SKYLARK PRESENTATION: A MESSAGE FROM MIKE RESNICK
Copyright (c) 1996 by Mike Resnick
Read Aloud by Tony Lewis

 

It is a long-standing tradition that the most recent winner of the Skylark Award hands it out to the new winner at the Boskone banquet. Obviously that is not going to happen this year. One look at this year's speaker -- the receding forehead, the unkempt appearance, the beady little eyes that reflect no spark of intelligence -- will convince even the most unobservant among you that the person reading this is not the devilishly handsome and incredibly talented Mike Resnick.

However, while I cannot be with you this weekend, at least I can speak to you through this semi-literate drone and let you know why I am not here to share in the festivities. While you are all enjoying the usual winter sports connected with Boskone -- hockey, ice sculpting, and listening to Rick Katze deny that he's secretly plotting to chair Noreascon IV -- Carol and I are out here in Hollywood, sweltering in the 72-degree heat and slowing starving to death on a meager daily menu of cavier, pate de fois gras, and pheasant under glass, while being forced to drink gallons of 1953 Dom Perignon. (At least it's from the North slope.)

It seems that, after almost 6 years of futzing around, they are finally, really and truly, making a movie out of SANTIAGO -- (Tony: pause 30 seconds for riotous applause to subside) -- and since Carol and I have written the screenplay (in fact, we have written it 10 times at last count), they have flown us out for one of a number of what are called story conferences.

Let it be known that this is to be a Major Production that spares no expense. In fact, you can reach us by writing to us in care of the Beverly Hilton.

Well, in care of _a_ Beverly Hilton, anyway. Our producers thoughtfully arranged for us to stay with Beverly, the key grip's maiden aunt, who lives out in the Mojave Desert and offered us an
unfinished room over her garage.

On the other hand, we have as much clout and input as any screenwriting team in history. Which means slightly less than the producer's nephew's wife's hairdresser, about the same as the men's room attendant, and just a shade more than Dimitri Tiomkin, who hasn't scored a movie in 20 years and has been dead even longer than that.

The story conferences themselves are at least as science fictional as anything ever written by Lois Bujold. My favorite comment from yesterday's session was, "Why _can't_ one of the twins be black?"

They haven't cast the film yet. They keep saying they want the biggest, most expensive star around, but we keep holding out for Mel Gibson instead of Michael Jordan.

Anyway, so much for Hollywood. I want you to know that I remain my sweet, humble, lovable self, and no matter how many millions I make and how many Oscars I win, I will always cherish the memory of you totally insignificant people who have been bit players and extras in the rich tapestry of my life. (Tony: Pause 2 minutes until standing ovation has subsided.)

But I digress. We've got a Skylark to present. And the first order of business is to ask why we call it a Skylark, since it is fitted with a Lens and would better be called the Kimball or the Lensman. But after 3 days of the kind of answers one gets at story conferences -- "Sure we can do the Audrey Hepburn Story, but let's get an Audrey with hooters" -- I'm sure as hell not going to be the one to question it.

The Skylark Award goes to that person who best personifies the qualities that made the late E. E. "Doc" Smith beloved of fandom. But since no one has written any Skylark or Lensman books lately, or messed around with doughnut formulae (ask the drone here to explain that reference later), we tend to give it to a pro or a fan who's a kinda sorta nice guy and doesn't vote against NESFA at worldcon business meetings. I figure I won mine because I've overslept every business meeting since 1963, and after all these years I still can't spell NESFA, WSFS, or BNF.

Nonetheless, I am enormously proud of my own Skylark, and carry it with me everywhere I go. Usually I put it in a window where everyone can see and admire it. Unfortunately, I seem to be running in bad luck these past twelve months, as I have had 3 hotels, a Polish laundry, and a pornographic bakery shop go up in flames around me. I mentioned this to Jane Yolen, who suggested, as usual, that I put the Skylark where the sun never shines. But since I don't know where the New York publishers hide their accounting ledgers,

I have not yet been able to do this.

Ah, well, I'm due to judge the Miss Nude Beverly Hills Pageant in a couple of moments, and you must be getting tired of hearing Tony Lewis screw up my priceless prose, so let's get on
with it: in this Politically Correct year of 1996, one of the Skylark winners is Gay.

The other is her husband, Joe.

Gay Haldeman is a world traveler, and wherever she goes she brings a little sunlight with her. She has worked, credited and otherwise, on conventions for a third of a century. She has helped more writers than just Joe, and more fans than you can shake a stick at. (Well, more than _I_ can shake a stick at, anyway -- and Teddy Roosevelt and I both carry pretty big sticks.)

As for Joe, the record speaks for itself: multiple Hugo winner, multiple Nebula winner, past president of SFWA, screenwriter, filksinger, and one of the more dangerous poker players around.

I congratulate Gay and Joe Haldeman, the very worthy winners of the 1996 Skylark Award for lifetime achievement in science fiction.