Holy Crap, It's Neil Gaiman!

Over a week ago, many of us went to Balticon as we tend to do every year. This year was different in many ways, however, not only due to the change in location but also the Guest of Honor. In many of the recent cons the GoH has been, shall I say, obscure. With the announcement that someone of Neil Gaiman’s stature, that of course being Neil himself and only Neil, our hopes were uncontrollably blasted into orbit. Many of us dug out our favorite paraphernalia for him to sign, including the first issue of 1602 and a g-string thong which proudly had the words “Gaiman owns this” printed upon it. Needless to say, we were not the only ones who had similar ideas.

It turned out that through the first two days all we heard of his presence was that he was there, and that a vicious rumor was abound that some form of ticket would be needed to see him. I quickly deduced what this meant. These tickets were indeed a mystery, possibly only recieved through decapitation of someone who currently holds one, thereupon absorbing this person powers you would become the ticket holder. Discovering a secret back room, filled with confections and opulant sofas, you would be able to exchange said ticket for a pair of high-tech infrared goggles. It had become clear to me that Neil was in fact roaming the convention in a state of pure heat, a vaporous apparition who could only be seen by those who had stumbled upon a ticket whether by accident or homocide. He could have been right beside me when I figured this out, and that scared me.

At one point I am quite sure that I felt him, like a warm summer breeze carrying the scent of a neighbor’s freshly baked apple pie. But never did I lay eyes upon Mr. Gaiman, supposedly some with us had seen him earlier, at some sort of “panel” which these conventions seem to boast so much about. I don’t believe in them, of course, thinking that they are more likely death chambers set up to lure in the weak and curious. There was a huge swelling of Gaiman authored works at every single dealer this year, contributing to my thoughts that his attendance was more an idea then a fact. Perhaps the Guest of Honor next year will be Thomas Jefferson, when the dealer’s room will be packed with copies of the Declaration of Independence and tiny models of Montecello selling for $300 a piece.

Obviously we were disappointed with the circumstances, eventually finding a serpentine line labeled ‘7th Level of Hell’, which could have very easily been a line that ended in a back alley somewhere with a door that would systematically close and lock after each person. This doesn’t stop me from hypothesizing though, what may have happened had there simply been a platter of Gaiman, prostrated before us for all to feast upon equally and without wait.