This was the ninth Crypticon in Minnesota. I’ve been going since the first one (although I skipped a few in the middle to go on crucial punk rock missions). It’s always a blast. I’ve made a ton of friends there. I’ve met many fellow horror authors and other creatives. Many intense conversations with other horror geeks.
This year, the horror convention relocated to the Ramada by the Mall of America. I heard tales of the place’s previous incarnation as the Native American-themed Thunderbird Motel. Much of the hotel’s past remains intact, from room names to art. I arrived early on Friday and set up my table.
I caught up with a lot of Crypticon buddies and sold a few books Friday night. Selling books isn’t my goal though. It used to be. But I eventually realized that’s boring, so now my priority is to geek out, meet other people who create horror art, and party.
There was a solid showing of authors tabling this year, which was great to see. Patrick Marsh, Kenneth Olson and Clinton Jordan were all slinging lit. Publisher Harren Press had a table. Other authors were wandering around. Sadly, Crypticon legend Joe Knetter couldn’t make it this year. Jay Hansen and Devin Francisco had a table full of their art and were launching Cesspool, a crazed book of gruesome art and stories that I worked on.
Saturday is always the big day. My table helper, Jeff Arndt from Mommy Sez No, found this guy to lend a hand:
I don’t know what his deal is but he is covered in pubic hair.
Saturday night was party night. I fell into some sort of weird horror hotel warp. I remember walking around a circular corridor, trying to find room parties, but only finding the same room party over and over again. My buddy Lloyd gave me a rubber knife, and supposedly I was stabbing everybody I saw, but that just doesn’t sound like me.
I found a room full of alien dildos. Some friends had connecting rooms, and I partied there for a bit. Impromptu sex toy instruction reading, lube tasting (doesn’t taste like apples), stabbing? Went to my friend Brandon’s room and watched this short film he made. Got whipped by a tiny whip.
Later I ran some laps. Challenged a few people to race me through hotel halls. Nobody accepted the challenge because I am too fast. Lots of talk about “We’re going to the bonfire.” Pretty sure there was no bonfire. Felix Silla (Cousin Itt) was the hardest partying celeb (not Corey Feldman) and had the best jokes. I think I saw Elvira and some guy from Kiss. My armpits still smelled good at the end of the night.
Sunday is when everyone is stumbling around and hungover. Not me though. Ha! Finally cleared out most of the remaining copies of this fucking The Mutilation of Paris Hilton chapbook. If you want one of those, probably grab it now. Only a handful left. Only took like a decade to get rid of them.
Crypticon 2015: I am ready when you are!