Peter David's Blog, page 47

In Germany for Nexus Con, Part 2

Originally published December 14, 2001, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1465

The name of the restaurant in Berlin was, of all things, the American Western saloon. Never in a million years would have I gone anywhere near the place, even in America, but I had been doing my Q&A with the German audience at the Nexus Resurrection convention while my daughter Gwen had gone on ahead to get something to eat. This was the restaurant at the convention center. So that’s where they took her.

I walked in and was stunned.

The décor was beyond belief. The “saloon” was jam packed with all sorts of icons of the American west… such as the 1997 Queens phone book, or a statue of Abraham Lincoln. Clearly they’d simply decorated it with anything that vaguely smacked of America. What was even more bizarre, though, was the spectacle on the dance floor. Germans, about a dozen, clad in cowboy hats, boots, gaudy western shirts that looked like something you’d see on Grand Ole Opry, were out on the dance floor, and they were line dancing in perfect synchronization to “Achy Breaky Heart.”

I’m not a big fan of country western in general, and “Achy Breaky Heart” may in fact be one of the most annoying songs ever written. But there was so much entertainment value in watching these people so enamored of Americana that they were country line dancing that it provided serious giggle value.

The song ended. A new one started: “Islands in the Stream.”

To my horror, they started line dancing again.

To “Islands in the Stream.”

Now c’mon.

“Islands in the Stream,” you take your significant other and you slow dance. You don’t frickin’ line dance to “Islands in the Stream.” You don’t. It’s just wrong. But that’s precisely what they were doing. Watching people line-dancing to that number can’t help but put you in the mindframe of, “Well of course they’re dancing in unison to everything. They’re Germans. They can’t help it.” You don’t want to think that, but there it is right in front of you. Line dancing to “Islands in the Stream.”

Yeesh.

I know, I know, we have German restaurants in the states, and they might be just as laughable to a German citizen as an “American” restaurant is to us. But I submit that you’d have to look far and wide before you find a bunch of Americans going to the local German restaurant wearing Leiderhausen and doing the Duck Dance, even when it’s Oktoberfest.

I made my way past the eerily dancing Germans, joined Gwen at her table and had a hamburger. That turned out to be an unfortunate choice, for it remained a bosom friend in my stomach for much of the night, lying there like a rock. As I dealt with this apparently permanent addition to my digestive tract, not to mention some severe jetlag, I started flipping through German television at about 12:30 at night.

Whoa.

There were only three types of programming on that I could find: Sex. News channels. And dubbed versions of American sitcoms. So there I sat, with the remote, clicking rhythmically away. Sex. Sex. Sex. Larry King. Sex. Sex. Frasier. Sex.

Now it’s not as if I can’t stumble upon overheated passion if I’m channel surfing late night at home. But that’s a few channels out of, I dunno, seventy. This television had significantly fewer channels, but proportionately far more devoted to sex. Here was a woman having sex with a man. Here was a woman having sex with a woman. Here was a woman having sex with an electric guitar (seriously. I’m not making this up, right hand to God.)

I have no idea whether Germans are watching sex on TV to get them in the mood for the real thing, or whether the real thing is in short supply and TV is a substitute, or what. But I’m beginning to suspect that the reason the Berlin wall came down was because they were all looking for new people to have sex with. All the people in East Berlin saying, “What? There’s other people there we can sleep with? Great! Oh damn! There’s a wall in the way! Quick, knock it down!” Geez, I had no clue. I mean, you don’t generally associate Germans with hot bloodedness. Italians, French, okay, they have the rep for being sex obsessed, but Germans? Holy crow. But hey… it beats invading Poland, right?

The convention over the next two days was very interesting, as such things always are when one goes abroad. I was impressed by the number of people who bought my work in English, obviously feeling a tad superior to those who wait for the German-language editions.

I was tapped to be a judge for the masquerade. The weird highlight was a girl slathered in green make-up as an Orion dancing girl, doing a way-too-long gyration on stage. And, oh man, what is it with European women and underarm hair, will someone tell me? With the body make-up she was wearing, every time she raised her arms it was like she had seaweed billowing out of her armpits. I kept looking studiously at the scoring sheet. There were only eight contestants, so we wound up giving prizes to everyone so no one felt left out.

We also managed to get in some sightseeing. We went to the site of the Berlin wall, and Gwen stood on the small stone path in the street which is the only thing left of the former structure. She stood with one foot on either side, effectively straddling East and West Berlin. We swung by Checkpoint Charlie, once a forbidding place with guards and dogs. Now it’s a tourist attraction with mobs of schoolkids getting their photos taken and Checkpoint Charlie Souvenir shops.

We also took in the newly opened Jewish Museum. Because, you know, naturally, if you’re in Germany, you want to go to a Jewish Museum. I have to tell you, the Holocaust exhibit was tough to take. Rather manipulatively designed, the hallways were long and stark, and there were windows displays showing personal possessions of people who had died in the ovens or gas showers of the Concentration camps. Little things. Eyeglasses, or books, or children’s toys. Letters from two lovers writing to each other from separate camps, both doomed. I’ve never seen the word “murdered” used so many times in any museum piece as I did in the descriptions of the former owners which accompanied each display. At the end of one hallway, there was a large door and a guard, and he said, “Sorry, there’s people already in here, you have to wait.”

“What would I be waiting for?” I asked.

“It’s the Holocaust room,” he explained. “It simulates what it was like being put into the transports to the camp.”

I started to tremble. “I can’t deal with that,” I said simply, turned and walked away, seeking refuge in the upper floors of the museum which turned out to house fascinatingly detailed accounts of Jewish history in general.

One remains struck by a recurring theme throughout history: Blame the Jews. That’s why I get worried about the war in Afghanistan. I keep thinking that, sooner or later, Americans are going to turn around and say, “If it weren’t for Israel, we wouldn’t be in this situation, the World Trade Center would still be standing, and we wouldn’t be worrying about Anthrax. Damned Jews causing nothing but trouble.”

That evening we ate at an Argentine steak house. At one point the waiter brought me the entrée and, as he handed me the plate, said something in German. Turns out what he was saying was, “Be careful, sir, the plate is very hot.” I figured that out about two seconds after I dropped it with my hands sizzling. Actually, it was rather impressive. During the entirety of the convention, we wound up never eating in a restaurant that actually served German food.

All in all, it was a fairly positive experience. Still, as I stood on the corner of the street where my grandfather’s shoe store had once sat, I imagined I could hear glass shattering and the cries of “Juden!” filling the air. It seemed very real, and angered me. Modern Germans will say that they shouldn’t be held responsible or blamed for the sins of the fathers. There’s some truth in that, I suppose, but it gets very little sympathy from me. After all, it wasn’t until the late 20th Century that the Church got around to officially letting Jews off the hook for actions allegedly taken nearly two thousand years ago. When I was in Junior High, a kid I considered my best friend called me a Christ Killer and said he wished my parents had died in ovens. So apparently it’s human nature to hold a grudge.

Gotta try and do something about that.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.)

 

It’s been ages since I did an “Ask Me Anything” thread

Anything you want to know about? Ask away.

PAD

In Germany for Nexus Con, Part 1

Originally published December 7, 2001, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1464

Back in the 1930s, there was a small shoe store in the heart of Berlin, run by a soft-spoken, unprepossessing Jew named Martin David. He had a wife, Hela, and a small boy named Gunter. The political situation had been deteriorating in Germany, and there were concerned noises from members of the Jewish populace, but there was a general belief that everything would calm down. How bad, it was figured, could it get?

And then one night a brick was hurled through Martin David’s store window, and the shouts of “Dirty Jews!” were heard from outside. Martin looked at the broken glass, at the brick with the word “Juden” etched upon it, lying upon the floor like a still-steaming animal dropping, and then he turned to his wife and said, “Start packing, get everything together. Sell what you don’t need. We’re leaving.”

All the neighbors told them they were crazy. That they were overreacting. That things would go back to the way they were. The Davids, despite the nay-sayers, left anyway.

All the neighbors died in concentration camps.

Knowing my family history as I do, I always felt a degree of antipathy in contemplating Germany. When the Berlin Wall fell, I was one of those who said, “Germany is united… which is a good thing… I guess… except… maybe it’s not.” The only time I had actually been to Germany was when I was changing planes in Frankfurt. The airport security guards acted like Nazis in the one place where such behavior goes beyond “Well, they’re just doing their jobs” and actually carries a frightening subtext, and every time I’d hear “Achtung!” barked over an airport loudspeaker, I’d feel a chill of racial memory creeping about my spine.

So with all that baggage, why in the name of God did I agree to go to Berlin for a Star Trek convention called Nexus Con? Specifically, in this case, Nexus Resurrection since they were bringing the convention back “from the dead.” Well, maybe it was precisely because of that baggage. Maybe it was because they’d pay for two tickets and Gwen was really interested in going. And maybe it was for the simplest reason of all: It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Our plane was an hour and a quarter late departing JFK, caught up in a security nightmare when one airline wasn’t following proper check-in procedures and got caught by government inspectors. If there’s ever been a stronger argument for governmentizing security, this is it, and let’s hope that the GOP gets its head out of its butt and realizes that. “I’m sure the pilot will be able to make up the time in the air,” said the woman at the ticket counter, apparently thinking I had “sucker” tattooed on my forehead. In point of fact, the pilot lost time and we got in an hour and a half late, blowing our connection so that we wound up in Berlin four hours later than we’d intended. This caused a deficit in bumming-around-stores time that we never made up (which was depressing since there was a whole Steiff store that looked really great but was locked up whenever we were around.)

Our main guide was a fellow named Christian, who was on tenterhooks the entire weekend since his wife was pregnant and due just about any time. Also aiding and abetting him was a gentleman named Carsten. Both of them kept apologizing for the quality of their English, which was astounding to me considering the way they said it: “We must apologize for speaking English so poorly.” That sentence alone required better English skills than are possessed by many Americans. If nothing else, they didn’t work the word “like” into every other sentence when stuck for something to say.

And it turned out that the site of my grandfather’s former shoestore was—of all things—exactly one block away from the hotel in which they’d put us up. As soon as we’d settled in, we walked the block and just stood on the site, staring at what existed there now: A movie theater called the Paris Cinema which ran German dubbed versions of French films. I was standing on a spot that my father had doubtless played on as a child, looking at a location where a store owner had been chased out of his home by people desperately looking to blame the Jews for their lot in life.

I wasn’t sure how I felt.

A press conference was scheduled for 5:30 PM that evening. I was there along with Garrick Hagon (“Biggs Darklighter” from Star Wars), Mark Allen Shepherd from Deep Space 9, Peter Williams from Stargate SG-1, and physicist and astronomer Inge Heyer. Fortunately I was awake, having managed to catch up on sleep that afternoon. Unfortunately, I needn’t have been; they asked no questions. I didn’t even see notepads or tape recorders, which are the usual armaments of reporters. The other guests and I came to the realization that this was, in fact, the fan press, armed only with cameras and quizzical expressions. If nothing else, I figured the first question we’d get would be about 9/11, because if you’re in Germany and you’re facing a handful of Americans waiting for questions, this would seem the natural think to ask about. Nope. After five minutes of asking, in futility, for questions, we simply started talking to one another as if we were on a panel. Being experienced convention hands, we just chatted it up. At one point I asked Hagon whether he knew in advance that his big scene with Luke was cut from the final print from Star Wars. We talked about that for a short time, and then I turned to the press and said, “Which of you knows what scene I’m referring to?” One person raised his hand. The remaining thirty just sat there. I couldn’t believe it. I said, “So the rest of you have no idea what we’re talking about?” They shook their heads. “For God’s sake, this is supposed to be a press conference! If you don’t know, ask! That’s the point!” Finally someone asked us a question… about the World Trade Center. Wow. Didn’t see that coming.

I had my first stage appearance in front of a German audience that evening. I asked if anyone had any questions. Nothing. Figuring, in the best traditions of Cool Hand Luke, that we had a failure to communicate, I said, “A show of hands: Who here understands what I’m saying?” Immediately ninety percent of the audience raised its hand. So that wasn’t it.

“Well, I’ll tell you, whatever you know of English has got to be better than my command of German,” I assured them. Don’t get me wrong: I heard German spoken all the time around the house when I was a kid. My parents were multilingual, plus my paternal grandparents moved here shortly after I was born. The thing was, my folks would speak in German when they wanted to talk in my presence without letting me know what they were saying. Whenever I’d start to pick up words or phrases, they’d switch to Hebrew to shake me off. Or French. It’s the one thing that annoys me about my childhood: If they’d taken pains to teach me instead of using language as a means of isolating me, I’d likely be able to speak, at the very least, German and Hebrew. Instead I only know English and fragments of high school French.

I told the audience about my personal connection to Berlin, about how my father was born in Germany. They seemed politely interested. But there were still no questions. So I began regaling them with assorted Trek-related anecdotes. A number of them were things I said before at other conventions, but this was an entirely new audience. Fresh meat. Obviously they understood what I was saying because they laughed in all the right places. And then, while I was chatting, two guys in the audience started arguing about something. They weren’t next to each other, but separated by several rows, and their voices got louder and louder. I had no idea what the hell was going on, but it was incredibly disruptive, and naturally I had no clue what had upset them.

And suddenly, out of my mouth leaped, “Was ist los?!” (“What’s the matter?!”) pronounced in a damned good approximation of a conversational German accent that I didn’t even know was embedded in my cerebral cortex. It stopped the conversation cold and everyone who had been attracted by the guys turned back and looked at me in astonishment.

I was clearly as surprised as they were. I said, “Oh. I guess I do remember some German after all. It’s probably because of all the times when I was little that I’d hear my father say to my grandmother, ‘Was is los, Mutter?” (“Mutter” being “Mother”).

The place erupted in laughter. It was the biggest reaction I’d gotten yet. I was told later that “Was is los, Mutter?” is probably the single most commonly spoken phrase in Germany, because German mothers are always upset about something or other. By the time the audience settled down, the guys had apparently forgotten what they were arguing about, and people even started asking me things about my work.

So overall my first Q&A went just fine. Then I went downstairs to the restaurant where Gwen had gone on ahead to get dinner…

…and there I encountered the most frightening thing I had ever seen. A vision ripped from the deepest sources of my nightmares. Yes, that’s right: Line dancing Germans.

Next time.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc.,, PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.)

 

 

What they could do about Mrs. Wolowitz

It has now been widely reported that the wonderful Carol Ann Susi has passed away. Some of you may not recognize her name, but you certainly know her voice: She has portrayed Howard’s mother, Mrs. Wolowitz on “The Big Bang Theory.”

This tragedy leaves the series with two options: recast (simple enough) or kill her off.

I think they should take a third route: They should actually introduce the character on screen. That will so startle the audience that the fact that her voice will sound a bit different won’t even register. She won’t be shouting, after all. I dunno who the hell you’d get to play an obese woman with a Brooklyn accent; it would be challenging.

PAD

The Hollywoodization of Marvel Comics

Originally published November 30, 2001, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1463

Remember when the Hulk was inarticulate, and his alter ego had the first name of David, and a fall from a helicopter could kill him instead of simply resulting in a Hulk-shaped dent on whatever piece of ground he landed upon?

Remember when Doctor Strange’s mentor, instead of a venerable Asian named the Ancient One, was an affable British guy named John Lindmer?

Remember when Captain America had a clear plastic shield that doubled as a windshield for his motorcycle? Or that other time when he fought the Red Skull, who was Italian instead of a Nazi?

Remember that glorious period when Don Blake was able to summon the spirit of Thor, who was not a god, but instead a Viking warrior with attitude who bore a resemblance to nothing so much as a biker? And Blake would stand there and argue with Thor about how obnoxious he was being and how little he understood the Twentieth Century?

Remember when the Kingpin had a full head of hair, and Daredevil wore a black costume with a blindfold and no horns? Remember when the Punisher had no costume?

Weren’t those fun times?

It was all during the Hollywoodization of Marvel Comics, and it was a time that drove true believers absolutely stark-staring nuts.

The pattern was consistent: Producers would option Marvel characters and then make whatever changes they felt were necessary, or nifty, or perhaps the passing thought of someone’s five year old kid. Thor, for instance, well… he couldn’t be a pagan god. The reasoning was that it would offend the heck out of Middle America, seeing any god presented as a viable entity outside of a Biblical epic. So instead Thor lost his godhood and was reduced to the equivalent of a large bully who was being “channeled” through Blake. This was, by them, an improvement. Curiously, Middle America didn’t break out in riots years later when Kevin Sorbo strode the airwaves as Hercules, bringing the entire Greek (and later Norse) pantheon with him. This would seem to indicate that Thor would have done just fine the way we knew him, but hey, we’re not wise and all-knowing Hollywood producers, so what do our opinions matter?

And then there was Daredevil. No horns, because again, Middle America would become offended, this time by a hero who had an appearance evocative of Satan. This was the exact same argument that prompted NBC to try and bludgeon Gene Roddenberry into changing the make-up for Mister Spock (and indeed even resulted in early publicity photos being airbrushed to remove his pointed ears and slanted eyebrows.) Naturally Spock went on to become a breakout character and American icon, but apparently network execs didn’t remember that, so poor old Hornhead lost his horns and became just, uh… head. And the blindfold was someone’s inspiration because, hey, he’s blind, so he doesn’t need eyeholes in his mask. Get it? Not that Daredevil would want to perhaps, maybe, y’know, hush up that piece of information.

And every time another one of these ghastly abominations would hit the airwaves, fans would be driven nuts by the fact that their heroes were being transformed by network whim. Why, we all wondered, didn’t Marvel do more to protect our champions of justice? Didn’t Marvel care that idiots were turning them into parodies, shades of themselves that bore no resemblance whatsoever to the heroes whose adventures we’d been following for years? I mean, yeah, the Bixby/Ferrigno Hulk was eminently watchable, even inspired at times. But if it had been called “The Big Green Guy,” you could’ve done much the same show. As for the rest… oy.

Even the well-received, well-done X-Men movie couldn’t resist getting off its shots at the traditional view of super-doers. One of the biggest laughs in the film is when Wolverine is looking rather uncomfortable in the black leather ensemble he has (inexplicably) agreed to wear. “You actually go outside in these things?” he grunts. To which Cyclops replies derisively, “What would you prefer? Yellow spandex?” Yes, that’s right, standard comic book hero tights are becoming so passe (with the notable exception of Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man film) that even the mere mention of them prompts guffaws.

But at least we always had Marvel Comics to go back to. At least we always knew that Marvel was there to keep the characters exactly as we remembered them. There, Daredevil was recognizably Daredevil, Thor was Thor, Hulk was Hulk, and so on.

Except that’s slowly not becoming the case anymore.

With the advent of the Ultimate line, we are seeing Hollywood thinking creeping more and more into Marvel Comics itself. (I still love the name “Ultimate,” by the way. Makes it sound like everything up until now is merely Penultimate. That we’ve been just working our way up to these books for forty years.) Comics are no longer the safe haven for our heroes. Instead there are now two entirely different lines of titles. The traditional one… and the Hollywood-friendly one. Changes are being made in the Ultimate line that were once the province of the producer who would look at a property and say, “Does Thor really have to be a God?” The upcoming Ultimate Avengers gives us incarnations of the characters that—if they were being conceived by producers for movie versions—would be causing fan riots. Captain America, bereft of wings on his mask, will now share the same nickname as the TV Daredevil: Head. The buccaneer boots are gone because, we’re told they “don’t make sense”… as if everything else about Cap did. Indeed, he looks more like the old movie serial version than the one we’ve known all this time. The Ultimate Hulk sports a tattoo, and Bruce Banner just loves when his alter ego cuts loose, so a conflict good enough for forty years of stories is gone. Thor, a new age guru, is closer to Joan of Arc than he is even to the deplored TV version. Iron Man… well, okay, he’s had a dozen different looks anyway, but geez, Giant-Man looks like an accordion.

Writer Mike Millar told Wizard, “We’re trying to completely reimagine the concept of the superhero team book here.” All right, fair enough. But when Alan Moore did the same thing, he called it The Watchmen and it didn’t pretend to be the same characters who served as the root inspiration for that series. My understanding of the Ultimate line was that it was a point for Marvel fans to jump on to new versions of the classic characters, streamlined for their convenience. Instead it now seems as if it’s serving as a point for Marvel creators to jump off the old versions while having it both ways: Have it be the old characters in name to attract the old readership, but going off in wildly different directions as if to say that, hey, we can do better than what’s gone before.

And who knows, perhaps they can. But considering that we’re already seeing editorial decisions being made with an eye toward Hollywood (the repeatedly stated reason for Wolverine’s Origin is that Hollywood will likely do it, so Marvel wants to do it first), I can’t help but wonder how much the Ultimate line is serving as a fan attraction point, as opposed to a movie producer attraction point. Hey, look, Hollywood producers, these guys don’t have to be standard superheroes in funky tights! You can make movies about them because we’re not married to anything that’s gone before!

But of course, we’ve got the “old” line of Marvel titles still in place for the traditionalists, right? The old union suit heroes are safe. Well… maybe not. According to Comics Newsarama, Britain’s Sunday Times reported that writer Grant Morrison “will be getting Spider-Man, the X-Men and Fantastic Four out of costume, and that he expects to do the same for DC Comics next.” Editor in Chief Joe Quesada was quoted as “The de-costuming of heroes is a trend we’ve been heading towards at Marvel this year and that you may see more of in 2002. Not every hero will reveal their identity, but some will,” Quesada is quoted as saying. “Marvel’s heroes have always been much more powered down than our competitors’, so they deal with threats and life on a much more human level.”

Putting aside that one could debate that latter sentiment (* cough * Galactus * cough * Shi’ar * cough * Operation Galactic Storm * ) it now seems that the fall of the Twin Towers is precipitating the fall of the costumes. Granted, granted, the Fantastic Four started out bereft of super suits, and even their first costumes were kind of baggy and loose-fitting. Still, the colorful ensembles always made the heroes stand out. For that matter, on the printed page, they worked. But history seems to indicate that some people feel they don’t work on the screen, and now they don’t seem to work even on the comics page because with the real world becoming a combination of Die Hard and Outbreak, it seems that even superheroes have to serious up.

Is that what the American reading public wants? I dunno. Something tells me no. Something tells me that comics readers are perfectly happy to accept the normal abnormality of their superheroes, and rather than thinking costumes ridiculous, they wouldn’t mind seeing a familiar flash of blue and red hurtling through the sky, making the world a safer place.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to man the front door for trick-or-treaters. Once a year, at least, traditions are maintained and costumes are acceptable.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. )

 

Looking forward to going home

I’ve been gone for almost two weeks. First to LA for business meetings and Comikaze and now in Mexico City for La Mole convention. It’s been great and all, but I sorely miss my family.

PAD

We Regret the Error

Originally published November 23, 2001, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1462

Assorted things…

* * *

When one does a column of this nature, week in, week out, it is inevitable that little inaccuracies are going to slip in. Since we like to keep things above board here at But I Digress, it behooves us to correct some mistakes that have slipped through. Granted, I do have a crack research staff, but since—as per their field of interest—they spend most of their time on crack, naturally they’re of very limited help. So it falls to me to make things right.

For starters:

In my review of Smallville, I stated that I was underwhelmed by the performance of Cynthia Ettinger as Ma Kent. While I had no problem with the actress herself, my feeling was that she was simply miscast as Ma, lacking the “homespun charm” that others in the role had conveyed. Fans immediately pounced upon this statement, announcing that I had gotten it wrong because Ma Kent had been played by Annette O’Toole.

Well, yes and no.

See, considering that my review came out about the same time as the show debuted, it should have been obvious that I was working off an advance tape of the pilot episode I’d been sent. Indeed I was. And a nice press packet accompanied the tape. Except the tape I’d been sent featured the work of Ms. Ettinger, and all the press material said “Cynthia Ettinger.” Now I’d heard that Annette O’Toole was going to be playing Martha Kent, but faced with material to the contrary, I shrugged and figured that she’d been recast.

Turned out to have been the other way around. The material I’d been sent was apparently out of date, and the producers had come to the same conclusion that I had about the Kents. So exit Cynthia Ettinger, hello Annette O’Toole. But since I didn’t watch the Smallville broadcast (having already seen the tape) I didn’t know that. I will say that Schneider, at least in the second episode (which I have seen) looks like he has different makeup and is coming across a lot more corn-fed than in the tape I saw, so it appears that my only acting gripe with the series has been attended to.

Although I notice that a lot of fans seem to be griping that the twenty-four-year-old Tom Welling is obviously not fifteen years of age, as Clark is supposed to be. He looks far too big, far too strapping to be a teen, much less an uncertain and gawky one. Me, I have no trouble with it. First of all: He’s supposed to be a young Superman, for crying out loud. Why shouldn’t he be a rather strapping individual? Remember how Chris Reeve stooped to conquer our disbelief that glasses could serve as a disguise? As to why such a hunky example of manhood would be thought of as a dork rather than being the most popular guy in school, that’s also easily surmised. Clark’s abilities are only now coming to the fore, so we can assume that he’s had a fairly recent, and comprehensive, growth spurt. He could very easily have been somewhat nerdy before this happened to him, and what’s happening to him now would only serve to make him more uncomfortable inside his own body. Granted, it wasn’t spelled out in the show, but do we really have to have the difficulties of teen years spelled out for us? The abrupt bodily changes, the social isolation and being a misfit, and, y’know, girls always said they never had time for me, and I hated it and…

Ahem.

Sorry. Got off track there. At any rate, that’s why the review discussed Cynthia Ettinger rather than Annette O’Toole. But I Digress regrets the error.

* * *

A number of fans inquired as to why I had not been asked to contribute to the Marvel Heroes one shot. In point of fact, I had been. But at the time the request came in, I had just written two columns about the World Trade Center and was feeling a little wrung out on the subject. So I didn’t want to write another essay. It was suggested I come up with a concept for artwork. I didn’t think artists needed me to say, “Do a picture of brave firemen rescuing people,” so I tried to come up with something different. What I finally arrived at was the following notion: Since at the time the greatest need was for blood, I envisioned Dracula at a blood bank, donating blood. In the background would be a nurse saying to a puzzled doctor, “All he said was, ‘In the face of evil far greater than my own, I felt it was time to give something back.’” Both Marvel and the artist I wanted to have do it felt uncomfortable with it. I think they thought I was trying to make light of the subject. I wasn’t. I was just trying to underscore how all our previous definitions of evil went out the window on September 11, and how fiction pales beside fact. Still, it’s entirely possible people wouldn’t have read it that way and just thought I was trying to be funny.

In any event, I did write an issue of Young Justice, issue #43, that is obviously inspired by the events of 9/11. If retailers or DC wanted to donate a portion of the proceeds from that issue to the World Trade Center Fund or the Red Cross or something, that’d be nice.

* * *

In that same Smallville column, actor Nicolas Cage’s name was spelled “Nicholas.” But I Digress regrets the error and apologizes to Mr. Caige.

Also, several weeks ago I inadvertently sent the wrong column attachment to CBG, resulting in a column that I’d written about the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund, and which had already run less than a year ago, being run again. It’s the first time there’s ever been a “rerun” in the column. But I Digress regrets the error. What we regret even more is that absolutely no readers seemed to notice.

* * *

I was asked to write—and I did—an introduction for the next trade paperback collection of The Adventures of Barry Ween, Boy Genius. This is a wonderfully demented series, and if you’re not reading it—and profanity doesn’t bother you—then you really should be.

* * *

In an earlier column, I reported that it had been confirmed that Bill Jemas was the anti-Christ. It turns out that this was merely an ugly rumor and, in fact, and confirmation is still pending. It had also been reported that DC was going to be responding to Marvel’s “Nuff said” month by declaring February to be DC “Groundhog’s Day Month,” in which the only comic to be published that month would be fifty seven different editions of Green Arrow #1. This turns out to be inaccurate; we should have said Green Arrow #2, which is much harder to get. But I Digress regrets the error.

* * *

Last Wednesday on my bowling night, I missed an easy 5-pin spare that I should have picked up, thus costing my team the game. I twisted my wrist at the last moment too sharply and the ball curved, just missing the pin. Also, two weeks ago I accidentally went through a stop sign that was brand new, but I should have seen it. Fortunately it was 2 AM, so no one was around or hurt. Still, But I Digress regrets the error.

Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.

 

No More Mr. Nice Guy

Originally published November 16, 2001, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1461

I’m not a nice guy.

You have to understand that up front. There’s this perception among many that I’m a nice guy, but I’m really, really not.

I like to think I’m a good guy. Decent, moral. A loyal guy. I try my best to treat people well. I think I can be fairly entertaining, usually polite. Convivial, except at parties, where I usually tend to retreat to a corner and wonder how long I should stay before it would be acceptable for me to bolt. I try to be a good husband, good father, good friend, and I think I succeed more often than I fail, although I do have my failures, to be certain.

But I’m not a nice guy.

Because I get too angry, because I don’t suffer fools gladly, and because when I’m convinced I’m right, I hold that conviction with such clarity and certainty that I just get annoyed with people because why the hell can’t they see that they’re wrong?

I think I used to be more of a nice guy than I am now. A lot more patient, a lot… well… nicer. But that’s been worn down, worn out, like anything put to a grindstone. And that grindstone, much as I hate to admit it, has been fans.

Now y’know, usually I say something like, “I’m not talking about every fan. I’m probably not talking about you. I’m talking about that guy standing behind you and to the right, trying to hide his face, trying not to make eye contact.” But I’m not saying that this time. I don’t feel like letting people off the hook. Because I want you to think about you, yourself, and I mean really think, and really consider, and say, “Hey, maybe he really is talking about me.”

My niceness has been worn down, worn out by fan ingratitude, by fan pontificating, by fan ignorance, by fan insensitivity, by fan meanness, by fan cruelty. I’ve seen it at conventions, I’ve seen it at store signings, I’ve seen it on the Internet, I’ve seen it over and over and over again.

I did a store signing in the midwest. Got up at 4 AM to make a 7 AM flight to get me out to a 1 PM signing. Twenty people showed up. Nineteen went away happy. One person decided he didn’t like my manner: I was too loud, too boisterous, too annoying. I didn’t sign an autograph for him fast enough. So he talked about what a creep I was on a popular and heavily trafficked website. Final tally: Nineteen satisfied customers who kept that satisfaction to themselves versus thousands of people who read about how I was a jerk.

I used to be nice and do store signings. No more. No percentage in it. No point. Another piece of the nice guy dies.

At MIT, a woman who had been standing in the autograph line for Neil Gaiman, once she had Neil’s autograph, then sidled over (right past me, of course) to stand in front of Harlan Ellison. People had been doing it all evening, but it was the first time Ellison noticed. He told her she should get at the end of his line, effectively stand in line twice. She looked crestfallen, frustrated. Wanting to avoid Yet Another Ellison Was Mean to Me anecdote, I pled her case to Harlan. Ellison relented, signed the autograph… and she proceeded to diss him. Instead of saying “Thank you,” she told him she’d heard how difficult he was (her language was stronger, actually) and how obviously everything she’d heard was true. She ragged on him and insulted him. This was after he’d signed the autograph, mind you. I wanted to crawl under the table. I’d butted in on behalf of a stranger, gone out on a limb for her, and she’d sawed it off behind me.

This was after Mr. Nice Guy took a fatal hit at Dragon*Con with the theft of his wife’s backpack. I’m more certain than ever that a fan took it, because a disinterested thief would most likely have swiped only the valuable stuff, like the palm pilot, and ditched the rest of the bag. But it was nowhere to be found, which means it’s more than likely that a fan considered himself the lucky finder of a souvenir: Peter and Kathleen David’s wedding album.

But the Internet… jeez, that’s where nice guys go to die.

I will never forget when acclaimed writer Roger Zelazny passed away… and a fan opined that, well, that was okay, because Zelazny hadn’t written anything worth reading in years. Other fans immediately excoriated him for his insensitivity, but I’ve always wondered whether there weren’t many others who thought the exact same thing… but upon seeing the reaction to this one guy, kept their yaps shut out of self-preservation.

The Internet, where dwell thousands upon thousands of fans who resent the hell out of Ellison as he pursues his lawsuit in defense of copyright protection… something that in the view of those who follow the philosophy of “I see it, it’s mine,” is absolutely incomprehensible. Fans used to getting what they desire, when they desire it… fans for whom, as Carrie Fisher wrote in the film of Postcards from the Edge, “Instant gratification takes too long.” A generation of Veruca Salts shouting in unison, “But I want it nowwwwwwww!”

After Bobbie Chase was fired as an editor from Marvel Comics, the Internet was alive with fans stating that she was a lousy editor. I, who worked with her for twelve years—which , you’d think, would put me in a position to speak with knowledge instead of out of my ass—said she was a damned good editor. Almost unanimous fan reaction? I didn’t know what I was talking about. No, no, said these experts who never had a plot edited by her, never discussed story overviews, never attended an editorial meeting, never in short had the slightest editorial interface with her at all, ever, they all knew better because they didn’t like the current run on Iron Man, so therefore Bobbie Chase was a lousy editor. Some were harebrained enough to claim that my run on Hulk would have had the same merits even if Bobbie hadn’t been my editor on it. You follow that? If the book is good, she gets no credit; if it’s lousy, she gets all the blame.

At which point I dropped the entire rec.arts. comics board, after fifteen years of active participation. Life, and my fuse, is too short.

And, oh Holy Night, if a pro strikes back at a fan, then listen to the howling that follows. Behold as fans heap vituperation upon slam, slight upon snideness, inaccuracy upon insinuation, all with a sense of self-righteous impunity… and if a pro fires a broadside back in the same spirit, then witness the targeted fan scream about how ill-used he was. “How dare (fill in the pro’s name) stoop to that level!” comes the cry, with absolutely no sense of irony, no realization that there is a tacit acknowledgment of the base nastiness and insensitivity in which many fans wallow. Pros are expected to take the high road, you see. We’re supposed to be above it all. We’re supposed to let any potshot, any snipe, any falsehood stand.

I remember the glorious Catch-22 of a fan who slammed one of my Star Trek novels on line. I made no response. I saw no reason to. He didn’t like the book; ah well. So what happened? A week later he started a new thread: “Peter David doesn’t give a damn about the fans.” His reason? Because I didn’t respond. Didn’t “care enough” about fan opinion to defend the work. But if I had defended the work, you bet fans would have been commenting that, boy oh boy, that Peter David sure can’t stand criticism, he’s got to go after everybody who dislikes his work. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

You know who’s a nice guy?

Kurt Busiek. Nicest guy in the world. Patience of Job. Thrifty, obedient and cheerful. If he tried to screw someone over, his head would explode.

So what did we see in Comic Buyers Guide? A letter from one Jeff D., back from WizardWorld, who wrote:

(Alex Ross made) one interesting remark about Kurt Busiek’s Astro City. When someone asked if Ross would continue to paint the covers, Alex said something to the effect of, “If Kurt Busiek can’t get the scripts finished, we can’t help him.” Ross then went on to say that Astro City is Busiek’s own series, but Busiek has had no difficulties meeting other deadlines. I know he has been sick, but I think he owes it to his fans to either make a commitment to Astro City or let the series’ followers know where the project stands.

I read that letter and was appalled. If Jeff stood up and made that comment in my presence, I’d ream him a new one. Because I’m not a nice guy. Kurt’s a nice guy. Which is why Kurt responded several issues later:

Well, I’ve never not been committed to Astro City and, at the risk of seeming testy, I have often let readers know where the project stands, to the point that it sometimes feels as if I do little else. But maybe it’ll help ease the curiosity, at least, of CBG readers if I go into it again.

And Kurt went into great length and, frankly, heartbreaking detail, over the medical hardships that have unfairly been visited upon him, either by cruel happenstance or by a God who views nice guys with the same affection that Vince Lombardi did.

Now if Kurt had been soliciting Astro City and then not delivering it, why, then there’s at least some basis for complaint, although the ones most entitled to crab about it would be the retailers who had set aside money for a book that didn’t ship. But there have been no solicits. Kurt’s doing it the right way. He’s waiting until he knows he can deliver, and then he’ll deliver it.

Thomas Harris felt no need to publish lengthy explanations as to where his sequel to Silence of the Lambs was for ten years. J.K. Rowling isn’t pouring out heart and soul to her waiting audience explaining the whereabouts of the next Harry Potter. But Kurt… Kurt’s a nice guy. Even more, he’s a Nice Guy. So instead the most he lets his ire show is acknowledging that he is risking sounding a bit “testy.” The fans, apparently, have not worn him down. Yet. He hasn’t gotten fed up. Yet.

And the fans aren’t getting it. Yet.

Now me, not being a Nice Guy, or even a nice guy, my first inclination if some yutz opined that I owed it to the fans to explain in detail just where a particular project was, would be to say the following:

“It’ll be out when it’s ready. Now sod off.”

It should be noted that another letter writer, one Anthony F., has written in and noted in part:

The tenor of (Kurt Busiek’s) letter seems to be one of frustration and irritation with readers who question his ability to write comics for Marvel but not produce an issue of Astro City… I would like to thank him for the detailed explanation of his health problems. Since I consider Astro City the best comics series ever produced, I do not want him to pass the writing chores to another writer or produce new issues of inferior quality. Therefore, Busiek should do whatever he has to do to regain his health… When I miss a day of school, my students are often overcurious and sometimes indignant as to why I was not in school. I look at that as high praise (or criticism for the sub). I think Busiek should also consider the curiosity and questions a form of high praise. I wonder whether there would be this concern, if it were The Avengers or Power Company he wasn’t writing. If, for one reason or another, he never produces another issue of Astro City, I will have felt fortunate to have read and enjoyed the issues he has written.

Most of what Anthony says is utterly respectful of Kurt and his work and, frankly, I like the cut of Anthony’s jib. But despite his assertion, I do not see Jeff’s comment as a form of praise at all. Praise would be, “I love Astro City, and I’ll buy it whenever it comes out.” Genuine concern would be, “Astro City hasn’t been out for a while; is Kurt Busiek okay?” But no… what we got was that Kurt “owes it to his fans to either make a commitment to Astro City or let the series’ followers know where the project stands.”

Lord love a duck. And the response made Kurt perhaps look “testy,” or made him seem “frustrated” and “irritated.”

And no, Kurt didn’t ask me to write this, and no, I haven’t even spoken with him about it, and no, he doesn’t need me to defend him, but what you have to understand is that I’m not testy, not frustrated, not irritated, and not a nice guy. What I am is pissed off.

How dare Jeff, how dare any fan, presume that any writer “owe them” anything other than the best work possible, period, done deal, end of story. Writers do not owe explanations, genuflection, gratitude, homage, autographs, nor any damn thing except best possible effort, close quote, end parenthesis, finito, -30-, put it to bed, that’s a wrap, ladies and gentlemen, Elvis has left the building.

Oh, and the fan who stole our wedding album: I hope you choke on it.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.)

 

The Three High-Verbals, Part 2

Originally published November 9, 2001, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1460

So after I had completed my fifteen minutes of fame at MIT and Harlan had done his forty-five—which seemed proportionate, somehow—Neil came out and did this own chat with the group, far closer to my time than Harlan’s. Speaking in that calming and urbane fake British accent he puts on, the highlight of Neil’s time (as far as I was concerned) was a charming poem he’d written for his youngest daughter called “Crazy Hair” (i.e., the poem, not the child, is called “Crazy Hair.”) After that, Neil took his seat, at which point the dogs of war were unleashed.

I should have seen it coming, for Harlan in his opening remarks came at MIT students at full bore. These are supposed to be, after all, among our best and brightest. Upon these shoulders, upon these minds rest hopes for future technology, for breakthroughs in science, technology, and advancement. Just because Harlan still prefers a manual typewriter over a computer hardly means that he does not have as keen an appreciation of that fact as anyone else. And because these are supposed to be the nimblest, most thoughtful minds in America, Ellison naturally challenged them to think, that’s all, just think, in his trademark aggressive manner.

Neil would later remark on his website that he and I had far less of a presence than he would have thought, and that MIT should consider rebooking Harlan solo for an evening of “Ellison vs. MIT.” I don’t know that is necessarily what’s required, but I certainly think that—should Harlan, Neil and I ever do this trio gig again—question and answer lines should be organized in the following manner. There should be two lines. One line should consist of people who want to ask genuine questions about our opinions on various topics, or have works-specific questions. And the other line should consist entirely of people who want to try and show that they have as big cajones as Harlan Ellison and spend fifteen minutes debating him as if the 900+ people who paid money to get in came to hear the opinions of some yutz who they can hear for free at next Saturday’s kegger. We would then field questions from the former line, while the latter line would be repeatedly smacked with wiffle ball bats wielded by cranky seven year olds up past their bedtime.

Harlan naturally could not resist rising to any challenge thrown to him… and since the Q&A’s were largely just that—mostly students intent on debating the rip-snorting, endlessly tangled topic of copyright infringement—Harlan was the point man for the majority of the evening. So much so, in fact, that at one point during a lengthy back and forth, I interjected something and Harlan said in response to the interruption, “Hey! I work a single.” Now that’s his reflex comment that he uses to hecklers who try to break in on him when he’s doing a talk, but it kind of backfires (and I think he knew it instantly) when you use it on someone who’s supposed to be up there. I glanced at Neil, but he just seemed amused, as was I. And as Harlan continued to talk, I very calmly picked up a copy of American Gods which was sitting on a table at hand and started to read it in full view of the audience, as if what Harlan was saying was of so little interest that it didn’t warrant my attention. Neil, noticing, reached for a copy of Sir Apropos of Nothing and he likewise started reading.

By that point the audience was howling, and Harlan turned and saw what we were doing. Whereupon he hopped down into the audience and, posing as a fan, started asking us questions. Affecting an accent that should have been accompanied by a Deliverance banjo, he said, “Yes, Mr. Daaayvid, ah’ve heard of Mister Ellison, and ah know Mr. Gaiman, but may ah ask who you are and what you’re doin’ up there with these famous gentlemen?” Which was, in point of fact, a question going through the minds of a significant number of people in the audience (every single one of whom would make sure to stop by during the autographing later to tell me that they’d never heard of me before but would be sure to pick up Apropos. They couldn’t buy it there because I hadn’t brought any. See, I’d been told there would be a bookseller set up on premises who’d be carrying our novels and I didn’t want to horn in on his sales. What I didn’t find out until I got there was that the bookseller also apparently hadn’t heard of me, and therefore his table was largely uncontaminated by any of my novels.)

Anyway, I explained to Ellison-the-inquisitor that I was there to throw myself into the line of fire and take a bullet should anyone attempt to fire on the far more important Messrs. Gaiman or Ellison. I saw people in the audience nodding in comprehension; it probably seemed as good an explanation for my presence as any.

The most curious give-and-take of the evening occurred when a young man approached the microphone. He was wearing a striped shirt and a deer-in-the-headlights expression, and he spoke in an odd tone that made it sound as if his body was in the theater but his mind was out in the parking lot, and there was a lag time while information was processed and retransmitted. I realized belatedly that he was one of those rare people who actually considers a question or statement, analyzes it, formulates a response and then delivers it as concisely as he can…as opposed to people like, say, me, who starts talking immediately and my brain sprints to play catch-up, which is how I get myself into trouble more often than not.

In any event, he asked Harlan whether or not Harlan’s fundamental message of the evening—which was, as far as he was concerned, that most people there seemed “dumb as a post”—might very well be valid, but could possibly be obscured by what he referred to as “signal to noise ratio.” Which was an interesting, if debatable, point: Was Ellison being so overwhelming in his deluge of endeavors to get people to think that he was becoming the equivalent of a tsunami hammering a sand castle? In the course of his response, Harlan asked the guy, “Do you feel you’re dumb as a post?”

Dead silence.

There was laughter and then uncomfortable laughter as once again the guy pondered the question. Then he said, “Yes.” More uncomfortable laughter, as the audience’s thought was obvious and likely unanimous: They figured running the bulls in Pamplona was a safer pastime than telling Harlan Ellison that you’re ignorant. But Ellison, running contrary to expectations as he often does, seemed intrigued. “Why do you say you’re dumb as a post?” he asked.

Another silence. And then: “Because every day I realize how much I don’t know, and I can only thing that I’m as dumb as a post because there’s so much I have to learn.”

Stunned silence. I mean, geez louise, boys and girls, it doesn’t get much more Zen than that. There was a slow realization that this guy might actually be the most intelligent person in the joint. Ellison, utterly fascinated, came down off the stage and talked to the guy for ten minutes. I kept waiting for him to tell the guy to snatch a pebble from his hand. Neil would later say he expected Harlan to say, “You may follow me and I will teach you,” and bring the guy home and have him sit outside his house for a week, to be followed by gardening, yard work, and doing wax-on, wax-off on Harlan’s car. I only wish I’d gotten the guy’s name, or even his autograph, because I figure either he’ll go on to become a world leader or a criminal mastermind… which occasionally is much the same thing.

After the Q&A, and Harlan’s quite successful reading of a short story, there was autographing until 1:30 in the morning, with a big line for Harlan and a big line for Neil and I sort of got the spillover. The single most-asked question I got: When will there be a new But I Digress collection? A question that the powers-that-be at Krause just seem to shrug over, and considering the audience there appears to be for it, I may just get tired of waiting and seek another publisher for it.

The next morning we all (including Kathleen and the girls) assembled in the hotel dining room for breakfast and post mortems. I opined that Neil, upon arrival, would announce that he’s “not a morning person,” and we promptly started a pool as to how long it would take him to say it. Harlan took sixty seconds and then, upon Neil’s arrival, promptly tried to win the bet (understand, there was no money at stake; Harlan just wanted to be right) by turning the conversation so that Neil would say the magic words inside of a minute. And Neil was sitting there, bleary eyed, and finally under Harlan’s prodding, said, “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m not…” Harlan leaned forward, clock ticking down the final seconds of the first minute. “Not what?” Neil exhaled and said, “Not quite awake yet.” With sixty seconds gone, Harlan tacitly admitted defeat by not pressing the conversation any further, and Neil never did say the magic words, so no one won.

Harlan regaled us with an assortment of anecdotes, many of them involving well-known actors. Sitting not far was a rather dyspeptic elderly woman who was clearly not happy with either the service or the food… kind of curious since we later learned she dined there every Sunday morning. At one point she made a rather acidic comment directed at Harlan, voicing skepticism that Susan was in fact his wife instead of, say, his daughter, which is right up there with short jokes in terms of ways to endear yourself to Ellison. But as the meal progressed, she obviously was becoming intrigued by the litany of famous names Harlan was rattling off. Her eavesdropping was hardly subtle (although, to be fair, we were hardly a quiet bunch.) We finished about the same time she did, and she came over and said to Harlan, “Are you a movie director? Because I heard you talking about all these movie stars. So I figured you’re a movie director.”

Without hesitation, Harlan said, “Yes, yes I am in a movie director, that’s very clever of you to figure that out.”

“What are you doing here in Boston, so far from Hollywood?”

“We’re filming a movie here on location,” he said.

“What’s it called?”

“Flesh,” said Ellison.

The rest of us all exchanged incredulous looks and mouth “Flesh?” to each other. The old woman, meantime, was quizzing Harlan on the cast.

“Well, we’ve got Kevin Costner in the lead,” said Harlan smoothly, “and what’s her name, from Incredible Mr. Ripley…”

“Cate Blanchett,” Neil volunteered.

“Yes, yes, right, Cate Blanchett, right…”

“Because,” I put in, “Gwyneth wasn’t available.”

“Yeah, right, though we had Gwyneth locked up, last minute conflict,” said Harlan.

And the woman started asking him about the plot and all about being a director, at which point I suddenly realized we weren’t going to get out of there anytime soon. Quickly I went over to Kathleen and whispered, “Give me your cell phone.” She handed it to me, I put it to my ear, nodded for a moment as if I was listening, then walked over to Ellison and said briskly, “Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you, but Kevin’s calling from the set.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve got to take this,” Harlan said quickly, grabbing the inactive phone and talking into it. I prayed the damned thing didn’t suddenly start to ring, or the bit was blown.

“Oooh, all right then, I’ll be on my way,” said the elderly woman, and she walked away as Harlan said briskly into the phone, “Kevin, yeah, hi, we’re done with breakfast, we’re on our way… no… no, Kevin, I’ve told you a hundred times, no applesauce…!”

I watched carefully as the old woman departed, then turned to Harlan and said, “Okay, she’s gone.”

Ellison let out a sigh of relief, handed the phone back to Kathleen and said, “Brilliant move. Inspired. She wasn’t leaving. Great move.”

Well, you know… when you’re the guy whose job it is to throw himself in the line of fire for Harlan Ellison and Neil Gaiman, that comes with the territory.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.)

 

The PHANTOM ships this week

In case you haven’t heard–and I suspect that’s the case for many of you–I’m writing a six-issue PHANTOM limited series for Hermes Press. First issue ships this week.

I suspect many stores aren’t intending to carry it because it’s off the Marvel/DC trail, so I would strongly suggest that if you’re interested, PLEASE order it in advance.

For years fans have asked what my ideal series was and I always said “The Phantom vs. Tarzan.” That is essentially the story that I have written. Is Tarzan actually in it? Not exactly, but it’s still mostly the same tale that I’ve been planning for years, so for heaven’s sake, don’t “I’ll trade paperback it” this time around. It’s a small press and needs all the support that fans can provide. Plus Sal Velluto has done wonderful artwork on it.

So please pick it up.

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