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⚑ June 26, 1999

ET Makes Reservations πŸ‘½

The perfect conventioneer takes a break. Notice the teeny booties on the alien feet sticking out of the bag.

The perfect conventioneer takes a break. Notice the teeny booties on the alien feet sticking out of the bag.

12:19. I’m getting overly busy here – in addition to learning how to work HTML and FTP and all that, plus running the scanner and playing with PhotoShop and trying to not get too depressed while studying Creating Killer Websites … plus trying to figure out how to register this whole URL and find and install a counter so I can really get depressed … plus reading what looks to be thousands of postings from a journal list I just subscribed to … well, just when I thought I couldn’t handle one more thing, here comes one more thing.

I have to go to Roswell again.

Talk about discipline? Probably not today. Today I will give myself over to classic fear of flying, or rather fear of falling, screaming, beverages splashing, hurtling headlong out of the sky. Plus worry about not being thin enough, of course, to go on a trip … and let’s see, there was one more thing … oh yeah: I’m trying to set up a web page here. I’m trying to be an artist, I need my concentration, I need my own pillow on my own bed.

But, we have to go to Roswell again. It’s business.

We were there in β€˜97 at the great 50th Anniversary of Something that may or may not have actually happened. I was lugging an ancient but important-looking camera that I hadn’t used in years and years, and I was lucky enough to walk by a doorway at the back of the Convention Center and spy the scene (opposite) and fire off a shot. This picture totally captures the entire exhausting experience for those who didn’t fire up the old RV and barrel down dusty Highway Hotterenhell through New Mexico that summer: the β€œR” on the trashcan, the little upside-down alien doll stashed away, and the jersey which oddly says β€˜99 and not β€˜97. Why is that?

We were there in β€˜97 promoting The Day After Roswell, coincidentially enough, and this time we’re promoting the Star Trek Cookbook. If I could just stay home and work on the web pages for our business, I could provide the proper links and tell fascinating tales of behind-the-scenes derrings-do for both those books and all the rest of our books at Shadow Lawn Press, but no … I have to leave the safe confines of my desk and chair and venture out. I wouldn’t be so nervous about flying if I did it more often; I wouldn’t be as concerned about what to wear if I were the perfect size of thin, thinner than thin. Thin enough to wear a sweater tucked in, thin as Ally McThin.

And I know it’s just simple fear of the unknown, fear of change. But the lightning storms in New Mexico in July are something out of Thor’s Handbook – fierce and crackling and horizon-to-earth shattering. And I’m just finally getting somewhere with Cryptonomicon, and if I had more time with these pages I would be finished linking up with Amazon by now and I could get actual pennies if you clicked from here to there. But no.

I have to go to Roswell.

Have we learned nothing from the aliens, those beings of far superior intelligence and possessed of advanced telemetry and lasotronic radar arrays and plenty of geo-synchronic gee-whiz gadgets? Look what happened to them and their little three-hour tour.

They, too, had to go to Roswell.

(But, at least they were thin.)

One of the many illustrations being considered for Flying Sauces 101 by my friend Harold Burt, soon to be in a bookstore near you.

One of the many illustrations being considered for Flying Sauces 101 by my friend Harold Burt, soon to be in a bookstore near you.

Tomorrow … time to go on a diet. πŸ”