Monday, August 10, 2009

not quite a floating party...

This year's WorldCon was held in Montreal, city of odd bureaucracies, French street signs, odd little restos and incomparable local je ne sais quoi. With little else to report on a Friday evening, the CBC decided to point out on the evening news that some of the parties being held on two floors of the Delta Hotel. This is not a particularly interesting or even noteworthy event given the destruction and cleaning bills from the prom season. In addition, it is well-known that few people watch the evening news on a Friday, and even fewer people in Quebec, who speak French, both to watch the English evening news on the CBC.

Nevertheless, the good people at the Delta Hotel decided that based on this potential avalanche of rowdy hoodlums poised to descend on their rooms with the partygoers at the World Science Fiction Convention, who are so merciless, so supremely debauched when their energies are not carefully channeled through panel discussions and author readings that the top of the hotel - we were after all on the 28th floor - would detach from the rest of the building and go on a marauding adventure for more drinks and buffet treats.

Since I was at the Irish/UK party who's theme orbited the most recent installment of the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, this seemed a not unlikely event. However first, I had to get there. After a dizzying elevator ride that was carefully managed by Delta staff and WorldCon volunteers since obviously pilots, vacationers and conference attendees couldn't possibly assemble themselves on different floors via six elevators alone, I arrived at the 28th floor of a hotel that appeared more than equipped to deal with whatever debauchery would be meted out by us. I did worse to a tiny hotel in Niagara on a wine-tasting tour with the Liquor Control Board of Ontario. This would be a dawdle.

For this and other reasons, I awaited my writing partner from eight o'clock until about twelve thirty, at which point I lost track of just exactly who was there and had been for how long. The thing is, the brits know how to party. You could be in a room of wine enthusiasts, university professors, football fans, whatever it is, if you find someone from across the pond, you won't get steered wrong. In my case, the Irish/UK party meant interesting conversation with lots of people, food, the horrors of Disney and the cynical genius of Dylan Moran.

Of course I'm biased, but not just because of my lineage. The thing is, there was a glass of single malt scotch in my hand most of the night, aged at twelve years minimum. I got to discuss that when someone assumed I was american and tried to tell me not to shoot the whiskey in front of me. It helped that the discussion in which I got to tell him about the 18 year old scotches I keep at home was held just below a large blue tardis.

Thanks to everyone who kept me fed and watered until about 3:30, except for that weird French publisher who I'm sure thought was being charming but actually creeped the hell out of me by running his fingers through my hair and on my neck incessantly and without warning. If you're reading this, know that when a Canadian woman tells you how much you look like her gay best friend, pause and consider if it's because she's picturing something already large and slowly, mercilessly expanding in your rectal cavity. If that's what she's picturing, you're probably being a complete prick and you should stop.

Even more thanks to the amazing guys that put up with the ridiculous hotel staff who fucked up the elevators, locked the doors - putting me in the position of being trapped in a room with loud music and scotch - reopened the doors and generally made our evening that much more eventful. You couldn't pay for that kind of entertainment. And much thanks for the towel.