It was supposed to be an exhilarating festival for book lovers.
But instead of Coachella or North by Northeast, attendees were left looking down this weekend and counting the Nine Circles of Hell. It’s always a bummer to spend good money on a ticket and have your expectations crushed by incompetent organizers.
So let me begin by extending my sympathy to the bookworms who bought ball gowns and descended on the Baltimore Convention Center last weekend. You expected to find a bustling vendor hall and lively panel discussions and more cosplay than at Fan Expo Canada.
Instead, you wandered a concrete labyrinth that had more janitors than authors.
The event was called A Million Lives Book Festival. Based on videos shared on social media this week, I’ve seen bigger crowds in my convenience store before a lottery draw.
Scenes from the “Lavender Romance Ball” were truly bleak. This was supposed to be like a prom for romantasy enthusiasts. You needed a $250 “Dream Maker” ticket. A better name would be “Nightmare Fuel.” There was no decor, no special lighting, no atmospheric evidence that this was a romance ball and not a recruitment office for forensic auditors.
The music came from a tiny Bluetooth speaker provided by a pitying security guard.
The YouTube titles of videos posted by disappointed attendees told the story: “A Million Lives Book Festival: A Disaster Story.” “When a Book Convention Goes Wrong.” “Scams Taking Over the Book Community? Fallout From A Million Lives Book Festival.”
Now, I am unfamiliar with the romantasy genre. I’m assuming that is a portmanteau of “romance” and “fantasy.” Does that mean a typical plot involves a damsel in distress getting rescued from railroad tracks by a hunky vampire? Or is it a portmanteau of “Roman” and “apostasy”? Does a gladiator fall in love with a flirty debutante who is fleeing oppressive church elders?
Role play? S&M? Tantric sex outside the International Space Station?
Here’s what I do know: governments need to regulate cultural festivals beyond the basic safety guidelines. If not a Fun Guarantee, there should be a Promise Guarantee. If you sell tickets and promise attendees a cold plunge, you can’t just throw ice water in their faces and call it a day. If you promise a night of experimental percussion, you can’t just bang a gong.
A paper mask does not qualify as cosplay.
Shady event organizers are emboldened. This will only get worse.
Remember Fyre Festival, the 2017 luxury concert and getaway that unfolded on the Great Exuma island in the Bahamas? Instead of spas and swish hotels in a tropical paradise, traumatized attendees were lavished with cheese sandwiches in plastic boxes and FEMA tents.
Fyre imploded in real time as concertgoers documented the horrors.
Organizer Billy McFarland ended up in the slammer for fraud. What did he do after getting out? He started pitching Fyre 2, which is like a cruise ship called “Titanic 2.” The sequel was supposed to take place in Playa del Carmen this month. It has been postponed indefinitely.
McFarland is probably brainstorming other get-rich schemes, such as a talking AI that’s just a Teddy Ruxpin in a faraday cage. Or an opulent paella festival in Valencia that is secretly just vats of Rice-A-Roni on a public beach.
What about the kids in Scotland last year who begged their parents for tickets to Willy’s Chocolate Experience? This was billed as an immersive outing inspired by “Wonka.” But instead of finding chocolate fountains and choreographed Oompa-Loompas, the kids wandered into an industrial hellhole that had a tiny bouncy castle and fewer treats than you’d find at Mr. Lube.
The children bawled! The police were called! The event was shut down!
We already live in an age of scams. Bad actors are trying to steal our identity or hack our email. Phishing. Spoofing. Skimming. Ransomware. For crying out loud, some street crooks have debit machines. What happened to the “Do Not Call” registry? At least twice a day, my landline chirps and the alphanumeric display reads: “Likely Spam” or “Likely Fraud.”
Hey, I’m on deadline. Stop trying to sell me a dubious time-share in the Poconos.
Cultural festivals should be a safe space from such shenanigans, whether the target audience is romantasy nerds or kids in search of a sugar high. Organizers? Underpromise and overdeliver. You can’t go wrong that way. Don’t lie about a Monkees reunion and then hand musical instruments to four actual monkeys because most of the band is no longer with us.
The organizer of A Million Lives Book Festival has apologized and vowed refunds. That just covers event admissions. Many attendees also bought plane tickets. They rented hotel rooms. Authors shipped books to their booths only to discover less foot traffic than the Autobahn. Chapter 1: What a mess.
A cultural festival should be good for your soul.
It should never break your heart.
