Eldritch evil and beer goggles are a dangerous mix

It's taken a whole week to dig out of the chaos at home, but I don't know how I'd be could face it, if I weren't still aglow from the magical experience of the 15th HP Lovecraft Film Festival & Cthulhucon.

There are bigger conventions in bigger cities, but there are none so charged with brilliant inspiration, and no hosts with more good will and generosity of spirit, nowhere more lifted up by the dreams they gather to celebrate. It's hard not to wax into fruity, metered chains of clauses when you're talking about this fest. It's just that damned good of a show, put on by the best bunch of folks ever to throw a party.

Portland is packed with fans, friends and strategic allies of Perilous Press, so we never want for a couch to crash on. The crews from Eraserhead Press and Dark Discoveries were camped out in the lower lobby, though proud new papa Jeremy only got away from suckling Sasquatch Double Rainbow Johnson long enough to drop off a carton of Swallowdown books.

This year, we held down a table with Mike Dubisch, who came up for the first time to promote his upcoming Black Velvet Cthulhu art book. I don't know what I enjoyed more––seeing people discover Mike's incredible art for the first time, or watching Doob drowning in more overnight admirers at once than he talked to the busiest day of Comic Con. We were staked out back-to-back with Dark Horse, ensuring many idle hours to fling new Creepy pitches at editor Shawna Gore.

The few panels I got to sit in on were uniformly stupendous. The cosmic horror panel I moderated was as agonizing as it was sweet, because what I mostly remember is pacing in front of the theater with a hundred pounds of stuff writhing in my brains like fresh-caught fish, but refusing to come out in discreet canned chunks. I tried like hell not to make a has of it, but got by hiding behind stellar guests Caitlin R. Kiernan, Wilum Pugmire and Michael Shea (and Jason Brock, once he showed up… alas, no Don Webb…).

Adam came down Saturday to help man the table and replenish our stocks, because we sold out on everything I brought, the first day. What really makes this convention my favorite to attend and work is that they're, as the site says, "the only festival that understands." You don't have to explain who Lovecraft was, what Cthulhu is, or why any of this hoary old crap is still worth anyone's time. I was continually flabbergasted by the conversations I found myself in, with folks who strolled up to the table. Whether or not they'd heard of my work, they left me thinking new thought, enervated and inspired. They didn't try to tell me about their own unpublished novel, or the movie they're hoping to get financing for, from people they bug at conventions. They're simply the coolest fucking fans around.

Invasion of the Hipster Bees

And this seems like something uniquely endemic to Portland. It's just cool to be into things. On Saturday night, while lurking in the lobby, I witnessed an invasion of people in improvised bee costumes who swept in to buy tickets for Queen Of The Sun, which they'd mistakenly supposed was playing that night. As they shuffled out with their stingers between their legs, they made me wonder what they put in the water, to make this place what it is.

It was Halloween, New Years and Xmas all rolled into a miraculous four-day blur. In between logging some quality lurking time with Richard and Pat Lupoff, S.T. Joshi, Jason Brock, David Agranoff, Michael Shea and Lynn Cesar, Robert M. Price, Scott Allie, Marc Laidlaw, Andrew Fuller, Nick Gucker and the Strange Aeons gang, I pestered festival founder Andrew Migliore about the future of the fest… because if somebody else doesn't step in, there won't be one.

Andrew has run this asylum for fifteen years, and he's earned a break. But nobody was crying about the fest going away, and any doomsaying was drowned out by manic chatter about who's doing what where, next year.

I got to attend Aaron Vanek's one-day fest spin-off in San Pedro last month, and so did Andrew. He was bowled over by the presentation, and with no responsibilities around his neck, he actually got to enjoy himself. Aaron is a dynamo, and exactly the kind of new batteries the festival needs to survive and grow.

As the Sunday festivities drew to a feverish climax, Stuart Gordon worked the crowd and the winners of the festivals' coveted Brown Jenkin awards posed for pictures with Andrew. The BJ winner for short films was my long-suffering roommate at the luxurious Banfield Motel, Nicolas Simonin. A Frenchman living in San Diego, he wrote and directed the chilling subway set piece Derailed (a.k.a., Detour), and I was probably a little too happy for him. He was a good sport, but he shouldn't have to explain my obnoxious American behavior to his family, so I doctored myself out of the picture. Joe Stalin would've really loved Photoshop.

The morning after, we picked up Ellen Datlow and the Sheas to attend the Survivors' Brunch. Amid much feasting and fawning over my daughter, there were lots of plans and promises thrown out for next year. Whether it comes back to LA or Portland or both, I'll be there, and you should, too.

Andrew Migliore with the Littlest Lurker.