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"That's the Con that Raped Me, Officer!"
by the Web Goddess

I sat there in a shadowy, dank room in front of a one way mirror (they assured me). The nice police officers told me to choose which out of the lecherous, fat, greasy sciffy Cons they marched out in the brightly lit line up room committed the crime. A particularly ugly Con with the biggest, fattest, swollen head I've ever seen suddenly caught my eye. The little sign it held in front of it said ‘World Con'.

"That's the one, Officer! That's the Con that raped me!" I sobbed.

Convict - Convention; they're both the same to me. They're called "cons" for a reason.

I actually show up to the World Con/Noreascon in a relatively good mood. I was looking forward to being part of one of the biggest scifi-fantasy art shows on the planet. This Con travels the world, and this year, it happens to be in Boston, practically in my back yard, so I wasn't gonna miss it. Next year, it will be in Glasgow, Scotland.

I arrived with Ray and Cindy, who actually managed to navigate the Dr. Seuss like streets of Boston in our half diesel, half veggie oil burning Mercedes, with ease (We were all stunned by this. We were all dreading this drive.).

Mike, who knows his way around Boston fairly well and who is a veteran art Sherpa, couldn't help us because he started his first day back to paramedic field training class and there was no way he could get out of that. But, it ended up being a blessing in disguise because surely I would be bailing him out of jail for assault with intent to murder right about now if he had come.

So there I was, a bundle of nerves and excitement. I walk in with Ray and Cindy to the registration center so they can sign in and get a jump on where everything is. I wasn't planning on even talking to them because I was not a member of the Con, only a registered artist in the Con's Art Show. I had no intention of attending any other part of this show. I just couldn't afford it. Just being in the Art Show cost me $260.00. A membership would have cost an additional $180.00, not including hotel, food or parking fees. But I figure I would ask them exactly where the Art Show was so we could find out if there was someplace we could park that would allow us to haul in my work easily.

Not only was the show on the third floor and therefor no way to drive adjacent to it, they also told me I was not allowed up there without a membership! And guess what? Membership for just one day at this Con was $50.00 - which I did not have.

So, if I had a transporter, like on Trek, I could beam myself and my art into the show, and I'd be ok. But since I had to walk through the door, like everyone else, I couldn't. Now Ray and Cindy had memberships, but the Con Nazis were only allowing artists into the showroom to set up their work. So they could walk up to the door, but not into it. I could be in it, but could not walk up to it. Make sense? Didn't think so.

I nearly had an anger stroke. I said "So even though I paid OVER the cost of a membership for the entire weekend to be in the art show, you're still going to make me buy a ‘today only' membership just to go upstairs?!?!". The fat, smelly, pizza faced fuck bag whore of a Con staffer looked me directly in the eye and said with alarming clarity "Yes.".

I was being raped in front of the entire Registration crowd. They didn't even blow in my ear, buy me dinner, or use Vaseline. I was being screwed, and hard.

I was about to put my verbal fist through her fat, trogla-dyke head, when Ray, who quickly realized what I was about to do, pulled out the cash and paid the Gestapo bitch.

I had to walk away and fume for a bit. I was gonna hurt someone. Seriously.

I numbly went off and started the painful task of hauling my huge paintings (why can't I work in miniature!) from the parking garage to the third floor of this place.

My arms were inflamed with torn muscle pain. My back was sore. My feet walked off from my legs and are looking for a new body who promises never to take them back to that festering pit of Hell called "Registration". But that's nothing compared to my now size XXXL poop chute.

I set up my work and all in all, I was actually pleased with the way my display came out. I wandered around in a haze, looking at some of the other art that was there. It was all pretty good. The show itself is very good. The art show staff were very helpful and nice to me. Nothing bad to say about them or the show itself. (These people have the patience of a Saint. After all they're dealing with artists. Hello? Can we say right brain only, left brain need not apply?)

Then, hours later as I'm walking around the Dealer's Room like a zombie, arms hanging by my side like wet noodles, asshole glowing like Rudolf's nose, it occurred to me that I may have to PAY AGAIN TO RETRIEVE MY ART AT THE END OF THE SHOW!!!! In a panic I ran back to the art show to ask the staff there.

Sure enough, they said that yes, technically I needed a membership pass to pick up my art on Monday.

At that point, my face fell off with a resounding thud upon the art registration table.

Staring back at my broken, faceless body, the art show staff took pity on me. The head of the show said "Well, if you can't sneak back in, call me and I will personally escort you here so you will not have to pay." It was clear that the art show staff was against this policy of artistic extortion. They assured me that this was not their policy, but the policy of the Chairmen of World Con. However, as sympathetic to my plight as they were, they would not give me the addresses of said Chairmen. (My husband is a Teamster. As such, I'm pretty sure he gets one free "hit job" per year as a perk. All I had to say were there were these ass fucks holding my art hostage and their only defense were volunteer nerd security guards. It would have been like shooting Urkel fish in a barrel full of pizza, Star Wars figures and porn.)

I am still aghast at how they're treating the artists. WE ARE PART OF WHY PEOPLE COME TO THIS GOD FORSAKEN SHOW! If I had known about this policy before hand, I would not have been a part of this show. It would be like asking J.K. Rowling (Harry Potter fame) to come to my sciffy show, but "Oh by the way, you still have to pay for the membership.". She'd tell 'em to stick their show right up their collective bums - which is probably where they got the idea where to stick it to the artists.

They told me it was clearly written in the artist's package that a membership was necessary. (Flipping through my package madly, there it was, on the front page no less. But no one reads the front page. Everyone goes directly to the part on the second page about how to fill in your forms, and when and where they should show up, and if they absolutely have to show up in pants.) But this was the package that they send you AFTER you have already signed up and shelled out beaucoup bucks for the show! A fat lotta good that does ya!

A lot of other artists were blind sided by this policy too. (Remember, we're dealing with artists here. No left brain to speak of. We can't be bothered with things like "rules" or "policies". We just create, dammit!)

Later on in the weekend, the QM posse went hotel room party hopping and I did have a pretty swell time then. The best party was the one showing screenings of Hitchhiker's Guide and serving Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters, which, as the book describes, is like being struck on the head with a slice of lemon wrapped around a large gold brick.

They used dry ice to make torrents of cascading mist ebb over the edges of dainty plastic martini glasses while bubbles rolled throughout some bluish liquid made of something that tasted like a lollipop dissolved in pure ethanol. You didn't so much as drink it, as allow it to evaporate into your tongue tissue. The stuff knocked me on my ass.

"And the Web Goddess raised her Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster up onto the heavens and did sayeth 'Lo, this is good thing.' *hiccup*" - The Book of HTML, Foodstuffs of the Designer - Sorting Skittles and Other Work Avoidance Techniques.

I met some pretty cool people which helped restore some of my faith in humanity. At the end of the show, I know I sold a good amount of prints. It's always good to take home less than what you came with. (Unless you count the hotel silverware, bathrobes, soaps, ashtrays and other "free" goodies.)

All in all it would have been a good experience if it weren't for the initial extortion, but because of that, I would have to rate it an OK experience. I'm sure if I were merely a Con goer, I would have had a much better time, since it was a very good Con. It's just that the people who run the show could use some manners in the "flowers and dinner first, then screw" etiquette area.

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