The Aerie

Damage and Decimation

See this is why I'm a passive lump. Reading books, sitting at computers, they have their hazards, but while diabetes is a deadly peril it doesn't have the attention-focusing immediacy of dislocating one's shoulder. Or NEARLY dislocating one's shoulder.

Oh, sure. I qualify my injury with "nearly," and all your sympathy dries up. Thanks, thanks a lot. I'll go shut my hand in a car door if I want sympathy I guess. Just for that, to find out how I nearly broke my shoulder, you'll have to read about Minicon first.

Minicon is an annual science-fiction convention and a longstanding tradition in Minnesota, indeed for a long time Minicon was the annual science fiction convention in Minnesota. For as long as I've lived here they've held Minicon on Easter Weekend, and for nearly as long as I've lived here I haven't been able to go because of Easter. Still, I wanted to go, and the tradition of wanting to go to Minicon is a deeply held springtime ritual. A ritual that, alas, has come to an end.

The end began when, as many such things do, Minicon became too successful. During the 1980's when I was footloose and fancy free I visited a couple of World Science Fiction Conventions, such as Boston, Baltimore, and Denver. The 1982 World convention was attended by as about 3,500 people. By the late 1990's Minnesota's own Minicon was attracting equivalent numbers of oddballs, who reduced the then-Radisson/now-Sheraton South hotel to hysterics.

By the turn of the century Minicon had become a full-fledged bacchanal, and woe be to any non-convention guests in the hotel on Easter weekend. Crowding in under the elastic umbrella of "science fiction and fantasy," members from only-barely-related interest groups had begun regular attendance: the polyamorous crowd (Heinlein described poly families), the drummers (there was a drummer in a Stephen Brust book once), and the BDSM (or, 'Gor novels') communities all set Minicon as their annual meeting place. At the last Minicon I attended, a fellow with a gigantic swinging latex phallus marched in leather and studs down the central atrium, leading a woman by a collar. The drumming started at 3:00 p.m. Friday and did not stop until after noon Sunday. And attractive girls wandered between the con-suite parties wearing only leather loincloths and fishnet shirts.

The presence of attractive girls of any sort is a well-known sign that your science fiction convention is attracting a non-science-fiction crowd.
Alerted to the corruption of their science fiction convention, an emergency team of self-appointed guardians of Moral Order sprang into action. They seized power from the negligent slackers running the Minnesota Science Fiction Society, determined to purify Minicon with fire. And purify it they did. Their goal, as I understood it, was to return Minicon to a discussion of books, and books alone. Movies, and other media were hardly tolerable, and all this sadomasocistic sex and loud music were right out. It was like having Rio taken over by one's grandmother.

Since I knew some of the people involved in the purification, I knew from the start that the result would be disastrous. I had in the past worked with one of the key self-important organizers, and I knew anything this person was involved with would be a benighted failure. So when this crew seized power I decided to skip Minicon for a few years until their crippling influence waned.

This year was different, however, becase I got my start in computers during the 1970's on a statewide computer system called MECC. MECC offered high school students the ability to code on a big, serious mainframe computer, and it spurred Carter-era nerds to write programs that the rest of the world wouldn't experience for thirty years. Discussion forums? Interactive multi-user adventure games? Interactive chat with emotes? Had 'em. Had 'em thirty years ago, because of MECC.

So this year was different because a few former MECCies decided to pull together a reunion party, and they decided to do it at Minicon - probably under the mistaken belief that a lot of MECCies would be attending ( there being considerable overlap between science fiction readers and Cretaceous-era computer nerds).

So for the first time in forever I had a reason to attend Minicon. I donned my leather jacket, dropped my laptop into the pocket for geek points, and headed down to the Sheraton South.

My first indication that something was wrong came when I pulled into the parking lot, and parked in the first row outside the hotel. In the past the parking lot would have been full to overflowing, many vehicles pulling trailers for the dealer's room. I actually wondered if I had come to the Sheraton South out of habit, but the convention had been moved elsewhere.

I entered the hotel and my misgivings were only reinforced. While I had not expected the Phallus Barbarian or the girls in the see-through shirts, I expected to at least spot a couple of latex-browed Klingons, or even a young dork in a long Doctor Who scarf. Nothing. A squeaky-clean suburban family of five rolled wheely-luggage onto an elevator. A pretty blond girl talked on a cell phone. Nothing.

I made my way up to the designated party room, only to find that the partiers had gone off for dinner. So I decided to wander the hotel in search of Minicon.

The hotel has two portions, a tall tower, and a shorter block of rooms with an open central atrium, and the latter was where I found the first signs of a convention. A quiet registration table bore prices for the convention: $55 for the day. Ignoring the registration table - I was only here for the MECC party - I wandered into the dealer room, which was just getting ready to close.

Instead of a sprawl of merchandise arrayed in the largest hall, the dealer room held at most a dozen merchants, and shared its space with the Art Show. Each was not merely a shadow of their former selves, they were smaller than their counterpats at the Marscon convention to which I have been taking my kids for a couple of years... and I thought of Marscon as an "up-and-comer" convention.

The art show was a sad set of fan-fold display boards, lacking bids on many of the for-sale drawings of cute dragons and improbably-endowed female warriors in metal bikinis.

I wandered out of the dealer room in a somber mood, and wandered up to the meeting halls, where a purloined event schedule suggested that readings and panels would be taking place. Hall after hall was full of... chairs. Just chairs. Finally in one hall about two dozen people held a memorial discussion of the works of the late-lamented John M. Ford.

Shocked, I headed towards the pools. Certainly on the broad plaza by the pools I would find the drummers and the con-suite parties.

But no. Where once four dozen drummers had led a score of bellydancers through their paces, now a single juggler tossed bowling pins. Of all the suites facing the pool, about half a dozen showed signs of activity. And the pools, which normally I avoided lest my eyes be seared by the sight of science fiction fans in partial undress, were populated by giggling children and moms reading romance novels.

I staggered in shock past the convention suites, where in ones or twos a few scruffy science fiction fans talked, read books, or nursed their drinks. At one table a half dozen people played boxed RPG games. Finally, at the end of the row, I came across friend and author Lyda Morehouse, preparing to present a panel on science-fiction expletives. I wondered who the frack would be in attendance.

And that was it! The MECCies rang me up and swung by to bring me back to their party, briefly doubling the apparent attendance of the con suites and causing one bathrobed science fiction fan to glare at us and ask after our business. Once assured that neither we nor the wine we bore were a threat to his convention he departed, giving us the evil eye in retreat.

The MECC party was delightful - a crowd of mid-level career IT dorks all sharing a common origin. We discussed MECCies past and present, wondering where Fugly Don or Ziggy ended up, exchanging lethal details of gossip made safe by the passage of time. Catchphrases not uttered for a quarter century caused laughter all around, and I cursed myself for failing to bring my "I'm a MECC user" button.

Of Minicon, we spoke only briefly and with sober regard. Three hundred pre-registered attendees, said one fellow with connections, and maybe fifty at the door. From the vibrant, exciting, and vital celebration of a few years past, the self-appointed guardians of righteous science fiction had, literally, decimated attendance.

Of course that's the way of all such things, from mailing lists to conventions to nations themselves - they grow, they break apart, they spawn offspring from their wreckage, and so renew the cycle of life.

We celebrated the cycle of life with Easter lunch the next day at my sister-in-law's house. After the meal her husband organized a game of touch football in their big suburban back-yard. Having chivvied my kids off the couch and out the door, I was tempted to remain behind and continue reading my book, but then I thought that wouldn't be setting much of an example. And besides, they are fifteen and won't be chivvied anywhere much longer. So I put my book aside and joined them.

It took me about five minutes to injure myself. Carrying the football and fleeing my son on the opposing team, I got out of balance. For a couple of seconds I knew I was going to fall and tried to right myself. But finally I gave in to gravity and tumbled head over heels. And, despite training in aikido in how to safely fall and roll, my velocity, angle, and, face it, age, meant that I didn't quite roll on my shoulder.

No, it was more as if I was attempting to use my shoulder to plow the lawn for planting corn or wheat. The joint, the same one injured when I was hit by a truck in 2001, slammed down almost perfectly perpendicular to the ground, and in line with my momentum. Honestly it hurt so much I was surprised that I hadn't dislocated it.

Not wishing to wimp out I continued playing, leading our team to a comeback victory from a 0-4 deficit. The teams ranged in age from the mid-Sixties to age five, and in weight from 60 lbs to 350, but we were uniformly determined to have a good time. Everybody was in good spirits when we finally wrapped up, but of course, once the game was over I immediately began to pay the price for my rambunction. By the time we reached Easter dinner at my mother's house I was white-faced with pain, and my right arm was largely useless. By the time we got home it was curling up like a dead spider's limb in an effort to avoid jostling.

Fortunately a hot bath and a night's sleep have helped a lot, and the pain has localized itself to the muscles underneath my scapula and the trapezius muscle - the muscle on top of the shoulder that slants diagonally up to the base of the neck. I suspect that I stretched all those muscles to the limit as they attempted to keep my shoulder from separating, and for that successful effort I am truly grateful, if sore.

My mother was delighted to remind my just how old I am, and how foolish it is for someone of my age to be loping about like a young man. Unfortunately my brother-in-law's father had already been spotted hurling his 65-year-old frame atop a loose ball, so it would have been hard for me to use age as an excuse for sitting on the sidelines. Besides, we'd had a good time.

My wife had also played, and by this morning we were quite the pair - I unable to use my right arm, and she with ridiculously sore knees. Still, it was almost (almost) worth it just to be able to say for the first time ever that my wife and I are both suffering from sports injuries. There's a laugh!

Ouch, ow, oh. Okay, gotta ease up on the laughter, it hurts. Hm. I think I'll go back to being a passive lump.

Posted by Albatross at April 9, 2007 1:44 PM | TrackBack