Last night, I wrote this in my hotel room…
I'm writing this in a moment of conflicting feelings: Glad it's over/Sad it's over. It's like: "Ah, I don't have to get up tomorrow morning and go host four panels. But then again, I don't get to get up tomorrow morning and host four panels." On the whole, I enjoyed myself tremendously even though I never set foot (the injured one or the non-injured one) in the main exhibit hall. My observation of long-standing is that nothing in it ever changes in that hall from year to year except the prices and how many people are walking around dressed like Velma or Daphne from Scooby Doo.
Not venturing onto that floor of the convention was part of my advance planning to get through the weekend. So was allowing myself to be wheelchaired around, even though there were moments when I probably could have — awkwardly and slowly — walked between panels. They were all upstairs on the same floor in the same part of the convention center. I bounced around between Rooms 4, 5AB, 6A, 6BCF, 7AB, 8 (which was the Pro Lounge — a place to wait when I needed a place to wait), 9 and 10. All pretty close to one another.
During the convention, as I was having moments when the foot was worse than usual, I made two more decisions. One was to forget about trying to get to any of my favorite San Diego restaurants to dine. The other was to not make the effort to get to the hotel where I would have presented the Bill Finger Awards. I got my pal Charlie Kochman to handle that and other friends brought meals to my hotel room. I felt very
And then I suddenly needed to go to bed where I proceeded to sleep for nine hours. I usually average 5-6 a night. I'm up now, dressed and packed and I'll write as much here as I can before a Bellman or Bellwoman arrives to help me with my luggage. What I was about to say…
Will have to wait. Someone with a cart is at my door. To be continued.