Peter David's Blog, page 63

Advance cover for X-Factor #3

Marvel was kind enough to let me post this cover on my website ahead of previews. Enjoy!

Movie reviews: Mystery Men, The Iron Giant

Originally published September 3, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1346

“No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”

–John Donne, “Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions”

There are two movies out at the moment, one squarely comic book related, the other tangentially related, both of which serve to remind me of my earliest days of comic reading. Specifically, what heroes were about, or at least what they were supposed to be about.

The first, as I’m sure you can surmise, is Mystery Men. Based upon the Bob Burden characters introduced into the inimitable Flaming Carrot, the Mystery Men (and woman) are the blue collar heroes. The “other guys,” the “superhero wannabes,” playing distinct second and third fiddle in Champion City while the activities of Captain Amazing garners the universal praise of the Champion Citizens. The Mystery Men, like the Rodney Dangerfields of the superhero game, don’t get no respect.

The most stalwart of them, the Shoveler (William H. Macy, who brings sincerity and quiet dignity to every role he plays) is gently told by his wife that he’s a good husband and father, “but that’s all.” The most deliriously bizarre, the Blue Rajah (Hank Azaria, never better served by his incredible knack for offbeat dialects) hides his predilection for tossing cutlery (forks and spoons only) from his mother. Mr. Furious (Ben Stiller), is Bruce Banner sans Hulk, a ninety-pound weakling who, when enraged, becomes an enraged ninety pound weakling who is informed by a prospective romantic interest, “I don’t find you threatening. At all.” Indeed, the biggest wannabe of them all, Invisible Boy (Kell Mitchell) is convinced he can become invisible precisely because no one ever pays attention to him. The lack of respect he receives is where he draws his questionable strength from.

However, when Captain Amazing (Greg Kinnear, rarely more wonderfully smug) is taken captive by the fiendish and dementedly named Casanova Frankenstein (played by Geoffrey Rush, who appears to be having entirely too much fun), it is up to the Mystery Men to step in and try, at least, to save the day. And as opposed to most superhero films, there is serious doubt much—indeed, all—of the time that they will succeed in their endeavors.

The thing is, the comparisons the film draws on its surface between Captain Amazing and the Mystery Men is that the former is ultra-competent while the latter are misfits, idiots, boobs who go into a battle and wind up with wedgies, bruises and bloody noses. But looking beneath the surface, one sees different philosophies in action. For Captain Amazing’s priorities from the beginning center around himself. He is a walking advertisement for an assortment of licensees, ambulatory product placement with logos stuck all over his uniform. When he handily disposes of roughnecks who terrorize the residents of a nursing home, he doesn’t give a damn about the people he’s helped. Instead he focuses on how the headlines are going to look, and despairs to his publicist that he’s not going to come across as sufficiently heroic by such low-level stunts. (“I’m a publicist, not a magician,” retorts the publicist, played naturally by Ricky Jay the magician. How did Penn Gillette miss out on this role?)

Indeed, Captain Amazing cares so little about the safety of Champion City’s citizenry that he actually engineers the escape of Casanova Frankenstein just so that he can have someone sufficiently high-profile to battle.

By contrast, the Mystery Men battle evildoers out of a compulsion to aid their fellow citizens, even though those same fellows feel that the Mystery Men are a waste of superhero space. They are personifications of the words of Edmund Burke: “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” Despite the beatings they take, despite the scorn with which they are greeted, what makes the Mystery Men special is not their costumes, not their powers (or lack thereof) but instead the simple and unshakeable belief that they are needed. And because they feel they are needed, they cannot—will not—turn away. In a world that has come through the “Me” Generation, or individuals who espouse philosophies that put oneself before anyone else, the Mystery Men realize the interdependence of society. The Shoveler is not only able to see a “gift from God” in his relatively meager abilities (“I shovel well!”), but he sees the innate goodness and hints of heroism in everyone, from the largest to the smallest.

The problem with so many comics is that the battles center around hero vs. villain, to the degree that the original point of superheroes becomes lost: namely, to protect and serve the people on an elevated scale. A few heroes have never lost sight of that, most particularly Superman. The mark of a superhero, I guess, is that to the people he or she protects, life without him or her would be unthinkable. Citizens should be wondering how they ever got along before whoever-it-is came along.

If there is a second Mystery Men film, my feeling (for what that’s worth) is that it should focus on the hazards of fame as promises of riches and endorsement tempt the Mystery Men down the same road that so corrupted everything that Captain Amazing presumably tried to be at the beginning of his career.

Speaking of Superman…

The Iron Giant, the brilliantly animated feature film about the relationship between a young boy, Hogarth, and a nameless alien/sentient robot who comes to earth in 1957, at the height of the Red Scare, draws some of its inspiration from the Superman of that time. There’s stuff in the film that will go right past young readers of today, but will draw guffaws from viewers old enough to remember when we were taught that, should a nuclear strike be imminent, hiding under our desks would somehow increase our survival chances. (Kids nowadays who have accurate images of nuclear blasts emblazoned in their memory thanks to Terminator II will probably wonder how anyone could have been that naive.)

At one point, Hogarth attempts to explain to the (misunderstood, naturally) giant that although others might view him as a monster and menace, actually he is one of the good guys: like Superman, to be specific. The giant takes the message so much to heart that he even fashions an “S” emblem for himself. (What did you expect? It’s a Warners Film.)

What Hogarth teaches the giant—indeed, what makes not only Superman heroic but a hero heroic, as far as the lad is concerned—is a respect for the sanctity of life, and the belief that one should not, must not, kill. That if one is going to aspire to be Superman-esque, one is accepting a code of conduct and behavior that abides by the simple commandment, Thou Shalt Not Kill. The Iron Giant draws his inspiration and, indeed, his moral code, from the greatest superhero of them all.

It’s particularly apt, especially with the recent issue of CBG celebrating the anniversary of the Punisher fresh in my mind. The Punisher did what he did, not to serve the commonweal except in the most oblique of terms, but rather simply to hurt and/or kill as many bad guys as he could. His motivations were almost sadistic rather than altruistic.

(As an aside—in that issue, I referred to Jo Duffy as “the hardest working man in comics.” It’s come to my attention that some folks might not realize it’s a kind of running gag between Jo and myself. She’s spoken of how some fans refer to her as “that Jo Duffy guy,” particularly in stating, “That Jo Duffy guy sure knows how to write great Punisher stories. A real man’s man, that Jo.” So, please don’t bother writing in and telling me I don’t know Jo’s female, because I kinda do. But I digress…)

That may be part of why people believe that superheroes are on the wane. Because as superhero stories become more and more about good guys in suits beating up on evil guys in suits, they lose their grounding in the real world. And it’s that grounding that gives the reader their interest in the fates of the characters, their gateway into the world in which the superdoers live. If issue after issue is about heroes and villains, who really cares? Audiences want something to which they can relate directly.

Even TV series that were about bigger than life characters weren’t really about them. In Dallas, for instance, the real draw wasn’t just the super-rich Ewings. The draw was that here were these people who had more money, more property, more opportunities for sex than most mere mortals can hope for—and they were all miserable. For those of us who will never have a tenth of the privileges of the Ewings, seeing that money didn’t buy happiness was something of a sop. It made having less feel better when we saw that those with more were emotionally worse off than we were.

Mystery Men and The Iron Giant, at their cores, are tales of the strength of the human heart. No matter how high they fly, or how outlandish the schemes of the villain may be, the spirit of simply, purely doing good is never lost. It may grow dim from time to time as the plot unfolds, but it never disappears.

Let’s hope it never disappears from the real world as well.

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

 

Waiting for Godot

So I saw “Waiting for Godot” last night with Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellan. Oh, and Doctor Manhattan (Billy Crudup) as well. Kathleen has stage managed three productions of it and so this play meant a lot to her.

It was the first time I’d seen it. Here’s my spoiler free review:

WTF?

Seriously. What the hell was THAT about?

I am happy to award a brand spanking new Peter David WTF award to the best explanation.

PAD

Elfquest Under Attack

Originally published August 27, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1345

It always gives one a nice, tidy, false sense of security to think that the only comic books which undergo attacks by watchdogs or misguided individuals with no clue as to what the First Amendment is all about, are those comics that somehow “deserve” to have it happen. Over-the-top porn, raging obscenity, stories that seem to encourage violence towards women or in some other way make you feel ever so slightly unclean just for having to defend it.

I want to welcome you, then, to the latest case to fall into the docket of the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund, as a part-time dealer in comic books—selling them at flea markets—finds himself facing two counts of trafficking in selling obscene material to minors. The name of the ever-so-foul comic that this scumwad was dealing?

Elfquest.

Yes, that’s right, that watershed title notoriously rife with all manner of perversity.

I bet I know what you’re thinking. The protectors of morality finally caught up with the elf orgy issue from fifteen years ago. Sorry, wrong answer. According to WaRP Graphics publisher Richard Pini, the only fallout that ever occurred from that issue was that it was banned in that bastion of free thought, Singapore. No, the offender this time is one of the spin off titles, Elfquest: New Blood, issues #5 and 6.

In consideration of the accused individual’s concerns, I am withholding both his name and the location in our beloved country where this current travesty is going on.

Here’s what happened. And I guarantee that, no matter how strange you think the following is at any given point, it gets progressively stranger.

We will call the lucky individual Bob. Bob is married, has never been arrested, has a respectable job and has thus far been a perfectly creditable member of the not-overlarge community in which he resides. A self-described “kid magnet,” he’s always had a friendly relationship with neighborhood kids and vice versa. As a sideline, Bob sells old comic books at flea markets.

One fine day, Bob took his stock to a flea market and, unfortunately, didn’t sell a single book. Some two weeks later, he finally got around to unloading his car. Several neighborhood children spotted the comics and expressed interest in purchasing them. He sold them to the kids for the princely sum of a quarter each. We’ll call one of the kids Mike and the other Roger.

Mike returned to Bob a few hours later, telling him that his mother had said he couldn’t keep the comic. Bob refunded the kid’s two bits and asked that the comic be returned.

At that point, things started to get quite interesting. For Bob’s next door neighbor, whom we shall call Grandpa, started yelling at him, demanding that Bob come over and talk to him about Bob’s “selling trash” to neighborhood children. Young Roger lives with Grandpa, and Grandpa was taking issue with the comics in question, particularly issues #5 and #6 of New Blood.

Bob chose to ignore the challenging and increasingly belligerent tone of Grandpa, because there was a history of bad blood between the two of them. Why? Because Roger, who lived with Grandpa, was Bob’s son.

Yes, you read that correctly.

Bob had become involved some years earlier with Roger’s mother, and together they had had a son. But the relationship had dissolved shortly thereafter. Nevertheless, Bob had always been upfront in acknowledging paternity of the child and had provided child support. Roger and his mother had been residing in another state, but the mother had lately been having personal difficulties, and Roger had come to live with his grandfather while his mother, hopefully, sorted things out. As a consequence, Grandpa was not exactly Bob’s biggest fan. Indeed, they had not spoken in years. So when Grandpa tried to pick a fight, Bob didn’t rise to the bait. Even Grandpa’s increasingly loud provocation, calling Bob a “pervert,” didn’t get a rise out of him. Bob simply chalked it up to the stress Grandpa was feeling from the current personal situation with his daughter and grandson.

Apparently Bob underestimated him.

Not too long afterward, a little after midnight, Bob was awoken from a sound sleep by a pounding at the door. Two people were at the door, one of them a uniform cop, the other an unidentified man in plain clothes. The uniform cop served him with two warrants and arrested him—although amazingly, he explicitly refused to read Bob his rights. The cop was described as being “cordial.” His explanation for refusing to provide the Miranda-guaranteed rights that have been SOP for more than thirty years was, “I’m not going to read you your rights, because I’m not going to be asking you about the charges.” Who knows: Maybe the cop was an Elfquest fan who felt that, by refusing to read Bob his rights, he was guaranteeing that the arrest wouldn’t stick.

The warrants were for two counts of distributing obscene materials to minors. Grandpa had pressed charges not only on behalf of his grandson (Bob’s son, remember) but also on behalf of the other boy, Mike, even though Mike’s own parents had refused to do so. The warrants had been signed by a local magistrate who was (a) a high school graduate (wow!), and (b) apparently unfamiliar with the most basic requirements for local tests of obscenity. Bob got to spend the night in jail (in the hallway, since the cells were overcrowded).

Later that morning, he was brought before another magistrate who finally got around reading him his rights, and told him that he faced two misdemeanor counts which carried jail sentences of six months each and/or a fine of up to $500 on each count. Bob’s father put a surety bond on his house for $5,000, and Bob was released from jail between 11 and 11:30am. The preliminary hearing is/was slated for August 10, and it is the hope of the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund—which has been called in to aid with Bob’s defense—that the matter will be kicked right then. But any lawyer will tell you that as soon as you go before a judge, absolutely anything can happen.

Richard Pini—who has referred to this event as one of the most, if not the most, bizarre things he has ever encountered in the history of Elfquest—was kind enough to fax over to me the “obscene” pages in question.

What was the subject of the “obscenity,” you might ask?

Birth. In both issues #5 and #6, a birth sequence is depicted. There is no blood or gore. There is no exposure of “naughty bits,” with strategically placed legs, heads or shadows blocking out any direct view. There is no appeal to prurient interest. There is no flagrant display of genitalia. The ultimate test: the pages (issue #5, pages 16 and 17, and #6, pages 5 through 7) could be run in Comics Buyer’s Guide without concern. There is artistic merit in the two tastefully done sequences. It’s about as erotic and obscene as Lucy and Ricky Ricardo’s bedroom. But the seller of the two issues faces a year in prison and a thousand dollars in fine. Even if the matter is kicked, you just know that his legal fees will run as much as the fines would have, at least.

And that’s where the CBLDF comes in, as we are getting behind this gentleman, providing both our legal and financial resources.

Because this scenario, as twisted and bizarre as it may seem, is actually all too typical. Oftentimes those who are trying to nail comics to the wall are doing so in order to further some personal agenda, be it religious groups lobbying for power, eager-beaver District Attorneys hoping to run on their conviction records, or—in this instance—an angry grandfather working out a grudge against the father of his grandson. For those who still labor under the delusion that the First Amendment does not require constant defense, keep in mind just how easily Grandpa was able to push the matter as far as he did.

Once again, comics have become nothing more than a simple tool in a campaign of suppression. Elfquest, one of the most acclaimed fantasy series in comics history, is targeted as part of a vendetta. And for every successful persecution, or disruption of someone’s life just because they sold comic books, our little industry gets that much more of a chill.

If you have any appreciation for Elfquest, or any concern that someday it might be a comic that you had previously thought safe, please take this opportunity to send a donation to the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund: 255 W. 36th St., Suite 501, New York, NY 10018.

I’ll keep you apprised of the outcome of the case. Let’s all hope that it turns out the way it should—and wonder just how and why it got as far as it did.

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

 

The Punisher

Originally published August 20, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1344

There are two characters in comics whom I have written and never want to take another try at. This isn’t to say that the characters are necessarily bad, or that other writers with a far greater affinity for them couldn’t producer cracking good stories for them. Indeed, writers whose work I have nothing but respect for have done exactly that. Nevertheless, I personally have no affinity for the characters whatsoever.

The first is Lobo.

I realized this with some degree of alarm when I had already made plans to have him guest-star in Aquaman. I found that although I was able to plot a story in which he was involved, once I got to the scripting stage, I couldn’t get into his head at all. It made, for me, composition of his dialogue tedious, bordering on impossible. Fans seemed pretty accepting of my take on the character, so I imagine I didn’t leave too many people bitterly disappointed. Nevertheless, I felt out of touch with him; I felt as if I were scripting him from a great distance. I just couldn’t relate to him in any way, shape or form. As a result, I felt that my work on him had a rote, by-the-numbers feel, and vowed to steer clear of him from that point on.

The other is the Punisher.

I’ve wound up handling the character four times, and only once did I really have any fun.

The first two occasions are somewhat hazy to me. Believe it or not, there are many comics that I barely remember, even though I wrote them. This will come, I know, as a major shock to fans, who apparently believe that I (and other writers) possess an encyclopedic knowledge of every comic ever produced with our name on it. I remember once when a friend and I walked into a comic store and—frankly, to my mortification, because I just went in to buy comics, not get an ego boost—my friend informed the store owners who I was. The proprietors didn’t believe my friend’s claims and started asking me trivia questions about my career. They stumped me in two seconds flat. How the hell was I supposed to know which was my first issue of Dreadstar? (And I just know that there are people reading this who know that bit of information off the top of their head.) So I’d appreciate your patience with my hazy memory on the subject.

My first involvement with the Punisher was when an editor asked me to contribute a ten pager or something like that to a Punisher annual. I tried to figure out how I could do a story that would somehow be unusual, and finally hit upon something a little different: It would be a story where the Punisher winds up not killing anybody. In order to turn the formula around, the Punisher winds up owing his life to a criminal and, consequently, has trouble with his intended mission.

My second go-around with the Punisher, I have even less recollection of. It was a full-length story, it was another annual, it had something to do with a big crossover and, I think, a computer virus, and I was assigned to take it on because at that time different Marvel books had been grouped into “families.” There was the Spider-Man family, the X-Men family, the Avengers family, and so on. The Punisher, along with the Hulk and other titles, had been grouped into what could best be termed the Outcast family. The books that had no strong association with other titles, and so they lumped these disparate titles together and tried to say that the fact that they had nothing whatsoever to do with each other was, in fact, the tie that bound. Which was nonsense, of course, but go try to argue with editorial dictate (God knows I have).

So that particular year, they had all the writers of the Outcast titles (for want of a better phrase) round robin on the annuals, and I—lucky duck—got Punisher. I think I’ve blanked the story out of my mind. Certainly no one’s had me autograph the stupid thing in about ten years, so it’s not uppermost in my memory banks.

And one other time he showed up later in my run on the Hulk during a crossover storyline wherein the Punisher was running amok in New York.

But that was the second time I used him in Hulk. The first time was also the only time I got any amusement value out of the Punisher, because I played him for laughs.

For years during my run, fans begged me to do a Hulk vs. Punisher story. I tried to explain to them that the notion of Hulk vs. Punisher was inherently absurd because the power levels of the characters was so disparate. Basically, I would say, Punisher fighting the Hulk would go something like this:

The Punisher keeps shooting until he’s out of ammunition, at which point the Hulk hits him. End of fight. I didn’t really see a lot of room for give-and-take there. Not exactly one of the more see-saw battles one could come up with.

In any event, it was during my run with the marvelous Dale Keown. Before Dale had come on board, I’d done a series of stories in which the Hulk was spending his time as a leg breaker in Las Vegas, going under the name “Mr. Fixit.” My artist at the time, Jeff Purves, was a very talented penciler, but somehow he never quite got Mr. Fixit right, and as a consequence the stories were never as good as they could have been. Jeff’s real strength was fantasy realms: Case in point, we did a two-parter set in Jarella’s world, and his pencils looked stupendous. He begged me to do a whole year’s worth of stories there, having finally gotten plots that were smack in his element. The Fixit stories, I think, never really moved him.

Dale, on the other hand, was a more versatile artist, and while we were on a Hulk promotional tour (back when Marvel did promotional tours) that took us through Las Vegas, I suggested to Dale that we do a two-parter set back in America’s premiere gambling nirvana. He readily agreed and did sketches for reference while we were out there. We then embarked upon the planned two-parter and Dale just nailed “Mr. Fixit” the moment the Hulk appeared on panel in his pin-striped suit. I looked at the pencil pages and shouted, “Yes! Yes! That’s what he looks like!”

I also decided that, since we were doing a story involving criminals in Las Vegas, that it was the appropriate environment to bring in the Punisher, finally, as per the unceasing fan requests. And I staged the battle exactly as I said I would. The Punisher—initially unaware that he’s firing on the Hulk—lets rip with heavy duty weaponry in an effort to cut down the formidable Mr. Fixit right where he stands. (Although the Punisher’s entrance line was edited out. Believe it or not, I had the Punisher kick open the back door of the van he was hiding in, announce, “You’ve just crapped out,” and open fire. I was told I couldn’t have him say, “crapped out.” Even though they were in Las Vegas, even though it was a gambling term, even though it had nothing whatsoever to do with excrement, they still wouldn’t let me use the phrase.)

So the Hulk slowly advances on him, his nice suit being shredded, but otherwise not being slowed in the least. He draws to within a foot of the Punisher, reaches out, crushes his machine gun, looms over him as only the Hulk (and possibly Jim Shooter) can loom and rumbles, “No. Don’t say anything. I want to remember you like this.” And then he hits him, although we didn’t actually see it.

That, and the conclusion of the two-parter, was my involvement with the Punisher.

I know the Punisher had a ton of fans there for a while, particularly during the heady boom-and-bust days a few years ago. I will never forget the Marvel editor who stomped around the office all unhappy because the first issue of Punisher War Journal had sold only half a million copies. Only half a million copies. God, those were the days.

Why did I never really warm to the character? Perhaps it was the ruthlessly imitative nature of the origin. “Let’s do the Executioner, let’s do Death Wish in a comic.” Perhaps it was the inherent lack of imagination in the character’s fundamental make-up: he goes around with a big skull on his chest and shoots and kills criminals. Wow. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he had remained what I always thought was his best role in the Marvel universe: supporting character and/or occasional villain for Spider-Man. But for the most part, he was sort of Batman without the wit or originality. I thought Punisher 2099 was actually a more interesting take on the concept (although admittedly Jake Gallows was a far more abysmal name than Frank Castle).

As noted, there were some great Punisher stories. I personally thought the limited series kicked serious butt, and when I first saw Die Hard, Bruce Willis looked so much like he’d been drawn by Mike Zeck that I felt that Willis would be far more suited to play the character than Dolph Lundgren ever would. (Then again, a plate of zucchini would be more suited to play any role than Dolph Lundgren.) And Jo Duffy, the hardest working man in comics, certainly showed an affinity for the Punisher and turned out some nifty tales. By and large, though, the character still leaves me cold.

Perhaps, ultimately, it’s the name. I mean, it’s really a misnomer, isn’t it? He doesn’t punish anyone, does he. Not really. I mean, Batman looks like a bat. Superman really is super, Spider-Man has that whole spider thing going. Punishment implies, at least to me, a penalty with a lesson attached, an implicit, “Learn from this punishment and never, ever do it again.” But if the Punisher is really punishing people, then the people he’s punishing should be getting something out of it somehow. He should be applying some sort of penalty that would serve as a warning for people who have erred in their behavior not to do such things again. That’s kind of difficult, though, when all he leaves behind him is a string of corpses. A dead criminal can’t exactly say, “Whoops, my bad. I’ve certainly learned my lesson and will never engage in such dastardly behavior again.”

He doesn’t punish. He just executes. He destroys. Except you can’t call him the Executioner or the Destroyer because, whoops, you’ll have a bit of a legal problem on your hands.

Ultimately, the only one he was really punishing was himself. Instead of coming to terms with the death of his family and moving on, he punished himself for not being able to save them by turning himself into a soulless killing machine with no life other than death. Might be an interesting way to go with him if he were being played for high tragedy, but mostly he was just played for carnage (except for the brief, ill-advised period where he was capping jay walkers.)

Actually, I was always kind of fond of what Jo Duffy (I think it was Jo) saw as the final, logical Punisher story. A future wherein he has actually managed to blow away every single criminal, and there was no more crime anywhere. At which point the Punisher announces, “There’s only one criminal left” and blows his own brains out. I guess, at heart, that’s my most fundamental problem with him. The Punisher, in trying to do away with that which he despised, became what he despised.

He was as much a criminal, if not more so, than those he was chasing down. Batman chased down criminals using tools of ingenuity and, ultimately, mercy. He elevated himself above the muck and mire in order to reach down, like a cloaked right hand of God, and take out the bad guys. He didn’t say, “Criminals are a superstitious, cowardly lot… and so I must become superstitious and cowardly.” But the Punisher unrelentingly threw himself right into the muck with those he was trying to destroy.

And as the old saying goes, when you lie down with pigs, you wind up smelling like a pig. He wasn’t a dark reflection of that which he was fighting; he was that which he was fighting. In fact, he was less interesting. Because the criminals were capable of having lives outside of crime. They could have a wife, children, hobbies, other endeavors, fully rounded existences. The Punisher existed to kill, and that was pretty much it. Not only was he as bad as that which he fought, he was also less interesting almost by definition.

If nothing else, he served as sort of the ultimate reminder of just how obsession with anything is not a good thing. Ironic, then, that the Punisher would be a hero not because of what he inspires us to do—but instead what he inspires us not to do.

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

 

So where does the GOP stand now?

I’m reading all sorts of articles that claim the GOP has royally screwed itself thanks to its shutting down the government. (And those who are trying to spread the blame around can just stop. You’re fooling no one except yourselves. This was a GOP action from soup to nuts.)

The question is, are they really as dead in the water as pundits are claiming? Are they going to lose upcoming elections? Seats in the House? Me, I’m thinking not, because people have such short memories nowadays that I’m concerned by the time elections roll around, they will have forgotten all the crap the GOP pulled and be on to the next thing, while the Democrats will be unable to take advantage of GOP incompetence.

PAD

A Review of Life

Originally published August 13, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1343

This is the all-review issue, I’m told.

Let’s review life.

It seems only appropriate. The things that writers produce (sometimes with the aid of artists, sometimes solo) are supposed to be representations of life. They’re wildly idealized, of course. A world where superheroes try to right wrongs, and villains scheme to no avail. Or a place where story threads interweave, and there is a coherent whole that sometimes you can’t see while you’re in the midst of it, but once you’ve stepped back a bit, then the previously tangled skein makes all kinds of sense. And then the story ends, and ideally the boy and girl wind up together, or good triumphs, and in any event, everyone lives happily ever after.

But these are representations, as noted. One stepped removed from life. A copy of a copy, and as is always the case with copies in succession, each one bears fainter resemblance to the one before.

Life.

I watched TV as a child, and saw the images of John Kennedy, Jr. saluting his father, the image that has been pasted on newspapers in recent days. The thing I mostly remember about that time, aside from that picture, was that all the grown-ups were crying. I’d never seen grown-ups cry before. Grown-ups weren’t supposed to, at least to the best of my knowledge. When you were a child, you cried. That was okay, that was to be expected. But once you were an adult, you left behind aspects of childhood—and crying was one of them.

But there were adults crying. My grade school teacher, upon hearing the news, looked like she was fighting back tears. That alone scared me. At home, my mom and dad—my mom especially, with her eyes red. I could see that she’d been crying. Tears, fright—these weren’t the things that grown-ups were supposed to do. They were towers of strength. They were the ones who assured you that the thunder and lightning couldn’t hurt you, or that the creatures under your bed were simply products of your imagination. They were the editors of life. They were in control of it, guided it, shaped it. They were who you looked to for support. They were the center of life.

The reviews came in on the performances of the adults. “Did not rise to the occasion.” “Overly sentimental.” As for the incident that provoked the outpouring of utterly un-adult behavior—“Contrived.” “Out of left field.” “Overly violent.” “What was this supposed to prove? That no one—not even the most powerful man in the country—is safe from the homicidal intentions of assassin(s)? What is the point in that?” Indeed… what is the point?

Life. Coming up short, not looking particularly positive. Thus far it would seem to rate two stars, maybe a 2 and a half at most.

A princess. Now that’s a classic. You can’t go wrong with that story. A young woman meets a prince, they get married, live happily ever after. There’s a story for you. Nice. Simple. Elegant. Nothing fancy. Unadorned and straightforward, impossible for even the most inept author to botch. Unless, of course, the author is the Almighty, who seems to be omnipotent, omniscient, all-knowing and all-powerful, but utterly inept at telling a story that comes out right. For the princess and the prince, why, they can’t sustain the union. Under the glare of the press, the deterioration is played out on a world stage. The marriage splits apart. Oh, but wait—the princess appears to have bounced back. She may get to be happy at last. The story turned out not to be about happily-ever-after, but instead the story of how one can achieve all their dreams, lose them, but recover and still live a fulfilling life. Well… that’s not bad. Not bad at all.

Oh. Wait. Her car gets smashed up. And the princess (along with several others) dies.

Life. The reviews come pouring in: “Senseless.” “Idiotic.” “A total waste.” “Stupid.” A comic book with those sorts of notices doesn’t make it six issues. A play with those reviews puts up closing notices by the weekend. A one-hour TV drama? Forget it. By the time you get to the station break you’re going to hear, “The Princess Hour has been canceled. We now return to Jake and the Fatman, already in progress.”

Life. Don’t talk to me about life. So spake Marvin the paranoid android, who certainly knew what he was about. As the old saying goes, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

JFK, Jr. John-John. First act of his life: the golden child who loses his father, thus setting into motion the second after of his life. He grows up into the most eligible bachelor in America. Third act: He meets and marries Carolyn. Perhaps this is the third act of her life as well. Every woman in the country who had her own little “But if he met me he’d know we’d be perfect for each other” mantra going on in her head, why… they envy Carolyn above all others. She married John, Jr., the only son of the Camelot legacy. They would give anything to be her.

Bet that’s changed. Bet there’s a collective sighing of relief by all the women who might have snared the opportunity, and the bachelor, for their own. And the point is—the point of the story, why that’s… uh…

“The only way this story makes any sense,” one review must say, “is if it is to serve as an instructional film for would-be pilots to emphasize why pilots who aren’t instrument savvy shouldn’t take off at nightfall—a hazy nightfall, just to make it a bit more difficult.”

“What purpose is served by this calamity,” another review would say. “Yet another Kennedy dies… it’s becoming a cliché. Aren’t there any original families in Washington?” “The father dies young and thirty-five years later, the son dies young? The details of the story change, but the basic refrain remains the same.”

Life. Can’t be quantified or qualified.

It defies rational thought. It laughs in the face of formula. Unlike fiction, it cannot be deciphered or predicted based solely on what’s gone before. It makes no sense. It’s unfortunate, it’s asinine, it’s onerous.

Thumbs down on life. Well, yes—I suppose that’s what they call ‘suicide.’ Long term answer to a short term problem.

What to expect from life, then? It’s abysmal fiction. It follows no rules, takes characters out of the story with no warning and no point. People act out of character. Good people do bad things.

William Goldman, in the final analysis, put it best: “No one ever said life is fair. It’s just fairer than death, that’s all.”

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

 

Mike Friedman’s Kickstarter Program

Michael Jan Friedman is embarking upon a Kickstarter program. It sounds very exciting and I hope you’ll all participate. Press release is below.

LONG ISLAND, NY (October 17, 2013) — The hero of veteran science fiction writer Michael Jan Friedman’s new young-adult superhero novel, I Am The Salamander, is a cancer survivor.

“I didn’t set out to make Tim Cruz a kid who had cancer,” Friedman said. “But when you read I Am The Salamander, you’ll see why it makes perfect sense for Tim to have beaten that disease, and why he’s in a position to offer hope to real teens trying to beat cancer themselves. And let’s face it, hope is what superheroes do best.”

I Am The Salamander is being funded by a Kickstarter campaign. ““The publishing landscape has changed,” said Friedman, who has written 70 novels for major publishers like Simon & Schuster, Harper Collins, and Random House. “It’s harder than ever to get publishers to take a chance on a story, especially a quirky one like I Am The Salamander. And when they do, the book’s shelf life is shorter than that of a jar of half-sour pickles.

“I want I Am The Salamander to be around for a good long time,” he said. “That means I have to get it in the hands of readers on my own, and I have to keep it available to them.”

However, Friedman said, he wouldn’t ask anyone to donate to the I Am The Salamander campaign “just because it’s a worthwhile thing to do. I’m asking because it’s also the best thing I’ve ever written, and because I want to get it out to readers the most direct way possible.”

Friedman is asking his readers for $5,000. to cover the cost of book design and printing. The book’s cover was rendered by up-and-coming Brazilian talent Caio Cacau.

Those who wish to make donations to the I Am The Salamander campaign can do so at Kickstarter.com.

Movie review: South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut

Originally published August 6, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1342

Given how free speech is constantly under assault in this country, it’s somewhat amazing that one virtually never sees any movies on that subject. One would think that Hollywood would be leading the fight to protect the right to free expression, for if any industry depends upon that right, it’s films. Instead, we’ve seen the opposite: Hollywood being the first to bend over and taking it up the tailpipe, and asking “Please, sir, may I have some more” when it comes to everything from the V-chip to the ratings system.

So it’s nothing short of amazing when one of the big summer movies not only revolves around the concept of free expression, but also manages to encompass everything from the American compulsion for laying blame to the end of the world as we know it—all without seeming the least bit muddled or scattershot.

I am speaking, of course, of South Park: Bigger, Longer and Uncut, a double-entendre title that surely must have slipped past the MPAA (not to mention Paramount) for I suspect that it never would have gotten through.

I still vividly remember, some years back, attending one of Marv Wolfman’s legendary post-San Diego Comic Con convention parties at his house. “You’ve got to see this,” Marv told a couple of us and tossed into his VCR one of the most hotly-circulated tapes at the time: The Spirit of Christmas, a five-minute animated greeting card commissioned from two unknown animators named Trey Parker and Matt Stone. Featuring four unbelievably foul-mouthed tykes residing in a Colorado town called “South Park,” it was fall-down funny as these kids refereed a death-struggle between Jesus and Santa Claus while spouting off a string of horrendous obscenities and—inexplicably—worshipping the advice of skater Brian Boitano.

When it was announced that South Park would become a series on Comedy Central, I was absolutely positive that it would tank, for I saw no way that this demented short could possibly be stretched to half an hour even once, much less on a weekly basis. And I was dead wrong. So when I found out about the film, I conclusively proved to myself that I’m incapable of hugging the learning curve, because I saw no way that this half-hour cartoon could be stretched to an eighty-to-ninety minute feature. And I was dead wrong again.

Parker and Stone are to be commended for not only the subject matter that they have chosen to tackle, but for the fearlessness in the way they’ve gone about it. I also hope that their dental records are being kept on file for identification purposes in the event that Saddam Hussein should ever happen to see the film. Saddam, you see, is depicted as not only dead and residing in Hell, but the cheerful bedmate of Satan. And Satan is—amazingly—the most engaging and sympathetic character in the whole freakin’ movie.

Trying to summarize this film is like trying to gather up liquid mercury with a cheese grater, but I’ll take a whack at it: In a bizarre bit of self-deconstruction, our nominal heroes, Stan, Kyle, Cartman, and the perpetually doomed Kenny, take in the first film effort of their previously TV-bound favorites, Terrance and Philip—which, like SP:BL&U, is crudely animated, rated R so that many members of the target audience can’t see it without adult supervision, and features a virtual barrage of profanity.

When I saw the film with Kathleen, she heard T&P’s opening song, the title of which I can’t even print here, and she positively blanched. “My God, is this on the soundtrack?” she asked, envisioning a bevy of outraged parents storming into the Borders where she works. After all, there are no ticket sellers to keep under-17′s from buying the CD now, are there? (As it happens, the CD sold out and people are storming the place to obtain it, not ban it.)

The sudden spewing of foul language from their wee ones galvanizes the South Park parents—who collectively have the IQ of kelp—to do what Americans do best: place blame. Where do they place it? On Canada, the home nation of Terrance and Philip. (“It’s not a real country anyway,” declares a contemptuous South Park resident during one song.) Lord, what I would have given to see this film on opening day in Montreal. The anger spills over into international war, Kenny dies (again), and Armageddon looms.

Pity poor George Lucas. Here he gets slammed for Jar-Jar Binks and Watto as purported stereotypes, even though they’re alien beings and not black or Jewish at all. In the meantime, SP:BL&U features probably the most anti-Semitic, stereotypical character you’ll see all summer: Kyle’s mom, Sheila. (That Kyle’s father is a litigation-happy lawyer with a yarmulke doesn’t help.) I don’t agree with the relentlessly obnoxious Cartman on a lot of things, but his musical assessment of her (“Kyle’s Mom is a Big Fat Bitch”) is pretty much spot on. I’d be really outraged over it if it weren’t for the fact that I know a lot of women just like her. It’s hard to cry foul when there are Kyle’s moms causing grief in communities everywhere. It’s not that her depiction is unfair; it’s that it’s too true-to-life.

The number of things that Parker and Stone have managed to sub-reference is truly staggering. Disney-esque ditties abound, from the opening number introducing the town’s inhabitants that smacks of the intro song of Beauty and the Beast, to Satan’s wistful desire to get out of hell that’s a direct lift of The Little Mermaid‘s “Part of That World” (right down to the steady pullback and the upstretched arm). Cartman’s musical shredding of Kyle’s mom takes on “It’s a Small World” overtones. Kenny’s journey in the afterlife evokes Jodie Foster’s excursion in “Contact.” The kids ice-skate around in A Charlie Brown Christmas style, but later when they form a resistance movement to protest the impending war, the film goes straight into Les Miserables, including a send-up of Les Mis‘ first act close. Pundits are always claiming that children become “empowered” by the use of profanity; when Cartman literally becomes empowered via profanity, it’s rendered in pure anime style.

To say nothing of an entire number titled “What Would Brian Boitano Do?” that evokes the character’s origins in Spirit of Christmas. I personally would pay serious money to see Boitano skate a routine to that song. They even make a knowing send-up of standard movie formula writing while adhering to it: at a key moment in the film, one of the characters checks his watch and the time readout says something along the lines of “Third Act Ticking Clock,” evoking the frequent movie-writing device of introducing some time-driven element into the “third act” that sends the story racing towards its climax.

And of course, there’s the major theme of free expression. Of how attempts to suppress free speech, and campaigns to stomp out that which people find offensive, can escalate into unreasoning and mindless wars. Considering the number of Kyle’s mothers (and spiritual siblings) there are out there, it’s a lesson that should be attended to.

But I suppose the biggest lesson to be taken from SP:BL&U is that movies aren’t quite as much like comics as some people (including me) had thought.

In comics, when you have a superb story and lousy artwork, the comic is pretty much dead in the water. But you can have a sub-par story and superb artwork, and be universally acclaimed a success.

Lately, however, we’ve been seeing the opposite occur in movies. Godzilla didn’t perform up to expectations, prompting cries of “Story Does Matter.” And although no one disputes that Phantom Menace is glorious eye-candy, and that the effects are brilliant, it’s still a film that leaves one cold, with characters that are largely uninteresting other than visually, and a story that is paradoxically convoluted and simplistic. However, although there are many examples of films with “great art” and “lousy story,” none come to mind that have featured the reverse.

Until now. Because South Park‘s story is so multi-layered, its societal commentary so bang-on target, and its characters so engaging even under the most ludicrous of circumstances (Cartman getting a V-chip implanted in his head so that he zaps himself every time he says something profane is laugh-out-loud funny while at the same time you feel sorry for the little creep; not even Cartman deserves this) that you can’t help but care about them, even though the animation is one step above what you could achieve with a set of Colorforms. (Although I’m probably giving short shrift to it; any animation that engages the eyes for that long without becoming tiresome is doing something right, and has to be tougher than it looks.) And what makes the kids the most charming (yes, charming) of all is that, despite everything they say, they’re still eight-year-olds with huge naïveté who really have no grasp of the meaning of anything they’re saying. They stare perpetually wide-eyed at the world and just don’t understand what all the fuss is about over some “dirty words.” In the face of death, destruction and ultimate evil, they still hold on to their innocence. That’s quite an accomplishment.

A request: After you’ve voted for supporting Parker and Stone’s unique vision with your ticket purchase, give consideration to supporting the type of organization that—in the real world—fights for freedom of speech. Namely, the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund: www.cbldf.org. And I can personally guarantee you that not a cent of the money the CBLDF receives goes into purchasing weapons to attack Canada.

At least, not yet.

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

 

Dragon*Con 1999

Originally published July 30, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1341

The only convention I’m doing this summer is Dragon*Con, so I figured I’d do a write-up about my recent excursion there.

Dragon*Con holds a great number of fond memories for me, both on a personal and professional level. I’ve been attending the convention pretty much since the beginning, and have watched the thing grow almost exponentially to the current reported attendance of somewhere in the 20,000 range. In some ways it’s almost gotten too big. There’s something to be said for smaller conventions where you can actually hang out with friends for extended periods of time. Between the programming schedule I was carrying, and the massive number of people vying for attention, sometimes one can miss people altogether. I managed to chat with Paul Dini, for instance, for a staggering thirty-five seconds, when I really would have liked to see his panels.

On the other hand, the main purpose of convention attendance is to meet-and-greet the fans, and for that goal, you simply cannot beat a convention like Dragon*Con.

This time around, the Davids descended en masse. Shana opted to remain at home, deciding that she’d rather spend the July 4th weekend with a handful of friends she does know instead of 20,000 fans she doesn’t know. Poor child just cannot prioritize. However, Gwen and Ariel attended, as did Kathleen. Kathleen is formerly from Atlanta before relocating to New York (although not for the purposes of running for Senate). Indeed, it was at Dragon*Con that we first discussed the possibility—after just being friends for the better part of a decade—of pursuing a more-than-friends relationship.

The day before we went down, however, the folks at Dragon*Con asked—in a very last-minute way—if I could step in and MC the costume ceremony. Peter Jurasik (Londo Mollari of Babylon 5) had been scheduled to host it, but recent heart surgery had prompted him to ask for a scaling back of his activities so that he wouldn’t be pushing himself. Although, curiously, he did not ask to be relieved of his duties for the Dawn lookalike contest. Go figure. I had MC’d the costume competition in the past, but usually I’d had some prep time. Flying solo on such short notice was going to be dicey. It was suggested that George Perez co-host, and that was fine by me. George and I had MC’d together before (he referred to it as MC Squared) and could bounce off each other quite smoothly, so it was a fine fit for the occasionally rowdy Dragon*Con masquerade.

We arrived at the convention without incident and I was pleased to see that, for the first time in a while, my schedule wasn’t screwed up. In previous years I’d been scheduled for panels that were being held before I arrived or, even better, booked opposite myself (for instance, having me do a reading in one room while slated to be on a panel in another at the same time).

On Friday night, we attended the banquet/awards ceremony. Unfortunately, the four of us arrived a few minutes late, and George and other comics folks were already seated. Anne McCaffrey was also seated, as was Julie Schwartz, Chris Claremont and others, all having a great time and with no room at their tables.

Ariel, Gwen, Kathleen and I were escorted to an otherwise empty table and sat there, feeling like the cheese standing alone. It just doesn’t get much lamer than that.

And then a convention official suddenly materialized with a rather pleasant-looking, brown haired fellow, and said to him, “You can sit here.” He turned and introduced us to Brian Froud.

I thought Kathleen’s head was about to explode. Being a puppeteer, the person she most wanted to meet was Froud, designer of such films as Dark Crystal and Labyrinth. We started chatting and then, a minute or so later, John de Lancie sat next to Kathleen. In the company of Brian Froud and Q, we were suddenly at the cool table. The rest of the evening went well as assorted awards were handed out to the guests of honor, as well as the recently instituted Julie award. A lifetime achievement award named for Julie Schwartz, two of them were presented: One to McCaffrey, and one to Will Eisner. It’s a honkin’ huge award. I couldn’t wait to see them try to get it into their luggage.

In the meantime, I was desperately trying to come up with some spiffy entrance that George and I could do to kick off the masquerade. My previous time out, I’d shown up as Moses (the year Charlton Heston was supposed to show, and then canceled at the last minute) and parted the audience. But I had nothing prepared. “I have one thought,” I said to Kathleen. “But I’d need two sets of Jedi robes, two lightsabers, a guy dressed as Darth Maul, and the soundtrack of Phantom Menace.”

In less than twelve hours, Kathleen managed to score, from some friends, the robes and two plastic lightsabers. On the way to the dealer’s room, we encountered a guy dressed as Darth Maul who, it turned out, was going to be in the costume competition. I asked if he’d be willing to help us out with an opening sketch, and he was perfectly game for it. The only thing remaining is the easiest thing—the soundtrack.

We searched the entire dealer’s room. It was nowhere to be found. I couldn’t believe it. A science fiction dealer’s room the size of several football fields, with hundreds of dealers, and we couldn’t score a CD of the soundtrack of America’s hottest movie. Finally we wind up borrowing one from the Star Wars programming track room.

With all the components in place, however, I still didn’t have an ending in mind for the sketch. Then I swung by George’s table. Considering that last year’s host, Anthony Daniels, walked in with a gorgeous model on his arm, George wanted equal time by having Shannon Lower, the dancer and model who was the inspiration for his title Crimson Plague, up on stage with him. The end of the sketch presented itself to me.

During the day I read from assorted projects. Among them was the first chapter of a novel I’m working on called Apropos of Nothing, a fantasy novel my agent is presently sending around to publishers. A couple of years ago I read an unsold short story of mine called “The Archetype” at Dragon*Con, and not too long after that it was bought by The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. So I figured maybe it’d be good luck. It was the first public reading of anything from the book, and it went over extremely well. Since the title character is something of an anti-hero, I was relieved at the warm reception.

The thing I was rather surprised about was the apparent lack of support for Dragon*Con by the major comic book publishers. Dark Horse, Sirius, these were represented. But Marvel and DC were nowhere to be found. It was incomprehensible. This has got to be the largest comic-related convention on the East Coast. I know times are tight, but how in the world they can blow off the kind of exposure that they would get at the convention is beyond me. At the very least, you’d think there’d be giveaway items: comics, posters, buttons, something. Certainly company reps are there to discuss the line, but that’s not the same as having giveaways or, even better, a booth in the dealer’s room. It was a tremendous missed opportunity, and the way the convention pulls in the crowds every year, it would—in my humble opinion—really behoove the majors to have a seriously visible presence.

That evening, I showed up in the backstage area where the contestants were assembled, and looked around for the guy dressed as Darth Maul I’d spoken to.

There were half a dozen Darth Mauls. I had no idea which one I spoke to. Fortunately I managed to track him down, but I must have seemed rather odd to the Darths who I walked up to and said, “Excuse me, did I talk to you in the street?”

One botched music cue later, we were ready to go. The music from Phantom Menace starts up. Darth Maul swaggered onto the stage, double-saber extended. He looked menacing. He did a few high kicks. And then on charged two Jedis—George and I, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan—and as the audience roared, we attacked. We parried and thrusted across the stage, and suddenly Darth Maul stopped and stared behind us. We looked to see where he was looking. Out sashayed Shannon in a skimpy, tight outfit. Our lightsabers, held at about hip level, angled 45 degrees upward. She considered George and I for a moment, and then wrapped herself around Darth Maul and exited with the triumphant master of darkness. A dejected George and I trudged back across the stage while the music continued to blast, until I shouted, “Knock it off!” at which point the music cut off.

It definitely got the masquerade off to a good start. Some of the costumes were good, and a few presentations were brilliant, including Best-of-Show winner “The Sith Who Shagged Me,” a seamless blending of the two big films of the summer. Austin Powers was substituted for Obi-Wan, and Dr. Evil stepped in for the scheming Palpatine. (“Through a cloning process, we have created a duplicate of your apprentice, Darth Maul… 1/8 his size.” “I shall call him… Mini-Maul.”)

The next day in the dealer’s room, we caught up with Julie Dawn Cole, whom we had only recently discovered was there. The name may not ring a bell, but the character she played certainly will: the immortal Veruca Salt in Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Veruca, frighteningly, was something of a role model for Shana. Gwen was chortling mercilessly over how she was going to rub Shana’s nose in the fact that she, Shana, missed out on meeting Veruca Salt. I decided, for the sake of something resembling family peace, to get Shana an autographed photo of Cole. Cole, hearing that Shana is eighteen, suggested a black and white publicity shot in which Veruca is licking a very tall, narrow, and distinctly phallic lollipop while her rather disconcerted father looks on. “She’s old enough to appreciate just how strange this one is,” says Cole. I couldn’t help but think she’s right. Also on hand was Paris Themman, Wonka’s “Mike Tee-Vee,” who autographed a lovely replica of a golden ticket to Ariel after she sang the Oompah-Loompah song.

Sunday afternoon I had a panel with John de Lancie to promote our upcoming release, I, Q. (The other day Kathleen informed me that Books-In-Print listed the author of I, Q as John Q. De Lancie, with no mention of me. Still, I consider myself lucky. Writer Greg Cox edited a short story collection about vampires in an SF setting called Future Sucks. Books-in-Print listed it as—no lie—Future Sucks Cox. But I digress…) John was running late and I was reluctant to get started without him. And then audience members started begging me—literally begging me—to sing “Jubilation T. Cornpone.”

I obliged them, feeling like a total idiot, but they seemed to like it. We were in the south; they’d be too polite to say anything else.

Later, in a spur-of-the-moment decision in the dealer’s room, George (who has played Abner) and I performed “The Country’s in the Very Best of Hands” for Kathleen and Shannon while people in surrounding booths looked on. Maybe we should mount an all-comic pro production. That’s what this industry needs: more stock companies.

The convention finished out somewhat quietly. Ariel sported a massive scar on her face rather proudly, manufactured during a make-up workshop as part of the kid’s programming. People kept doing double-takes and saying, “Oh my God” when they saw this poor battered child. Gwen was walking around with an almost life-size Mini-Me. She was reluctant to ask me for any of the Austin Powers action figures, which she really wanted, because they’re made by Todd Toys and she figured I’d be upset with her. I patiently explained that I couldn’t care less. Personal opinions are one thing, but toys will be toys. And Kathleen has a signed Brian Froud poster and a big grin on her face.

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