Thursday, September 22, 2011

Fossil Fires: A Poem with Commentary





Fossil Fires:
A Poem with Commentary

by

Wally Lee Parker
(Reprint from Issue # 47 of the Bogwen Report — July 5, 2010)
(all rights retained by the author)


               One of the things habitual to writing verse is that people assume poems constitute the equivalent of a psychiatric blueprint of the poet’s disarranged mental processes.  In truth, verse is probably less revealing of one’s internal self than how that same person drives their car or talks about their neighbors.  One of the reasons for this associative lack between verse and the writer’s mental state is that verse requires a high degree of deliberate construction.  Versification is a process that impresses a contrived stilting on the alleged stream of consciousness which in turn washes away most of the self-revelation people mistakenly believe lies within poetry.  For the most part, the only revelations buried within poetry’s meticulously processed phrases are those the versifier has consciously placed there.  What revelation remains is more revealing of the reader than of the writer — which is as it should be.
               In other words, if you want to read things written by certifiably crazy people, look at those practicing that improbable juxtaposition of fragmentary sentences called free-verse poetry — which Robert Frost suggested was the equivalent of playing tennis without a net — a.k.a. batting practice.
               The artificialness inherent in most versification is one of the reasons I think I’ve moved away from poetry.  Unless you can rise to the level of Edgar Allen Poe — and who can — it’s just a hobby.  Doing it well is very much an art — or an accident.  And if you have anything you feel you absolutely need to say, it would be best to put it in prose — which is hard enough without making it even more difficult by imposing the strictures necessitated by rhyme — or worse yet, free-verse.  (Yes.  Free-verse has structure — or so I’m told by those with all kinds of letters after their names.  And if you listen to it being explained by these ‘lettered’ practitioners of the art, you’ll know what it feels like to be fleeced by a carny.)  
               As for depression, I suppose in my younger days I had my share.  Since then such has evolved into the chronic melancholy common to a very high percentage of the elderly.  Just a few weeks ago we were at my doctor’s, and he said to me, “Considering all your medical problems, how are you handling your depression?”
               I thought that was a unique question.  But with the general aging of the population doctors are being urged to ask it of most everyone over a certain age. 
               I growled, “What depression?”  It seemed impertinent, so I responded with my full grumpy.
               “It just seems that in people your age depression often goes undiagnosed.”
               “Well,” I replied, “I don’t have to get up in the morning and go to work.  If someone pisses me off, nowadays I can tell them exactly what I think — after all, it’s not like they can fire me.  And if they try beating me, it’s elder abuse — meaning hell for the attacker is just a phone call away.  I know that because I’ve had a run in with the elderly police — and can certify through personal experience that they’re nasty (but that’s a story for another day).  So I’m not really sure what I’ve got to be depressed about.  But I suspect you’re going to tell me.”
               Doc raised an eyebrow at my brusque reply — denial must be one of those tale-tale symptoms — and we moved on.
               Somewhere along the line I seem to have figured out that the best antidote for melancholy is a steaming ladle of hostility and/or sarcasm.  Sarcasm is an art that can reach a degree of literary subtlety as lofty as the most high-brow poetry imaginable.  As such, I’m finding I have more native talent for it than I’ve ever had for poetry.  But sarcasm, like poetry or prose, is something that must be practiced, and practiced often, to reach its natural eloquence.  (Samuel Clemens was a master of the art.)  
               It reminds me of the first time I talked back to my doctor.  It was a Friday afternoon just this spring and I’d come in with chest pains.  I had a miserable cold and wanted to make sure I didn’t have pneumonia.  We ruled that out, so I was ready to go home.  And then he says, “We need to make sure this isn’t related to your heart — so — I think we need to send you to the emergency room.”
               Important guideline for retired people — never go to your doctor’s office late on a Friday afternoon unless you’re spurting blood in time with your pulse, vomiting from both ends, or it’s actually obvious you’re going to die otherwise.
               “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve gone through this,” I spit back.  “Every time I get a pain I get to lay in the emergency room for four to six hours — until they’ve exhausted every excuse for keeping me.  Then they tell me to go home and call my cardiologist during regular office hours.  I go through this about twice a year.  Now that we know it isn’t pneumonia, I want to go home.”
               “I really feel uncomfortable with that,” he said.  “I think you need to be checked out using equipment I don’t have in my office.”
               Finally, after going around and around, I say, “Okay.  But I want you to understand that there’s only one reason I’m doing this — and that’s quite simply to humor you.  I understand that you wouldn’t want the liability of me going home and dropping dead on either your or your lawyer’s conscience.”
               On my part, that was a revolutionary breakout of sarcastic hostility — especially considering that we all know lawyers don’t have a conscience.  (Our family lawyer — Harvard educated and doubtless something of a campus radical at the time — an exception.)
               So I went to the emergency room.  I lay around for six hours.  They finally came in and said, “We can’t find anything significant, so you can go.  Just check with your cardiologist during regular office hours.”
               After meeting our insurance deductible for the year (I went on Medicare the very next month), the simple act of humoring my doctor cost us over one-thousand dollars.
               Anyway, for a number of years I’ve had a few fragment of this verse lying around.  Someplace in the last six or so months it’s occurred to me that this poem should be about a few of the more fun attributes of growing old.  With that revelation, I came up with what I’m calling ‘Fossil Fires’.
               I should point out that I’m not terribly happy with this bit of versification.  Something just isn’t settling yet.    So it will probably have to change a few dozen times more before I do get happy with it — if ever.  But I’d rather get it into print so at the very least what little’s here will not be lost — should I otherwise never find the time to set it right.


Fossil Fires

I sit at night within the light
               Within the circle of my lamp
And open up a cardboard box
               Of bundled letters, cancelled stamps
Lost shreds of thoughts, lives, and events
               Sprinkled with dreams and sentiments
All yellowed by the stain of time

A sound like dusty fossil fire
               Crackles through each unfolding sheet
And though these words were meant for me
               Somehow it still seems indiscreet
To rummage through these former thoughts
               Lost artifacts that one should not
Retrieve from silence much deserved

Old hands that will no longer brush
               In passion ‘cross a creaseless cheek
Caress these posted messages
               As if the yellowed pages speak
And as each scribbled line appears
               Old eyes unstring each word to hear
Its hand traced bit of evidence

When older eyes that never cry
               And seldom see what isn’t there
Are recollecting younger dreams
               They see what young eyes never dare
They see those sullen days to come
               When youth’s heated delirium
Dissolves in chill reality

Traced as a cursive residue
               These words the passing years have made
Dim as a color photograph
               Oozing contrast as it fades
Suggesting time is merely death
               Bleeding life from breath to breath
Till little’s left but what has been

Thin strips of newsprint I have clipped
               Recall the many I have known
A few more clippings every year
               And every year I’m more alone
With little need as day begins
               To rush through it from end to end
As if there were someplace to go

Outside the circle of my lamp
               Darkness creaks with old concerns
Cold shadows flow with images
               Of battles lost and lessons learned
Echoed hurts, tarnished regrets
               All conjured up by ancient frets
Though most of such seems pointless now


Regrets and dreams both need their rest
               Or so the passing years have shown
Those youthful hopes, the weigh too much
               When pressing down on fragile bones
But very much like passing friends
               The moment’s melancholy when
Familiar wants are laid to rest

There is a comfort age can bring
               When lending fault to memory
For when I close this cardboard box
               The past will lose its clarity
And shreds of thought, lives, and events
               Sprinkled with dreams and sentiments
Will dissipate — as well they should



Links to other poems by Wally Lee Parker





Email comments, concerns, corrections, and additional data to bogwenreportonline@gmail.com.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

SpoCon 2011: Meandering ... Part Two



SpoCon 2011:
Meandering Through Spokane’s Home Grown
Science Fiction
&
Fantasy Convention
by
Wally Lee Parker

(all rights to this material retained by author)


Part Two
“a less elegant weapon for a less civilized age.”
            On Friday afternoon, the first day of the convention, we checked into our room on the 9th floor of the Doubletree Hotel.  We hurriedly dropped our stuff and rode the elevator back down to the lobby again.  The hotel staff directed us to the first floor’s Grand Ballroom.  A SpoCon representative posted at the Ballroom’s door pointed us toward the queue for the pre-registration table — where we would pick up our pre-paid convention passes.
            “It’s quite a line,” the red-shirt said.  “You’d likely have gotten in a lot quicker if you hadn’t pre-registered.  The line for those buying passes today is just ten minutes long at the most.  The pre-registered line begins all the way at the other end of the Ballroom and around the corner a bit.”  Which translated out as two-hundred feet of human and alien protoplasm moving molasses slow.


            It all hints at a barely remembered science fiction short story from ages ago — ages ago being the late 1950s, or maybe spilling over a year or two into the ‘60s.  Whenever I could make it into Deer Park, I’d stop at the little drug store/soda fountain on Main Street for a Coke over crushed ice.  Watching my drink being made from a squirt of syrup and a surge of soda-water seemed for some reason to make it taste much better than the same poured from one of those wasp-waist bottles.  The other attraction was the store’s small magazine rack.  Though I did on occasion buy a copy of “Stag” or “For Men Only” (at that time those blood-and-guts men’s magazines, with their soft-core cover art, were about as close as you could get to porn over-the-counter), for the most part I was drawn to the several science fiction pulps usually displayed on the rack.  It might have been in “The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction” or “Astounding” — I just can’t recall — but I’ve run into the story since in some anthology, and I know it’s considered a classic.
            It seems like the title was “The Trek” — or some variation thereof.  The premise was that the narrator — a human — becomes aware he’s part of an endless line of creature walking through an alien landscape.  Most of his companions seem to represent different species, though all appear to be advanced forms of sentient.  The narrator has no recollection of his personal past, and, being unable to communicate with his companions in anything higher than gestures, he spends the entire story in an internal dialog that attempts to deduce the circumstance he finds himself in.
            Someone will doubtless remember that story.  It probably has no relation to the line at SpoCon, other than suggesting that deducing circumstances is difficult enough even when everyone has a common language.
            Right in front of us was a young man — probably late twenties/early thirties — fully robed as a Jedi Knight.  About twenty minutes into our stand and shuffle, several young gentlemen — red-shirts — came down the line inspecting weapons.  The official SpoCon policy states that, “all weapons or items that appear to be weapons must be peace-bonded by designated security.”  And the policy further states, “no firearms.”  The red-shirts were determining whether said weapon-like items were in fact props or otherwise non-harmful decorations — and after having so determined, said gentlemen were snugging brightly colored zip-ties around the objects.
            Finding that our Jedi Knight’s lightsaber was not a real lightsaber (those tend to be a bit rare), the security personnel peace-bonded the device with a red zip-tie and moved on.
            During the general chat up and down the line, we learned that our Jedi Knight was actually a deputy sheriff from a nearby county.  Seeing what I thought was an opportunity for a little humor, I asked him if he, as usually required of off-duty law-enforcement personnel, was caring a weapon — to which he nodded.  And then I mused, “I wonder if you should have had that peace-bonded.”
            It was clear by his reaction that he was not at all happy with the idea.
            Let’s be perfectly clear.  I have no problem with citizens carrying weapons if they do so in compliance with Washington State law.  However, unless things have changed since I last had a concealed weapon permit, there are two strict policies to be observed when a private citizen packs.  First, the weapon must be kept in the carrier’s possession in such a manner that it is always under the carrier’s control — which usually translates out as on their person.  And second, the weapon must remain concealed at all times unless there is a legally evident threat that would allow its exposure.  Showing a weapon — inadvertently or otherwise — without a legally evident reason for doing so can be considered intimidation with a firearm — regardless of your state issued permit to carry.  If you choose to show the weapon as a threat, you’ll need to offer credible evidence that such intimidation was necessary.  And as for maintaining physical control over the weapon, that’s the simple extension of a train of logic that says the device is designed to be capable of killing.  It is a weapon and nothing else.  As such, when you transport that device into a public setting you are fully responsible for any damage the device is capable of inflicting.  That places an obligation on you to maintain control over the device at all times — meaning not only maintaining physical possession of the device, but of maintaining yourself in a mental state in which you are capable of correctly adjudicating the necessity of deploying the device, and then using the device once deployed with minimal chance of inflicting collateral damage.
            To boil all the edges off; what all this means is that the damage inflicted by the dissipation of the kinetic energy stored in a bullet discharged from a gun you carried into a public place is your responsibility.  If said energy is dissipated inside the body of someone adjudicated to have been a lawful target, all well and good.  But if the weapon is discharged accidentally, or if your bullet misses your lawful target or passes through your lawful target with a potentially damaging amount of kinetic energy intact, you are still responsible for the remaining damage done by the bullet.  And you continue to be responsible for any damage done to property or person until that bullet’s kinetic energy is fully dissipated.  That responsibility is surely financial, and, depending on circumstances, quite possibly criminal.
            To make it even stickier, your financial responsibility likely exists no matter who it is that pulls your gun’s trigger.  And under some circumstances you may be considered criminally responsible even if you are not the one pulling the trigger.
            All told, a concealed weapon permit is a very weighty thing.  I suspect few possessing such have taken that weight fully into account.  But let me also add that I think any responsible citizen who does not have a properly secured firearm somewhere in their home is exercising a personal choice that can also have dire consequences.
            The right to use firearms to protect home, family, and community is only one aspect of America’s 2nd Amendment.  The other is that the founding fathers were building a constitution based on the concept of checks and balances.  As noted in the Declaration of Independence, the final balance was an armed citizenry that could band together to protect their community from foreign or domestic threats — and by domestic the founding fathers clearly included their own government.  The result is a somewhat violent society in which abuses by individuals and groups are fairly common — but also a society far less violent than many others that regulate the private possession of firearms into non-existence.  And not inconsequentially, in many of those restrictive societies the government itself is the chief perpetrator of the violence against the citizens.
            The founding fathers had seen firsthand the variations on tyranny that seemed to rise as a certainty from any authoritarian form of government.  But aside from seeing, the founding fathers had also researched such in their historical studies.  After all, most of the founding fathers (unlike our current crop of political dildos) were highly educated in the “liberal arts and sciences.”  Most all could quote relevant passages from Niccolo Machiavelli’s works.  And most had drawn a good portion of their political opinions from their studies of European history and what it has to say about the corruptible nature of the human animal.
            Anyone reading the papers of the founding fathers should be driven to conclude that these people were clearly intellectuals — just as the majority of the world’s most successful revolutionaries have been.  And that they didn’t trust government — even the one they were in the process of creating.  The arguments these intellectuals made suggest that a citizenry of armed individuals was not only a means of creating local militias in lieu of the standing army — a professional military being something few of the founding fathers were inclined to trust — but also a means of curbing the tendency of all governments to gravitate into tyrannies, and of all people holding excessive power within those government to eventually evolve into tyrants.
            One of the most humorous elements in all this — assuming you’re an aficionado of dark humor — is that those currently supporting neo-conservative policies in order to protect their gun rights are likely the ones to be most instrumental in causing the loss of those rights.  The ultimate destination of the neo-conservative movement is the creation of a society clearly stratified between the rich and poor, with the rich dominating all political, social, and economic decisions being made.  Though special interest groups such as the gun lobby and various religious groups seem to believe they can force their agendas onto the nation as a whole by siding with the neo-conservatives, once said conservatives have assumed total power, most of the various nut-groups that have swept them to power will become liabilities needing to be dealt with.  (You can reference both the Russian Communist Party and German Nazi Party purges for outlines of exactly how that works.)  After all, in any society clearly stratified between the working class and a royal (or in this case corporate) elite, the elite will be required to use their control of both the police and military to keep the massive number of lower class citizens in their place.  Keeping the citizenry subdued will be much easier if the citizenry is not armed.  The humor of it all will be that it’s going to be under the direct orders of the filthy rich corporate elite — the very people the Tea Party is so intent on putting into power — that the guns will be pried from the cold, dead fingers of their previous owners.  And such will be done for the exact reason the founding fathers feared.  Such will be done to prevent regime change in a nation taken over by tyrants.  Now that’s going to be funny — though only from the distance of historical perspective I suspect.
            And what makes it even more humorous is that the party allegedly for the working people — the Democratic Party — the group supposedly standing in defense of the huddled masses yearning to breathe free — will have aided in the eventual corporate takeover of America’s republican form of government by failing to advocate for the sanctity of the second amendment — the founding fathers most forceful remedy to any possibility of domestic tyranny.
            While I do think military style weapons — including any fully automatic firearms — should be banned, I also think the right to possess handguns and rifles should be extended by federal mandate into any subservient political district that now bans such.  Furthermore, I believe every state in the union should be required to issue concealed weapon permits under a uniform federal code.  Though there should be reasonable restrictions to ownership in certain cases — meaning proven criminals and proven crazy people shouldn’t be allowed guns (and the codes should allow for some basic testing when an applicant’s mental health is in question) — in all other cases “the right of the People to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.”
            Taking the concept of an armed citizenry into the realm of speculative fiction, Robert A. Heinlein explored one possible variation on an openly armed society in a novel titled Beyond This Horizon.  Serialized in 1942’s Astounding Science Fiction magazine, then published under hardcover in 1948, Heinlein developed a plot extrapolating on the hypothesis that “an armed society is a polite society,” — though the stratification between those who elect to carry weapons and the essentially second-class status of those that chose not to carry suggests that only the armed are entitled to the above noted politeness.
            Novelized in 1951, A. E. van Vogt’s The Weapon Shops of Isher took a somewhat different tack when exploring the axiom that “the right to buy weapons is the right to be free.”  Of course in Isher’s case the technologically augmented and quite literally “smart” weapons could only be used in self-defense — meaning they would not work if the weapon’s internal artificial intelligent deemed the circumstance of intended use other than justified.  Due to this technology, use of Isher weapons in criminal enterprises, or for starting a revolution, was close to impossible.  But from the story’s point of view, the actual reason for Isher’s weapons wasn’t personal protection; rather it was the ability of such personal weapons to counterbalance the overwhelming force of what was essentially a police state.
            The political union Robert A. Heinlein envisioned in Beyond This Horizon seems an odd conglomerate of Darwinian capitalism with socialistic underpinnings.  In Heinlein’s utopia the chronic underemployment brought about by robotic manufacturing and such is offset by an economy in which everyone is entitled to a lifelong stipend from what was likely the state’s massive portfolio of commonly held stocks – perhaps an unintended outcome of privatizing Social Security.  Those who want to work — that being an option — are free to enjoy whatever extra enhancements their earned income can provide. 
            As for the possibility of creating a society in which weapons are openly carried and used as Heinlein envisioned, I doubt current neo-conservatives would care much for that since a poor man or woman with a steady hand and quick reflexes would theoretically be entitled to more respect than a rich man who declined to carry a personal weapon.  My expectation is that our current crop of holy-corporate-warriors would feel that such an obvious lack of respect for the world’s job-creators (the new-right’s code word for obscenely rich) should to be prohibited.  So, in reality, any future will need to take into account the equally valid conservative axiom that “you’re entitled to as much respect as you can pay for with the money you’ve looted from the working-class” – which, despite the “job creators” bullshit, seems to be the source of most of the new elite’s wealth.
            All the above is just theoretical since the rich will do as the rich have always done.  They will hire professional thugs and assassins to provide for their defense — and (when deemed prudently profitable) offence.
            As for our young Jedi; off-duty police officers are generally required to carry a weapon since they don’t stop being cops simply because they’re off the clock.  And though given a degree of latitude due to their special status, when carrying a weapon they’re under the same general rules of engagement as an armed civilian.  The one caveat is that if the weapon comes out, the officer must identify himself as an officer of the law.  At that point he’s on duty in every sense of the word, and his decisions will be financially backed by the state.
            So, my assumption was that under his flowing robes our young Jedi Knight would be packing a real death-dealing device.
            Though SpoCon has a “no firearms” policy, and though that policy would likely apply to concealed weapon carriers of the civilian persuasion, it would not apply to off-duty law enforcement personnel.  Hospitals and schools have had “no weapons” policies for years, and to my knowledge such has never been construed as applying to off-duty law enforcement.
            As for civilian’s with concealed weapon permits, I suspect they cross into “no weapons” zones such as hospitals and schools all the time.  If the weapon is inadvertently exposed, it immediately becomes a police matter.  If the weapon is proper concealed — and assuming there are no detectors in service — who’s to know?
            All this said, I found something humorous in the concept of Obi Wan Kenobi with something like a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson under his tunic — “a less elegant weapon for a less civilized age.”  But as noted, our young Jedi Knight apparently did not find it so.
            “If they tried to peace-bond my weapon, I’d have them cuffed and under arrest in a matter of seconds,” he snapped.
            If SpoCon security had reason to believe our young Jedi had a real weapon — and I saw no reason to inform them of his indication to me that he did — more than likely they would have wisely declined to test the legendary curse of the red shirt and simply asked the city to send a couple of police officers by to check things out.  Regardless, I highly doubt peace-bonding a real weapon would be something SpoCon security would be interested in doing since peace-bonding is intended to insure that the artifact being so tagged isn’t in fact a real weapon. 
            I sometimes forget how young the older young people around me still are.  Being really old — and inclined toward relating long-winded recollections to illustrate little bits of collected wisdom — I decided to use an artifact from my vast backlog of parables to suggest that there are limits to the amount of individual discretion members of law enforcement actually have regarding the off-duty carrying of weapons.
            The delight older people seem to have in using such parables is likely the reason most young people consider everyone my age feeble minded.  On the other hand, when the next significant event in your life is likely to be death, you tend to have little patience for youth’s lack of patience.  Anyway — this is the story I told our young Jedi.
            Many years ago our hospital had a young State Patrol officer in as a patient,  The morning after his surgery, one of the nurses came running into the nurses’ station babbling about one of her patients having a gun tucked under his pillow.  Our head nurse, ex-army all the way, immediately perked up.
            A staff member chimed in with “He’s a cop, you know.  He’s allowed to keep his service revolver with him at all times.”
            Our head nurse growled “Not in my hospital, he isn’t” — as she charged off down the hall!
            Once in the room she stated, “I’m told you have your service revolver under your pillow.  You will immediately call your supervisor and have him come in and remove that weapon from my hospital.”
            The Patrolman returned, “I’m required by law to have my gun with me at all times.”  His voice of authority suggested absoluteness in his right to do so.
            Our head nurse was having none of it.  “You call your supervisor right now, or I will!”
            And any well-practiced voice of authority aside, let me state for the record that experience has taught there is nothing quite as emasculating as going eye to eye with a pissed ex-army nurse.  That’s when you learn the difference between real authority and just the voice.
            When the trooper’s Captain came up to retrieve the weapon, he apologized to our head nurse.  “He’s just a rooky.  He’s taking things a little too literally.  I’ll get him straightened out.”
            As for the conclusion of my little story, I’m not sure which of those three terms infuriated our young Jedi even more.  Was it “rooky”? Was it “too literally”?  Or was it “straightened out”?  To my thinking it was likely all of them.  But what came out of our young Jedi in response to my parable was clearly a clutch of emotion-laden words from the dark side.
            “In case you haven’t noticed, cops are under attack!  Being in a hospital disarmed would create a perfect opportunity for those people to attack!  And I can guarantee that if I were attacked and had no way to defend myself, I’d sue the hospital, nurses, and anyone else involved with taking my weapon away!”
            A face splotched with pink and tallowed patches.  Lips drawn tight.  Nostrils flared.  Every sign of a Jedi about to have one of those Anakin-Skywalker-in-the-Tusken-Raiders’-camp moments.
            Just then the disembodied spirit of Yoda murmur softly in my ear, “Will gain you only trouble, antagonizing this young Jedi further.”
            Classic clinical interdiction would suggest that the best way to deal with a likely psychological meltdown is to avoid the threat gesture of direct eye contact, to assume body postures that suggest vulnerability though not necessarily retreat, and to kick the issue upstairs to a higher authority who assumedly would be better able to address the issue at hand — in the hope that the act of such upstairs-kicking might redirect the immediate threat of violence toward someone not currently present.  (When I was still working, my favorite redirect was the hospital’s CEO.  For some reason it gave me great pleasure to visualize the wild eyed nut-ball — who seconds before had wanted to tear my eyes out — charging naked through the administrative offices while screeching in a slobbering rage, “I want the son-of-a-bitch that runs this place!”  Having a few benign fantasies of that type to fall back on seemed to take some of the pressure off those particularly troubling days.)
            “This is obviously something you should talk over with your commander,” I say, indicating my intention of withdrawing from further conversation.
            But withdrawal aside, here’s what I really think.  Any police officer must be cognitive of and responsive to the several strictures modifying the rights of any citizen to carry a deadly weapon — and in the final analysis a police officer is still just a citizen.  Said citizen must be able to recognize those situations in which they are incapable of maintaining sufficient physical control over their firearm to insure their own safety as well as that of others, and they must be cognitive of those situations, conditions, and circumstances under which their own reduced or impaired mental function has lessened their ability to safely use any firearm still under their control.  Attempting to maintain a weapon on your person when admitted to a hospital violates both those strictures on several levels.
            A handgun under your pillow is not a secured weapon.  By that I mean, unless you are able to stay awake, drug free, and therefore fully competent during your entire stay, you cannot guarantee it’s going to remain under your physical control at all times — regardless of whether it’s under your pillow or strapped to your otherwise naked ankle.  Staff are constantly entering and leaving a patient’s room — especially when that patient has been subdued by any number of potential mechanisms into a state of semi or non-awareness that requires monitoring.  Free access to and from such rooms is a common part of the job we do.  The staff should not need to worry about unauthorized people entering said room and accessing the officer’s firearm when the officer is asleep or in a state of induced unconsciousness or possibly technically awake though functioning under heavy sedation, strong narcotics, or a plethora of other injury, disease, or treatment induced mental handicaps.  Nor should the staff need to worry that a mentally addled policeman/patient might misconstrue a routine check of his urinary catheter output as a terrorist attack and shoot us in error.  Nor do we need a disoriented law enforcement officer, hearing something such as a dementia patient raising a ruckus in the hall, charging into the hall with his bare tentacles flashing from beneath his flapping patient gown and his 9 millimeter Glock blazing.
            Now — if there is any validity to our young Jedi’s worry that someone will see his admission into a hospital as a perfect opportunity to attack him when he’s unarmed, then I suggest an armed officer can be posted outside his room.  The medical staff is used to working in the presence of armed officers — and in fact have an affinity with police and fire department personnel since we too are required to act in a polite and respectful manner when assaulted will all kinds of mindless bullshit.   And since we seem to have a steady stream of convicted felons as well as injured suspects as patients, a sheriff’s deputy sitting in the hall or inside a room is not all that uncommon.  In fact, having the police there is usually a bit of a comfort — one reason being that it tends to reduce the tendency of certain hospital visitors to engage in what they assume to be highly entertaining psychodramas.  Since most such publicly performed dramas are clearly hammed-up reenactments drawn from some recent airing of ER or House, no Emmy awards for best performance are likely.
            All this is to say that, if given a choice, we’d rather small-talk with a uniformed and fully cognitive sheriff’s deputy assigned to guard duty then be confronted by a naked deputy oozing blood and morphine from his trailing IV line while staggering down the hall and using his service revolver to blow holes in his hallucinations.  And also through all those non-hallucinogenic therefore unseen objects behind the various phantom menaces he is so intent on dispatching.
            As for the reality of what I’ve just said, you just need to consider how many police officers have lost their careers — and sometimes their freedom — by trying to operate their off-duty guns when drunk.  Do you really think the morphine or Demerol used in hospital’s for pain control leaves your judgment any less impaired than alcohol — especially from a legal point of view?  If you want to talk about the potentialities for lawsuits arising from ill-considered applications of force, ask the City of Spokane.  They have an impressive résumé of just such.  If any young Jedi is still unconvinced, I suggest they ask someone higher up the chain of command — for example, the master who’s ass is likely to go in the sling right alongside his or her padawan when the younger screws up.
            As my final outburst on this subject; I believe no citizen applying to carry a concealed weapon should be required to give a reason for doing so since no one needs to give a reason for exercising what is clearly a constitutional right.  However, I also believe everyone applying for a concealed weapon permit should be required to pass a certification in which they demonstrate proficiency with the specific firearm they intend to carry — recertification required if they change their choice of weapon — and a clear understanding of all laws pertaining to the carrying and discharge of any firearm in the presence of others.  And lastly, I believe all persons carrying concealed weapons should be required to have liability insurance covering any possible unintended damage to persons or property resultant from the lawful or unlawful discharge of said firearm.  (And it should be noted that insurance companies are likely to require their own background checks and such — possibly to include some form of psychological certification — before issuing any given individual an insurance policy.)  And to make sure this weapon liability insurance requirement isn’t disregarded in the same manner as our compulsory auto liability insurance laws often are, the law should be that any citizen who is licensed to carry a concealed weapon and fails to carry concurrent insurance at all times will be considered to be engaged in a felony.  That is to say that the issuance of a concealed weapon permit makes insurance mandatory.  Any lawful inquiry will require you show both your weapon permit and your current insurance card.  If your insurance lapses or is cancelled by either you or your insurer prior to the normal expiration date of your weapon permit and you therefore find yourself uninsured, you must promptly surrender your license to carry a concealed weapon or automatically be bench-warranted as a potential felon.
            Harsh perhaps, but absolutely no one should remain uncompensated for damages inflicted by the accidental, reckless, or ill-conceived use of a firearm, or for collateral damages received from the adjudicated as reasonable, legal, and proper use of a firearm — just as no one should be financially ruined because the other motorist failed to have insurance.  It’s bad enough that people already have to put up with this uncompensated crap from criminals — but to be required to also suffer such at the hands of the law-abiding who have taken it upon themselves to carry into public spaces a type of personal protection that deters attack through its demonstrated capacity to inflict capital damage is absolutely asinine.
            So — a pendent to Heinlein’s “an armed society is a polite society” might be, “for an armed society to be polite, a number of rational regulations will be required.”  Otherwise you have a society of law abiding though unqualified citizens trying to protect themselves with handguns, while the entire concept of self-defense by concealed firearm is chronically being burdened by the usual group of puffed-up, blowhard, uncertified though doubtless sociopathic bullies obnoxiously strutting around as if invincible because they’ve augmented the size of their dicks with the excessive caliber of their ego-masturbating, barely concealed weapons.  A. E. van Vogt solved that problem by having the hand-gun do the thinking — likely because van Vogt understood that the tip of the dick has such a low IQ it’s fairly oblivious to responsible decision making.
            Any responsible citizen will not only understand the necessity of mitigating as much as possible any collateral damage caused by the use of their firearm, they will also see the wisdom in protecting whatever property they have accumulated during their life by carrying adequate liability insurance.  Requiring insurance will primarily compensate those who find themselves suffering collateral damage from the legally liable actions of those who have no accumulated wealth to lose, and also those who habitually decline to assume any civic responsibility beyond the exercise of their own rights and privileges.
            From that point on in our continuing shuffle toward SpoCon’s pre-registration table, we allowed our young Jedi to play with his peace-bonded lightsaber in peace.
            It took about fifty minutes all told to process through.  We brought a print-out of our pre-registration confirmation email as evidence — just in case there was some problem.  Since our pass numbers were on the confirmation, it was a simple task to match us to our passes and send us on our way.
… to be continued …

Jump to Part #1 of SpoCon 2011.
Jump to Part #3 of SpoCon 2011.
Jump to Part #4 of SpoCon 2011.


Email comments, concerns, corrections, and additional data to bogwenreportonline@gmail.com.

Friday, September 16, 2011

SpoCon 2011: Meandering ... Part One






SpoCon 2011:
Meandering Through Spokane’s Home Grown
Science Fiction
&
Fantasy Convention

by

Wally Lee Parker

(all rights to this material retained by the author)


Part One
“Its heart is in the right place — even if all its ducks aren’t in the water”


            During the Comic Con held at Spokane Community College this spring, we picked up a small glossy card advertising SpoCon — described as being “Spokane’s Local Sci-fi/Fantasy Convention”.  We considered this promo-card just another mild curiosity — just another one of the gazillion little freebees found at the comic convention.  And that was it — right up until the wife noticed that the promo-card listed author Patricia Briggs as the convention’s “Guest of Honor”, and that Dan Dos Santos — the illustrator responsible for all the covers for Patricia’s bestselling “Mercy Thompson” urban fantasy series — was listed as “Guest Artist”.
            No turning back now.
            My wife — another Patricia — is a voracious reader of most anything to do with vampires, werewolves, and the like.  She immediately fell in love with the Mercy Thompson character.  The fact that Mercy’s adventures take place in the Tri-Cities area of southeastern Washington State, not that many miles from our Spokane home, only adds to the allure.  And the idea that my wife might finally get to meet one of her favorite writers sent me searching the internet for SpoCon references — as well as questioning everyone I know as to what they might know about past incarnations of SpoCon.


            The Spokane sci-fi and gaming convention appears to largely be a local fanboy (and fangirl) endeavor — although there are doubtless some regional and national organizations involved as well.  That’s just to say that in appearance this seems a fan-based, shoestring operation aimed primarily at gamers; meaning a local event not pretending to aspire to the level of such as Seattle’s Emerald City, and more attuned to those that enjoy one to one combat across the top of a gaming table.  That lack of pretense is good, since taking on airs tend to suffocate the spontaneity of home-grown events.
            And after all the disparaging remarks about former SpoCons were shuffled through, even the convention’s critics felt the really important thing was that Spokane was at least trying to have a convention of its own.  Those critics may not think it worth the $35 weekend pass, but the idea still seems something worth trying.
            Let me reiterate that the lack of polish associated with SpoCon is not necessarily a bad thing.  As with any non-professional production, there’s a learning curve involved.  Over time problems do get sorted and things do get better — as long as everyone is willing to learn.  The first part of leaning is to take a cleansing breath, pull in the defensive hackles that tend to plug the ears to even creative criticism, and take a realistic look around.  Then go with your strengths.
            I was raised in the Clayton/Deer Park area north of Spokane.  My original idea of a parade float was a flatbed trailer being pulled by an Oliver or Ford-Ferguson tractor.  Cardboard and crepe paper may not be as sophisticated as one-hundred thousand fresh cut roses, but when one of the princesses on the float is your eldest sister, that’s worth more than all the roses imaginable to a six year old.  Just like giant fairs and giant parades, what the giant conventions are likely to lack is that down-home sense of community.
            On occasion I’ve heard Spokane referred to as an overgrown cow-town.  Well, not so much since we lost the stockyards and the attending aroma.  Still, what people seem to be thinking is that the city lacks that sophisticated edge — though I suspect the town more than makes up for any such shortcomings by its abundance of backdoor economic swindles and overt political shenanigans.  Kind of like our super-sophisticated congress.  If one were to revisit the cow metaphor you might say; if Spokane were a pie, it would consist of a topping of pretentious, well-greased bible-belt gentry crusted over a sour redneck filling.  Again — kind of like congress. 
            I do worry that the rednecks might rightly consider such a close association with Spokane’s gentry — or even worse, congress — an insult.  So let me clarify that I agree with comedian Jeff Foxworthy’s stipulation that the term “redneck” means little more than an individual or group possessing “a glorious lack of sophistication.”  Most rednecks I know are more than willing to accept that assessment as it is intended — a non-critical observation of the obvious.  The rednecks that give pause are the ones that fail to see themselves as other might — which means those that fail to see themselves with any degree of humor.
            It reminds me of one such redneck who was more than willing to punch me out because I suggested Dolly Parton had had a boob job.  Assuming that’s the standard, it’s a sorrowful day for the now soiled virtue of southern women.  After all, Dolly settled the question herself when she said, and I quote, “I’ve had a boob job.”  For those of us who understand that feminine virtue is found in the heart, not in the stifling corset of society’s apologetic myth of femininity (a dichotomy resulting when the object of such ornate chivalry is otherwise reduced to a state of second-class citizenship), Dolly — a humanitarian of considerable reputation — remains a first-class southern belle despite any surgical augmentation such a hard-headed business woman might need to titillate the fantasies of the more emotionally stunted members of her male fan base.
            And let me add — as a card-carrying member of the working-class — that it’s amazing how many carousing, drunken defenders of womanhood have no problem going home and beating their wives to a pulp — if so inclined.  Which indicates that the above described example of Dollywood chivalry is just one of those boastful little fantasies one often hears loudly expounded to the nearest available barmaid.
            In the final analysis, once you wash away the unique colloquialisms, rednecks are just working class people with mannerisms rooted to the rural.  I know that as a fact because my own people were farmers from the Ozarks, and our family history is well peppered with anecdotes from the War of Northern Aggression and the Great Okie Migrations told in a brogue that others consider “quaint” — if you get my drift.
            Being considered quaint — which usually settles out as being considered backward — does on occasion hurt.
            My mother, orphaned at an early age, only had a second grade education.  Coupling that with the residual of her Okie brogue, it always bothered her that others might think her backward.  On the other hand, she was smart enough to try to teach us that people needed to be judged on things other than the airs they assume.  Her answer was always, “What’s important is the difference ‘tween how they treat you when everyone’s lookin’ and how they treat you when no one’s lookin’.”  So when one of my sisters — worried that her own kids might pick up some of Mom’s uneducated Okie brogue — suggested Mom take a speech class, Mom lit up like a Roman candle.  “I taught you better!”
            As for other examples of our redneck lack of sophistication, I recall the time one of my plumper aunts told my mother, “Hon, I found the best diet.  I can eat anything I want as long as I take two tablespoons of Epsom salts in a glass of water right after.”
            My mom came back with, “That’s a laxative!  You’re just shooting your food through before it has any time to digest!”
            “Yeah, I know,” my aunt replied.  “Ain’t it wonderful?”
            Likewise, if your expectation of sci-fi fandom includes a similar inherent lack of sophistication — sophistication in this case being defined as a notable dearth of commercial polish — then you’re well on your way to being able to integrate into the gentile joke called fandom.
            Being a retired person who spends a fair amount of money on comic books, I’ll most certainly allow you to become as incensed as you wish at my discloser that fandom is a gentle joke.  I’m going to allow you to become incensed because I spent the majority of my working life around pain.  I’ve waded through human blood, vomit, spittle, feces, and tissue.  I’ve seen both the best and the worst of humanity and I want to tell you sincerely, if it wasn’t for all the misery, life would be quite nice.  Fandom is escape.  Fandom is a fantasy — and as such it’s a joke.  And it’s also a blessing.  The insanity of fandom, oddly enough, can become a quiet pool of sanity if one doesn’t become too enraptured.  The fans I enjoy being around are the ones that are in on the joke.  No matter how serious they seem to be, they understand that fandom is just a diversion.  As for being around the others — as for being around those taking their entertainment with such a grim seriousness that they’d throw down the gauntlet at something as benign as a suggestion Wonder Woman might have augmented boobs — there’s not so much joy in being around those kinds of people, and apparently not all that much joy for them in being around themselves either.
            That’s just to say that the gentleman willing to punch me out in defense of his Dolly Parton fantasy was likely not one of life’s happier campers — as is most any sci-fi/fantasy fan that has lost his or her sense of humor to the dark side. 
            But then, we all have our off days.  Whenever I find myself become more insufferable than even I can stand, I just recall one of dozens of little incidents I’ve been witness to that tend to draw life into perspective — incidents such as the morning I received a call from a nurse on the surgical unit.  She was rattled.  “Wally, everybody else up here is busy.  This isn’t something I can ask housekeeping to help me with, but I can’t do it myself.  Please.”
            She warned me, but it was still too much to take in.  The patient had set himself up on the side of the bed, legs dangling, for breakfast.  His breakfast tray was setting on his over-bed table.  The nurse had pulled the table away when she charged into the room at the screams of the room’s other patient.  The deceased was still sitting, but slumped against the bed’s headboard.  All this was shielded from the hallway by a curtain — all this was shielded except for the large smear of blood on the floor.
            Death was pretty obvious.  There’s nothing like it.  The color was a wash to near cinematic black and white — overcoated with that odd kind of blue we’d see in the cathode glow of early television screens.  It’s unique in that there’s a waxy translucence to human skin that makes real death hard to emulate with makeup.  And there’s a droop to the face.  All the little ticks and tremors and tensions are gone.  People like to say it’s a look of peace, but what’s really left is perhaps better described as a soul-deep weary.
            And the cause of death?  Well, there’s blood everywhere.
            This not-all-that-old man had an “inoperable” esophageal aneurism.  A weakness in the wall of his body’s massive central artery was ballooning out against and into his esophagus — where the rubbing caused by the act of swallowing was slowly eroding through the patient’s thinning artery.  The artery would eventually rupture.  And everyone — including the patient — knew that when the ballooning artery finally broke, blood would gush up his throat and out of his mouth.  Unconsciousness would follow in seconds.  And death from exsanguination shortly thereafter.
            The patient had been sitting on the side of the bed, just starting his breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and orange juice.  Perhaps not the best diet for someone with an esophageal aneurism — but what the hell.
            “When I got in the room the only thing I could think of was that the patient would drown in all that blood,” the nurse related.  “I was ready to run for a suction kit when it struck me that any kind of intervention was ridiculous.  Thankfully he was unconscious.  The blood flow was already slowed to near nothing.  And there was nothing to do but let the process finish itself.”
            There’s a reason “and never do harm to anyone” is a clause within the Hippocratic Oath.  Sometimes doing anything will in fact do nothing but harm.  Death isn’t always an enemy.  But for most nurses it takes special training to be able to accept that.  It’s not in their nature.  And watching people die in endless repetition wears away something — especially when you know that dying is for the best.  Still, it tends to breaks something deep inside the care giver.  Those who work with the dying can sometimes become callous to it all, but more than likely they break themselves into alternate selves — the clinician and the other.  And you learn to read those who have two such souls.  There’s a subtlety and sadness etched into the face.  There’s an odd, deliberate grace to their movements.  Perhaps most evident in the oncology nurses — the cancer nurses.  Soldiers who have seen too much often have that same look, that same not-quite-in-phase distractedness.
              All that was left for us on that long ago morning was the cleaning process — somewhat helped by the blood’s congealed state.  Perhaps the worst part was pulling the jellified mass of blood and scrambled eggs out of the patient’s mouth.  And then cleaning a pint or two of the same off his breakfast tray.  And all this time wondering how much awareness there was for the patient in those last few seconds?  Was it surprise, panic, pain, terror, or just curiosity at where all that blood was coming from?  Or maybe just an overwhelming sense of sadness?
            Having lived with so much death, having held a fair number of hands as life left the body, having stood by helplessly time and again as decades memory storied in the organic wetware of the brain dissipates in those first few minutes after death, I’ve grown a bit weary myself.  Too weary to tolerate making something seem far more important than it is.
            Which would beg the question; when an order of importance is placed on all the possible choices that arise between birth and death, what’s the proper place for fandom?  It’s not something like your native intelligence, your sexual orientation, skin color, or your grandmother’s criminal record; you know — the things you really don’t have that much choice in.  Fandom is something you become a part of because you want to.  To me, an angry, obnoxious, overtly serious fan is someone obviously in the wrong pew.
            As for the apparent lack of sophistication at most fan events, maybe what’s really needed here is a clearer definition of the term sophistication.  To me there’s nothing more sophisticated than common sense.  It reminds me of a little piece of advice I once read in Playboy magazine.
            Let me preface this by saying that among those generally classified as neo-conservatives, Playboy is perhaps the most hated corporation in America (and hating corporations is a hard swallow for neo-conservatives considering the compromising positions most are willing to assume in their corporate relationships).  In fact, it may be that Playboy is the only corporation neo-conservatives hate more than the Corporation for Public Broadcasting.  And the reason is found in the articles the neo-conservatives don’t want you reading.  (Yes, I’m implying that objecting to the photographs is just a smoke screen.)  Their real objection has to do with the fact that Playboy has long been a fairly effective proponent of integration, women’s right, gay rights, freedom of speech, freedom of the press, a sense of journalistic responsibility to the Bill of Rights (though I do disagree with Playboy’s stance on the Second Amendment) and the welfare of the Republic, and most every other of the rights and moral imperatives that tend to piss neo-conservatives off.  Attacking Playboy feeds into that sadomasochistic right-wing fantasy of breaking all dissidents to their righteous will — kind of like what the Jesuits attempted during the Inquisition.  After all, both groups — the neo-conservatives and the Order of Jesuits — have at one time or another come out in favor of “interrogatorio mejorado del agua” — which translates out as “water enhanced interrogation.”  And both groups have traditionally had a remarkable percentage of their membership engaged in closeted and often bazaar sexual activities — most often in direct opposition to their avowed beliefs and carefully staged public personas.
            But I digress.
            I believe it was back in the late 1960s that a man wrote to the Playboy Advisor asking something to this effect.  “I was sitting at a bar when another gentleman approached and started to chat.  It took me awhile to realize I was being propositioned.  At first I was mad.  I had no idea what I had done that would make him think I was that way.  Finally I just waved him away and left the bar.”
            The writer went on, “I’ve asked several of my colleagues how I should have handled something like that, and the usual response was that I should have beat the propositioner to a pulp.  There’s got to be a better answer.”
            The Playboy Advisor replied, “Try doing what sophisticated women do when confronted with an unsolicited proposition.  Look the gentleman in the eye and say, ‘I’m not interested.’  If it needs to be taken any further than that, rest assured you’ve already done the proper thing, and however uncomfortable things get from there on out is totally up to the other.”
            And that leads me to believe that one of the indicators of sophistication is a measured response that makes sense.
            This brings me around to an opinion of SpoCon from someone who has seen a lot of conventions.  Mike Briggs freely admits that he is the voice behind his wife’s website.  Writing best-selling urban fantasy takes such a large part of Patricia Briggs’ time, she can’t do the website justice.  So Mike takes on that duty — along with a lot of the more mundane nuisances involved when it comes to Pat’s convention appearances.  Regarding SpoCon, Mike wrote, “It’s young and they’re struggling a little with finding the perfect facilities for a growing convention, but the leadership is superb.”  Since Mike has been dealing directly with SpoCon’s leadership, he should know.
            I’ve attended two conventions now, Mike Briggs has attended dozens.  If he is essentially saying that SpoCon has its heart is in the right place — even if all its ducks aren’t in the water — I’ll go with that.  At least SpoCon is still small enough to have a heart.
            One suggestion I have for the SpoCon group is to apply a bit more expository chat to their website.  People are constantly asking why they can’t buy day-passes at reduced prices as opposed to a three day membership.  The closest I got to an explanation was that it had to do with licenses and taxes.  Selling only three day memberships allowed the group to maintain its status as a convention.  If the group sold day-passes, such would move them into the ‘event’ category and require a whole new set of overlying licenses and taxes.  Simply said, the group can’t afford to sell day passes.
            Another little problem with the website; I followed a link to pre-registering and found a form I was supposed to fill out and mail.  I began the process of filling the material out and noticed that the place indicated for the convention on the form was different than the Doubletree Hotel as mentioned on the website.  Closer investigation indicated that I had been directed to last year’s pre-registration form — which means I would have been sending in too little money for a no longer existent event.  That was a bit confusing.        I sent an email to one of the contacts mention on the website and was sent a link to the proper page.  For next year, a cleaner path to pre-registering would be appreciated.
            Very much a plus was that we were able to do everything online, including paying with PayPal.  It always makes me more comfortable to not have to send a credit card number to an essentially unknown entity — and a few otherwise reputable companies and groups have lost my business simply because they don’t offer that service.
            I promptly received a confirmation notice by email.  Since I sent our order in late May, by the beginning of August I was getting a bit concerned.  Though I’d gotten a confirmation, I had not received any explanation on when I was going to receive the passes themselves.  When August arrived but no passes, I sent to following to the website.
            “I’m more than a little fuzzy on how all this works.  I’ve ordered two of the 1 x 3 Day Adult Badges from the SpoCon store and apparently, as a result, have been listed on the SpoCon website as a member of the “Inland Northern Science Fiction & Fantasy Gaming Association” for the last five weeks and two days.  What has not been made clear — at least I’ve been unable to find any clarification of this on your website — is what happens now.  Our confirmation email included details regarding our badge numbers and such — but I’ve no idea if these IDs are going to be mailed to us, if these are to be picked up at the hotel on the first day of the convention, or what.  I’d be grateful for a little guidance on all this.”
            In short order I received this reply from “Carol”.  “The badges and your packets will be waiting for you at the registration table in the pre-registration section. I look forward to seeing you.”
            That most certainly did help, but being old and easily confused, I still had to write one more note to the website.
            “I seem to be finding all kinds of little problems as I try to wade through all the stuff on the SpoCon website.  The latest issue involves signing up for the various events using the website system.  The wife and I have registered to stay at the Doubletree during the convention, and I want to make sure we’re both able to take advantage of everything offered.  The wife is especially looking forward to meeting Patricia Briggs.  Our immediate problem is how to get signed up for the events we want to attend using the system provided on the website.  I’m assuming the system is considered intuitive by the organizers because little guidance is provided, but I certainly can’t make sense of it.” 
            Within a few hours I received this in reply.
            “I’m sorry for the confusion.  The website system is somewhat new and not ideal by any means.  All you’re doing when you sign up for an event on the website is create a printable schedule intended for your personal use.  Events at the Con itself are offered on a first come bases with no sign-up needed.  If it’s likely to be a popular event — the Masquerade, Steampunk Spectacular, and other large events — arrive a bit early. 
            “As for Patty Briggs, I am very confident you will get to meet Patty at some point over the weekend.  She is very public and very approachable.
            “If you have any other questions, please feel free to ask.”
            So — the website is confusing, but the people with the answers are readily accessible.  This is good.
… to be continued …

Jump to Part #2 of SpoCon 2011.

Jump to Part #3 of SpoCon 2011.

Jump to Part #4 of SpoCon 2011.

Email comments, concerns, corrections, and additional data to bogwenreportonline@gmail.com.