Disorderly Content

At Romantic Times (yes, I'm still going on about that), I'd introduce myself as Barry Eisler's entourage. At first Barry was uncomfortable; he thought I was underplaying the help I provide him. But it wasn't long before he started playing along. I'd describe myself as his entourage, he'd say I was the best he could afford and we'd agree that was a sad state of affairs. Not Abbott & Costello, but we thought it was funny.

But I have to remember that not everybody sees Barry as I do: that cool guy who shared the misery of a startup that didn't, and who's now having a well-deserved success. Talking to reps from a local Pittsburgh entertainment publication called Lux, I did my best to calm the young interviewer's nerves about meeting Barry. Not that she had reason to worry; among his many skills is the ability to make you feel he's as pleased to meet you as you are to meet him. Sincerity, in other words. And as George Burns so famously said, if you can fake that, you have it made.

Still, it's a surprise, and a nice one at that, to be acknowledged in their blog of their RT experience. And not just Barry, but me too. Maybe I should upgrade my title to sidekick...

One of the many amusing aspects of Romantic Times is/are the giveaways. I mean, when was the last time a computer company gave you a vial of strawberry flavored personal lube? (Seriously, when? 'Cause I really want to know...) Much more interesting than the stacks of books; I think my bag was ten pounds heavier on the return flight, and that's because I turned down half of the volumes I was offered. But my favorite tchotchke had to be the felt puppet in the gift bag from an erotica publisher called Ellora's Cave. (The one in my bag was a sheep, although there were also bunnies, elephants, whales and other creatures.) I couldn't figure out the point of the puppet. I mean, who has a hand narrow enough to fit into the thing. Then I found out it wasn't my hand that was supposed to go inside. And suddenly all was clear, if rather intimidating.

(Ellora's Cave was responsible for another... umm... feature of the con: a bunch of overmuscled, sweaty guys they call the Cavemen. The women went gaga over them. But I don't know why. Heck, I don't think they're even real cavemen. I mean, not a mastodon cloak in the bunch. Although they did provide a nice proof point for my belief that the only difference between men and women is that we admit we're shallow.)

They should warn you about the post-con crash. They really should.

I got home last night from The Happiest Place on Earth, after a mere twelve hours in transit. Disneyland? One of its many siblings? No. And no. Not even Burbank, home to my annual Farscape weekend. No, my new candidate for THPoE was the Pittsburgh Hilton, itself an unlikely candidate thanks to remodeling that wasn't nearly as far along as was promised. (And why are you not surprised?) And what made it so happy? It was home to Romantic Times, a convention for people who write romances, people who read romances, and people like me, who never do the former and only occasionally do the latter, but am perfectly happy to spend time around both. Try to picture something over a thousand women: tall women, short women, old women, young women, large women, small women, loud women, quiet women... well, I think you get the idea. Now imagine fifty or so women to every man. And imagine them all having a girls' night out, only for four straight days. And nights.

And no, nothing untoward happened. At least not to me. (Dammit.) Just lots of conversation, and lots of laughter, and some world class hugs. It was quite remarkable, and unlike any of the hundred or so conventions and conferences and trade shows in my storied career. I'm already looking forward to Next Year in Orlando, as my people are wont to say every Passover. Or at least we would if we were being honest. I mean really; Jerusalem doesn't even have a theme park...