Peter David's Blog, page 62

Regarding Neil

Originally published October 22, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1353

Shana really, really wanted to go to the Tori Amos concert. But it was an extremely small venue, and tickets were going to be absolutely impossible to come by. However, I figured I had one shot at accommodating her: Tori Amos, as everyone knows, is rather tight with Neil Gaiman. And, in the best spirit of six degrees of separation, I know Neil and therefore had (albiet) limited access to Amos.

So I called Neil and asked him if there was any way he could score a couple of tickets to the Tori Amos concert (apparently narrowly beating a deluge of other people asking him very much the same thing.) Neil said that he would see what he could do. And several days later, Neil called me back and told me that he had indeed managed to make some calls and it had been all arranged that Shana would be able to attend the sold-out concert.

“Neil, I really owe you,” I said.

And there was a pause at the other end of the line.

And then Neil said, very slowly, very deliberately, “Yes. I know.”

It was the single most terrifying, most sinister enunciation of those three relatively harmless words that I had ever heard.

Somewhere inside me, my soul screamed in fear. What had I gotten us into? Just to give my daughter some temporary happiness… what unholy bargain had I unwittingly opened myself to? When Neil, at some point in the future, wanted to cash in that chip… what would the hideous price be? Whom would I have to hurt? To kill? Or would it simply be that, many years hence (hopefully) I would be lying on my death bed, a long-forgotten writer whom some people once considered vaguely important long ago. And suddenly, at the bedside, Neil would appear in a burst of smoke, looking much the same as he does now. “Time for payback,” he would say, and he’d remove the sunglasses and there would be no eyes there, just twin sets of little jagged teeth…

Well…

Other belated Neil recollections (belated since the Neil theme issue was a few issues back, but what the heck.)

At a convention a few years back, Neil signed a book to me, and he rendered in it a very nice, detailed ink sketch of Sandman. And I looked at it and realized that this guy could really draw, conveying remarkable detail with just a few meticulously rendered line. It was at that point that Krause was publishing the first But I Digress trade paperback collection, and we hadn’t settled yet on who would do the cover. I knew that I wanted to get someone unusual, someone unexpected, and as soon as I saw Neil’s sketch in the book, I decided he was the guy. I approached him about the notion of doing the cover for the paperback. He seemed rather startled by the notion, and I assured him that he would have complete freedom to do whatever he wanted. “Okay,” he said after giving it some consideration.

We then made a point of not announcing who was going to be doing the cover, thereby creating a minor mystery and a good degree of speculation. All we said was, “The cover will be by someone who’s very well known, but the last artist you’d expect to see.” Naturally fans figured that it was Rob Liefeld, Todd McFarlane, or assorted other folks who held me in tremendous esteem (sh’right.)

At another convention, I approached John Byrne about the prospect of his doing the back cover. John said, “Only if I know who’s going to be doing the front cover. I want to know who I’m following.” The subtext of his statement wasn’t very sub, and I could understand his sentiments. He’d been as openly dissed by certain artists as I had been, and he didn’t want to run “second fiddle” to one of them. “Fair enough, I’ll tell you… but word of honor, you keep it to yourself.” He nodded. “Neil Gaiman,” I said. His eyebrows knit, he considered it a moment, and then said, “Okay. I can live with that.”

Then I get the cover from Neil. I’m flabbergasted. It’s this rendering of me as Moses, descending from the mount with the Ten Commandments. At the bottom of the mount is gathered a group of rabid worshippers (also visible are a clearly less-than-worshipful Neil, as well as a little mouse dressed as Dream). The first words I uttered were, “Oh my God.” They were also the second and third things. I thought, How the hell can I go with this? Everyone’s gonna think I came up with the idea, and I’m going to come across as the most pretentious schmuck in the world. Maybe I should just tell Neil we can’t use it and apologize profusely. But then I considered three things: First, I had indeed told Neil that he had total freedom to do what he wanted. How could I consider myself a supporter of free expression and then stifle it on the cover of my own work? Second, it was probably balanced to some degree by the cover on the back cover art which depicted a cackling John Byrne feeding copies of my column into a paper shredder. And finally, it may very well be that people who read the column regularly have already come to the conclusion that I’m the most pretentious schmuck in the world, so where was the damage being done, really?

So that’s the cover that adorns the collection. And it all worked out, and just to show what a schmuck I am, if we ever do a second collection (one the most-asked questions I get) then Neil is certainly welcome to do that cover. Because, y’know… I just don’t learn.

When Neil’s marvelous limited TV, Neverwhere, debuted, Neil offered to send me a copy of the series on tape. So the tapes arrive, and I pop the first one in.

The story starts, and it appears to be set in a courtroom of some sort. I’m impressed by the British actors, because they seem to have completely mastered American accents. The thing is, what little I know of Neverwhere tells me that it’s set in sort of a underworld somehow linked with the London underground, so I’m not sure what this trial sequence has to do with anything. But you know what? I had faith in Neil. I mean, sure, the more that I watched, the less sense it seemed to make. The dialogue was not what I was expecting from Neil. It seemed rather stilted, tortured. But then I figured, He’s doing it on purpose. He’s going for some type of effect. And there was a woman judge who seemed to be pontificating on what the supplicants were telling her.

The show wore on. I began to get bored. Whatever it was that Neil was trying to express about the American judicial system, I was missing it. I tried speed searching past the scene, hoping the next one would be more interesting. But it was no use. When I punched the tape back on, we were still in the courtroom. Still boring people, still stilted dialogue.

“My God, Neil’s lost his mind,” I said. “How am I going to tell him that this show is just awful? How can I…”

Then suddenly I heard an announcer say, “Well be back with ‘Judge Judy’ right after this.” And the logo appeared for a TV station in Seattle. “Judge who?” I wondered. Suddenly there were TV commercials, and I finally figured it out. Neil looked very pained when I described it to him.

Once, at the Chicago Comic Con where Harlan Ellison was the guest of honor, Neil flew in as a surprise. We were doing a “Friends of Harlan” panel and, while on the panel, I started making snide remarks about Neil (much to the clear puzzlement of the audience). And while I was in the midst of dissing him, Neil walked in and stood behind me. Audience went nuts.

I’ve always been impressed by Neil for any number of reasons. His selfless dedication to the CBLDF, for one, and his numerous money-raising readings. His apparently boundless talent. Those nifty shades. But one of the things I remember most vividly was at a convention, when DC had black and white photocopies of Sandman #50 out. While at the convention, Neil asked me if I’d happened to read the display copy. “Yup,” I said. And to my surprise, he asked me eagerly, “What did you think?” I was, frankly, stunned. I’m not quite sure how to put this without sounding either disingenuous or pompous, but… I couldn’t believe he cared what I thought. I mean, I don’t think I produce garbage (not intentionally, in any event) but I’m simply not at Neil’s level. I know that. Doesn’t bother me. Gives me something to aspire to. And then I realized that one of the things that makes Neil great is that, despite all his accomplishment and accolades, he hasn’t let it get to him. He has as much insecurity about his work as any novice might have, still has that need to have people tell him, “Good job.” It’s kind of like the year Billy Crystal was absolutely killing ’em at the Oscars. The audience was roaring… and yet, during commercial breaks, Crystal kept reportedly running around to everyone—prop people, grips, whoever—and saying, “How am I doing?” And you’d wonder how he could possibly wonder such a thing. I think all the truly great writers need that insecurity to remain great, because once they become too smug, too confident in their abilities, that’s when the creative rot starts to set in. I don’t foresee that happening with Neil any time in the near future.

Which won’t stop me from shuddering in dread fear of Neil calling in the favor.

Hit him up for Tori Amos tickets at your own risk.

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

 

Mad Media and the Plane Truth

Originally published October 15, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1352

As I sit here in the shelter constructed for refugees, huddling to avoid the wrath of Hurricane Floyd, I wonder how I will find the strength to go on. Everything that we own, gone. Everything we…

Nah, I’m kidding. We were lucky. By the time the hurricane got to our neck of the woods, it barely qualified as a squall. We had some wind, some rain, and that was about it. The only real impact the storm had on us was that it botched our flight to Madison, Wisconsin.

Last year, we had one of the best times we ever had at a convention, when we attended the Mad Media convention in the cheesiest state in the country. I was literally dragged there by Harlan Ellison, who was one of the guests along with Neil Gaiman (about whom I should really do a column; he was, after all, a “topic,” and he’s done me enough good turns that I owe it to him; OK, next week, I’ll talk about Neil). Harlan said, “I’ll be there, Neil’ll be there, it’ll be great! We’ll hang together!” As it turned out, our schedule was so busy that we hardly had any time together at all. But it was a pleasant, albeit small, convention. They invited me back for this year and offered to fly out not only me, but Gwen, Ariel, and Kathleen. That’s pretty much a guaranteed way to get me to go to a con: offer to bring my family. They were also supposed to have Warwick Davis (“Willow”) at this year’s con, but he canceled at the last moment. We decided to go anyway, though.

Originally, they were going to book us on a flight Friday morning, but I was reluctant to have the girls miss school. So, instead, they got us seats on a flight scheduled to leave LaGuardia at 6:45 in the evening. I was actually patting myself on the back over that one, especially considering that the hurricane had only just passed out of our area early that morning, so I was certain that the morning flight would be delayed. By that evening, though, naturally, everything would be back on track.

We arrived at the airport to discover that the plane was running three hours late. Three. Hours. Late. “It’s the weather,” they explained to us, stating that left-over high winds had made it impossible for planes to take off or land.

“Just out of curiosity,” I asked, “when did the 11:30 flight take off?”

“Actually, that one left on time,” said the ticket seller.

While Kathleen was busy prying away the knife I was endeavoring to slit my wrists with, the ticket guy gave us even more good news. Until that moment, I was telling myself that the one good thing to come out of this mess was that we didn’t have to worry about missing our connecting flight from Milwaukee to Madison; although we had a layover, we didn’t have to change planes. Except, as it turned out, since we were getting into Milwaukee so late, the airport in Madison was closed. Oh, yes. That’s definitely what I want to see in a state’s capital city: an airport that rolls up the runway at 10 p.m. But, hey, no problem! They were planning to stick us on a bus that would take a mere (we were told) two and a half hours to get to Madison.

Fortunately enough, I managed to get in touch with the nice folks at Mad Media, and they said they would come pick us up at the Milwaukee airport, bless their hearts.

All flight delay problems aside, the airline itself—Midwest Express—has a hell of a lot going for it. Its philosophy is that the entirety of the airplane is first class, and it does everything it can to live up to that. The seats are wide and cushy; the food that it serves is unquestionably first-class level. I was, I have to say, very impressed.

However…

I felt bad for this woman.

She was seated one row ahead of us and on the left. She had two seats. She had two small children. Do the math.

One of the kids couldn’t have been more than 2. The other had to be about 1. They were both boys. And they cried. The. Whole. Way.

Not simultaneously, mind you. They tag-teamed. When the 1-year-old would get worn out, the 2-year-old would step in to fill the gap. Once the 2-year-old became exhausted, the 1-year-old picked up the slack. Mom kept a stiff upper lip, but it was really very sad. There was that little kid, squirming around on her lap, clearly uncomfortable, nowhere to sit.

This is something that I simply do not understand. I mean, there’s lots of stuff about air travel that I don’t understand. For example, I still don’t get how a pilot can fly a plane coast-to-coast at hundreds of miles per hour and find his way—and yet, once he’s on the ground and going at two miles an hour, he needs a guy with little red cones pointing and shouting, “The terminal’s over there!” in order to complete the trip.

Anyway, here’s another thing I don’t understand. You can be in an automobile going five miles an hour, and, if you don’t have your infant buckled in a heavy-duty car seat, you’re breaking the law.

But climb into an airplane that’s going to be going at hundreds of miles an hour, and you can clutch your child to your bosom with impunity. What the hell is up with that? One serious dose of windshear, one unexpected and abrupt tilt of the plane, and this kid suddenly becomes a human projectile. Of course, if there’s a real emergency, you shouldn’t have to worry about the child’s fate, because when the oxygen masks come down, there ain’t gonna be one for him! Wheeee! What fun!

Then, of course, there’s all the embarrassment that mothers have to deal with when their children start screeching and bleating to the annoyance of other passengers. Understand, it doesn’t bother me personally. I’ve had three children. If someone’s kid starts howling, all I do is sit there calmly, smugly, thinking, “Glad it’s not mine.” I’ve even sat next to children who spit up on me and just shrugged it off. But what about all the disapproving glares that moms and dads have to put up with from passengers who are far less understanding that I?

It’s all so unnecessary to subject parents to the humiliation and children to the hazards when there are perfectly good overhead baggage compartments going unused.

Think about it: Aren’t they the perfect size? It would be so easy. Just drill air holes in the doors of the compartments, add belts or even simple plastic mesh to stop the kids from sliding around, and you’ve got the perfect means of transporting any infant thousands of miles. To say nothing of the fact that those compartments look pretty heavy-duty to me in terms of soundproofing. Let the kid scream his lungs out there. No one’s going to hear him.

It would work for older kids, as well. The 3- and 4-year-olds love to hide in small, enclosed places. Inside closets, under beds, inside refrigerator cartons. They’ll love it! And, if they don’t love it, then—as noted—no one will hear them complaining about it.

Now, sure, there may be some of you who consider the entire notion cruel. But how much more cruel is it to risk a child’s life by having him traveling in unsafe conditions? And, if the kid does get a little scared or spooked by being enclosed in a dark place for hours on end, well, heck. Years from now they won’t even remember it. How much stuff do you remember from your infancy or from when you were 3? Sure, sure, it might instill a fear of small, enclosed spaces. So they won’t grow up to become astronauts or spelunkers. Big deal. At least they’ll be alive, thanks to my infinitely compassionate plan. The FAA and all major airlines are more than welcome to utilize my (admittedly ground-breaking) suggestion.

Oh, yes. The convention itself was quite nice, too. People were still talking about the whole “guava paste is people” gag from last year. I’m told this may be the last Mad Media, and I certainly hope that’s not the case. I think it might have a shot a growing into something major, provided it gets the opportunity.

On the flight home, a child was whimpering nearby. I caught his eye, then pointed at the overhead compartment, and nodded significantly. He immediately quieted down. His mother saw, however, and tried to have me arrested.

True visionaries are always misunderstood.

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

 

Elfquest case follow-up

Originally published October 8, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1351

As of this writing, Hurricane Floyd is bearing down on my neck of the woods, so I’m not sure how much time I have to produce this column. Originally we had been assured that by the time it got here it would be downgraded to a tropical storm. Unfortunately, no one informed the hurricane of that.

Sometimes I truly wonder who’s more useless: weathermen who practice such an inexact science that they constantly get it wrong, or us because despite all the times they get it wrong, we still pay attention to them every time. It’s as if we all have terminal short-term memory problems.

So I’m going to try and be succinct and just do a few scattershot thoughts before running outside and battening down the garbage cans and barbeque…

Elfquest—Good News, Bad News Department: As you may recall, this column talked about how a dealer in back issues was hassled by local inept authorities for selling back issues of that paragon of profanity, Elfquest.

The bad news is that, boy, did I hear from every law enforcement official who reads this column, informing me that despite everything we’ve all been seeing in thirty years of watching cop shows, police indeed do not automatically read you your rights upon arrest. So when I expressed surprise that the local constabulary informed the defendant that they did not have to Mirandize him upon arrest—that they were not obligated to because they were not going to question him at that time—it turned out that, in fact, they were right. Wow. If you can’t count on cop shows to give you accurate depictions of law enforcement, what can you count on? Meteorologists, I guess. Oh… wait.

The good news is that I have been informed by Richard Pini, Elfquest publisher and head elf, that proceedings against the gentleman in question have been dropped. Apparently the case was thrown out of court. Which means that was another bullet which was dodged, and another assault on the First Amendment which was turned aside. Further good news is that the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund, which stepped in to provide legal aid in the successful defense of the gentleman in question, received a flurry of memberships and checks as a consequence of people learning about this individual’s plight.

What would be nice is if more people were supporting the CBLDF as a pre-emptive move rather than simply reacting when a comic that they themselves enjoyed finally became targeted. Why wait? Act now. We managed to help get this one punted, but who knows whether the next challenge (maybe to a comic you yourself read) will thrust us into a tougher and more sustained fight. The address for the CBLDF is www.cbldf.org.

* * *

Hurricane update: They keep saying that the Army National Guard has been “activated.” It gives me this mental image of all these soldiers lying in warehouses, inactive, their glassy eyes staring at nothing. Suddenly a surge of power goes through them and the National Guard guys snap to electronic life and parade out of the warehouse, ready to protect and serve.

I kind of like that, actually.

There’s something disconcerting about looking at weather maps on TV and seeing large animated clouds hovering directly over your place of residence.

I just had an electrical surge. Fortunately I’ve been saving as I write, but keeping my computer plugged in could be problematic. So I apologize for this rather short column. Hopefully we won’t be evacuated.

Stay dry.

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

 

Guest column: Bill Mumy

Originally published October 1, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1350–Special Peter David-themed issue

When I was informed that I was the theme of this issue, my first thought was, “Good lord, why?” My second thought was that writing the column for this issue might seem like overkill. I mentioned this to my long-time friend and writing partner, Bill Mumy, and Bill immediately volunteered to fill in. With a disturbing lack of trepidation, I said, “Sure.” Twenty-four hours and half a bottle of wine later, Mumy produced the following:

* * *

It was 1986. I read issue #2 of Marvel’s Mark Hazzard: Merc and wrote my first fan letter ever to the author, who happened to be Peter David. And he’s never let me forget it. To be completely honest, I haven’t re-read Merc #2 in thirteen years, and I don’t know if it would move me the way it did back then today. It probably wouldn’t. I most likely was ill at the time, probably dehydrated and running a high fever, and not responsible for my actions. But, I did indeed write that letter, and Peter continues to remind me of that fact every chance he gets.

Although my appreciation of Peter’s talents has only grown over the years that he and I have been friends and collaborators, (it couldn’t possibly sink any lower than it was when it started), I certainly can’t say that he wrote any better than Stan Lee or Gardner Fox or Joe Simon or Bill Finger or John Broome or any of a score of talented writers whose comic book work greatly inspired and excited me. But, for one reason or another, they never held me down and gave me an Indian burn like Peter did. Quite simply, he physically forced me to work with him. I suppose you could call it fate. Me, I just call it blackmail.

I have a fairly unique perspective on him. We have written comic books together—Star Trek, Lost in Space, The Spectre, and Aquaman—(as well as several others that are pending and literally hundreds that have been rejected multiple times by every known publisher in existence. We’ll keep pitching them though!) We’ve collaborated on short stories, “The Black ’59″ and “The Undeadliest Game,” for the anthologies, Shock Rock and Shock Rock II, which have been published all over the world—and perhaps most memorably, we’ve created and written many television screenplays together. Space Cases, was a TV series that ran for two seasons on Nickelodeon and was syndicated in over 60 countries. Peter and I created it, produced it, and wrote 18 of the 26 episodes that aired, and basically re-wrote or outlined the remaining 8. (We’d still be working on it today if Peter hadn’t insisted on videotaping a network executive, who shall remain anonymous, with that cute goat, and then showing it to the kids in the cast at the Christmas party.)

Recently we wrote an episode of the new animated series, Roswell Conspiracies. We also have a feature film in development called Overload, and several other projects for television and film that no one is interested in.

If there are two questions I hear everyday, it’s “Dad, can I have some money?” and, “What’s Peter David really like?” Well, I’m here to tell you, “No” and—Peter’s like a sock. At first he’s nice, soft, and warm, but after a little while, he starts to stink.

Seriously, I am writing this column today to share the inside scoop with you. Basically, besides his legendary skating and charity work, Peter wants to sing, dance, act, and bring back pogs. (He invested heavily in them five years ago—it’s not a good subject to discuss with him in person, believe me.) Sure, he writes, but he hates writing, really. It’s honestly just a way for him to enter the arenas that he truly longs to be in. Lately, he’s managed to force himself into acting gigs in theater productions such as L’il Abner and Caligula. Watch for him in a new musical adaptation of the classic McFarlane tragedy, I Sleep On The Couch, coming soon to a theater near you.

Despite despising the work, Peter is the single most prolific writer I know. Several years ago, before Peter’s standup comedy skating career took off, Mark Hamill, Miguel Ferrer and I mentioned to him casually one day that the three of us would love to find a vehicle we could all act in together.

One week later, he sent us a full length feature script he had “banged out” specifically for us called Cliffhangers. It was great. We all loved it. Everyone who read it loved it. Mel Brooks actually wanted to buy it and produce it. But Peter wouldn’t let him unless Mark, Miguel and I were attached to it in writing. Brooks said, “Bill who?” and passed.

To this day, Peter won’t let anyone option that script without the three of us being attached to it. See, he’s crazy. (And anyone who has ever seen or heard him perform live rock ‘n roll music with Seduction of the Innocent will testify to that.) Then again, perhaps the real reason he hasn’t let anyone else option it, is because no one has wanted to.

I’m absolutely positive that the true reason Peter co-created Space Cases with me was so that he could be in it. And of course, he was. (Rumors reverberate to this day about the wife of a studio executive being kidnapped until Peter was given the part of his choice, but I stress to you here that nothing’s ever been proven.) He played the pivotal part of Bova’s father, “Eeyore”. Without a doubt, that was the single most important role in the entire arc of the two seasons Space Cases was on the air.

The spinoff series, Lost in Space Cases, was actually green lighted and filming on the pilot had begun before Peter quit in a huff that the network refers to as “The Almond Croissant Clause.”

Like the enigmatic late-great Andy Kaufman, and poet rock star Jim Morrison, Peter David is a brunette.

Despite all his professional achievements and arrests, Peter has never given up his “day job”. He can still be found every Monday, Wednesday and Friday evening manning the fog machine for the exotic dancers at “Lou’s” in downtown Bayport. After hours, he volunteers at the Center for Wayward Ferrets. I know he doesn’t talk about that part of his life much, but that’s the kind of guy Peter really is.

Peter’s future is bright. With his skating skills, and Latin American fanbase, there’s just no holding him back.

I was asked not to venture into this controversial subject, but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t clear the air here: There have been many rumors regarding the real reason Peter quit writing The Incredible Hulk, a comic book he authored successfully for many, many years. Even Peter himself has offered up phony explanations to his fans in this column as an attempt to quell the barrage of inquiries regarding his departure.

Well, you’ll get the straight poop from me, folks. Peter quit the Hulk over the “color” issue. Marvel wanted the green Hulk. Peter wanted a hot pink one. After his success with the “tough guy gray Hulk”, Peter had designed a two year arc of stories for the character that transformed him into a gay, pink hued, glass blower. Marvel balked at the idea, as usual they were afraid of something truly original, and so Peter David, ever true to his muse, surrendered the title.

He’s not afraid of controversy, my friends. I once saw Peter with Paul Levitz and Marie Severin doing a rap medley of Peter Paul and Mary’s greatest hits at the Annual Image Comics Awards Show. It was… awesome.

Writer, father, singer, actor, dancer, fog machine innovator, skater, disturbed ferret healer, and… friend.

So, what have we truly learned today about this multifaceted talented man the world knows as David Peters? That he likes month-old frozen pizza? That he’d rather cut off your hand to make you more like the Aquaman he wrote, than cut off his own hand to make himself more like the Captain Hook he didn’t write? Can anyone truly say they understand the man who agreed to ghost write the autobiography of the second Flipper? Can we hope to fathom the depths of a being who once lifted a yellow taxi off the ground to retrieve a Zagnut candy bar that had fallen under it’s rear left wheel? I think not.

Similar to a Bob Burden character recently seen in a comic book turned feature film, Peter David has a spleen, and he passes gas.

Although I call him friend and partner, he calls me “Bill.” Peter remains a true mystery man. (Hey, by the way, don’t anyone tell Bob Burden that Mystery Men Comics originally came out in 1939, and he didn’t coin that title. We sure don’t want to upset that carrot cart.)

Now, I have to go re-read Mark Hazzard: Merc # 2.

And then I have some serious career evaluation to do.

The Hot Pink Hulk… think about it.

* * *

And the moral of the foregoing is: Friends can be a double-edged sword. At least, that’s what I hear. If I ever get any friends, I’ll judge at that point.

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

 

My daughter needs your POWER PACK help

My daughter Shana was interested in introducing one of her classes of kids to the world of comics. I recommended the original POWER PACK and she acquired the first trade paperback by Louise Simonson that came out in 2009.

She is reading it to her class and they love it. She decided that she’d love to get extra copies of the book for all the kids in her class, which would be thirty copies. But I just checked through my local comic store and they ran it through Diamond, and Diamond isn’t carrying it. Which makes me assume they’re out of print.

So it comes down to this: This is a school and a class and I’m looking for donations. If you have a copy of the first trade paperback and want to donate it, please send it to:

Shana David

Sun-Ray Cinema

1028 Park Street

Jacksonville, FL 32204

Thanks!

PAD

Coincidence in Fiction, Part 2

Originally published September 24, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1349

So we were busy last week ushering in the Marvel Age of non-coincidence, as espoused in the relaunches of mainstays such as Spider-Man and the Incredible Hulk. It had been the humble suggestion of BID that Marvel obtain the rights to Classics Illustrated (which shouldn’t be much of a stress; after all, they used to publish Marvel Collector Items Classics) and put John Byrne in charge so that he could work his magic touch on all those annoying literary coincidences which have plagued various works. Coincidence, happenstance—these are antithetical to quality comics stories, and the new MCI would do away with such unlikely circumstances as:

Marvel Classics Illustrated Presents: Tarzan of the Apes. So let’s get this straight: Kala the she-ape Just So Happens to lose a child (an infant ape which tumbles to its death when she is escaping an enraged bull ape) just in time to switch the baby’s skeleton with the crying and recently orphaned John Clayton (and future Tarzan). And later on in the book, Jane Porter Just So Happens to wind up in the exact same territory of Africa that Tarzan’s parents were abandoned, and even finds the cabin that was his birthplace. (And we never do figure out how Tarzan, who left a note for them warning them off, was able to spell out his name in the note considering that he did not learn oral reading or spelling. Since he couldn’t sound out any letters, he couldn’t transliterate his name.)

Just can’t buy into it? No problem. You see, the fact is that everything that occurs in Tarzan of the Apes, the new and improved Marvel version, is actually a diabolical scheme on the part of Professor Porter, working in tandem with D’Arnot, his secret homosexual lover, wherein they will manage to get Jane married off to the remaining Clayton (the other Clayton, not Tarzan), then have Tarzan kill him in a fit of animalistic jealousy, be condemned and executed, and Jane would then inherit all the Clayton estates and property.

Marvel Classics Illustrated Presents: Gulliver’s Travels. It’s absurd. How could it be that one man winds up shipwrecked on Lilliput, and then goes to place after place after place that no one else has ever been to—places that, upon close reading, come across like a send-up of society and all its foibles? No, the fact is that Gulliver is never cast ashore anywhere. While on the ship, Dr. Gulliver is experimenting with some new and fascinating painkillers based on opium. His experiments go awry, unfortunately, and he collapses to the deck and proceeds to have a series of the most incredible hallucinations and dreams that you have ever seen.

Marvel Classics Illustrated Presents: The Three Musketeers. D’Artagnan, through sheer impetuousness, Just So Happens to anger the three tightest Musketeers in the troop—Athos, Porthos and Aramis—so that they challenge him to a duel within hours of each other? Nope. Preposterous. Too unbelievably contrived for words.

In the vastly superior Marvel retelling, D’Artagnan does not simply come trotting in from Gascony as the naive innocent. No, far from it. D’Artagnan starts out in league with Richelieu, the manipulative Cardinal who schemes to make sure that the right to carry guns is in no way threatened. (Oh, wait, that’s Charlton Heston. Sorry.) D’Artagnan is, in fact, Richelieu’s right hand man, working in tandem with Roquefort in exchange for a year’s supply of Roquefort’s precious cheese stash. The plan is that D’Artagnan is to lure the Musketeers to the place where the duel is scheduled, whereupon the Cardinal’s men then arrests the Musketeers. It’s a win/win situation. If the Musketeers surrender, they’re under arrest. If they fight, they’re outnumbered and get killed.

However, what Richelieu does not reckon with is D’Artagnan’s being replaced by an amnesiac Skrull who, upon finding himself in the midst of a duel, automatically takes the side of those who are outnumbered. It is, in fact, the imposter who is by the side of the Musketeers for the majority of the book until the climactic confrontation whereupon the evil D’Artagnan is revealed for the cretin that he is, and—in an ironic twist—the good guy Skrull goes into hiding. However, his ability to duplicate someone else’s appearance is a deft set up for his return as the good Louis in The Man in the Iron Mask.

Marvel Classics Illustrated Presents: Huckleberry Finn. Just imagine: Huck Finn is on the run and Just So Happens to meet up with Jim, the slave, who is also on the run. Coincidence? I think not. Actually, it turns out at the end that the entire thing has been one massive practical joke set up by Tom Sawyer, Tom’s Aunt Polly, and Aunt Polly’s lover, Huck Finn’s father (who is, in fact, not a nasty brutish drunk but a pretty sweet guy who just acts tough because he has difficulty getting in touch with his feminine side). Concerned that Huck’s adventurous nature is going to get him in serious trouble some day, they orchestrate a series of events whereupon Huck gets to undergo a remarkable series of events—with Jim sent along secretly to keep an eye on him. In point of fact, Jim is not a slave at all, but a freed slave who is capable of perfectly good diction and just puts on that dialect in order to fool Huck. Having learned how dangerous the world is, Huck returns to Hannibal wiser and chastened, having finally gotten all that adventuring out of his system. The nice thing about the improved version in particular is that it eliminate all of the nasty controversial elements (the word “nigger” is replaced with the word “fella”) that have brought the book under fire all these years.

And then, of course, there’s the book that involves the biggest conspiracy theory of them all.

I mean, think of how vastly improved all these various stories have become when chance and happenstance have been eliminated, to be replaced by plots, plans, and elaborate intrigues. But there is one great work that, now that I think about it, wouldn’t have to be restructured at all. I mean, you may think that conspiracy theories are something new. That looking for some sort of reason behind the rhyme—no matter how tortured and unlikely—is a recent phenomenon. Not so. There is one impressive work that features the single most contrived and unlikely conspiracy of all, and people have been reading it for years. In fact, its underlying themes are so pervasive that it continues to inform the world we live in to this day. I am, of course, speaking of:

Marvel Classics Illustrated Presents: The Bible. Once upon a time, Greek plays hinged their resolution on the gods descending from Olympus in a large device and setting matters right. This was called deus ex machina, or “God From the Machine.” That may seem somewhat contrived from a literary point of view, but really, when you get down to it, the Supreme Being(s) is/are the ultimate catch-all and explanation for everything.

Conspiracy theories stem from trying to make sense of a world gone mad. A world where lone gunmen can hit their targets, or stupid accidents or human foibles can rob the world of beloved personalities—this is a world that is just too damned random. People intrinsically prefer order of some kind. Conspiracies bring order from the chaos.

Why is this happening, we ask? God’s will.

Why have fundamentally good people been made to suffer? God’s will.

From a literary point of view, it’s a spectacular dodge. Where else can you produce a work wherein the editor says, “Wait a minute… why is this happening?” And you can shrug and say, “Who can understand the workings of God?” “God’s ways are mysterious.” “There is a master plan at work, but we cannot begin to understand it.” (Much like any average issue of X-Men.)

And the Bible is the underpinning for the conspiracy theory of life that goes on to this day. People pray for the mercy and aid of a being who lets all the hideous things that prompted the calls for help to happen in the first place. It might be that all prayers, broken down to their essence, translate to, “Hey, c’mon, it’s enough already.” The Marvel Classics version of the Bible, with very little tweaking, can present God as a “malign thug” as Mark Twain once characterized him.

The fact is that mankind has been trying to make sense of the world long before the Grassy Knoll. Why is this happening, what’s going on, what’s up with that? And the answers always come back to: God or gods. Why is there lightning? Zeus is honked. Why is there an earthquake? Loki is writhing in agony.

John Byrne has very openly and publicly debated whether or not God exists. I’m not sure why. God should be more vigorously embraced by writers everywhere. The fact is that God, and all the acts of God that stem from His presence, can plug the hole of any story. God is tailor-made for the realms of both fiction and fact because He is such a glorious catch-all. In the final analysis, what else is God, really, but the biggest conspirator of all?

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

 

Coincidence in Fiction, Part 1

Originally published September 17, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1348

Happenstance vs. Conspiracies. Fate vs. Machinations. The Incredible Hulk Annual vs. Incredible Hulk #1. Save the first two for later, let’s look at the third.

Now, let’s be candid: You all know that I feel more of an emotional attachment to the Hulk than most other characters. And certainly John Byrne’s publicly expressed sentiments that my being forced from the title might be viewed as proof that “there is a God” didn’t exactly endear him to me. So the following is not exactly… how shall we say it… unbiased. Then again, it’s an opinion column, so what else is new? To say nothing of the fact that the title is burning up a considerable amount of bandwidth on the computer boards, so there must be something worth discussing here unmotivated by personal history.

In the Hulk ’99 Annual, we pay homage to the brand spanking new vision of the Hulk which is intended to serve John during his next decade or so on the book. From soup to nuts, changes are made to update and, presumably, improve on a story which has stood up with no complaints that I’m aware of for the last thirty-five years.

Betty is no longer allowed to be a young, relatively naive woman who is fascinated by the highly educated and sophisticated Banner. Indeed, the emotional attachment between the two, one a worldly intellectual scientist, the other a sheltered army brat who is making her first, tentative steps out from under her domineering father’s control—the emotional heart of the story—is MIA. Instead she is a scientist, savvy and tough, “Betty” in name only.

Likewise the weapon being tested is a gamma bomb in name only—in misnomer, actually. We are told, “It is the firing mechanism of a gamma laser, not a true explosive device.” Oh. “Bruce Banner, caught in the heart of the detonation of a firing mechanism of a gamma laser…” Yeah, that sounds better.

As for Rick Jones and Bruce Banner themselves—well, remember how back in the 1950s people were concerned about being Commie dupes? No longer. Rick and Bruce are, in fact, newly minted Skrull dupes. The Reds are out, the Greens are in. Igor the spy is now Igor the shape-shifted Skrull, as much of a participant in, and developer of, the gamma bomb—device—whatever—as Banner is. (Although admittedly, whenever you have an assistant named Igor on a fictional science project, you just know it’ll end in tears.) Rick Jones is no longer the cocky, harmonica-playing teen who snuck onto the army base on a dare, but instead is manipulated by a Skrull to prove his bravery in a way that provides almost no risk to himself (so he thinks). Plus, in the most X-Files-ish moment of the book, Bruce admits to Rick that he is privy to a massive Skrull plot which is “Something many men have worked hard to keep the world from knowing about… something you should be happy to remain ignorant about.” I daresay we all would, except the caption promises a “soul-shattering limited series” on that very topic later this year. Of course, for all we know, the series will be so spectacular that our souls will indeed be shattered. But did the Hulk’s origin have to be shattered as well?

Well, apparently when John’s running the show, yes, it does. Because to judge from both this and the Spider-Man reboot, John absolutely despises coincidence.

It couldn’t be that the burglar who broke into the Parker’s house just so happened to be the same guy who Spidey let pass earlier that evening. It had to be that the burglar had been drawn to Peter’s house after Uncle Ben purchased a computer, and saw Spider-Man emerge from the house, and one thing led to another to the point where Ben’s death was not an unhappy turn of events, but in fact virtually pre-destined from the moment the story began. Likewise, it couldn’t be that Rick Jones just so happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Bruce had the poor judgment to have a spy on staff who didn’t bother to stop the detonation. In the world of John Byrne, coincidence, happenstance, and bottom line crappy luck are simply no longer permissible in the stories of people’s lives. Instead, earthbound (or alien earthbound) forces must be put meticulously into place so that the outcome is predestined, not by fate, but by actions directly attributable to evil forces that the heroes know nothing about until it’s too late. Right. And Barry Allen was hit by a lightning bolt sent by Mopee.

However, it may very well be that John is on to something here. After all, too much contrivance winds up producing bad fiction. The thing is, fans get very passionate when comic book origins are tampered with, because such tampering inevitably has ramifications for all the issues down the line.

This tends to drive fans nuts. This would be okay if it were a DC book because then you could just shout, “Continuity” to which the reply would be “Hypertime!” which is the fannish equivalent of “Marco! Polo!” But Marvel doesn’t have Hypertime as its convenient catch-all. The closest equivalent it ever had was Roy Thomas. You’ve heard of the Anti-Monitor? Roy’s the Anti-Hypertime, actually capable of pulling diverse and contradictory origins together in a deft “I meant to do that” fashion. Can’t dovetail Marvel’s origins with the cold war anymore? Screw this revisionist Skrull stuff: Unleash Roy Thomas, aided and abetted by Peter Sanderson, and watch ‘em go.

But what to do with John? The answer is easy: Marvel should pick up the license for Classics Illustrated and put him in charge of the line.

It’s the perfect venue. Fans may get exorcised by changes to comic origins, but by and large, they won’t give a damn about classic works of literature. If Hollywood can give happy endings to The Scarlet Letter and Les Miserables, John can certainly be allowed to work his magic on those nasty, coincidence-heavy classics and have them make sense to an entirely new readership who, chances are, never read them in the first place.

Just imagine:

Marvel Classics Illustrated Presents: Romeo and Juliet. If Friar Laurence’s missive to Romeo informing him of Juliet’s faked death had gotten to Romeo in time, the play would have ended happily. Bad luck? Star-crossed lovers? Like hell: In the MCI version, there is actually an evil organization which makes certain that key pieces of information are withheld from powerful individuals so that everyone actually comes to a bad end, thus enabling the cabal to secure its own power and accomplish its own diabolical plans. Members of the organization can be identified by the fact that they’re named after a city. In Romeo and Juliet, it is in fact the diabolical County Paris who makes sure that the message does not get to Romeo. We also see their evil machinations in King Lear where vital information is withheld until the damage is done. Who withholds that info? The Duke of Albany. Albany. Paris. Coincidence? I think not.

Marvel Classics Illustrated Presents: Les Miserables. How in the hell does Javert keep running into Jean Valjean? After all, Jean Valjean lives his entire life without finding out what happened to his sister, or bumping into her so much as once. Yet happenstance crosses Javert’s and Valjean’s path repeatedly. Why so? As it turns out, Valjean’s sister is, in fact, behind it all. Angry because her brother was so incompetent that he couldn’t even steal a loaf of bread without getting nailed for it, thus leaving her and her kids hungry, Valjean’s sister sets up a vast spy network developed solely to keep tabs on her idiot brother. As soon as she receives any word on his whereabouts, she arranges matters so that Javert is sure to find him once again.

Marvel Classics Illustrated Presents: Oliver Twist. So there’s Oliver on his first excursion with the Artful Dodger, and Oliver Just So Happens to be wrongfully accused of stealing from a gentleman who Just So Happens to be his grandfather. What are the odds, I ask you? Slim-to-none, certainly. No, we now learn that the entire situation was in fact planned by a little remembered member of Fagin’s band who accompanied the Dodger and Oliver on the unfortunate excursion. His name? Charley Bates. His reason? Anger over his name. Everyone else has cool names like “Dodger” and “Twist.” What’s he got? Charley Bates, whom Dickens refers to repeatedly as “Master Bates.” (Don’t yell at me, it’s in the book.) Angered over the blows fate has dealt him, Charley Bates remains in the background. As his name would imply, he is a master manipulator, determined to bring down Bill Sikes and Fagin just out of sheer hostility. He makes sure to put everyone in the right place at the right time, bringing both Sikes and Fagin to their unfortunate end. (No, Fagin doesn’t go dancing away with the Dodger as in the movie; in the book, the charmingly titled chapter, “The Jew’s Last Night Alive” should give you some clue as to his original fate.)

More titles improved in accordance with the new Marvel vision, as well as the greatest conspiracy theory of all, next week.

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

 

So here’s my question about “Ender’s Game”

Just came back from the film and I’m left wondering one thing:

Will SF fans have the balls to nominate it for a Hugo?

In a landscape where PC and boycotts dominate, will the fans have the nerve to see that this is, with the possible exception of Gravity, the best SF film to come out this year? It should be up for best dramatic presentation. If anyone else’s name than Card’s were attached, it would be. It was simply wonderful. So will the fans be able to do what’s right or won’t they?

PAD

“Enders Game” Boycotts

A few years ago, I wrote a video game called “Shadow Complex.” It was based on a tie-in novel by Orson Scott Card. You remember him: Mr. Anti-Gay. Now the novel had nothing to do with gays or any of Card’s more dubious beliefs.

Nevertheless, the fact that I was associated with Card at all prompted people to cry out for boycotts of not only the video game, but of all my work. X-Factor, Dark Tower, my novels: everything was to be avoided because I had dared to have anything to do with someone that had been designated a pariah, not because of his work, but because of his opinions and where he chose to spend his money.

How in God’s name boycotting X-Factor to protest Card made any sense at all…well, the answer lay within the skulls of those who were organizing it, I guess. Never made any sense to me.

And now, of course, the cries for boycott are sounding again as “Enders Game” opens today. That’s just what Harrison Ford and Asa Butterfield need for their careers: people refusing to see a movie because they (rightfully) disagree with the writer’s opinions. Even though those opinions aren’t reflected in the film. Even though his deal is structured in such a way that he will make no money from the film no matter how much BO it generates.

Screw that. We’re seeing “Enders Game” this weekend. Personally I don’t care; I’ve never read the book. But Kathleen did and loves it, so we’re going. We’ll also likely be seeing “12 Years a Slave” and “Last Vegas” as well. And we have no idea of the political opinions of anyone involved. Not sure how it’s relevant.

PAD

PAD and the CCA

Originally published September 10, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1347

So there I was, working on the plot for Young Justice #4. It was intended to be a startling opening sequence, in which the character Arrowette is depicted having been gravely wounded, with an arrow protruding from her shoulder. For a series that had garnered a reputation for tongue-in-cheek silliness, it was to be a departure. A signal to the reader that the title should not be taken for granted. That it was capable of changing mood at a moment’s notice. I didn’t want anyone to get too comfortable, because nowadays, once readers figure they have a bead on you, that’s when you become disposable.

What was uppermost on my mind in working out the sequence, you may ask? Was it the impact it would have on the reader? The shock value? The drastic means taken to introduce Arrowette (plus the other girls) into the series?

Nope.

It was the Comics Code Authority.

For the CCA has an immutable rule, you see. No exit wounds. Although you can show bullets, for instance, entering a body, you can’t show it exiting. Nor can bladed weapons or anything else that punctures the human body be depicted as going out the opposite side of where it went in.

A writer has a variety of responsibilities, particularly when working on something that’s work for hire. First and foremost, of course, he has to please himself. If what’s produced via the old word processor doesn’t meet with the writer’s approval, it shouldn’t get any further than that. No writer has any business turning in substandard work to the editor.

But another of the writer’s chores is that he has to make sure that he presents the editor with something publishable. Aside from a certain baseline of quality that “publishable” entails, one also has to be aware of what will and will not fly within the strictures of the work. And I knew that the CCA had certain big no-nos. That’s why Elektra’s sais were capable of puncturing the back of a chair in a theatre, and the torso (through ribcage, musculature, etc.) of an adult male, but somehow couldn’t penetrate the front of a cotton shirt.

The most powerful way to kick off YJ #4 would have been to show Arrowette with the arrow going in the front of her shoulder and out the back. But I knew I couldn’t. That’s the power of censorious organizations, you see. They produce a sort of creative chill, so that the creator is prompted to short circuit his own thought process for the sake of avoiding hassles. And I just didn’t feel like hassling with the CCA, the organization that major publishers embrace in the continued spirit of self-censorship, as if the tattered umbrella of the CCA would offer one shred of substantial protection when the censors come.

The last time I’d gotten grief from the CCA was in an issue of Justice League Task Force. In that two-parter—something of a gender-bending send-up of the works of Edgar Rice Burroughs and H. Rider Haggard—the JLTF finds a subterranean race of Amazon-esque (not to be confused with Amazonian) green-skinned women. For reasons too convoluted to go into, J’onn J’onzz, the Martian Manhunter, had shape-shifted himself to become J’oan J’onzz, the Martian Womanhunter. The leader of the green-skinned women becomes enamored of J’oan. Unaware of J’oan’s true “persuasion,” the leader proclaims that J’oan will become her mate. The wedding was held in part two.

And we were told they couldn’t kiss. The CCA refused to allow the depiction of “two females kissing.”

“Now, wait a minute,” we replied. “It isn’t two women. One of them is J’onn J’onzz, basically in drag.”

Nope. Wouldn’t fly. The CCA absolutely, positively refused to let it through. “Can’t show two women kissing,” we were told. “But it’s not two women!” we tried to say. It didn’t penetrate, or they didn’t care.

As a consequence, the sequence had to be drawn in such a way that the kiss wasn’t actually shown. The artwork was cropped accordingly. And I was left shaking my head at the silliness of it all. There was nothing especially erotic or prurient about the sequence. It was basically a comedic story.

And it wasn’t two women.

Then there was the time when, in the pages of Incredible Hulk, the character Marlo had been stabbed. She lay there on the ground, covered with… black blood. “No red blood,” I was told the CCA had decreed. It looked like Marlo was bleeding India ink. When fans asked me about it (and they did) I explained it was because Marlo was a comic book character, so naturally she’d be bleeding ink.

My brush ups with the power of the CCA had left me aware that their hand extended to all manner of story sequences, and the last thing I felt like doing in planning YJ #4 was putting us squarely in the CCA’s path again.

So in constructing the sequence, I indicated that the splash page should begin with a close-up shot of an arrow head, tinted with blood. In the following pages, we would then pull back to show Arrowette sagging with the arrow shaft lodged in her. But we would never actually show the other side protruding from her. Thus did I choose to go with a less effective, but “safer” means of storytelling.

Editor Eddie Berganza disagreed. I got the art pages back and flipped. There, in all its violent, bloody glory, was Miss Arrowette shown staggering back against a wall with an arrow sticking out her back. Gone was my subtle close-ups and careful cutting around. Here was a sequence that I was positive was going to get flagged by the Comics Code. It was a flagrant violation of years’ worth of prohibitions.

It was needlessly seeking out trouble, and I told Eddie so, repeatedly. Loudly. In writing. How could he possibly think we would get away with this? It was crazy. Just pure craziness. To try and alleviate as much of the damage as possible, I slapped word balloons over the protruding arrowhead in order to hide it. Eddie moved the balloons so that the arrow was in full view. I couldn’t understand it. Why was he going out of his way in order to produce a sequence that was going to get punted.

It went through.

No problems.

The book came out, and there was Arrowette with the fully visible arrow—and red blood on it, to boot.

The scene exactly the way I would have liked to do it, except I was so certain that the CCA would stomp on it, that I didn’t even bother to try it.

It’s not like I’m a shrinking violet when it comes to making my views on censorship known. It’s not as if I haven’t been willing to fight for my creative vision. But when it came to this sequence, I was so sure I “knew” what the CCA would and wouldn’t allow, that I censored myself and wrote the sequence less effectively than it could, and should, have been, only to have it corrected by the editor.

We have been told (mostly by CCA reps) that the formation of the CCA was single-handedly responsible for saving the comic book industry. That could be debated, I suppose. But let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that these reps are correct. That forty-plus years ago, the CCA somehow, through some amazing way, provided the ability for publishers to keep publishing.

Forty-plus years ago, my parents were responsible for me. Took care of me, fed me, nurtured me. And I will appreciate that forever. But my mom’s not still cutting my food for me. My dad isn’t looking over my reading material and saying, “Nope, sorry, that’s not appropriate.” Sooner or later, one has to cut the ties. Move on. Say, “So long, and thanks for all the fish.”

The industry has moved beyond the CCA. Elfquest comes under attack for sequences that, if submitted to the CCA, would have sailed through. There’s too many titles that don’t subscribe to the CCA in the first place. And in the articles that I read condemning violent comic books after recent shootings in high schools, I don’t recall seeing any journalists proclaiming, “But thank God the CCA is there, protecting us from having things get really bad.” Granted, I didn’t read every article; but I sure did hear quite a bit about violent comics and nothing about the exacting standards to which the CCA holds various titles. Thank heavens America’s youth was protected from seeing a disguised Martian Manhunter kissing a green skinned subterranean woman; who knows how many kids were saved because of it.

Whatever the CCA accomplished, for good or ill decades ago, it’s time for the publishers to grow up and cut the old apron strings. While on the one hand censors heat up the world for comic books, at the same time the CCA is there to provide a chill. In the immortal words of Miss Adelaide: A person could develop a cold.

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