Jorge took the Maj. Deegan Expressway south, which in the middle of the night is usually pretty clear sailing but we hadn't gone three exits before there was a major traffic tie up. The traffic kept moving, though slowly, and we could see the tie up was an accident. A pretty horrendous one from the looks of things (an overturned SUV and glass and smashed metal everywhere). And we still might have got by okay except that the ambulance came up behind us and when Jorge tried to move over... well, let's just give the cop the benefit by saying maybe he was upset by the accident, or tired, or something... because he accused Jorge of blocking an emergency vehicle. Jorge tried to persuade him this wasn't so, and was told to pull over and shut off the engine because we were "going to be there a long time."

We were there half an hour, while ambulances and emergency crews and fireman did their jobs. It was tense. What we would have done if we'd missed the flight, I don't know. Ours was completely booked. Later ones were unlikely to be empty. Eventually, however, the officer -- without further scolding -- handed Jorge a ticket with instructions on how to pay it and waved us on. Jorge says he's going to fight it, but MaryAnn and I both felt terrible about the incident. in a lot of ways. On the one hand, there's the whole missing your flight thing. On the other... well, a horrific accident which we were not in. You have to keep things in perspective.

We did manage to get to the airport pretty quickly after that, but once again, fate seemed determined to thwart a smooth exit from New York. Now, normally, I have nice things to say about Jet Blue. The couple of times I've travelled on JetBlue previously have been just fine. But turns out, the boxes we had checked in online -- were not allowed to be checked in online. (A word to the wise: if a major corporation tells you all information can be found on their website, call them anyway). So we had to go inside and spend ten minutes standing on a line, only to be told that was the wrong line too. The line for those checking in with boxes was enormously looooong but what choice did we have? The major purpose of my going to LA was to sell artwork. And it was all in the boxes. The line for checking in with boxes was enormous because it didn't matter where you were going on JetBlue -- domestic or international -- you had to wait on that line. And there were only two clerks working. (Perspective. Perspective.... Grrrr.)

We finally reached the front of the line and checked our bags and boxes, then ran for the "security" line, removing shoes as we rushed (soooo stupid. even people with flipflops have to remove them... but that's a rant for another day...). Got through security and to the gate with a few minutes to spare. MaryAnn rushed off to the ladies' while I, dying of thirst because of the mad rush and the nerves, bought a bottle of water (which cost $3.50 for a 6 oz. bottle -- someone is profiting from this security hoo-hah) and the clerk insisted on taking off the cap and throwing it away (gaaaah! hurry UP!). I swallowed exactly two sips,when our flight announced its "final boarding" call. So I had to throw the water away and then stand at the boarding ramp for a few minutes determinedly fending off flight crew, waiting for MaryAnn to come racing from the bathroom. We finally got on the plane, buckled into our seatbelts and the plane took off on time, with us, and our baggage (we could see it being loaded from the window). The rest of the flight was smooth sailing, er, flying.

Arrival at the Long Beach Airport (see photo above) is a pleasure because of its Art Deco glamorousness, and the palm trees, of course. Next came another series of lines. The Enterprise counter, then the parking lot waiting for the car we were assigned.

MaryAnn waiting for the car:

The car we got (a nice upgrade from the econo-can we had reserved):

We drove to a nearby Denny's where we'd eaten the last time we came into Long Beach (for our friend Allan's wedding back in 2003) and had breakfast. Then took a bit of a roundabout way to the hotel in Anaheim, where there was yet more waiting to be done:

The felllow in the blue t-shirt and jeans facing my camera is John Scalzi, author of Old Man's War (a terrific read), and this year's Campbell Award Winner for best new writer. (A bit more about that will come later). John and MaryAnn are online friends and have a bit of a mutual admiration society. The ironic thing is, MaryAnn spent about half the weekend looking around for John, hoping to catch him at some time or other for a quick hello or a quick drink or something, and here he was in the very first hour, right behind her on the check-in line at the hotel! Of course, we didn't know that until we looked at the pictures at home.

Once we got checked in, we also collected the boxes and packages that were waiting for us. MaryAnn had ordered 100 copies of her book, and both of us had ordered new business cards and postcards to promote ourselves and our wares. The hotel charged us for taking delivery, even though they had said they didn't charge for it. (Again, always double check these things with the hotel, and then, still assume they lie to you.)

Our room after checking in:

And since we were on the party floor, we got lanai rooms. The lanai:

and:

Nice, eh? I liked to sit out there for a few minutes in the morning with a cup of tea before we had to hit the convention center.

On arrival day, however, there was no time for that. We had to prime the cannon. After dumping the bags, and grabbing the artwork boxes, the paperwork that goes with setting up at the art show, some postcards and business cards, our party flyers and some tape, we set off for the convention center to set up my artwork. Registration was smooth and efficient and pretty soon we were trekking across the convention floor heading towards the art show. The main floor of the convention center is huge:

and that doesn't begin to convey the half of it.

When we finally got to the art show, I greeted some old friends and acquaintances (Hey, Ted and Bonnie Atwood; hey, Jodi Brill Dashoff; hey, Martin Deutsch... all you other people); got my panel assignment and set to work:

At several past conventions, I was most impressed by displays that covered the ugly, if functional, pegboard panels. A covering really seemed to set the artwork off. So I'd bought a ton of material, cut it into panel sized pieces and held the black cloth in place with those binder clips. I'd looked everywhere: hardware stores, art supply stores, stationery stores and online, for clips that would just slip down over the material and the pegboard and be nearly invisible. But such a thing does not exist -- or, if it does, I couldn't find it.

It always takes a long time to set up, I'm always nervous, thirsty and needing clips and supplies. I depend a great deal on my Lackey:

who brings me all the supplies and makes sure I drink lots of water and tells me things like "your artwork is fine." You may not be able to see it but she has a badge on that actually says, "Lackey." Seriously, though, she is invaluable and totally worth the physical effort of the occasional beating she gets to keep her that way.

The finished product maybe two hours later:

One of the ArtShow organizers came and checked to make sure everything was up, priced properly and had a bid sheet, then handed me my Artist tag to put on my convention badge, the art show rules and hours, and the party invite for Thursday night.

Next I checked in at the Print Shop which, thanks to someone's ingenuity and foresight, took about 1/10 of the time it usually takes me because all the pricing sheets were emailed in advance so I had them all filled out and attached to the prints, instead of me winding up in my usual stew, hurriedly putting names, title and price on little sheets and attaching them to the prints and the display copy, then having to go back and get a bin number... this was easy-peasy. Thanks Art Show organizers!

MaryAnn had gone off to do whatever it is that Guests do -- check out the Green Room, look for the Con Suite, start the necessary schmooze fest. I caught up with her and we took a deep breath. Was our work done?

It was not! We put out postcards on the free stuff tables, placed flyers around that advertised our parties, listed them on the information board, (MaryAnn's on Friday, mine on Saturday), went back to the hotel, grabbed car keys, wallets and shopping lists and went off to find a Target and an Albertsons to do shopping for the weekend. We wanted some cheese, crackers and other stuff for the parties, as well as some basic sustenance for ourselves, and an unused coffee pot to make tea in. MaryAnn wakes up hungry and I don't, but neither of us wake up fast, and I need juice and tea to even start functioning in the a.m. The shopping took longer than either of us expected (spoiled by New York for choices which Anaheim -- revolving around tourists and Disney -- does not supply) and we finally staggered back to our room somewhere around 9:30 p.m.

We showered and changed and, you know, I think we went to a couple of parties that night* --or, at least, we meant to -- but honestly it's a blur and I don't remember if we did or not. I'll have to check the badge and see if I got stickers from that night. Or check with MaryAnn, whose memory may not be any better than mine. [*NB: After checking with MaryAnn, I was told that, no, we did not attend any parties that night!]

All in all, at the end of the first day, I think MaryAnn had been up for 48 hours straight, and I'd been going for about 36 and we collapsed into bed somewhere around 1:00 a.m.

Were we having fun yet?

My father used to be the Pipe Major in a bagpipe band. It was a band he helped found, organize and run. They did festivals, parades, benefits and competitions. And he got himself worked up every time. Nervous, upset, worried... Herding the band members, rehearsing, worrying about the tunes, the sets, the scores the judges were giving them. At the same time, I was in a theatre company that was putting on productions three times a year. I was on the board of directors, sometimes I was directing a play, sometimes in a play, juggling half a dozen hats, setting up the next play and working a full time job. Dad and I often discussed why the hell we put ourselves through this torture. Who needed the aggravation? Who needed the grief? The worry? The stress?

Our conclusion? We did.

Creative people cannot rest. Coming home at the end of the day and sitting in a barcalounger, feet up in front of a television just doesn't make a life for us. For us, the unengaged life is not worth living. We don't need time to examine our lives -- we need to be doing something. Involved with a project or a goal. Pushing ourselves (and sometimes others) to be noticed a bit in the world. As my father finally put it: In the circus there's always the guy who gets shot out of the cannon. Why? Who needs it? Who really needs to get shot out of a cannon? The guy who gets shot out of the cannon does.

So, here we were at the circus and we'd already taken the first shot out of the cannon.