Sep. 3rd, 2005
Cons & Fandom: concrete and abstract.
Sep. 3rd, 2005 11:39 am![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
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I got a large packet with a con update newsletter current as of February. I was still going over it in general perkiness and looking at the list of planned attendees and wondering who I'm going to meet there who I've always wanted to meet, or who I'll recognize. I'm sure there's probably an LJ community for the con already, and it's probably been there since gods know when, at least for directory and planning purposes. Fen like to organize. At least, a certain subcategory of us do, like to have everything rather obsessively sorted out into categories and patterns both useful and whimsical.
I have roots in fandom. I grew up there in my teens. My Gaming Aunt is classic fen, as is her husband. Dad used to be at least on the outskirts, if not actually fannish...
Some elements of both modern and classic fandom have me running screaming. One of the things about both the Monkeys and about Fandom is that everyone who wants to be a member can be a member. Compared to other social groups, this is somewhat unique. There are very high barriers to entry to the popular crowds. There are reasonably rigorous barriers to entry to being a jock, a prep, and most of the recognized groups in high school settings who are liked, respected, or acknowledged as being well-thought-of by many if not all. But when the misfits band together, pretty much everyone who wants to hang with them gets to. It takes a hell of a lot of anti-talent to get chucked out of a group of misfits.
Fandom has a lot of members. Anyone can be a fan. This includes a lot of the people who would be stopped at the gates of other adult social groups with distinct barriers to entry. Every fandom group (indeed, every fringe group with low to no barriers to entry) has one or several of That Person You Don't Want To Talk To But You Really Don't Want To Hurt Their Feelings Or Upset Them Or They Will Make Everything Unlivable For Everyone. In a group with barriers to entry, they either wouldn't have made it in in the first place, would have found themselves edged out during their trial period, or would have been removed from the group once their unsuitability was discovered.
But in Fandom & like social structures, you can get ejected from a clique or a local group, but not from Fandom itself. Only you can remove you from Fandom, even if you are a Fan Alone because you've been ejected from all the major cons, pre-emptively banned from a dozen other ones, and no one else will even talk to you, not even your mom.
I suspect this is one of the reasons why Fandom has the reputation with non-fen for being a collection place for the assorted range of weirdoes and skeevy people.
1) if you were to write a recipe for True and Lasting Friendship, what would it be? what "optional seasonings" do you prefer in your own?
1 large block solid trust, layered with liking, shared experience, and accumulated knowledge of the Other. I prefer mine with shared interests and a hint of potential romance, either active or latent.
( More questions, temporarily squinched formatting, my answers. Fun childhood anecdotes! General life philosophy! )
1 large block solid trust, layered with liking, shared experience, and accumulated knowledge of the Other. I prefer mine with shared interests and a hint of potential romance, either active or latent.
( More questions, temporarily squinched formatting, my answers. Fun childhood anecdotes! General life philosophy! )
When the planets are right and neither of us is too tired: him too tired to listen, me too tired to be coherent, I can spill my heart out to him. At least on the things that matter. At least on the things that really bother me. I told him all about the politics. I told him about the new funky oddness that means that my primary job is getting replaced. (Bigger faster stronger; but what's the new check-in position? Hell if I know.) He told me about his job and some of the fun he's been having.
We play this game. I usually go first. I tell him about something. He matches it. I have to wait and be silent for him to talk, but he'll talk. I tell him something. And then when I'm quiet long enough, he starts in, trading me in kind: information for information. He plays it mechanically, unless he's fired up with enthusiasm and then he'll go on and on, or if he's gaming and he'll let me speak until I'm all run down, but under normal circumstances it goes like this: if I talk about work, he talks about work. If I talk about friends, he talks about friends. If I talk about family, he talks about family. But he plays it. He plays it. He plays it with me and I love him in spite of the fact that it's awkward and not second nature. He didn't learn the game until later, and the nuances still escape him half the time.
Half an hour. Almost enough. Never enough. Enough to keep the defensive shields up one more week. Enough oil poured into the lamp to keep it lit a few days longer, gods willing.
I have a glorious prank gift idea that requires a reference and paint. If no one already has, custom golf balls made to look like the head of any given person could be a big seller. Photo golf balls, or pick from a customizable choice of stock hairstyles, features, and accessories! Just like a candybar doll, but for whacking the fuck out of Management, or anyone else who's in need of some good old-fashioned Took-style Orc-whacking action. (Also: someone needs to take the engine for a decent golf game, and add in more hobbits, more rabbit holes, and more severed heads.)
We play this game. I usually go first. I tell him about something. He matches it. I have to wait and be silent for him to talk, but he'll talk. I tell him something. And then when I'm quiet long enough, he starts in, trading me in kind: information for information. He plays it mechanically, unless he's fired up with enthusiasm and then he'll go on and on, or if he's gaming and he'll let me speak until I'm all run down, but under normal circumstances it goes like this: if I talk about work, he talks about work. If I talk about friends, he talks about friends. If I talk about family, he talks about family. But he plays it. He plays it. He plays it with me and I love him in spite of the fact that it's awkward and not second nature. He didn't learn the game until later, and the nuances still escape him half the time.
Half an hour. Almost enough. Never enough. Enough to keep the defensive shields up one more week. Enough oil poured into the lamp to keep it lit a few days longer, gods willing.
I have a glorious prank gift idea that requires a reference and paint. If no one already has, custom golf balls made to look like the head of any given person could be a big seller. Photo golf balls, or pick from a customizable choice of stock hairstyles, features, and accessories! Just like a candybar doll, but for whacking the fuck out of Management, or anyone else who's in need of some good old-fashioned Took-style Orc-whacking action. (Also: someone needs to take the engine for a decent golf game, and add in more hobbits, more rabbit holes, and more severed heads.)