You call THAT a ‘war’?
I spent part of yesterday helping a friend who has problems with the hydraulic clutch on their ute. My conclusion is that I’ll have to go online and buy a new slave cylinder for him. The seal is shot.
Why am I telling you this fascinating piece of trivia that you did not need to know? Well, because I thought it a great way of showing you how selective quoting – Mike 50 Hugo Noms Glyer’s favorite modus operandi — works. You see Mike says we hate him because he always quotes exactly what we say. So I thought I’d save him time, because I’m kind like that. Mike’s choice quote about any puppy or MGC post would be: “I’ll have to go online and buy a new slave” or perhaps with the ‘funny’ caption ‘Puppies kill baby seals’ “The seal is shot”
Puppy-kickers, on the other hand, would get: “I spent part of yesterday helping a friend who has problems”.
It’s a particularly obnoxious and dishonest way of misrepresenting people, because very few people go and read the actual piece, but the poster can protest his innocence loudly. So, please, if you happen to read anything on that site, do follow the link and read the entire thing. Oh, and be aware of his other little tool – selective omission. Bad points and posts from one side get chosen, good ones… mysteriously never, and of course, vice versa. I know there is this curious belief that all puppies supposed to be stupid mouth-breathing rednecks, easy to put one over. The evidence doesn’t actually support this, but then puppy kicking is a faith-based religion, so evidence is something they ignore. And we’re taking bets on the likelihood of Mike Glyer actually posting this verbatim so he can wring his hands as a poor little victim.
I suppose it would be distinctly odd if I didn’t mention the Hugo Awards
Firstly, thank you to people who voted for me. I’m flattered and that was very generous of you. There were many more of than I remotely expected. Thanks good folk. I’m sorry my nominated receiver never got to give my speech, even if I knew it was most implausible. So here it is anyway, because I think it should be said, and I think it will chafe the Puppy-Kickers undercarriage – which, after their behavior I think is also deserved.
My provided ‘speech’ was Bilbo Baggins Birthday speech (‘Thank you very much’). But on the basis of seeing the News I sent him a message as he was sitting listening to the puppy-kicking before the Hugos, asking him to deliver this message for me on the off chance he got up on stage.
“As a foreigner, I’d like use this moment to express thanks and respect to the US for producing men of the caliber of Spencer Stone, Alek Skarlatos and Anthony Sadler. Us foreign folk owe a debt of gratitude and our freedom to that, and it is too seldom said.”
And I mean that. It matters a lot more than Hugo Awards ever have or ever will. We forget. That shouldn’t happen.
Secondly, we’re being told that the war is now over and the Puppies defeated.
I have to wonder how many of Puppy-kickers know what ‘war’ actually means in terms of what happens and what you see in war. I’d guess not many. That’s our side.
And what it takes to make it ‘over’.
What you saw, Sad Puppy one, was a solitary scouting mission from huge and largely disinterested group, with a distant connection with the Hugo-land. Sort of like a third generation American (of Irish extraction) country singer, going into an Irish themed pub in Liverpool. It was once grand pub, popular with Irish dock-workers, and the singing and the beer were remarkably good. He’d heard his grandmother talk of it, five hundred people, laughing and drinking and singing, so full the walls themselves were bulging.
Only now the bar had a hundred people, mostly come from London, drinking Chardonnay and there was a bloody string quartet playing to a faint patter of applause. They play in a pub in Liverpool because they can’t get into an auditorium in London. But they desperately want to be taken as ‘serious musicians’, so they imitate people who think them beneath contempt, who regard them as untouchables… in a place that calls for and was popular for something else, entirely.
So our Puppy singer stood up in a break and started singing ‘Danny Boy’. He has fine voice and is popular at home, singing to thousands, his concerts sold out, but the local musos and their friends were peeved with his common music, his accent and the fact he was a foreigner, and set on him in a mob of a hundred to one and tossed him out.
Had they listened to his song, clapped politely, he’d come back to say it was great over there, there’d have been a few more Americans in the pub in Liverpool, buying beer and staying in the hotels and B&B’s. Maybe even learning to like string quartets. Instead – Sad Puppies two — he came back angry… and took four of his friends along for the next trip. They tried singing again, and this time the locals did their best to beat them up. A few punches were exchanged, but at twenty to one, there was not a lot they could do. The Londoners tried, but they were a pretty weedy bunch. They celebrated getting rid of him. Forever.
Sad Puppies three – joined by Rabid Puppies, was more like an expeditionary force. There were twenty five of them. And a feller who played the squeeze-box which counted for three, if not five. They actually got to sing. And some of the pub goers started singing along. Well, the London musos couldn’t have that! It was _WAR_. So the String Quartet and friends went back to London and got very man, woman, grandmother and poodle they could find to support them, every last one possible… and they managed to break their own stage and the sound gear, and turf those ‘foreign’ musos out, with many a rude word and sneaky blow when the Americans backs were turned.
And there was no music, but the pub – which charges an entry fee, made lots more money than it had for a long while.
And London Musos cheered “It was war, and we won. It’s over. Those stupid yanks. We tossed them out!”
Now America is far away, and not that many people cared about the Liverpool pub granny talked about. It was hard to get them to bother with a long, expensive trip where, besides one good rendition of Danny Boy, all you could expect for entertainment was a third rate string quartet. But they really, really, didn’t like the insults and attacks on their friends.
And that in a way is the story of WorldCon, and the Hugo Awards. Sad Puppies three was expeditionary force. A hard probe. It was still possible to have turned it into something that benefited all parties in the long term. But the ‘in crowd’ – who no more own the genre than the London string quartet own the Liverpool pub – got their biggest, loudest, most influential people – George Martin, John Scazli, Jim Hines, Charles Stross (representing the very racially diverse women’s voices of modern Science Fiction) and all their friends frantically defending the Hugo Awards from these interlopers. Because it MATTERS to them. They care. It’s the only place they get to play, to be on stage. It had to be defended at all costs. They bought entry for their supporters. They got the Pups badmouthed in their pet media. They brought everything they could to bear on it. They became extremely shrill and unpleasant…
And they mustered a whole 3000-3500 troops. That was it. A trivial number. Less than many noobs sell of their first ever book. Less than Jim Butcher gets into an auditorium to hear him speak at DragonCon.
And that is the whole of their strength.
That is ALL they are.
That’s not sf ‘fandom’. It’s not even a pimple on fandom’s ass.
But they’re being really loud and predictably unpleasant about it. And the behavior at the event itself with the puerile ‘Asterisk’ (which in case you don’t know the history, is sports code for ‘not a real score’ ) The clapping when they ‘broke the stage’ – gave a “No Award” to five categories – and the MC David Gerrold’s encouragement of this – while banning booing of the same, well, ‘Do unto others’. We will remember these things. Most of the damage you did there, you and the slate voting zombies (yes, they voted to order, without reading the work – something that the numbers show the Sad Puppies did not do. But the numbers show very clearly you did) was collateral damage. Authors and editors who had nothing to do with the Puppies you ‘punished’ and cheered with gleeful and vindictive delight as you did so. Some of them were sitting there. Yes, you would enjoy that if it happened to you. Remember it well.
Shrug. I am not offended if you don’t like my work. I really don’t care. In the sea of sf fandom (by which I mean readers), 3500 is virtually irrelevant. Yes, your 3500 will do their level best to make sure I never get published by Tor – which I wouldn’t touch with Bob Mugabe’s willy, nailed to the end of a hundred foot pole, from behind a radiation shield, in a hazmat suit. You’ll, like brave James Nicholl, not be giving me reviews. How bwave! I’m sure I shall miss those zero readers terribly. You will probably, like IIRC Jane Carnell, put up fake bad reviews. Not that that worked too well last time. You’ll –as you threatened, make me suitably unwelcome at Cons I have no interest in attending. You’ll deny me a place on the ToC of publications with… 3500 readers at absolute best. Oh, be still, my beating heart. I don’t really care about your establishment or its piddly 3500 supporters. Badmouthing by you lot is probably a sales advantage, because – as the evidence shows, you don’t have many friends. I don’t even really care that much about granny’s pub, er, the Hugos. Neither do most of us.
But I do care about some of that collateral damage. Toni Weisskopf’s been more than decent to me. To many of us. You’re gonna need more than those 3500.
Your people care. All 3500 of them.
This petty, vindictive loud and stupid behavior is, slowly, making our people care. People who couldn’t be bothered to spend the money before. Yeah, that’s one hell of a ‘victory’.
You’ve not won a war… not when you’ve burned your own villages to stop an enemy taking possession – an enemy that would happily have shared the space. That’s all you’ve done. Burned your own villages. You haven’t even won the battle. You’ve back-slapped yourselves, and yelled abuse and threats (yes, we have screenshots. We collect them.) behaved as you normally do – as an embarrassment to toddlers with diapers that need changing.
Victory in a war means your enemy is dead, or offering surrender.
In your dreams.
And if you think the sad puppies just want to come back and sing on that stage… get the good guys to win, well, I think the rabid pups are more interested in pushing that Cello right up your asterisk, and tossing your stage in the canal so it can’t be fixed.
You know, it sounds more appealing by the minute.
In the meanwhile, we’re going to write our butts off. Write hard. Write adventure, write stories people want. I’m pretty sure most of us can sell those to multiples more than 3500.