Smoke rises from the nail house

I am told that Worldcon 2018 is in a state of crisis. That the grownup volunteers who used to shepherd the convention, year after year, have slowly gone away. Or been thrown out. That identitarians and the mentally unwell are presently stamping their feet and holding their breath — until demands are met. And that it’s become a flounce-a-thon. A real shit show. Embarrassments heaped on top of embarrassments.

Like the fireman who’s been ignored or even shot at, during an emergency in the ghetto, I can only shrug my shoulders. I want no part of it anymore. Their disaster is their disaster. My younger, more idealistic self once had some esteem for the institution. But that’s been gone three years now, and it’s not coming back.

What snapped it for me was when they cheered themselves delivering NO AWARD against Mike Resnick and Toni Weisskopf. The CHORFholes were tasteless and classless enough. But to NO AWARD Mike and Toni — two people who have literally devoted their whole adult lives to celebrating and enriching SF/F — and then cheer about it . . . that’s when the mask completely fell. From off their CHORFy Trufan faces. These are not lovers of genre. They do not celebrate the field. They celebrate their “club” and having dominion within it. They are the ugly side of geek enthusiasm. The children who never learned to share, nor let somebody else have a say.

So, now, I spectate their downward-spiral while experiencing a mixture of sadness, and schadenfreude. We told them identitarianism was a fool’s road. We told them both the Hugo and the convention proper, were being sucked into the Oppression Olympics. They didn’t want to listen. Now, the Hugo is devalued to Venezuela-like levels, and Worldcon has become a hollowed-out shadow of itself — like a one-party Democrat-controlled city. Which in fact, Worldcon is.

It didn’t have to be this way.

But . . . you cannot help a terminally-ill patient who insists (s)he is not sick. Who loudly screams that (s)he is, in fact, healthier than ever before. Despite the crashing blood numbers and oxygen hoses and dialysis cart being wheeled into the room.