Peter David's Blog, page 60

All New X-Factor #1

The first issue of the rebooted X-FACTOR is out today and I figured I’d provide this space for people to chat about it.

PAD

The Most Awards 1999, Part 2

Originally published January 21, 2000, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1366

Concluding this year’s presentation of the Most Awards, those dubious recognitions of acts of merit, or lack of merit, or whatever I happen to think of.

Most Hysterical Teaser Trailer: Rocky and Bullwinkle. Tell me you’ve seen it. The reactions of the amazed onlookers, pointing heavenward with the startled, classic exclamation, “Look… up in the sky! It’s a bird! It’s a plane!” Nope. It’s Rocket J. Squirrel, with long-time partner Bullwinkle Moose in tow, rendered as never before. The inexorable march of Jay Ward to the silver screen, which got off to an admittedly shaky start with Dave Thomas and Sally Kellerman as Boris and Natasha (what, you mean you didn’t see it? How bad was it? Even cable stations didn’t run it multiple times), regained its footing with George of the Jungle, skidded a bit with Dudley Do-Right, and is now firmly back on course. The sumptuous, three dimensional rendering of Rocky and Bullwinkle bears as much resemblance to the flat super-limited animation of the 1960s as the rocket models in Flash Gordon do to the ships in The Phantom Menace.

The trailer delves into movie history and cops not only Superman’s standard opening line from radio and television, but also the credit style from the movies. You know the one I mean: Where those gigantic 3-D block letters come hurtling through the sky at you. And the announcer intones the names of the film’s stars: “DeNiro! Russo! Alexander! Moose! And Squirrel!”

There is also a quick (and I mean quick) sequence with a bellowing Robert DeNiro as Fearless Leader, and if you look fast you can spot Jason Alexander as Boris Badenov and Rene Russo as Natasha.

“See you next summer!” a zooming Rocky calls to us. You know how, in the dead of winter, summer can seem a long way off? Well, right now it seems even longer.

Most Interesting Survey Result: Where are You Going to Be New Year’s Eve? Between seventy and seventy five percent of the population of America stated that it was going to be staying home New Year’s Eve. The remaining one quarter of the country’s citizens were probably crammed into Times Square. Since this will see print after that date has already passed, here’s hoping everyone had a happy and safe New Year’s, and no demented terrorist wacko blew up the ball in Times Square or something.

Most Depressing Sales Spin-Cycle: Marvel Comics. Okay, so here’s how it works. Retailers across the country “know” that Marvel Comics has an itchy trigger finger when it comes to cancelling titles. When they drop below a certain level, boom, swish, the axe comes down, out they go. The problem is, once a title is cancelled, interest in back issues go right out the door. What prompts readers to pick up back issues, after all, is their becoming interested in a title during its run. Once they’re hooked, they start scavenging about to find the missing issues so they can read the storyline or just plug the holes in their collections.

Once upon a time, retailers ordered a certain overage of titles for the purpose of having back issues just for that purpose. Granted, some retailers went overboard or missed the point of the concept, ordering entire additional boxes of books that they thought might become hot. But with the collapse of the speculator market, retailers have now gone in the opposite direction. They not only order down to the bone, they chop down to the marrow. The object is to sell out. Now in the old days, quick and easy reorders were obtainable because there were fewer titles from fewer publishers, and many local distributors and warehouses to accommodate restocking. Many retailers could literally run down to the warehouse and pick up more copies of books they needed. No more. All I hear from retailers now is that obtaining reorders—the lifeblood for serving the growth of new titles—has become such an impossible, inefficient and even expensive chore that they simply don’t bother anymore.

There is a disincentive to order additional copies. So if a retailer orders ten copies of a title one month, and the book sells out, then next month that same retailer will order… ten copies. Not eleven, in the hope of selling an additional copy. But ten with the knowledge that there was no overage. It is possible to get retailers to respond to changes in a title’s fortune, just as it is possible to sit atop an elephant and get it to shift direction. However in both cases you have to whack away repeatedly with a large stick just to get your subject’s attention, and that takes time.

Marvel, meantime, has not helped its own cause. Rightly or wrongly, fairly or unfairly, the release of a new Marvel book is perceived as a practice somewhat akin to skeet shooting. Marvel no longer is seen as releasing titles and allowing them to build up a readership. Instead they shout, “Pull!” The comic is sent hurtling through the air like a projectile. And then the Marvel brain trust blows it out of the sky.

Even the fans get into the act. I see discussions of new titles on message boards, and there’s always fans saying, “Why should I bother to buy the book and get attached to it, when Marvel will just cancel it?”

As a result of this deadly mix of perceptions and opinions, what happens is this: Marvel announces a new title. The retailers assume that Marvel will cancel it within half a year. Many fans take a wait-and-see attitude. So the retailers order the book on a minimal basis. Let’s say they order—oh, I dunno—forty thousand. A month later, it’s time to order issue #2. Issue #1’s debut is still a couple months away. Retailers whack their order by twenty percent. Now the title’s numbers are hovering just above thirty thousand. A month after that, it’s time to order issue #3. Retailers trim the orders another ten to twenty percent. Sales have now dropped below thirty thousand. Meantime, if the creative team is working on the proper shipping schedule for production of the book, they’re somewhere around issue 6 or 7 in writing and drawing it. No matter. Because now that sales have dropped below thirty thousand, even though the book hasn’t come out yet, the Marvel brain trust pulls the trigger.

So now the book comes out. Fans can love it. They can call it the best new series Marvel has ever done. They can tell all their friends. Given a year’s time, which would allow for word of mouth to spread and retailers to start adjusting their orders upward, the series could take off. But it doesn’t matter, because by this point the book’s already cancelled.

I tried to apply what I know of marketing and sales patterns in planning the launch of Captain Marvel. At my urging, Marvel did not launch it with a double-sized issue. I considered it an unfair drain on fans’ wallets, and I wanted people to be encouraged to pick up the first issue without being gouged. I also wanted to combat the second and third issue drop-off syndrome, and came up with a two-pronged attack. First, we would guest star the Hulk. With all the fan outcry over my departure from the series, I figured that my return to the character would be worth something. Second, I urged Marvel—and once again, they went along with it—to order a percentage of the subsequent issues on a partly returnable basis. That way retailers could indulge in upping their orders without having to worry about being stuck with overages. According to editor Tom Brevoort, Marvel did exactly that. Extra copies of Captain Marvel could be had at no risk.

The result of this grand experiment? Sales on the first issue were higher than they might have been, but were still low-balled. And the drop off on the subsequent issues was exactly the same percentage drop off as with a non-returnable title. Despite the Hulk, despite the offer of returns, retailers did not vary from their ordering patterns one iota.

On a Captain Marvel message board, one fan posted with great satisfaction that finding the second issue of Captain Marvel in Boston was virtually impossible. The book came into his local store at 2:30 in the afternoon and was gone before tea time. A second store was sold out, and he snagged the last copy in the third store he went to. He spoke of this as if it was good news. It’s not. It means that retailers didn’t order enough to meet the demand. I’m not saying the title’s in trouble; as mentioned, our initial numbers were higher than usual, so maybe we’ll be able to stay above the cut-off line in time for the great response the title has gotten to kick in and drive the sales up. But any number of other Marvel titles don’t get that leeway.

The sad thing is that the purpose and intent of the direct market has been totally corrupted. Thirty, forty years ago, books would come out onto the newsstand. The initial orders wouldn’t be sensational, and the publisher (DC, more often than not) would scrap the title in no time at all. Then the final sales figures would come in about nine months later, and lo and behold, the publisher would discover that they had, in fact, a hit on their hands because the book had a great sell through. But it was too late. The title was already gone. Books were cancelled because the distribution system was highly inefficient. So what’s happening now? Books are being cancelled because we have a new system that is too efficient. Direct sales was created to be a supplement to the newsstand where publishers could be guaranteed a certain number of copies sold and print accordingly. Now it’s mutated into a be-all, end-all of distribution where books are held to a rigorous standard by executives who were not there with the growth of the system and know jack-all about its potential.

Retailers and distributors used to low-ball Marvel titles from time to time. And when Carol Kalish was running the show, she’d target books that she felt retailers had missed the boat on, and she and I would call up distributors (this was back when there were eighteen of them) and get them to increase their orders. Or we would overship on a returnable basis so the books were out there for easy access. And we would make weekly reorder calls to distributors and see what they needed for reorders. The direct market system was never intended to be a bottom line, be-all, end-all of distribution. But now there’s only one game in town for publishers to work with (Diamond), and retailers and fans are so cynical that Marvel’s finding it hard to get anyone to believe in them.

Marvel would be well-advised to reconsider the way it is presently handling things. The Powers-That-Be may have to start taking risks… like having a heavily publicized returnable program. Or making public commitments that new titles will have at least a year to build an audience. Or perhaps they should release new titles on a bi-monthly basis, giving them a chance to build an audience slowly and surely rather than lose an audience quickly and steadily.

And fans are going to have to meet Marvel halfway. This business about refusing to buy a book because it’s going to be cancelled simply results in self-fulfilling prophecies. And of all the “Most Awards,” that qualifies as the Most Depressing of all.

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

 

The Most Awards 1999

Originally published January 14, 2000, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1365

 

Yes, it’s that time again: The annual awarding of the “Most Awards,” named after the immortal Donny Most for no particular reason. In keeping with the pointlessness of naming them after the actor who portrayed Ralph on Happy Days, these awards are randomly given out to totally arbitrary categories in whatever way it suits the voting body (namely me). Which, when you get down to it, is pretty much how all awards are put together.

Most ungrateful parents: Pressure groups going after Harry Potter. Here we have parents and educators extolling the virtues of J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series (or, as we in the industry like to call it, the Books of Magic rip-off). Here’s a group of books that Gameboy-obsessed kids are actually picking up and reading, reducing some parents to tears of joy that finally, finally, something clicked. Yet now scare groups are trying to get the books pulled from schools because of the presence of dark and frightening magic in the books. They’re worried about the negative influence it could have on today’s youth. As Jon Stewart dryly said on The Daily Show, these groups are “diligently protecting America’s youth from an 11-year-old fictional character.”

Let’s weigh the odds on this one. What are the odds of kids reading Harry Potter and taking up black magic (chances: minimal) versus the odds of kids wanting to read other material once they’ve devoured the existing books, including other fantasy novels and perhaps even—gasp—comic books (chances: pretty darned good)? I think I’ll play those odds, thanks.

Most impressive film debut by a videogame character: The World is Not Enough. Yes, that’s right. With absolutely no fanfare whatsoever, James Bond suddenly found himself side-by-side with Lara Croft of Tomb Raider, played by Denise Richards with far less animation that Lara usually displays. Sure, sure, she changed out of the outfit and called herself “Christmas Jones” (providing a punchline I saw coming about two seconds after the name was uttered), but we know who she really was.

Most overreaction by a publisher of comic books: Archie Comics. Archie execs went postal when Melissa Joan Hart, a.k.a. Sabrina the Teen-Age Witch, did a photo layout for Maxim magazine. This “Bare Witch Project,” as it were, depicted Hart in a lingerie layout that was about as erotic and revealing as a Sears catalog. But Archie demanded that she offer a profuse apology for corrupting the purity of the character. Yeah, right, witches are considered by Americans to be the ideal role models for America’s youth, that’s why parents’ groups are going after the Harry Potter books. It’s not as if Hart did an interview in Nickelodeon magazine in which she told kids that they should give the Sabrina drinking game a whack; the overlap between young viewers and Maxim’s audience is minimal-to-non-existent.

Besides, I think the Archie folks forever forfeited the right to sanctimoniously ride around on their high horses after they allowed the production of the Return to Riverdale movie 10 years ago. (Veronica flouncing around in a teddy to seduce Archie? Oh, yeah. That’s instructive to kids everywhere.)

Most interesting real-world application of comic-book logic: The Jim Carrey-Andy Kaufman connection. Reviewers are already saying that Carrey’s impersonation of Kaufman is beyond uncanny. Ahhh, but no one has made mention of the following simple question: Has anyone seen Jim Carrey and Andy Kaufman together? Hmm? Hmm? That was all Lois Lane needed for decades to try to establish a one-and-the-same riff for Clark Kent and Superman.

In all seriousness… I still refuse to believe Kaufman is dead. I’ve said it before; I’ll say it again: I think he faked it. The timing is too precise, the nature too bizarre. Me, I think Kaufman is off in a Tibetan monastery somewhere, laughing at the world that has transformed him into a legend and he’s waiting to see if the film and Carrey are up for Oscars. Imagine Jim Carrey winning for Best Actor. He stands there on stage and says, “But you know… this award is really for Andy.” At which point Kaufman comes out, turns google-eyed to the audience, says, “Tenk you veddy much,” and walks off. Many would call it the biggest news of a resurrection in 2,000 years: Bigger. After all, the last guy credited with a return from the dead was only gone for three days and he needed God’s help.

Hmm. Jim Carrey. Check the initials. Coincidence? I think not…

Most annoying addition to the Star Wars canon: Midichlorians. Yes, I know, I know, you thought it was Jar-Jar Binks. It’s natural that you would think so. But, no, it’s midichlorians, introduced in The Phantom Menace as a pseudo-science underpinning for The Force. This torques me for several reasons.

First, it undercuts the best-known line from the first three films: “May The Force be with you.” Well, that’s no longer something you can really cross your fingers over and hope for the best, now, is it? Either The Force is going to be with you or it’s not, and the question of whether The Force is coming along for the ride was determined at your birth. It doesn’t matter whether your heart is pure or you believe in your cause or you’re fighting for the right or the fates are on your side. It’s predestined, depending upon how many members of this strange little symbiotic race are floating around in your bloodstream.

Second, remember how Grand Moff Tarkin referred to the Jedis’ philosophies as a “religion.” That’s how I always viewed it: a belief system. A spiritual thing that, if you worked at it long enough, rewarded you with the ability to kick butt and take names on a cosmic level. T.M. with teeth.

I liked the notion that one’s capability for accomplishment was predicated entirely upon one’s personal dedication, bravery, and purity of vision. The notion that Jedis are chosen on the basis of a blood test is absolutely appalling. It transforms the Jedi Knights from spiritually uplifted and knowing individuals to a biologically predetermined master race.

I mean, c’mon. Darth Vader was able to tell that The Force was strong within Luke while he was flying kilometers behind him at high speed during an aerial death duel. I think everyone felt it was a given that Jedis just “know” this stuff. Did they really need to add the science-fiction equivalent of an EPT test?

Most aptly named merchandise: Willow in Tight Red Pants. “Buffy and Angel fans, take notice!” declares the Another Universe catalog. “[We have] acquired an exclusive super-sexy variant… figure, and it can be yours free!” The name of the variant figure? “Willow in Tight Red Pants.” And there’s a nice color picture of her, with a deer-in-the-headlights expression, and, sure enough, she’s wearing tight red pants. I don’t know why this breaks me up. Maybe it’s because it reminds me of the insidiously catchy “Devil with the Blue Dress On.” Maybe it’s because of the contrast it provides to, say, the seemingly endless line of Batman figures. “Batman in Battle-Ready Action Glider!” “Batman in Snow Camouflage Armor!” “Willow in Tight Red Pants!” Or maybe it’s just the way the words roll trippingly off the tongue: “Willow in Tight Red Pants.”

They only have 5,000 left. For the record, she’s also wearing a very nice loose-sleeved blue shirt with gold trim and what appear to be standard-issue Keds. But, you know—it’s really the tight red pants that make the ensemble. I may just run out and get myself a pair.

And, speaking of Buffy, et al…

Most odd display of showbiz responsibility: Delaying Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s season ender. As a result of the Columbine shooting, it was decided that the second episode of “Graduation Day,” the climactic two-parter that wrapped the third season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, would be delayed so as not to upset the already-frazzled high school kids. Apparently, you see, the show involved mayhem at the high school.

The problem is that practically any episode of the first three seasons of Buffy you can think of involved, to some degree, mayhem at the high school. It’s always far-fetched mayhem, and this time out was no exception. While crime dramas displaying guns and bombs (the weapons of choice for real-world chaos) continued unabated on networks, the episode that was delayed involved the student body of Sunnydale High unleashing a barrage of arrows, spears, pitchforks, and flamethrowers against a gigantic serpent, who was only dispatched when the library was blow up (the power of the printed word, indeed.) Why, precisely, was this preempted? Because it was going to upset teens?

What teen could possibly see any connection between such an obvious fantasy setting and the real-world horrors unleashed in Colorado? Because it was going to inspire imitative behavior? Well—good. I should hope it would. If a giant serpent attacks a high school, I’d like to think the kids would muster some sort of defense, rather than just stand about and get eaten.

Most obvious means of killing two birds with one stone: Rudy, mayor of New York and noted defender of artistic freedom, is earning himself more friends. He’s endeavoring to introduce new policy which would mandate that—if homeless individuals do not take jobs offered them—then not only would they be thrown out of homeless shelters, but their children would be taken away and placed in foster care. Every group from support-the-homeless organizations to those manning the already-overburdened foster care program had a fit, and Rudy suddenly found himself back in court. I’m sure the courts were just thrilled to see him so soon after ruling against his attempts to deprive the Brooklyn Museum of funding because of the controversial “Sensations” exhibit.

So how can Rudy kill two birds with one you-know-what? Simple. If he’s really worried about keeping the homeless gainfully employed, he should hire them to picket the Brooklyn Museum. He could even form them into a for-hire all-purpose “strikeforce.” He could call them “Rudy’s Raiders.” They would be available to go anywhere, anytime, for the purpose of protesting whatever they’re needed to protest. If nothing else, they could follow “Sensations” around.

Most annoying toy packaging: The Beatles Yellow Submarine figures. There’s no disputing the on-model perfection of the figures themselves. And each of the four Beatles comes packaged with an additional figure (the Blue Meanie, the Submarine itself, etc.). But the only way you can get the Old Fred figure is to purchase the big honkin’ boxed set of The Beatles. Which I’d be happy to do—except that the boxed set doesn’t have the Meanie and other add-ons. Just Fred. Which means that it’s impossible to just have one of everyone; you have to buy two sets of The Beatles themselves, no matter what you do. That kinda stinks.

I have a couple more “Mosts” to hand out, but they’ll wait until next week.

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

 

Thank God This Year is Over

As is appropriate to a year ending in 13, this was quite simply the worst year of my life. The. Worst.

The entire first half was dedicated to learning how to walk and function again. Now, at the end of the year, at least I’m walking again although my legs are weaker. And my right arm is fully functional.

Anything good that happened this year had to do with my daughters. Shana’s theater is succeeding; Ariel graduated college; and Gwen got married. So from a family POV, it’s all been good.

Here’s praying 2014 is more decent to me personally.

PAD

“Being Stan Lee,” Part III

Originally published January 7, 2000, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1364

“Being Stan Lee”  (Conclusion)

Editor’s Disclaimer: The Gregor Samsa, Stan Lee, Bill Clinton, and anyone else portrayed herein are not the Gregor Samsa, Stan Lee, and Bill Clinton of Earth-Prime.

Gregor Samsa, having found himself within the head of Stan Lee, watched in amazement as Lee was face to face with a smiling Bill Clinton, leader of the free world.

“You got the desk, didn’t you,” said Lee. It wasn’t a question. Stan Lee removed his sunglasses, apparently as a gesture of respect.

Clinton chuckled. “And here I thought I’d hidden myself well enough with go-betweens. How’d you know I bought your desk at the eBay charity auction?”

“My spider-sense told me!” Lee said with a laugh. “That and the smug grin on your face, Bill.”

“And what’s this I hear about all the problems Marvel’s having with copyrights lately?” asked Clinton, pouring a drink for himself. He offered a glass to Stan Lee, but Lee shook it off. “First Marv Wolfman for Blade… I hear that trial’s turning into a circus. People making faces at each other during testimony… now what’s that all about? And now Joe Simon going after Captain America, just like the Superman folks?”

Stan Lee sighed heavily. “If Joe Simon can get the law working on his behalf, then more power to him. As for Marv… poor Marv. Marvel’s coming at him with everything they’ve got, and it’s probably because they’re worried about me.”

“You, Stan?”

“Of course! Let’s say Marv wins. They’re probably worried that ol’ Stan the Man will be the next one coming after ’em, showing them as much loyalty as they showed me. So they’re trying to make sure precedents are never set.”

“Well, I’m sure the good guys will win in the end.”

“They always do, Billy! They always do! So,” and Stan Lee clapped his hands together briskly in a “let’s get down to business” manner, “you said you needed to see me. What’s up?”

“Two things. First up is—”

“Gore.”

Clinton laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “How did you know?”

“Pretty obvious. A shame, too. He’s such a stiff. You’re worried he hasn’t got a prayer in 2000! Pity, too. With a name like ‘Gore’—Heck, it’s a pure comic book name. Sergeant Fury! Captain Savage! Major Gore! Or maybe—” He framed his hands as if looking at a marquee. “Doc Gore! How great would that be?”

“Pretty darned great, Stan.”

“Okay, here’s what you do,” Stan said suddenly. “I think we’re onto something here. If Gore hasn’t already got a doctorate in something, get somebody to give him an honorary one. Start referring to him as ‘Doc Gore.’ Remember that this is an electorate that put Ventura in office. They love a flare for the theatrical. Also, have him start smoking a pipe and go for gray at the temples. Make him look avuncular, intelligent, vulnerable, and approachable at all the same time.”

“Are you sure he won’t come across as too much of an egghead?”

“Ah, but that’s just the point!” Stan Lee was pacing. “Remember how everyone thought ol’ Reed was just an egghead—until he got a mad on and went at the Submariner!” Stan Lee started punching the air, mimicking the battle. “Namor didn’t know what hit ’im! So, when he gets to the debates, Gore cuts loose. No mercy. And voters will say, ‘Whoa! This guy’s got it all!’ ”

“It could work,” Clinton said slowly and thoughtfully. “It’s got as much of a chance as anything and more of a chance than some other things.”

“And the other thing?” asked Stan Lee.

“Diplomatic immunity. We’ve been getting lots of complains about foreign diplomats in the United States, doing whatever they want, knowing they have diplomatic immunity.”

“Well, you know how I feel about that, Bill. Two words: Doc Doom. Think about all the grief he caused The Fantastic Four and was then able to hide behind diplomatic immunity.” Stan shook his head. “You let ’em get away with whatever they want—next thing you know, some crazed dictator with a ruined face is going to want to take over the world and we can’t do anything about it.”

“But if we do away with diplomatic immunity, our embassies are at risk. That’s the big problem.”

“That!” Stan Lee laughed, and he pulled out a pad. He started sketching furiously. Peering through Stan Lee’s eyes, Gregor Samsa tried to understand what it was he was looking at but he couldn’t make it out at all. It seemed to be an incredibly complicated set of schematics.

Within minutes, during which time Bill Clinton sat in respectful silence, Stan Lee drew. Finally satisfied with the result, he presented it to Clinton. Clinton looked at it, clearly believing in Stan but puzzled, nonetheless. “What is it?”

“Super-neutronic force field,” Stan Lee said proudly. “Just one of these suckers will shield an entire embassy indefinitely.”

“Amazing! And this is your invention, Stan?” He cradled the drawing as if having just gotten his hands on the Holy Grail.

Stan Lee laughed. “Nah! But you can’t hang around with Kirby without picking up a few things. Anything else there, Bill?”

But Clinton was leaning forward and staring deep into Stan Lee’s eyes. “Stan—have you got somebody in there with you?”

“Yup. His name’s Gregor Samsa.”

Hidden deep within the psyche of Stan Lee, Greg Samsa nevertheless gasped upon hearing his name.

“You’re a very fortunate fellow, Mr. Samsa!” Bill Clinton called to him. “I still remember the first time I did Stan Lee. Years ago. Lit up a ‘J,’ brought it up to my lips—and then, suddenly, there I was, where you are right now. After that, I was a changed man. Never had the need to smoke grass after that.”

My God! He was telling the truth! That’s why he didn’t inhale! Because he was off being Stan Lee before he could finish smoking the joint! And then he never had enough! It was the truth! A stunned Samsa could barely believe it.

“You will find,” Bill Clinton continued, “that most of the world’s leaders—movers, shakers, top celebrities—at some point early in their young lives, have wound up, through unexpected circumstances, being Stan Lee.”

“That’s right, true believer!” crowed Lee. “And that’s how I’ve maintained my youthful exuberance! By an influx of young minds! Keeps me on my toes!”

“Good luck to you, Mr. Samsa. Oh—and don’t forget to vote,” Clinton said.

Samsa wanted to respond, desperately, but suddenly he felt a roaring within his head. The room appeared to recede, faster and faster…

…and Gregor Samsa felt a thud beneath his rump. He blinked against the light, coughed against the fumes from passing cars, and realized that he was sitting on the side of the 405 freeway.

Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet, wondering what had happened, knowing that he could never tell anyone about being Stan Lee. But he knew that he also would be forever changed. That he had been chosen to accomplish great things while applying the fervor, the enthusiasm, and the life lessons imparted by Stan Lee.

“Excelsior!” shouted Gregor Samsa, as cars roared by him unheeding, unknowing, uncaring. But soon they would all know him. And he would have Stan Lee to thank.

He was alerted only at the last second by the screech of tires but wasn’t able to move fast enough, as the blue Buick, the driver having lost control during a particularly upsetting call on his cell phone, bore down on him. He let out a screech, the world went black…

…Gregor Samsa awoke one day to discover that he was Paul Levitz…

Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at To Be Continued Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. He hasn’t been feeling himself lately.

 

One Year Ago Today

One year ago today, my life fell apart.

It started with my vision on the 27th. I was convinced that I was suffering from some sort of migraines as it became increasingly difficult for me to see. By evening it was getting worse. I figured I was tired. At 2:30 in the morning I got out of bed to go to the bathroom and my right leg was no longer functioning. Believe it or not, I just thought my knee was acting up and actually crawled around to get to the bathroom and back. It wasn’t until the morning when I went to the hospital and spiraled into my new reality: I’d had a stroke.

I spent the next two months relearning how to walk and since then have striven to return to what I used to be. A year later, my legs are still weak. My endurance is not remotely what it used to be. Once upon a time, if I went into New York City, I’d walk all over the place. Now after a few blocks I’m worn out.

And every morning I still have to test my legs to see if they’re functioning. There’s always the fear that I’m going to attempt to stand up and will hit the floor. Every day.

But I should be grateful. The fans have been almost unanimously supportive. Good wishes poured in from all over the world. Book sales skyrocketed for a little while (lately not so much; it’d be nice to see a resurgence. Just saying.) And I will never forget the ovation I received when I showed up at Farpoint convention a week after being released.

Kathleen kept everyone apprised of everything that was going on and without her continued support I know I could never hope to get back to what I was. Likewise my children and family have also been incredibly supportive. And just a few weeks ago I was back in Jacksonville where I was treated and went to lunch with Ali and Sarah, two of the women who were responsible for teaching me how to recover.

And at least I’ve had the opportunity to do so. The worst day of my recovery was the day I learned that retailer Gordon Lee had died…of a stroke. I was a mess that day, wondering what the point of my attempts to walk were. I was sure that a second stroke would come at me any time, and this one would be fatal.

Well, it’s been a year. An amazingly lousy year, but positive things have happened as well. And I’m still here. So that’s something.

PAD

“Being Stan Lee,” Part II

Originally published December 31, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1363

“Being Stan Lee” (Part Two)

As Stan Lee roared up to the First Savings and Loan bank, Gregor Samsa—a helpless spectator within Stan Lee’s mind—watched in amazement. Stan slammed his Range Rover to a halt and had vaulted from the car before the engine noise fully faded. Crowds of people had gathered at the police barricade and, when they saw him, an excited buzz began to work its way through them. Applause began to ripple and then built, moment upon moment, to a full-fledged ovation. Stan Lee waved to them all, moving with confidence, as the barricade was parted to let him through.

Walking toward him briskly was a plainclothes, older cop who Greg immediately assumed was the “Captain Tangretti” who had summoned Stan Lee. “Thanks for coming so fast, Stan. Break any traffic laws getting here?”

“Only all of ’em,” said Stan. “So what’s the story, Jimmy?”

“Young guy. Nasty piece of work. His name’s Ruben.”

“How much is he packing?”

“Enough to kill everybody in there 20 times over. Hold on a minute; we’ll get you a flak jacket.”

Stan Lee laughed at that. “We always go through this, Jimmy. I’ll be right back.”

“Stan—!”

Too late. Stan Lee was already sprinting toward the bank doors. Inside his mind, Greg cringed, bracing himself for the bullets that he was sure would slam into Stan’s body. Would he, Greg, die along with Stan? He didn’t want to find out.

As it turned out, he didn’t find out, for Stan’s jogged path to the bank’s entrance was uneventful. Stan threw open the door and called, “Hey, hey, True Believers!”

The one who had to be Ruben was readily visible, standing in the middle of the large room with a machine gun tucked under his arm, aimed straight at a crowd of cringing hostages. Ruben jumped slightly, startled at the unexpected intrusion, and he swung the gun around and took a direct bead on Stan Lee. Greg muttered unheard prayers inside Lee’s head—and then Ruben’s eyes went wide.

“Oh, my God—you’re Stan Lee.”

Stan Lee’s name was quickly repeated in hushed reverence among the hostages, and he strode forward, apparently completely unconcerned about his own safety. “That’s right. And you must be Ruben. Looks like you got a situation here, huh, Ruben? Or should I call ya Rascally Ruben? Or how about Rockin’ Ruben?”

“You—you better get outta here, Stan,” said Ruben, his voice wavering. “This is no place for you. This  is—”

“This is exactly the place for me. Helping you. Making the world better. It’s what I do,” said Stan Lee in his jovial tone but suddenly he sounded different, more serious. “Big gun you got there, Ruben. Now, how about you put it down and end this?”

“I can’t, Stan…”

“Can’t!” Stan Lee laughed disdainfully. “No one who grew up on my comics—and, that’s anyone who’s anyone—knows the meaning of the word ‘can’t.’ And I’ll tell ya somethin’ else, o Rockin’ one. That gun you got there—it gives you power over all these people,” and he gestured broadly at the hostages. “Great power, in fact. But with that great power comes—what? You can say it.”

“Great responsibility,” said Ruben, looking downcast.

“And is what you’re doing responsible, right here? Well? Is it?” When Ruben didn’t reply, Lee stretched out a commanding hand.

“But—but I’m no one without the gun, Stan. I’m—”

“No one! I can take care of that. If you give me the gun—right now—and let these good people go—I shall confer upon you the title of Fearless Front Facer.”

Ruben gasped, as did the others nearby. “I… I always wanted to be one… ever since I was small… but… but how did you know?”

“I’m Stan Lee, True Believer. It’s my job to know.”

Without another word, Ruben handed the gun over—and then collapsed, sobbing, into Lee’s arms. Within minutes, Lee had escorted him out to the waiting arms of the police, but before they converged on him, Stan Lee said, “Treat him gently, officers. He’s a Fearless Front Facer!”

The police took a step back, acknowledging the impressiveness of the title, and Ruben was handled with appropriate respect, as they eased him into the nearest squad car.

With the cheers ringing in his (and Greg’s) ears, Stan Lee barely took the time to accept the grateful thanks of the police before he was speeding away. He urged the Range Rover forward with even greater speed and managed to get to Beverly Hills in 11 minutes flat. The valet stepped forward to take his car to the parking garage, and Gregor saw several men dressed in black, with sunglasses, coming forward to meet him. Something about them seemed to scream “Secret Service.”

“Mr. Lee,” one of them said, “this way, please.” Without slowing, Stan followed them in and was whisked to an elevator at the far end of the lobby. Gregor Samsa felt as if the world was spiraling beyond his already-meager ability to follow it.

They were escorted from the elevator, down a corridor past more dark-suited men, and into a room, and Greg’s mind almost melted down. A familiar, gray-haired individual turned to face him, a smile splitting his face. “Stan,” he said. “Glad you could make it.”

“Sorry I’m late, Billy. Had a crisis.”

“Well, you’ve had an infinite number of them, right? On other Earths?”

Stan chuckled. “That’s the other company, Mr. President.”

He’s talking to Bill Clinton. His appointment with “Billy” was with Bill Clinton. The silent voice of Greg didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

To be concluded

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

 

“Being Stan Lee,” Part I

Originally published December 24, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1362

“Being Stan Lee”

Gregor Samsa awoke one day to discover that he was Stan Lee.

Gregor—“Greg” to his friends—had been sorting through back-issue comics, part of his job at Ninth World Comics in Malibu. It was, however, taking Greg longer to do than usual, because he had stumbled over old issues of Fantastic Four that he remembered fondly. The storyline was the immortal “Battle of the Baxter Building” sequence, and reading those issues had led to reading others, both before and after. Childhood memories seized him, and he was transported to those pleasant recollections of the first, heady days of Marvel—back when it was the company that could do no wrong, and every issue was an infinity of possibilities.

He muttered the dialogue out loud as he read it, carried away as always by the style of the inimitable Stan Lee. So many people had tried to diminish his contributions to Marvel’s success, but there was no question that it was his voice that provided the heart and soul of the characters.

Fired by sudden inspiration, Greg used the store’s computer to go online and ran a search under the name of his creative hero. Sure enough, he was quickly led to stanlee.net. He chuckled as curtains opened on the screen and a computer cartoon of Stan Lee—recorded with Lee’s inimitable tone—welcomed him. He surveyed the options and was attracted to the entry of “free newsletter.” It was the description that caught his eye. It read, “Get wired directly to Stan all the time!”

He couldn’t pass that up. Yet, for some reason, the mouse vibrated urgently beneath his hand as he paused over the option. It seemed to be—warning him. He ignored it—and clicked on the invitation to “Get wired directly to Stan.”

A jolt seized him, shoved him to his feet. He stumbled forward, his trembling hand still glued to the mouse, and he slammed his head into a shelf, bringing the shelf’s contents cascading down upon him. The last thing he saw was the boxed set of Origins of Marvel Comics and Son of Origins tumbling toward his head, and then there was blackness…

But not nothingness. Instead, there was a feeling of disorientation and a sliding sensation, as if he were reliving his own birth. And suddenly he was speaking—except he wasn’t.

There were words, but he wasn’t forming them. There was speech, but it wasn’t his voice.

He seemed to be viewing the world through someone else’s eyes, with Greg merely being a spectator. What he was looking at was an eager young man who was waving a comic book in his face. Certainly, it was sight that he had seen often enough, but he immediately realized that he was not in his normal store. Also, he was used to seeing kids with looks of irritation or frustration. Not this guy. There was eagerness, bordering on reverence. As opposed to so many customers who trudged in and out of the store, acting as if they were frustrated or annoyed in pursuing their chosen hobby, this customer was obviously thrilled to be here. And there were more like him, lined up to the door and beyond.

The gaze of the eyes he was looking through shifted from the eager customer to a comic book in front of him. It was Avengers #4. And a voice from inside his own head said, “I remember this one… feels as if I wrote it yesterday. Matter of fact, it might have been yesterday… you know how my memory is.”

The customer laughed. Greg couldn’t understand why. It wasn’t that funny a comment. But, clearly, it had been elevated in the guy’s mind to utter hilarity.

Greg was continuing to look down at the comic book and then he saw his hand, except it was a much older hand. There was a marker in it. It was descending toward the comic book. Nooooo! Greg tried to scream, it’s in Mint condition, keep the marker away from it! But it was too late. Greg’s hand—or the hand that was not Greg’s hand—had already scribbled on it. It read, “To Tony… Excelsior! Stan Lee.”

Stan Lee? But that was—it was impossible. He had been at his comic store. What was he doing now, being Stan Lee? How could people mistake him? How had he come here?

Then a wristwatch—his own—came into view. It had Spider-Man on it. “Whoops!” came that familiar, cheery voice from within his head. “Gotta go!”

There was a collective moan from the fans who were still waving their comics, and then a guy whom Greg took to be the store owner stepped in and called, “Folks, Stan stayed an hour longer than he was supposed to! He’s got other places he’s gotta go! Big hand for Stan Lee!”

The line of customers, even though they hadn’t been satisfied with getting an autograph, didn’t seem to harbor any grudge. Greg couldn’t believe it. At his store, if he didn’t satisfy everyone’s every whim, they treated him like dirt. Like gum on their shoes. But here Stan Lee (Stan Lee? Impossible!) was bolting, and it didn’t diminish their love for him one bit.

Greg watched in amazement as “his” hand pressed the flesh with fan after fan, as he angled toward the door. “And remember,” Stan Lee was saying, “I have seen the future, and it is cyber-comics! Open the door to the 7th Portal, coming soon! Excelsior!”

“Excelsior!” they chorused back at him, like adoring worshipers at a religious gathering.

The moment he was out the door, he bounded across the parking lot, headed for a Range Rover with the license plate “THE MAN.” Why was everything so dark? It had been dim in the store, and now it was dim outside. He vaulted into it, gunned the engine, and angled onto the street.

This can’t be happening, thought Greg, and then he saw himself glancing into the rearview mirror. His confusion about the lighting was immediately cleared up when he saw his face; he was wearing sunglasses. Sunglasses, a wide smile, and someone else’s face.

His face. Stan Lee’s face.

“Running late. He’s gonna kill me,” muttered Stan Lee, as he urged the Range Rover forward. It blended with the traffic, and some passing nubile young women in an open-topped sports car were waving to him. Stan Lee waved back. He seemed quite at ease about it.

Suddenly, there was a steady beeping from a place just under the dashboard. Stan Lee touched the cigarette lighter twice, and a small speaker slid into place. “Yeah,” said Stan Lee.

The speaker crackled to life. “Stan, this is Captain Tangretti, third precinct. We have a situation at the First Savings and Loan. Bank robber’s holding hostages.”

“Again?” said Stan Lee. “Jesus, Jimmy, this is the third one this month. I’m late for a meeting with Bill as it is.”

“Can’t help it, Stan. You’re the only one who can handle it—the only one they listen to…”

Stan Lee sighed a moment, but then the world bobbed up and down and Greg realized that Stan Lee was nodding. “All right,” he said. “On my way.”

He pushed a red button on the dashboard. The vehicle suddenly roared. Some sort of afterburner had kicked in. Greg gulped in silence, as he saw the speedometer jump to 90 miles an hour, inching toward 100. Yet Stan Lee didn’t seem to notice the speed, weaving through other cars as if they were parked. Other motorists would have screamed at anyone else, but they all appeared to recognize him. They pumped the air as he hurtled past, shouting, “Go get ’em, Stan! Whatever it is, you’re our only hope!”

“You got that right, true believers!” shouted Stan Lee.

I’ve lost my mind, thought Gregor Samsa.

To be continued

Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. He can name at least two movies in which John Malkovich appeared.

 

Fantabaires convention, part 3

Originally published December 17, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1361

Finishing up the Fantabaires convention in Buenos Aires…

November 7 (continued): Our guide takes Mark Waid, Devin Grayson, Kathleen and myself to an outdoor antique fair. There’s a massive and eclectic assortment of just about everything that you could remotely be interested in. I purchase a bola, a weapon used by South American gauchos that consists of several hard, round balls on leather thongs which—when spun and released—can give you a fairly nasty crack. Not that I’m intending to do so, mind you. But they… don’t mess with me. Y’never know when my boiling gaucho blood may come to the fore and I unleash my new, devastating weaponry.

There are numerous street performers. Human statues who remain frozen, and one guy dressed like Charlie Chaplin. Also, in one section of the street that has been cleared out, there are a man and woman performing the tango, the preferred dance of Argentina, while a musician strums a guitar with gusto. It doesn’t look remotely like the tango as performed in, say, Scent of a Woman, but it’s still very dramatic, very stylized.

We arrive at the convention and discover that Kyle Baker has finally made it. I don’t recognize him at first; he’s now sporting copious dreadlocks that would make Lister on Red Dwarf quite envious. He’s arrived with his wife, Elizabeth, and their infant daughter, Lilly (hope I’m spelling that right, Kyle. If it’s “Lili,” I apologize.)

The crowd on Sunday is not quite as large as the Saturday group, so walking around the dealer’s room is a bit more of a possibility. There are assorted dealers typical of what you see at a convention, but I have to admit that there’s one booth that you don’t see at most conventions: A booth where several nicely dressed women are giving away condoms in an assortment of cheery colors. That’s a new one. I’m tempted to go over and ask the women if they’re made of mylar, but I decide (wisely, I think) not to. I mean, I’ve heard of snugs being sold at conventions, but this is certainly novel.

I do more autographings. What I find interesting is that is that when I did conventions in Mexico and Spain, in both instances a sizable number of fans showed up with bound copies of my comics. But no one does so here, and when I mention that fans in other Spanish-speaking countries routinely store their books in that manner, the Argentine readers seem rather surprised at the notion. It’s amazing to me how what is standard in one region is regarded as bizarre in another.

That evening Mark, Devin, Kathleen and I head out to dinner at (naturally) a steak place. Kyle joins us, while his wife and baby decide to remain back at the hotel (well, actually, I tend to think Liz made the decision; I suspect Lilly didn’t have much say in the matter.) It’s a rather memorable place in that it has, standing outside, a large statue of a steer. At least, I think it’s a statue. Part of me is concerned that it might actually be a large stuffed steer.

At dinner, Kyle regales us with tales of Hollywood idiocy, having toiled in the showbiz realm for a few years. The comments are classic foolishness. (Picture a meeting with producers regarding Why I Hate Saturn. Yes, I’m sure you see it coming, as a producer says intently: “Does it have to be Saturn?”) Then, of course, there are the meetings where producers are throwing around ideas the way that Alzheimer sufferers lob about their own excrement, until the Big Boss makes an arbitrary declaration at which point everyone says, “Great idea!

It’s amazing to me how anyone involved with show business quickly piles up a briefcase full of horror tales… but Kyle is one of the few I’ve encountered who is actually willing to turn around and say, “To hell with this” and just walk away from it.

Kyle should make a very interesting father, since he has a rather unique way of relating to children. Neighborhood kids come to visit with him, and sometimes the encounters can be quite memorable. He tells of how one morning a young boy came by, and Kyle asked him, “Would you like to see a piece of magic tape?” The young sucker… uh, child… nodded eagerly, and Kyle took a piece of tape from his drawing board and stuck it on the kid’s nose. “And if you leave that on your nose for three days without removing it, you’ll turn into a dragon.”

So the kid wears this tape on his nose for the entire day. Then his father comes home, sees the tape on his son’s face, says, “What’s this?” and, without waiting for reply, pulls the tape off. The kid immediately goes into hysterics, dropping to the floor sobbing and howling, “Now I’ll never turn into a dragon!!”

“I was just kidding!” Kyle says in his own defense. “I never expected the kid to take it seriously!” I didn’t ask Kyle, but it makes me wonder if he’s an only child, because anyone with younger siblings can tell you that small kids can be made to believe absolutely anything. At this point, my two older daughters have convinced eight-year-old Ariel that gnomes and/or monsters guard their rooms, that Ariel’s middle name is Tequila, and that she has a sister named Jessica who is kept locked in a hidden closet.

(Then again, I’m the one who convinced then six-year-old Shana that I’d had a friend who died in a pogo stick accident, so I shouldn’t talk. When they first started running promos for a new TV series, Freaks and Geeks, there was Second City’s Joe Flaherty as the family’s father, intoning gravely to his kids, “So you’re failing math, huh? When I was young, I had a friend who failed math. You know what happened? He died!”) My kids started shouting, “Dad, that’s you!” Ha ha. Very funny. Freaks and Geeks made fun of fathers. You know what happened to that series? It died. Let that be a lesson to you.)

Monday, November 8: We check out of the hotel. They hand me a bill for three hundred dollars. I tell them that the room is supposed to be paid for by the convention. “No, sir, that’s your phone bill,” they say. I almost have a stroke. Sure, I called home to check how things were and how they were going, but my God, I didn’t talk that much. Unfortunately, family members hadn’t been able to call me (which would naturally have kept the bill down.) They tried and, believe it or not, got recorded messages that said that Argentina was busy. Nice. “Oh yeah, we never call from the hotel. There’s a place downstairs you can call from that costs less than half of the hotel,” Kyle says cheerfully. Wonderful. What a great time to find that out.

My last panel is one about the Silver Age of Comics. I’m on it with Mark Waid. I don’t quite understand why. It’s like being on an X-Men panel with Chris Claremont (or for that matter, any panel with Chris Claremont.) Not that Mark hogs the time, but really, if you’re talking Silver Age, I’m excess baggage.

I have to depart half an hour in, though, if I’m going to make my plane. I get an ovation upon departure, presumably because they’re happy to see me go. No one in Argentina cries for me, which is fortunate, because naturally I’d have to tell them not to.

No Spanish-speaking women are occupying our seats, but we discover that we’re sitting in front of Seatback Boy. You know him: The kid who sits behind you and kicks your seatback. Fortunately enough it turns out that’s not his seat. Unfortunately enough, his seat is directly in front of me. He leans back his seatback so far that he’s practically in my lap… and we haven’t even moved away from the terminal yet. Kathleen and I manage to move to different seats where Seatback Boy does not pursue us.

No old men pass out on the plane home, and the film is Runaway Bride, which I actually stay awake for.

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

 

Fantabaires convention, part 2

Originally published December 10, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1360

Continuing our sojourn to the Fantabaires convention in Argentina…

November 5 (continued): The hotel is a perfectly nice one in downtown Buenos Aires (the city of Buenos Aires, we’re told, as distinguished from the general area of Buenos Aires. Kind of like New York, New York.) We settle in, get acclimated to the area a bit, and are then brought over to the convention site.

The place is huge and, since it’s fairly early on a Friday, relatively empty. The dealer’s room has aisles so wide that you could field a hockey team in it. We recognize it, however, as the same type of dealer’s room as we saw down in Mexico. That is to say, once the convention gets going, the place is going to be absolutely packed and maneuvering will suddenly be a problem.

I’m set for a question and answer session that evening. It’s slated for two hours, but in reality it’s only a one hour panel, because everything has to be said twice. Questions are posed in Spanish, translated into English, I respond, and then it’s back into Spanish.

It’s called “Spotlight on Peter David.” The name is literal: It’s a fairly dark room and there is a glaring spotlight trained on me. The reception by the audience is monumental. I’ve never gotten an ovation like that. The applause goes on for nearly a minute. If that doesn’t sound like a long time, try banging your hands together and see what it really feels like. The welcome seems to come in waves, literally washing over me. I find myself wishing that I could bottle the audience and take them with me wherever I go.

There is, as usual, the little quirks of translation. Someone will pose a question in Spanish and you hear the audience laughing or reacting, and nothing gives you more of a sense of dread than knowing that something’s coming your way and every damned person in the room except you is aware of precisely what it’s going to be. On the other hand, you also get a feel of who can speak English and who can’t, because the English-speaking folks laugh at jokes I make before the rest of the audience does.

Also, several people are brought up with whom I’ve worked: Ariel Olivetti, who painted The Last Avengers Story (which as long-time readers know saw publication thanks to Comic Buyers Guide) and Ricard Villagren who was my inker during my run on DC’s Star Trek. It’s like a Spanish-language edition of This is Your Life.

The thing that takes the most getting used to is the meal hours. Folks don’t eat dinner until at least 10:30, even later. The convention takes Kathleen, Mark Waid and Devin Grayson, and me, out to an Italian restaurant. We don’t actually eat until close to midnight. It’s a good way to completely throw off your digestive system.

November 6—Kathleen has awoken apparently covered with mosquito bites. Oddly, I picked up none at all. One would think that if there are mosquitoes in the air, they wouldn’t discriminate.

We are, I am told, going to be going to the cemetery today. I am able, with staggeringly little effort, to restrain my enthusiasm. I can think of nothing interesting about such an outing, aside from going around and looking at headstones and trying to find intriguing epitaphs. (I still debate about my own. I keep thinking of “To Be Continued,” or perhaps, “Suddenly…” or “What the–?!” or “Meanwhile…” or, if we move away from comics, “What are you lookin’ at?” or “Shhhhh” or “Out to Lunch.”)

I could not be more wrong, as it turns out, because the Cemetery of Recoleta is the Beverly Hills of cemeteries. Built in 1822, it’s like a small, fenced-in city, with paved roads and everything, composed (or decomposed… nyuk nyuk) entirely of mausoleums. And a number of them are beyond belief. Some of them are like cathedrals. There are dead people residing in places bigger than my first apartment. There is incredible statuary all over the place, ranging from soldiers to sobbing angels. Probably the most controversial resident is Eva Peron before she was Patti Lupone or Madonna. The families of the Recoleta residents complained because they felt that (their characterization, not mine) a whore who slept her way to power was not fit company. But Peron insisted and as a result, Evita’s body was laid in Recoleta (which was apparently the only place in Argentina it hadn’t been previously.)

At the convention, Devin and I wind up on a panel with about ten other people. It’s held in a room where we are absolutely melting, it’s so hot. Most of the people in the room are using the program books or comics to fan themselves. Being an overweight Jewish man, I don’t just sweat; I shvitz. If I had several oversized towels, shower slippers, and a copy of the Jerusalem Times, I’d be all set. There is much heated discussion, but considering that my eyebrows are sliding into my nostrils, there’s not much about the room that isn’t heated. At one point there is intense debate about whether comics and magazines will ever be replaced by electronics. And I say to the crowd, “Do you want to know why there will always be printed comics and magazines?” They do. I grab a magazine and, while fanning myself furiously, say, “Because you can’t do this with a computer, that’s why.”

We go to a barbecue organized by the nice convention folk. Mark, Devin, Kathleen and I are all exhausted and would rather just grab a relatively early dinner and crash out. But to refuse the invitation would be rude, and so we go.

The grill itself is massive. Beyond massive (although we’re later told that actually, by Argentine standards, the grill is quite small. Remarkable. I have grill envy.) I think what they did was cut off the cow’s head, legs and tail, broke the rest of the carcass in half and tossed it on the grill. This is Argentina, after all, the land of meat. At dinner the host is anxious to get Devin to try a piece of the cow. Devin tries to explain that she’s a vegetarian. “Just a small piece, then!” the anxious cook tells her with pride, not wanting her to miss out on the great food (and it is delicious, I’ll give ’em that.) Devin looks desperately uncomfortable, stuck. I distract the gentleman and palm the meat off Devin’s plate. She looks grateful. More for me. Me, I’m steering away (you should pardon the expression) from meat and staying with the barbecued chicken. But after cleaning off a plate of it, I learn it’s not chicken; it’s cow entrails or something. If I’d known it before hand, I’d never have tried it. Old provincial me. I know it’s such a cliché, but… damn, it really did taste like chicken.

It’s one thirty in the morning. We’re exhausted. Devin’s knee is throbbing. And Kathleen’s “mosquito bites” are clearly worse than that; it’s hives, all over her back. She’s had an allergic reaction to something from the night before. She’s itching like mad. We convey to our hosts that we’d like to go back to the hotel. They’re astounded; the party’s just getting started. Again, we don’t want to be rude. And I said, “Look, we’d love to say, but Devin’s knee is killing her and Kathleen isn’t feeling well… she’s got hives! Honey, show them your hives!” And without further ado, I pull down the back of Kathleen’s shirt. There are hives all over the back of her shoulders. Our hosts are immediately one hundred percent solicitous and within minutes we’re being driven back to the hotel. We learn later that the party went to seven in the morning. Considering how tired we were, we are grateful to Kathleen’s hives for giving us a polite way of leaving at an hour that we can handle. Kathleen doesn’t seem especially grateful for them, though, although some antihistamine and rash powder brings them under control.

November 7: We are being driven in two cabs to an antique fair, and as we round a large plaza, we see the east side of the Casa Rosada, the “Pink House” best known to Americans as the place with the balcony where Evita told Argentina not to cry for her. It’s one of the best known sites. “We’ve got to take a picture of that! Can we pull around?” we ask the driver as we sit at a light. There’s honking to our left. It’s Mark and Devin, and they’re pointing at the same thing, and waving their camera. So we’re obviously on the same wavelength.

The thing is, the Casa Rosada is undergoing renovation. What’s usually done in such instances is that a huge white sheet or some other bland protection is erected outside, obscuring the view. But since the Casa Rosada is such a popular place and the Argentinians didn’t want to disappoint visitors, they came up with a hilariously inventive compromise. Hanging directly in front of the Casa Rosada is a gigantic picture of… the Casa Rosada. It’s like the old Steven Wright joke about getting a map of the United Scales that’s actual size. This is an actual size portrait of the Casa Rosada.

I start photographing away, because there is something hilariously circular to me to take pictures of a picture of a building. “What building is this a picture of?” “It’s not. It’s a picture of a building.” Only in Argentina. Well, and maybe in Toontown. I think they missed a bet: They should have dropped in a photo of Eva Peron on the balcony just to make the thing complete.

Just think: If they’d been content to put a picture of Eva Peron in Recoleta, they could have saved a lot of hassle.

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