Issue #76, March 28th, 1997

Yes, It's Dyed
by Lesley Reece

In my last piece for Apak, I talked about how I couldn't go to Corflu because my final exams were that week. I was disappointed, too, because I'd been getting burnt out at school and I needed a break.

"Oh, you should go," Hooper said when I told him. "Can't you rearrange your exams or something?"

Rearrange my -- hey! What a great idea! I contacted my instructors the following morning. None of them minded.

Unfortunately, I had only a few days left to finish all my work for the quarter. I barely remember doing any of it; one minute I was talking to the travel agent and the next I was staring at my Spanish final, trying to remember the difference between the "yo" forms of "to laugh" and "to get embarrassed." Two hours after that, I was on the plane, remembering that the time I really want a drink is during takeoff.

But it was worth it. I not only got the vacation I wanted, I got to meet dozens of people that the other Apparatchiki have been telling me about since I got involved with fandom. Like Spike Parsons, whom I'd missed at Potlach -- I was interested in talking to her, since I recently found out she thought Andy and Victor had made me up (Not true, though there are times I wish they had).

I was also glad to meet Ted White, whom I instantly liked. All you have to say to a bass player like me is "I knew Charlie Mingus," but what really won me over was the facile way he dissected the obsequious waiter our dinner party had at a nearby French restaurant on Friday night. Ted wanted escargot, but only if they were in butter. The waiter said they were in a cream sauce with Pernod, so Ted declined.

"Oh, I didn't mean to put you off," the waiter gasped. He leaned over Ted, wringing his hands in fake distress. "Our escargot really are excellent."

"You didn't," Ted said. "I just don't like Pernod." They stared at each other for about fifteen seconds. Then the waiter abruptly straightened and vanished, mumbling something about getting our wine. If only I could learn to do that, I remember thinking, restaurants would be a lot more fun.

Normally I have no trouble keeping names and faces straight, but by Sunday night I'd met so many new people I was in a state of total brainlock. I didn't want to see a name tag ever again (being new, I had to look at everybody's). But I'm still happy I went, because I found out I have an audience. I'd like to thank everyone who told me how much they've enjoyed my writing. It was great to find out that actual people with actual faces are reading these things. And I hope I'm a face now too, or at least a head of henna hair.

One last thing: Berni Phillips mentioned that some people wanted my address, but it hadn't gone into the official list because of my hasty travel plans. Here it is:

Lesley Reece, 1521 15th Ave, Apt. F. Seattle, WA 98122; e-mail: lreece@u.washington.edu

Issue #76, March 28th, 1997

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