In the oh so science-fictiony year 2001, it's almost a clichi to point out that SF, despite its progressive, utopian impulses, has for the most part sold out. Heroes are action figures; the quest for social justice is a high-concept Hollywood pitch; loving the alien is a pop song from the 1980s. Looked at from this perspective, DragonCon represents the commodification of every fan's dreams. Here, speculative worlds are equivalent to the dollars you pay for your fannish T-shirts, comics, swords, buttons, videos, DVDs, CDs, whatever.
All weekend long, I hear people griping about where their money is going. If, like many, you register for the con on-site, the cost is $75 per person for the whole weekend (pre-registration and one-day passes are cheaper). Rumors swirl that some of that money is lining the wrong pockets. "All that money should go to staff!" a con-goer points out to me stridently as we wait in an interminable line to register. Looking at the tired, overworked staff, I have to agree. Are there no unions in Middle Earth?
Each "track" at the conference seems organized around some kind of franchise, complete with a new sales pitch for its latest trinkets. The "Star Trek" track whets con-goer appetites for the new "Enterprise" series; a "Lord of the Rings" track features a panel with scenes from Peter Jackson's upcoming big-budget flick; the "Star Wars" track has a LucasFilms spokesperson explaining why everything in the series has led up to the inauspiciously titled summer 2002 offering "Attack of the Clones"; a local Atlanta UPN affiliate has a big sign advertising "Buffy the Vampire Slayer's" resurrection in October; even the gentle Pernies from the Weyrfest are selling books and T-shirts from Anne McCaffrey's "Dragonriders of Pern" series.
People aren't here just to swap tales of great RPG campaigns and talk in hushed voices about why they adore Willow from "Buffy." The hungriest among them are trying to "make connections" and get that elusive book deal with top-level SF publishing house Tor, or write a fantastic new world for White Wolf. Sure, they love SF. But more than that, they love money and fame. They're here to buy and sell.
But why would SF fans rejoice in the corporate control of fantasies they've nursed from childhood? The answer, like so many things at DragonCon, comes to me in the form of a story that unfolds right before my eyes.
When my companion Charles and I arrive Thursday night before the con is in full swing, we settle into the Hyatt bar and spend a few bored minutes watching TV.
Just then, our extremely drunk friend Kelly arrives. She's wearing a giant Nascar T-shirt on her diminutive frame, and has brought a "Mundane" -- a nongeek, nonfan -- along with her. He looks shaken.
"Hey, guys," Mundane says to us in a sweet Georgia twang, "I just met her in a bar and we've been having a really weird conversation." Kelly ignores him and looks me over. Hands on hips, she declares, "I want to kiss you. I want to stick my tongue all the way down your throat." Mundane starts to get pale, then he manages to stammer out, "I'd pay to see that!"
Some goths behind us grin and light a clove cigarette. When Kelly and I start making out, Mundane hands us each a $20 bill and speeds out of the bar. Settling into some new seats along with a handful of Trek junkies, we exchange perplexed glances. We thought he was just kidding about the money. It's so hard to understand the strange ways of Mundanes.
"Maybe he thought we were about to do a strip show or something?" Kelly wonders. The Trekkers have seen the whole exchange, and join our conversation.
"People used to say I had the best ass in fandom. I could wear a standard Star Fleet uniform when I was younger," says Joe, one of the Trekkers. "But now I have to wear the Riker uniform -- you know, big shoulder pads to hide my belly." Joe has been attending SF cons for 30 years.
I stare up at the vaulted ceiling of the Hyatt and wonder how much money Joe has spent on Star Fleet uniforms in his 30 years on the USS Enterprise of the imagination. What's more tragic? Paying two women to kiss (a recognized Mundane ritual in strip clubs), or paying to live in a fantasy world where spaceships can take you far, far away and women kiss because they want to? Both are equally tragic, I think, but a fan's willingness to exchange money for fantasies is an understandable method of self-defense against a culture that doesn't understand her. Money, after all, is power. Science-fiction and fantasy commodification allows (middle-class) fans to escape from the horrors of Mundane life on a regular basis.
Selling out becomes a form of protection. If people will pay to live in your fantasy, that fantasy will survive a little longer.
Next page: "My ideal player is naked and on fire in a strange world"