Phil, my secretary, informs me that we’ve been inundated with emails about BlameCon. BlameCon is, you may recall, the non-existent patriarchy-blaming convention I made up as a joke the other day. Yet the idea appears to emit the unmistakable odor of allure. More than a few of you have expressed an interest in gettin’ it on.
My question is this: if—and I emphasize “if”—if BlameCon were to materialize, what would it look like, what would it be for, and why would anyone bother to come? Would firearms be allowed? Men? Norbizness? Lipstick? Would there be a workshop on knitting numshucks? Would it be a thinly veiled excuse to have witty, antisocial T-shirts made? Would there be any attempt whatsoever at enlightenment? Who would make the margaritas?
One university faculty member brought up the possibility of blowing some of her annual funding on hosting it at her school. Someone else suggested a sort of turn on, tune in, and drop out weekend in the woods. My own vague and previously unarticulated sense of it was more along the lines of a sybaritic afternoon on a houseboat, with a chef of course, and maybe, after a few drinks, a dramatic presentation of the SCUM Manifesto starring Chris Clarke in the leading role.
Anyway, though the contingency of BlameCon’s ever coming to fruition is remote, if there are any more suggestions, have at it. And please bear in mind that, dammit, Jim, I’m a blamer, not an organizer.