clearly the Myles mythos was striking chords in fandom. As the cult of Myles’ personality grew, so did the unsolicited monetary contributions, the publicity, the mania, and the goat cheese. And so did the false claims of creation. But Spencer put most, if not all, of these claims to rest because of his massive effort and undercover work in what surely ranks as the pinnacle of fannish reporting in this country, Maple Leaf Rag #22. (Still, so intrepid were the forces of evil in this country that the story still persists to this day that the Myles-related stories in Maple Leaf Rag #22 was in fact written by John W. Herbert, including a brief quote by E.B.Klassen, as he, as early as 1986, takes claim for the initial creation of Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House: “…But really, the whole thing was my idea.” But we know that this is untrue, that Herbert did not nor will he ever posses the imagination capable of such fabrications, and that Klassen’s comments are only the words of a poor, deluded Albertan.)
It was Spencer who, even at this early stage, sensed the danger ahead and tried to shout warnings. His career is noted for being on the cutting edge of the sf convention subculture, and knowing its ins and outs. Convention organizers from across the nation (and yes, even Ontario) would constantly seek out Spencer for his advice and sage wisdom. His exposé of the Constellation Con affair would be his life’s work, and surely given his reputation, his word must be given credence and precedence over the ravings of nut cases like Klassen, Herbert and Johanson.
Spencer tried to make sense of it all in his editorial in Maple Leaf Rag #22. But he failed. Still, he offered these parting comments. “What really picks my bottom is the sheer stupidity of some people. I mean, I was here. I could have helped. They were flying blind. I have sight. I have vision.”
And now again, we are ahead of ourselves. Now we must turn to Myles: where did he come from?
Like Gunderson, our knowledge of Myles’ childhood years is now lost to the ages. But clearly, he was exposed to goats at an early age. The first Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House flyer describes Myles as “…born into a family of goat herders. He knows everything there is to know about goats. He tried sheep once but it was to no avail. Goats were in his blood.” It is important to remember that Myles had rejected sheep – it is this fact that was to be the ultimate downfall of Myles, Gunderson, and the rest.
We must now look at the Myles/Gunderson relationship. In many ways, they were very similar. They both shared a love of science fiction, and suffered from terrifying bouts of goat lust. Yet they were also vastly dissimilar – Gunderson was nobody’s fool whereas Myles was everybody’s.
But the public was clearly taken with the Myles image. As noted previously, once Gunderson combined the ideas of an sf convention and goats, Myles became the obvious figurehead for the operation.
Worldcon in 1989 became Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House.
And how did Gunderson take this sudden change in focus? With Myles and his goats aboard, Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House suddenly became a viable commodity, whereas riding on Gunderson’s coattails, Worldcon in 1989 was going nowhere mighty fast. Now, it was different. The release of the initial Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House flyer spawned worldwide interest. Letters were received from all over Canada, the United States, England, and even Australia. Everyone was shocked and amazed by the response, and no one more than Gunderson. And one can’t help but believe that he became insanely jealous.
In a transcript of a discussion in the rare unnumbered issue of Maple Leaf Rag, the stress of suddenly being relegated to number two in the pecking order was plainly evident. Consider this exchange:
Garth Spencer: But what about the Ringworld?
Robert Gunderson: Screw the Ringwormworld! It’s a very nice concept and all, but unless we make it off this dust ball, Ringworlds and Dyson spheres and Imperial stormtroopers and Mork & Mindy aren’t going to mean dick! Do you understand?
Garth Spencer: I’m not sure. I think you just insulted my favorite tv show.
Robert Runté: Has anything Gunderson said made any sense?
Part of this outburst can be explained by the fact that Gunderson was under pressure from Pocket Books whilst writing the Mork & Mindy novelization (under the name “Ralph Church”), but certainly not all. Gunderson’s ego was taking a beating at this time. Consider his comment to E.B.Klassen from the same transcript: “Just don’t preach your commie/left wing politics around us, you pinko.” Clearly, Gunderson was confused and mistaken, as Klassen has always been a well-known conservative, and currently serves as the Agriculture critic in the Reform Party shadow cabinet in Ottawa.
The conflict was taking its toll on Gunderson. In the Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House Update #1, Gunderson interviewed Myles and the result was a tension filled and extremely uncomfortable dialogue.
Robert Gunderson: Whose idea was it that Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House should take place at your house?
Myles Bos: Yours, Robert. You know that.
Gunderson: Ah, Myles –
Bos: Why did you ask me that? The whole thing was your idea.
Gunderson: Myles, shut up. You –
Bos: Why are you here, anyway? Who let you into my bathroom? I’m trying to get a little privacy – Is that a microphone?
Obviously, there was no love lost. In an exclusive interview for this article, Myles volunteered to set the record straight. “My lawyer,” he said, “has advised me to make no comment at this time.”
Then, to add even more strain to Gunderson, there was the Lloyd Penny affair. Gunderson had decided to raise money for Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House by auctioning off the position of Professional Guest of Honour (or ProGoH). Penny, a fan from Ontario, claimed to have sent money to the Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House organizers (Gunderson) in a bid for the position. Gunderson never received any money. Penney took his complaints public. In the Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House Update #4, he wrote “Yvonne witnessed it going in the envelope. What IS going on here?”
It was obvious what was going on. It was another attempt to wrest fame from Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House. The proof was that Lloyd was supporting a rival group from the United States.
“Pennygate” proved to be the final straw for Gunderson. He went to Ottawa for a vacation, claiming he needed rest and recuperation. Instead, it was just another bizarre turn in the life (and deaths) of Robert Gunderson.
Late in the evening August 4, 1985, at the height of the Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House feeding frenzy, his rented canoe was found floating upside down on the Rideau Canal. A large piece appeared to be bitten out of it. Gunderson himself was missing and presumed eaten.
Fandom was shocked. Bandersnatch, Philben and Froog were equally shocked. Ichthyologists were shocked that there were sharks in the Rideau. Myles, experimenting with electricity at the time, was shocked perhaps most of all.
Always eloquent, Candas Jane Dorsey perhaps said it best for everyone: “Wasn’t there something in the Globe and Mail about man-eating sharks in Ontario or something? Didn’t I read that somewhere….? I dunno.”
Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House was now in serious trouble. Myles, although immensely popular, was clearly just a figurehead and not capable of taking over the day-to-day operation of the convention. Behind the scenes, Froog, Philben and Bandersnatch bickered and fought. A public façade of normality was maintained, but it was a cheap charade – on the inside, everything was falling apart. Still, Myles struggled to hold it together. He was quoted at the time saying, “My lawyer has advised me to make no comment at this time.”
The stress of it was getting too much even for Myles. In a letter published in Maple Leaf Rag, he wrote “Garth, you’ve got to help me. These people are crazy. They really want to have Worldcon at my house. I’ve tried everything! I’ve tried ignoring them, I’ve tried playing along with them, I’ve tried Zen. I’ve even moved – twice!! Nothing’s worked!”
Myles was clearly being pushed to the edge by forces beyond his control. His mind was snapping. “They know where I live and where I go to school and they always follow me. Sometimes they hide in the shadows or trail behind me at a discreet distance. Sometime they don’t hide at all! They brazenly walk out in daylight and everyone knows they’re following me but no one helps me. And sometimes, I never see them at all. But I know they are out there…. watching…. waiting….”
Myles abandoned the project. Saving his money, he stowed away on a passing cruise ship as it sailed to Nepal.
The internal struggles continued, and finally it was Froog who emerged as the head of the survivors, who now maintained an uneasy alliance. But a rival group, working all this time behind the scenes, were now ready to make their move.
The rival group of science fictions fans was called the IFS. This moniker, they claimed, stood for “Imaginative Fiction Society,” but secretly it stood for something more sinister. For this group harboured a dark, dank secret. They were sheep lovers. They loved sheep. A lot. An awful lot. You could say they were close to sheep. Very close. Whenever they could. Without getting caught.
The IFS group, lead by a Scottish sheep farmer, whose initials were David Gordon-MacDonald, were fanatical anti-Goatists, and they stopped at nothing and stooped to anything to discredit the Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House endeavour.
They attempted to recruit Adam Charlesworth to their ranks. He recently recalled, “No, John, I have a life. I’m not going to talk about this anymore. It’s over. I’m out of fandom. People can make the break and carry on. You don’t see E.B.Klassen’s name in fanzines anymore, do you? He did it. He made it back. You should be following his example.”
E.B.Klassen also recalls, “The IFS sabotaged everything. Once they got that after hours petting zoo going, well, Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House was toast. Nothing got done because Froog and Philben were spending all their time at the petting zoo.”
And so Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House petered out and faded away, a victim of entropy and ennui. And where are they now? Bill Froog invested in Netscape and made a fortune. Then lost it. Monika Bandersnatch changed her name to Kim Campbell and went into politics. Angst Philben played steel guitar in Tommy Hunter’s band for a while, but then moved into the gold-mining business with a company named Bre-X. Currently, he is living under the name “Brian Mulroney” somewhere in the Cayman Islands. Myles, as noted, eventually settled in Nepal, and now makes a meager living there as a part-time yak racer and a Microsoft network technician. (Despite what transpired, today he has only kind words to say about the whole affair: “My lawyer has advised me to make no comment at this time.”)
And how has the Worldcon ’89 At Myles’ House affair affected the next generation of Fandom? Roy Fisher put it most succinctly: “Well, I didn’t know any of those guys, and really, I’d never heard of any of it. It had no discernable effect on me at all. I have nothing more to add. I just haven’t heard of it. Who are you, anyway?” Michelle Wilson remembers her family gathering around the fire, once a year, as the tale was told and passed down through the generations. “Yes, my family sure loved A Christmas Carol. But who was this Myles guy?”
And the whole affair still resurfaces occasionally in the fannish media. “You are NOT going to like what I will be saying about it,” John Mansfield recently told the editors of Under the Ozone Hole.
But the final twist of our tale is the strangest of all. In 1991, Robert Gunderson resurfaced, apparently alive. In Under the Ozone Hole Number Five, he was reluctant to discuss the incident, claiming that when he was attacked in his canoe, he struck his head on something underwater and developed amnesia. “The next thing I remember is waking up in 1991 as the Progressive Conservative MP from High River!” He denied rumours about being involved in a nefarious plot in Central America, insisting that all those pictures of himself with Oliver North were fakes.
Fake pictures or not, the rise of poorly written media tie-in novels during Gunderson’s disappearance suggests that if he was in Central America during that time, he was continuing his chosen career as a writer. He continued writing until his untimely death in June 1994, in a strange and as yet unexplained inner tube rafting accident in the Gorge waterway in Victoria, BC. His body was never recovered. Only the inner tube was found. It was damaged and torn with what appeared to be strange bite marks....
Stalking the American Dream
Interstate 90 winds eastward from Seattle like a snake through scrub grass. It winds, it twists, it turns, and it never seems to get anywhere.
Through Montana, I-90 passes through some of the most desolate land in the Excited States. It seems that you can go for hours without seeing anything denoting "civilization," save for the road ahead of you, and the cars of your fellow travelers.
It was a hot, muggy day in the Montana desert and Monica and I were both very thirsty. We pulled into a roadside Rest Area. (Always pull into the Rest Areas in Montana; you may die of thirst before the next one.) We hoped for nothing more than a water fountain; instead we discovered Nirvana: two pop machines, each filled with ice, cold pop.
As I got out of the car and fished in my pocket for change, I noticed the crowd formed around one of the machines. One fellow at the machine already had a dozen cans or so, and seemed intent on adding to his total. Then I noticed something a mite peculiar; he wasn't putting any money in the machine. All he did was press his selection; his pop would come out, and the machine would spit some coins for change, too.
I dutifully awaited my turn and the machine gave me two cans and forty-five cents. Meanwhile, someone was shouting to all the weary travelers in the Rest Area, "FREE SODAS!"
I returned to Monica, gave her a pop, and explained the situation. "They sure know how to treat visitors down here," she said, "free pop and free money."
"Sure do," I said, raising my free can of Coke for a toast. "God bless America."
Through Montana, I-90 passes through some of the most desolate land in the Excited States. It seems that you can go for hours without seeing anything denoting "civilization," save for the road ahead of you, and the cars of your fellow travelers.
It was a hot, muggy day in the Montana desert and Monica and I were both very thirsty. We pulled into a roadside Rest Area. (Always pull into the Rest Areas in Montana; you may die of thirst before the next one.) We hoped for nothing more than a water fountain; instead we discovered Nirvana: two pop machines, each filled with ice, cold pop.
As I got out of the car and fished in my pocket for change, I noticed the crowd formed around one of the machines. One fellow at the machine already had a dozen cans or so, and seemed intent on adding to his total. Then I noticed something a mite peculiar; he wasn't putting any money in the machine. All he did was press his selection; his pop would come out, and the machine would spit some coins for change, too.
I dutifully awaited my turn and the machine gave me two cans and forty-five cents. Meanwhile, someone was shouting to all the weary travelers in the Rest Area, "FREE SODAS!"
I returned to Monica, gave her a pop, and explained the situation. "They sure know how to treat visitors down here," she said, "free pop and free money."
"Sure do," I said, raising my free can of Coke for a toast. "God bless America."
Ramming Speed
I have some friends in the Green movement and naturally they are extremely anti-automobile. And let’s face it, they’re absolutely correct. Our 20th century love affair with the car may be the death of us all. Noxious emissions that poison the air, acres of pavement, an expensive and wasteful infrastructure, and a staggering reliance on fossil fuels are the sad legacy of the automobile, to say nothing of the daily horrific carnage on the roads and highways. But in their crusade to curb the car, my Green friends may also be saving lives in a completely unexpected way. Of course, I’m referring to Justifiable Parkade Homicide.
When I’m driving in a parking lot searching for an empty space, I always try to be considerate to the other drivers. I don’t stop in the middle of the row, blocking traffic, unless it’s pretty obvious that someone is just about to pull out and free up a space. I don’t stop and wait on the slight chance someone may return to their car in the next ten minutes. Sure, if you wait long enough, eventually someone’s going to return to their car and free up their space right in front of you (unless the world ended while you were waiting and, boy, wouldn’t you feel stupid then?). But is it worth the impotent aggravation of just sitting there doing nothing? I say if you can’t find a place to squeeze into where you are, you should move on and look for somewhere else to park it.
Other people don’t feel the same way as I do. Some feel it’s their right to hold up as many other drivers as possible while waiting for a parking space to be vacated. Pedestrians don’t do this. How many times have you seen a person stand in the middle of the sidewalk blocking other pedestrians on the slight chance that a space may open up at the bus stop?
I was recently a passenger in a friend’s car in the View Street Parkade in Victoria. As we entered a new row of parked cars, he stopped his, apparently intent on waiting. It didn’t help that this particular level of the parkade was also used as a pedestrian throughway. Office workers on their way to be late back from lunch scurried by, tantalizing us by walking past the parked cars. After ten minutes, my friend noticed my annoyance, manifested by my tapping the dashboard loudly. And not in time to the beat of the music on the radio.
“We can wait,” he said. “We’re not in a hurry.” This was a debatable point. Did I really want to waste ten minutes crammed in a car so my friend could walk fifty feet to the exit instead of a hundred? (If I was a professional, I could have charged him by the minute for wasting my time.)
“Yeah, but what about the guy following us?” I asked. A car had driven into view behind us. “He might be in a hurry.”
“He isn’t. He hasn’t passed us.”
I glanced outside our car. My friend had somehow maneuvered it so it blocked the entire passage. I can just imagine what the guy behind us was thinking, because I’ve thought it myself a hundred times: why isn’t common sense a prerequisite for a driver’s license? “He can’t pass us,” I said. “It’s too narrow. You haven’t left enough room for him to get around us on either side.”
“Look, he’s not even on our bumper,” he said, checking his rear-view mirror and growing angry at my impatience. “He’s way back there.”
My friend was correct. The other driver was way back there. Then I sensed what he was up to. “He’s making sure he’s got enough room to achieve ramming speed,” I said.
My friend was still very nonchalant about the whole business. But what if this guy had been a lawyer on his way back from lunch to be late for his first afternoon appointment. Now he really was going to be late, and it was our fault. “If he was actually in a hurry,” my friend said, “he’d honk his horn.”
I checked the other driver in the rear view again. “He’s too busy shaking his fists.” I’ve never seen a face so red before. Or such foaming at the mouth. Or a windshield fog up so fast. I rolled down my window. “He’s also making a comparison between your family lineage and exotic farm animals.”
I’m not telling you this simply to embarrass my friend. That’s only part of the reason. It’s also to save his life. One day, he’s going to pull this stunt on a disgruntled postal worker and that’ll be it – out comes the Uzi and my friend is Hyundai Helper. The worst part is that no jury in the world would convict the killer. We’ve all been there, right? Justifiable Parkade Homicide. (With my friend’s luck, the judge will turn out to be that poor guy we delayed. “I remember the victim well. RJK 042. As a judge, I can’t condone violence or vigilantism, but the bastard had it coming.”)
So remember, don’t plug up traffic in a parkade waiting for a space to open. You’re annoying people, wasting fuel, and polluting the planet. The life you save might be your own.
When I’m driving in a parking lot searching for an empty space, I always try to be considerate to the other drivers. I don’t stop in the middle of the row, blocking traffic, unless it’s pretty obvious that someone is just about to pull out and free up a space. I don’t stop and wait on the slight chance someone may return to their car in the next ten minutes. Sure, if you wait long enough, eventually someone’s going to return to their car and free up their space right in front of you (unless the world ended while you were waiting and, boy, wouldn’t you feel stupid then?). But is it worth the impotent aggravation of just sitting there doing nothing? I say if you can’t find a place to squeeze into where you are, you should move on and look for somewhere else to park it.
Other people don’t feel the same way as I do. Some feel it’s their right to hold up as many other drivers as possible while waiting for a parking space to be vacated. Pedestrians don’t do this. How many times have you seen a person stand in the middle of the sidewalk blocking other pedestrians on the slight chance that a space may open up at the bus stop?
I was recently a passenger in a friend’s car in the View Street Parkade in Victoria. As we entered a new row of parked cars, he stopped his, apparently intent on waiting. It didn’t help that this particular level of the parkade was also used as a pedestrian throughway. Office workers on their way to be late back from lunch scurried by, tantalizing us by walking past the parked cars. After ten minutes, my friend noticed my annoyance, manifested by my tapping the dashboard loudly. And not in time to the beat of the music on the radio.
“We can wait,” he said. “We’re not in a hurry.” This was a debatable point. Did I really want to waste ten minutes crammed in a car so my friend could walk fifty feet to the exit instead of a hundred? (If I was a professional, I could have charged him by the minute for wasting my time.)
“Yeah, but what about the guy following us?” I asked. A car had driven into view behind us. “He might be in a hurry.”
“He isn’t. He hasn’t passed us.”
I glanced outside our car. My friend had somehow maneuvered it so it blocked the entire passage. I can just imagine what the guy behind us was thinking, because I’ve thought it myself a hundred times: why isn’t common sense a prerequisite for a driver’s license? “He can’t pass us,” I said. “It’s too narrow. You haven’t left enough room for him to get around us on either side.”
“Look, he’s not even on our bumper,” he said, checking his rear-view mirror and growing angry at my impatience. “He’s way back there.”
My friend was correct. The other driver was way back there. Then I sensed what he was up to. “He’s making sure he’s got enough room to achieve ramming speed,” I said.
My friend was still very nonchalant about the whole business. But what if this guy had been a lawyer on his way back from lunch to be late for his first afternoon appointment. Now he really was going to be late, and it was our fault. “If he was actually in a hurry,” my friend said, “he’d honk his horn.”
I checked the other driver in the rear view again. “He’s too busy shaking his fists.” I’ve never seen a face so red before. Or such foaming at the mouth. Or a windshield fog up so fast. I rolled down my window. “He’s also making a comparison between your family lineage and exotic farm animals.”
I’m not telling you this simply to embarrass my friend. That’s only part of the reason. It’s also to save his life. One day, he’s going to pull this stunt on a disgruntled postal worker and that’ll be it – out comes the Uzi and my friend is Hyundai Helper. The worst part is that no jury in the world would convict the killer. We’ve all been there, right? Justifiable Parkade Homicide. (With my friend’s luck, the judge will turn out to be that poor guy we delayed. “I remember the victim well. RJK 042. As a judge, I can’t condone violence or vigilantism, but the bastard had it coming.”)
So remember, don’t plug up traffic in a parkade waiting for a space to open. You’re annoying people, wasting fuel, and polluting the planet. The life you save might be your own.
Here Are Some Scenes From Next Week’s Episode
FADE IN
The dirty, stained interrogation room at the police station. There is an old wooden table and two worn chairs. Seated is THE SUSPECT, an older, weather-beaten man. His is mumbling quietly to himself. In a corner watching are THE DETECTIVE and THE CHIEF.
“I can’t make it out,” says the Detective. “Is it free verse or iambic pentameter? We’re going to need help on this one. We better call him in.”
The Chief, rotund and stoogie-chomping, grunts. His voice sounds like a tuba played through sandpaper. “He let me hang out to dry last time.”
“Chief—”
“You’re right. We need a poet. Get me . . . McCardigan!”
CUT TO
Opening sequence. Music up – fast and percussive, a cross between the Mission Impossible theme on steroids and Jan Hammer on acid. We see a red Ferrari accelerating down the highway. We zoom into the driver, McCardigan, as the title flashes – McCARDIGAN: POET LAUREATE.
CUT TO
The Chief’s Office. He and McCardigan are leaning over the desk in a head to head confrontation.
“I don’t like you, McCardigan,” says the Chief. “I don’t like your act, I don’t like your style, and I don’t like your Armani suits. Frankly, you overuse metaphors, your similes suck, and your rhythm patterns are excessively simplistic! You better not let me hang out to dry like the last time.”
CUT TO
The Interrogation Room. McCardigan is examining The Suspect’s personal effects that are spread over the table. “See?” says McCardigan, pointing to some books. “Keats, Shelley. Your man here is into the Romantics. But the guy you want is strictly Ginsberg and Kerouac. You’ve got the wrong man.”
The Chief grunts. “You better not be letting me hang out to dry on this one.” He turns to The Detective. “Fire up the computer. Start cross-referencing. We’re looking for a terrorist who reads beatniks. Move it!”
CUT TO
The abandoned warehouse. THE TERRORIST is holed up inside. The police have the building surrounded. The Chief and McCardigan are using a police car as a shield. The Chief is shouting into a megaphone. “This is the Chief. We have you surrounded! Give it up!”
“You never take me alive,” shouts the terrorist. “Do your worst!”
“All right. We ‘re going in! Let’s—”
“Wait!” yells McCardigan. “Let me try.” He grabs the megaphone from the Chief. “You! In the building! It’s me – McCardigan!”
“McCardigan!” shouts the terrorist. “I know you! You humiliated me at the haiku open mike at Berkley! I’ve never forgotten that!”
McCardigan reaches into his jacket and pulls out a thin book.
“You got a permit for that?” asks the Chief.
“Yes, I have poetic license.” McCardigan reads from the book into the megaphone. “‘What a piece of work is man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god.’”
The terrorist leaves the building in tears, dropping his weapons as he staggers out. “Oh man, that was beautiful.”
CUT TO
McCardigan in his Ferrari with a buxom BLONDE in the passenger seat.
“—and when I saw the suspect was reading Hyperion, I knew the cops had the wrong guy.”
“Oh, McCardigan,” says the Blonde. “Did you ever fix that rhythm problem you were having?”
“My rhythm’s great. How’s yours?”
“Ooooh, McCardigan....”
We pull back as the Ferrari races into the sunset. We watch it recede to the horizon as the music comes up and we
FADE OUT
The dirty, stained interrogation room at the police station. There is an old wooden table and two worn chairs. Seated is THE SUSPECT, an older, weather-beaten man. His is mumbling quietly to himself. In a corner watching are THE DETECTIVE and THE CHIEF.
“I can’t make it out,” says the Detective. “Is it free verse or iambic pentameter? We’re going to need help on this one. We better call him in.”
The Chief, rotund and stoogie-chomping, grunts. His voice sounds like a tuba played through sandpaper. “He let me hang out to dry last time.”
“Chief—”
“You’re right. We need a poet. Get me . . . McCardigan!”
CUT TO
Opening sequence. Music up – fast and percussive, a cross between the Mission Impossible theme on steroids and Jan Hammer on acid. We see a red Ferrari accelerating down the highway. We zoom into the driver, McCardigan, as the title flashes – McCARDIGAN: POET LAUREATE.
CUT TO
The Chief’s Office. He and McCardigan are leaning over the desk in a head to head confrontation.
“I don’t like you, McCardigan,” says the Chief. “I don’t like your act, I don’t like your style, and I don’t like your Armani suits. Frankly, you overuse metaphors, your similes suck, and your rhythm patterns are excessively simplistic! You better not let me hang out to dry like the last time.”
CUT TO
The Interrogation Room. McCardigan is examining The Suspect’s personal effects that are spread over the table. “See?” says McCardigan, pointing to some books. “Keats, Shelley. Your man here is into the Romantics. But the guy you want is strictly Ginsberg and Kerouac. You’ve got the wrong man.”
The Chief grunts. “You better not be letting me hang out to dry on this one.” He turns to The Detective. “Fire up the computer. Start cross-referencing. We’re looking for a terrorist who reads beatniks. Move it!”
CUT TO
The abandoned warehouse. THE TERRORIST is holed up inside. The police have the building surrounded. The Chief and McCardigan are using a police car as a shield. The Chief is shouting into a megaphone. “This is the Chief. We have you surrounded! Give it up!”
“You never take me alive,” shouts the terrorist. “Do your worst!”
“All right. We ‘re going in! Let’s—”
“Wait!” yells McCardigan. “Let me try.” He grabs the megaphone from the Chief. “You! In the building! It’s me – McCardigan!”
“McCardigan!” shouts the terrorist. “I know you! You humiliated me at the haiku open mike at Berkley! I’ve never forgotten that!”
McCardigan reaches into his jacket and pulls out a thin book.
“You got a permit for that?” asks the Chief.
“Yes, I have poetic license.” McCardigan reads from the book into the megaphone. “‘What a piece of work is man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god.’”
The terrorist leaves the building in tears, dropping his weapons as he staggers out. “Oh man, that was beautiful.”
CUT TO
McCardigan in his Ferrari with a buxom BLONDE in the passenger seat.
“—and when I saw the suspect was reading Hyperion, I knew the cops had the wrong guy.”
“Oh, McCardigan,” says the Blonde. “Did you ever fix that rhythm problem you were having?”
“My rhythm’s great. How’s yours?”
“Ooooh, McCardigan....”
We pull back as the Ferrari races into the sunset. We watch it recede to the horizon as the music comes up and we
FADE OUT
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Observations and Other Delusions: Humour
I'm very fond of self-deprecating humour.
The trouble is that I don't do it very well.
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