Milford - Caught up in the folly of youth, I once (well ok, twice) attended a science fiction convention. I can say without fear of contradiction that it was only with truly injudicious amounts of alcohol that my friends and I were able to deal with the culture shock of being immersed in a seething mass of "fan-boys" - the sort of pimply, live-in-their-parents'-basement-until-they're-thirty, socially awkward science fiction fans that can (and do) argue for hours on end about whether it was the Romulans or the Klingons that kicked more butt in Star Trek IX - Shatner's Toupee's Revenge.
So when I found out that I was to cover a book signing for Terri Goodkind's new fantasy novel, "The Faith of the Fallen," I made elaborate mental preparations as to how I could make my escape if cornered by a feral pack of fanboys. I planned to use a variation of the Simoneau Gambit - a ploy developed by Bob Simoneau, a friend who attended that convention with me years ago.
On finding that our hotel room didn't have enough beds for everyone who had planned on crashing there, Bob had an inspiration. He walked out into the hall way and started yelling, "Oh my god! It's Leonard Nimoy! I swear to God - I just saw Leonard Nimoy!!!"
Fanboys started spilling out into the hallway in alarming numbers. "Where? Where! Leonard Nimoy? Really?"
Bob pointed to the stairwell at the end of the hall. "I can't believe it," he cried, his voice throbbing with emotion. "I was just standing here and there He was! He just went down the stairs." At this point, his voice broke; he was too moved to go on.
En masse, the now frantic herd of nearly hysterical fanboys stampeded down the staircase, whereupon Bob and I went into one of the now empty rooms and stole a cot.
My plan as I entered the Toadstool Bookshop in Milford last Sunday was somewhat similar. If things got ugly, I was prepared to point and shout, "Hey! Is that Dean Koonz?" then dive behind a case of auto repair manuals. (I wasn't looking forward to this, mind you, but nobody knows better than me that Media is an ugly business.)
So, as you can imagine, it was with a sense of mild astonishment that I walked into the bookstore and came face to face with a long but extremely well-behaved line of well-dressed adults. They were all really nice; most of them had been in line for an hour or two but there was no sniping or grousing. On the contrary, several apparently firm friendships had sprung up. Telephone numbers were being exchanged as well as promises to get together to talk books over dinner and a couple of bottles of wine, just as soon as things cooled down at the office. I kept waiting to hear people obsessing over minor details in Goodkind's previous books, but the discussions were all casual and well-reasoned - the sort of literary conversations you here among people who actually have lives.
I have to confess to feeling a bit let-down. I had worked myself up to go head to head with a pack of social misfits, and here I was with a snotty attitude and a sneer on my face and nobody to use it on.
I moved up to the head of the line, figuring that as I got closer to the author, the fans would get geekier. Unfortunately for my now withering sense of superiority, the remarks were remarkably urbane. "I really like your books; thank you for writing them" was the general tenor of the comments. Goodkind himself and his wife Geri both turned out to be equally nice, answering every question the fans had and posing for pictures. Goodkind even gave advice to me for my 7th grade English class on the importance of introductory paragraphs.
Sigh...
"Are they all like this?" I asked Louis Powers, Toadstool's Events Coordinator.
"Are all what like this?" she replied.
"Science fiction book signings," I answered, explaining that I hadn't expected such a well-socialized crowd of people.
Her eyes narrowed and she gave me the same sort of look you give to a door-to-door insurance salesman. "What do you mean?" she asked, obviously trying to give me the benefit of the doubt.
I explained about the science fiction conventions I'd been to and my experience with fanboys. She just stood and watched me as I talked, then faltered, then stumbled to a halt. "Well," she said finally, "I suppose that depends on which convention you've gone to. I go to a lot of them and everybody seems pretty nice."
I blushed and made some sort of sophisticated topic-changing ploy, like "Oh golly! Is THAT the time?" and made my escape.
Considering that I'd come into the bookstore feeling like Denis Miller, I left feeling a lot like Archie Bunker.
