Peter David's Blog, page 67

Behinds the Scenes at a Major Comics Publisher

Originally published January 29, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1315

(Interior, conference room of a Major Comics Publisher. Several Executives are waiting. Executive A enters, two issues of Comic Buyer’s Guide tucked under his arm. He slams them down on the desk and projects his ire to the others in the room.)

EXEC A: Did you read this? Did any of you? This whole “MarvelManic” satire that compares us with Titanic?

EXEC B: It’s satire. It’s nothing.

EXEC A: I want this David guy gone! I want him off any titles that he was working on for us! And I want it done nine months ago!

EXEC C: You got it, boss.

EXEC A: The whole tone, implication of the column… comparing our business moves to puncturing watertight compartments so that we sink… the whole thing comes across as if all we do is sit around in our conference room and try to come up with one stupid move after another!

EXEC B: But… boss… that is what we do.

EXEC A: I know that! You know that! But how the hell did he figure it out? Maybe… (he looks around suspiciously) maybe we’ve got a leak somewhere.

EXEC D: Oh, don’t be paranoid, boss. It was just a lucky guess, that’s all. There’s absolutely no way that any outsider could know that this company has actually been taken over by a group of business and psych majors who are using it as basis for a doctoral thesis entitled, “The Ratio and Relevance of Stupid Moves Required for the Dismantlement of a Once-Healthy Company.”

EXEC A: I suppose you’re right. Imagine that… psych majors getting paranoid. (General laughter from all.)

EXEC A: Okay, so… down to business. The moves we’ve made over the past few years have, admittedly, been spectacularly stupid.

The dismantling of the direct market, the firings, the cancellations, the attempts to mimic Disney when, unlike Disney, we only have characters that appeal to a fairly narrow demographic group.

Now granted, we did have a setback when objections were raised to The Incredible Hulk movie because, really, that script was just beyond stupid. If that had been filmed and released, the whole company would have just instantly imploded.

EXEC C: True, but fortunately Executive E, who raised the objections, has been pushed out. And I hear there’s talk of a new script draft.

EXEC A: Will it be stupid?

EXEC C: Oh, probably. But even better… I hear they’re going to get the guy who starred in the Ernest movies to play Banner.

EXEC A: Jim Varney? Perfect! But you know… it’s not enough. The problem is, we’ve managed to alienate the distributors… retailers… and a goodly number of fans. Unfortunately, we haven’t alienated nearly enough. In fact, we’ve actually garnered some.

EXEC B: How did that happen?

EXEC A: Well, the problem is that editorial doesn’t realize the mandate is to make stupid moves, and so they’ve actually managed to get some solid talent on the titles and make a go of them.

EXEC C: I see. But we can’t do more stupid things to editorial. Firing so many of them fulfilled this quarter’s quota of editorially-related stupid moves.

EXEC D: Right, right. We’d have to come up with something else. Something aimed at freelancers, something spectacularly stupid. If we cheese off enough freelancers, they’ll desert the company in droves. We have to make Marvel come across as anti-writers and artists. But… how?

EXEC F: You’re right. But what can we do that’s stupid enough?

EXEC C: Well, we’ve discussed this before. There’s the Shooter Scenario.

EXEC A: I know, I know. But it’s just not stupid enough. He has some supporters, and besides, once he’s in power, he might actually do stuff that’s not stupid. We can’t take that chance, at least not yet, although we can’t rule it out.

EXEC C: We could just fire the lot of ’em. Turn the whole line of books into reprints.

EXEC B: That’s not bad. I mean, we do have almost 40 years worth of material. We could just start all the books over with #1 and start running them. And since it’d be all reprints, we don’t even have to pay incentives or reprint fees.

EXEC D: That’s true. Whose stupid idea was it to stop paying reprint fees?

EXEC B: That was mine.

EXEC A: Good bad thinking, B. That was remarkably stupid. But y’know, switching entirely to reprints… that’s not just stupid, that’s suicidal. Do we want to go that far? Still… maybe something with incentives…

EXEC D: I know! I know! I got it! We get rid of a select few! The high profile ones! We get rid of Busiek, Waid… oh! Oh, my God! And how about this! We show Lee the door! How would that be for a morale crusher?

EXEC B: Jim Lee? But we already–

EXEC D: No! Stan!

(Immediate shouts of disbelief.)

EXEC A: Aw, c’mon! There’s stupid, there’s suicidal, and then there’s just plain nuts! He’s the living legend! We do NOT diss Stan!

There are some things that are just so beyond the pale that they shouldn’t even be broached! Besides, look how the whole Kirby dissing backfired. No, there are just some things that even we won’t stoop to. Not much, mind you. I still think the incentive thing might be the way to go. Hit the freelancers where they live, in the wallet.

EXEC B: But y’know, if we just stop paying incentives or something like that, it might not be stupid enough. With all the bankruptcy stuff, some people have almost been expecting that. Besides, these days, most books pay so little on incentives anyway…

EXEC D: We could just stop paying them altogether.

EXEC A: That’d be pretty stupid. But then they’d just quit. Still, if we can’t come up with anything better…

(Exec C starts to laugh demonically.)

EXEC A: What? What’ve you got?

EXEC C: Oh, it’s too perfect. It’s just too perfect.

EXEC A: C’mon, c’mon… out with it. Is it stupid?

EXEC C: Unbelievably stupid! The most stupid move yet! Here’s what we do: Instead of not paying them… we try to make them pay us!!!

(Dead silence for a moment… and then the entire conference room erupts in hysterical laughter.)

(Some time later, cut to: A Marvel freelancer, getting a letter from the company, cracks it open and reads in disbelief:)

Dear ______,

A review of our records indicates that you were overpaid on your incentives by Marvel Enterprises, Inc., for the sum of $3,460.00. Please contact my office at [phone number given] no later than December 15, 1998 to arrange payment for such amount to Marvel Enterprises, Inc. If you feel we have sent this letter in error, please contact me telephonically or in writing. In the event we do not hear from you, this office will have no alternative but to turn this debt over to a collection agency.

Your help and cooperation in this matter is greatly appreciated.

Sincerely yours,

[An executive]

Marvel Enterprises, Inc.

(And somewhere in the distant wind, a chorus of stupid laughter could be heard…)

 (Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. Some of the foregoing was made up. Some wasn’t. Isn’t that scary?)

 

 

The Most Awards 1998

Originally published January 22, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1314

And so, as we roll into the next year, it’s time for the annual doling out of what may very well be the least-awaited awards in the country: The Most Awards. Named for the patron saint of this little column, Donny Most (for no particular reason) the Most Awards is given out (in no particular order) to assorted people, places or things (in no particular pattern) for various reasons (with no particular criteria.) And so, here we go:

Most Capable of Doing Anything Award: Sergio Aragonés. There are certain givens that one takes as signposts of reality. Certain inviolable anchors to which one can adhere and know that, as long as this is so, the rest of the world can hang together. A number of them are covered under Murphy’s Law. But in a less pessimistic vein, it lends a sort of comfort to we mere mortals to know that, no matter what we might chose to do with our lives, or wherever our interests take us, Sergio’s probably done it already or, if he felt like it, could do it better.

This is, after all, the guy who reputedly, during a male/female DC Comics volleyball game, felt sorry for the women who were being slaughtered and abruptly switched sides. He then proceeded to more or less singlehandedly wipe up the male opposition… and, while doing so, crying out in a high-pitched “female” voice, “Ooo! Ooo! I… I’m not sure I can get it!” before spiking the ball back with the velocity of a torpedo.

This was particularly driven home at the MECYF 98 convention in Mexico City. One evening there was a party hosted by the convention organizers. There was a group of musicians performing assorted Mexican ditties, and at one point Sergio suddenly stepped in with the band and joined them in song, performing with (I think) a baritone voice that put the rest of them to shame. What impressed me was that the moment he walked over to the group, I simply knew instinctively that he would be able to match and/or better them. Because, y’know, he’s Sergio. As long as he’s better than everyone at everything, all seems right with the world. I’m still of the firm opinion that, if he felt like it, he could speak with a polished British accent (and why not? Neil Gaiman can talk with a superbly McFarlane-esque Canadian accent. Reports of Neil’s singing voice remain murky.)

Most Win-Some/Lose Some Award: James Cameron confounded pundits by not only giving us a film that made over a billion dollars, but cleaning up at the Academy Awards. Shortly thereafter, his marriage with Linda Hamilton dissolved. This is a double tragedy: Not only does yet another family in this country have to suffer the agony of divorce, but it also pretty much buggers any likelihood of her starring in a third Terminator film.

Most Neck-Snapping Double Take Cameo Award: In the closing moments of the final episode of Babylon 5, series creator Joe Straczynski makes a (glasses-less) cameo as a maintenance guy who shuts down the deserted space station (and presumably then high-tails it outta there) just before the place is blown to kingdom come. It was a bit disconcerting, particularly considering Joe’s earlier refusals to be seen even in a crowd scene. But it was also rather Hitchcockian in its way, and kinda cool just as Harlan Ellison’s cameo as a Psi-Corp cop was in another episode (an appearance which, by the way, resulted in an utterly ghastly B5 trading card featuring Ellison in a surreal pose that looked great in the moody context of the show, but hideous when slapped on a piece of pasteboard.

Word to the wise: Don’t bring it to him to sign. Yes, yes, I know, there are probably wise guys out there who will read this and immediately feel the need to do exactly the opposite, in which case I hope he tears it up and throws it in your face. But for the rest of you… I reeeeaaally wouldn’t.)

Most Welcome News Award: “Seduction of the Innocent,” the comic-pro singing group composed of Max Collins, Bill Mumy, Miguel Ferrer, Steve Leialoha, and Chris Christensen, has been asked to appear at next year’s San Diego Comic Convention. That is seriously great to hear, particularly since this column had been advocating a return of the group to San Diego.

Most Bizarre Historical Accuracies Award: Some of the most grotesque aspects of The Mask of Zorro turned out to be factual. I mean, here I’d been all set to make fun of the surname of the villainous Captain Love (y’know, who was his second in command, Major Cupcake?). And then I discovered that there really was a Captain Love. Not only that, but he really did execute criminals named Three-Fingered Jack and Joachim Murietta (in the film, the older brother of Alejandro Murietta, the eventual Zorro). In real life he whacked off Jack’s hand and decapitated Murietta, and bottled the dismembered parts for display, just as he did in the film. These severed body parts served as grisly museum pieces, picking up a reputation for being accursed and bringing death and destruction wherever they went.

Where did I learn these depressing bits of reality? From the DC Comics Big Book of the Weird Wild West. A must for any Zorro completist, as it turns out.

Most Overused Comparison Award: If I hear or read one more news story that cites Wag the Dog whenever Clinton has to employ military force abroad, I’m going to scream.

Most “Yeah, Right” Story Development Award: To the concept that Batman is now considered an urban myth to the people of Gotham. Yeah, right.

Most Supremely Cool Batman Story Award: To the episode of the Batman animated series which featured several kids describing in vivid detail what they had heard Batman was like in action. It was an in-joke, comic fan tribute dream episode. One sequence was a picture-perfect rendition of the 1940s/50s Batman, complete with oversized props (a gigantic piano, for instance). Another sequence was an adaptation of the classic junkyard fight from Dark Knight, right down to the female Robin, a perfect recreation of Frank Miller’s art style, and even some of Miller’s dialogue. But the best gag was actually a throwaway dialogue bit, where one boy starts describing his own view of Batman wearing plastic, sculpted armor (with nipples, presumably), and driving a Batmobile that improbably could zip right up a wall. His increasingly absurd vision is finally silenced with an annoyed, “Shut up, Joel!” from one of the kids. Anyone who was repulsed by director Joel Schumacher’s efforts on the recent film installments was cheering their TV set.

Most Teapot-Bound Tempest Award: The acquisition of Wildstorm by DC (or is it Time-Warner.) I’ve written about it in more detail in a previous column, so I just figured I would take this opportunity to say: Good for Jim Lee, and big flippin’ deal to everyone else.

Most Welcome Return to Acting Award: Chris Reeve, erstwhile Superman, in a wonderful remake of Rear Window. Naturally we knew that Jimmy Stewart could get up out of his chair and go home at the end of a shooting day. With Reeve, the story worked on multiple levels since what one saw was pretty much what one got. Sure, I know, it’s not like Reeve is getting a ton of opportunities tossed at him these days when it comes to acting, but still it seemed to me a very courageous role for him to take. He also appeared on Rosie O’Donnell’s talk show, wryly commenting how people have told him that his accident has revitalized his career, but certainly there must have been easier ways to go about it. Nobody asks to be thrust into this kind of role-model scenario, but now that he’s there, what an inspiration he is.

Most Bizarre Double Demise Award: Certainly, if one is speaking on a historical basis, the winner remains John Adams, who passed away on July 4, 1826, with his last words being “Thomas Jefferson survives,” unaware that Jefferson had also died on that very same Independence Day. But of recent vintage, we must speak of two of the great icons of television puppetry. On July 30, Buffalo Bob Smith, the heart and soul of Howdy Doody, passed away. Hey, kids, what time is it? Well, it was your time, Buffalo Bob. But the time also came, barely three days later, for Shari Lewis. Smith’s hey-day was the 1950s, but Lewis charmed generations from when I was a kid through to my own children with Lamb Chop, Charley Horse, Hush Puppy and others. If nothing else, I was always fractured by the end of Lamb Chop’s Playalong where Lewis found herself besieged by the insidiously catchy, “This is the Song that Doesn’t End”… a tune that can be easily customized next time you find yourself on an autograph line stretching to infinity (“This is the line that doesn’t end, yes it goes on and on, my friend. Somebody started standing here not knowing what it was. And they’ll continue standing here forever just because this is the line that doesn’t end…”)

Most Egregious Miscasting Award: Lemme get this straight. The producers of Lost in Space, the movie, create a climactic sequence featuring an adult Will Robinson… and they cast someone other than Bill Mumy? Is there anyone on the planet who is more qualified to play a 40-ish Will Robinson than the 40-ish Mumy? What in hell were they thinking? Some fans have told me that the film was spoiled for them by this stunning missed opportunity (although, frankly, there were so many things to ruin the film, it’s surprising that they had to wait that long to find something.)

Most Disappointing Remake Award: Go rent The Shop Around the Corner. If you can find it, lay your hands on a copy of the British TV version of the musical comedy She Loves Me. Both are adaptations of the stage play La Parfumerie, and both are vastly superior to the distressingly dull You’ve Got Mail.

Most Welcome Reprint Award: DC’s new editions of the old 80-page giants.

Most Capable of Making it Look Easy Award: DC let production poobah Bob Rozakis slip away. The problem with people like Rozakis is that they’re so brilliant at their job, that people tend to forget just what’s involved. I don’t think anyone doubts that if Rozakis had still been running the show, the printing snafu which turned the hardcover edition of Crisis on Infinite Earths into Crisis on Infinite Reprints would never have happened.

Most Valiant Effort by a Comic Fan/Pro on a Game Show: Nat Gertler, who showed up on Win Ben Stein’s Money and wound up getting blown out of the water by a woman who went on to trounce Stein worse than anyone had ever beaten the host in the show’s history. I could never go on a show like that. My nightmare would be that I get some comics-related question that everyone and his brother knows, and I blow it and never hear the end of it.

Most Asked-For End to a Column Award: This one.

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

 

Con Voyage to Mexico City, Part 2

Originally published January 15, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1313

Some more belated observations/recollections about the MECYF ’98, the sizable convention held in Mexico City last summer…

The hotel floor upon which most of the guests were staying had a sort of private hang-out where we would usually convene in the morning for breakfast. It was always a low-key affair, giving everyone a chance to hang out and schmooze while looking down at the view of Mexico City.

One morning we were presented with some unexpected amusement: Several of our number were appearing on an early morning talk show. As I recall, it was Denny O’Neil, Mike Carlin, and a costumed Spider-Man who had been sent by Marvel.

The problem was, the hosts didn’t speak English. So questions would be posed, translated into English, the guests would answer, and the questions translated back for the comprehension of the viewing audience. We were fortunate that morning, however, as Sergio Aragonés was there to provide us with translation of what was being said.

So there we were, grouped around the TV set, watching the questions being lobbed at the Americans and having the lag time filled by Sergio’s instantaneous translations.

None of us were anticipating potential disaster.

“Tell us, Spider-Man,” said the host via translator, “what sort of advice would you give to the youth of Mexico?”

Spidey, looking as earnest as one can be while wearing an all-concealing mask, said without hesitation, “Work hard, fight crime, and stay in school.”

Immediately, as if everyone in the room had just been jammed up the backside with a ten meter cattle prod, we angled forward as though the TV set had suddenly developed a magnetic field that was yanking us towards it, like something out of Poltergeist.

“FIGHT CRIME!?!” we shouted with incredulity, practically in unison.

Well, that was perfect. That was just perfect. All of us saw the same potential, awful scenario playing out. Thanks to the Amazing Spider-Numbskull, kids all over Mexico were going to go grab guns out of daddy’s closet and start prowling the streets looking for purse snatchers, muggers and low-lifes. I was thinking about how we’d been warned that the streets of Mexico City could be dicey if one traveled alone. The implication was that crime could easily find you. Which meant, by the same token, that crime could easily find one of the hordes of newly-benighted crime fighters.

Think the concern was over-exaggerated?. All Soupy Sales had to do was say once, just once, “Hey, kids, go into your dad’s wallets, take that funny green stuff, and send it to me!” and he was deluged with mail (ostensibly monopoly money for the most part, but still…) So to have an authority figure like Spider-Man urging young Mexican kids to “fight crime…”

The translator, meantime, had not missed a beat. And Sergio provided us with the instantaneous translation of what the interpreter was saying for the edification of Mexican youth:

“Work hard,” Sergio said, “obey the law… and stay in school.”

That was not what Spider-Man had just said. “Obey the law?” someone asked. Sergio nodded. Palpable relief flooded through the entire assemblage. The TV translator had just made a magnificent recovery. Realizing the potential disaster of what Spider-Man was advocating, he reconfigured it into something that was in the same spirit, but not remotely as incendiary. It was as deft a save as anyone had ever seen Spider-Man in the comics make.

* * *

The panel set-up on the vast stage was as nothing that I’d ever seen at any convention. It looked as if we were lounging in someone’s living room. There were huge, cushiony sofas and chairs, a coffee table and footrests. If only the furniture had all been covered in plastic, it would have been like the Jewish homes of my youth (does anyone do that anymore?)

I served on several panels, although on most of them the vast majority of the questions went to Denny and Mike (neither of whom urged young people to fight crime, so that was something of a relief.) But definitely the oddest panel was “Wives of the comics pros.” It was a very strange ensemble, since it consisted of Mary Fran and Sue Grant, the wives of Denny O’Neil and Alan Grant respectively. But also present were Barbara Kesel, Karl’s wife, who is a comic pro in her own right, and Kathleen, who is my girlfriend but not hardly my wife. Barbara, sharing a couch with Kathleen, nonetheless required extra room so that she could have the opportunity to physically “bounce” between being Barbara the wife and Barbara the writer. A vote was eventually held at the end as the audience determined which Barbara they preferred (it turned out to be a tie.)

Questions they received were the “What’s it like living with a writer?” type. The most lively discussion was when they women were asked which comics they themselves read and enjoyed, and Mary Fran turned to the others and said, “Okay… husbands and significant others are off the table; otherwise we’re all just going to round robin with them.” Happily, they were all able to come up examples outside of their men-folk (as opposed to those spouses or girlfriends—and I have encountered them—who don’t know from, or care about, the comics industry. Moreover, they don’t want to know.)

They were also asked if they had met their significant others before or after they’d become “famous.” For Kathleen, it was the latter… except she had no idea who I was. I first met her a number of years ago when she was selling various of her hand-and-rod puppets at the Atlanta Fantasy Fair. I bought one of them, a Klingon which I still have, and after I walked away, various committee members ran up to her all excited and said, “Peter David bought one of your puppets!” They were beyond hyperactive about it. And Kathleen, failing to see the monumental significance of this action, kind of shrugged and said, “Yeah. Good.” She went home that evening, spotted a copy of one of my Star Trek novels on her bookshelf, and said, “Oooohhh… that’s who that is.”

During the panel, Kathleen displayed a hand-and-rod “Will Robinson” muppet she’d made. The muppet was also asked questions, which he fielded as well as could be expected considering he had someone’s hand up his middle.

* * *

Convention security continued to remain hyper about crowds. We were escorted everywhere, in anticipation and concern over being mobbed at any given moment. It became something of a game during one autographing session as Mary Fran, Susan and Kathleen started a contest to see who could make it all the way to the women’s rest room and back without attracting a phalanx of guards. Kathleen, using her best Xena warrior princess ninja mode, was the only one who managed to make it all the way there and back (although, unlike Xena, she didn’t feel obliged to strip naked and cover herself with black body make-up to accomplish it… which is kind of a shame, because it probably would have made her the hit of the convention.)

At the far end of the convention center from where we normally hung out, there was a table belonging to a Star Trek club. They were very anxious for me to go see their table, but the convention was reaching its last hours and I still hadn’t managed to get over there. I’d promised I’d make it, and I don’t like breaking a promise.

So completely on the spur of the moment, I turned to the translator/escort who’d been assigned to me for that day and said, “I’m heading over to the Star Trek club. Bye.”

He blanched. “Well, we need time to set up an escort.” He wanted to make sure that there would be a coterie of guards who would surround me to stave off crowds.

But by that point, I’d had it with being escorted. “It’s fans. I can handle fans. I’m not a rock star. I’ll be fine.” And before he could muster a squad of protectors, I was gone. Seeing no other option, he immediately dashed to my side—Sancho to my Quixote—and we began the long haul from one end of the hall to the other.

At first, fans glanced our way and didn’t quite believe that I wasn’t surrounded. Normally, when any of us were on the move, lines of arm-linked guards stood between the fans and us. But here I was, marching along with a single companion. Thoroughly accessible. Eminently stoppable.

Nobody tried.

The whole trick—if you ever find yourself in a similar situation—is that you never stop moving. Like a shark, if you stop moving, you’re dead. I simply kept walking. That didn’t mean that I was rude.

When fans approached, I talked—and moved. When they produced things for me to sign, I signed then—and moved. I never slackened my pace. It takes some serious kind of hardcase to physically block your path and prevent you from advancing. There may be people like that out there, but none of them happened to be around at that particular time. I made it all the way to the Star Trek club table without significant problems.

My time at the table was limited, of course. Because naturally, once I was visiting the club, I was stationary. As I spoke to the club members, I kept a wary eye out and saw, after a few minutes, that word was leaking out and fans were starting to converge. My escort saw it, too. Like Schwarzenegger in Terminator 2, he said, “Time to go.” I said quick good-byes, and started back. Same thing happened: I encountered folks along the way, signed material, walked and talked, and made it all the way back again without significant problems.

I felt I had achieved a great—albeit minor—triumph.  There’s something to be said for being treated like a rock star. Then again, there’s something to be said for normality. Or at least, as normal as abnormality will allow.

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

 

Death: The Ride

Originally published January 8, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1312

Why do you climb into a rollercoaster?

I’m not talking about tricked up rides at Disneyworld or Universal or other theme parks, where the excuse can be that there’s other stuff to see along the way (the Jurassic Park ride, for instance, features several horrifying drops, but is “worth it” because of all the cool audioanimatronic stuff that’s part of the ride.)

I’m talking about the big ol’, high speed, turbo-charge, ain’t-nothing-there-but velocity roller coaster, hurtling along the rails, screeching as metal clutches onto metal. What is it about the swiftness of the ride that is so attractive? Is it the ear-shattering clacking of the wheels? The howling of people around you as they shriek in adrenalized terror? What’s the big attraction?

Face it: It’s the risk. You know it is. The risk generates the thrill.

There’s always a chance that something could go wrong. You never know for sure, particularly in some of the smaller parks, how aggressive the safety checks have been. Malfunctions could occur at any time. When I was a kid, two friends of mine were flung from a rollercoaster and were in traction for six weeks. Wheels could slip, rails could buckle–the whole thing could come apart. The odds are against it, of course. The odds are tremendous that you’ll come out of it on the other end hale and hearty. But there’s a chance, an ever-so-small chance, that you might… not… make it.

Adventure. Risk. Daring. You’re doing a little dance with death. You are willingly stepping into the reaper’s turf and saying, “Okay… I’m putting my neck on the line. Let’s see if you can get me.” And you angle up and speed down, flip upside down and scream and wave your arms over your head like a loon, and at the end the roller coaster slows to a halt… and you’re still alive. You cheated death. Granted, you were playing with a stacked deck. It’s not like you’re such a thrill addict that you’re going to blindfold yourself, hop behind the wheel of your car, and try to navigate the Jersey Turnpike just to see if you can trust the Force to guide you through. You’re not Evel Knievel, taking a whack at the Snake River Canyon. The cheat was eminently in your favor on the roller coaster. What you got was the thrill of simulated death-defying. You pulled it off. You risked death… and lived to tell the tale. Except the risk was minimal and it’s more of a visceral thrill, appealing to the daredevil in you. The chances are you wouldn’t really risk death if you thought death had better than a 50/50 chance of nailing you. It’s just… playing. Playing at being a cheater of death.

Death fascinates us. Every ghost story you’ve ever heard is a treatise on death. Every angel sighting or tale of heaven and hell has, at its core, speculation as to what waits beyond. We dabble in death because, like birth, it’s one of the only two common experiences that it is absolutely guaranteed we are all going to have shared or will share.

And risking our own lives, or telling ghost stories… those are just a few of the angles. Another one is… what would it be like to take a life?

C’mon… it must have crossed your mind from time to time. There was someone you really couldn’t stand, who just drove you completely nuts, and you merrily took solace by envisioning various death scenarios, usually violent. Backing your car over him, stuffing him down a trash compactor, just getting a gun and blowing his brains out. It is one of the more evil, dark aspects of humanity… but it’s there. “I’m going to kill him!” you must have shouted out at one point or another in your life, and right at that moment, you may very well have meant it.

But you wouldn’t have done it. Because you’re a law abiding citizen. So you turn away from the evil and darker aspects, and you live your life in accordance with them. You remember “Thou Shalt Not Kill,” and besides you wouldn’t really have the stomach for it, and most of all… hell, you’d probably get caught and spend your life doing hard time and being the girlfriend of some 250 pound convict named Toodles. Just as you wouldn’t really want to genuinely risk your life because, y’know, you might get killed.

But it’s still there… deep down. What would it be like… to kill someone? Could you do it? Would you be capable? In time of war? Or if he had just raped your girlfriend and he was helpless and you had his gun and were aiming it? Or if he just really really bugged the hell out of you? Could you kill him?

Be interesting to find out, wouldn’t it. If only there was a nice, safe way to do it.

Ten years ago, DC Comics provided it.

It was, in my opinion, the single most repellant publicity gimmick ever developed. Ill-conceived in its content, vomitus in its execution.

Sure, Jason Todd was fictional. But what is fiction if not the investment of some spark of reality by the audience into the character. I get the letters, I see the online debates, I know how passionately fans feel about the heroes and villains who parade through 22 color pages on varying quality of paper. I don’t believe that Jason Todd wasn’t to some degree as “real” to the fans as any others of the heroes they read about. That’s what it’s all about, after all: Suspension of disbelief. The willingness to set aside your internal knowledge that these character constructs are just that, and instead buy into the notion that what happens to them actually, to some degree, matters in the long run.

But Jason Todd was a lousy character, you might say. Certainly he didn’t start out promisingly. The bad seed of Robin Hood, as it were. But I submit that it was his exceedingly unpromising beginning that indeed made him a candidate to be a truly great character. Because the quality of a character is measured by his personal journey. The further down the moral scale he starts, the more triumphant and uplifting is his success when he overcomes those deficiencies and becomes a hero in his own right.

That opportunity was not given him, however, nor was it given to the writers to try and see if he could be salvaged. Instead, his fate was thrown to the fans. The Joker apparently has Robin’s number, kids, but actually… you’ve got his number. Two of them, in fact. Call this number if you want him to live… and this other number if you want him to die.

How repulsive.

Hey, gang. Pulling the wings off a fly not enough for you? Ever spill salt on a snail, watch it fry, and still felt that you just weren’t getting enough sadistic pleasure? Well, guess what. You know that dark corner of yourself where you’ve wondered what it would be like to kill somebody? But you could never really indulge it because of, you know, laws and stuff? Well, we can’t offer you a flesh-and-blood human being to off, but we’ve got the next best thing. We’ve got a gen-u-ine comic book character, trussed up like a Christmas goose and waiting for your decision. Sorry that you didn’t get to sit in the Coliseum and turn thumbs up or thumbs down on an ancient gladiator? Ticked off that you didn’t have the opportunity to sit ringside at the guillotine? Pardner, this is as good as it’s going to get, at least for the time being.

How disgusting.

Don’t tell me that, since he never really lived, it didn’t matter if he died. Ultimately, it’s not the “death” of Jason Todd that concerns me. It’s that people zealously picked up the phone and, in the comfort and safety of their homes, ordered the execution of someone they perceived as real enough to care about whether he stayed around or not.

Batman is supposed to represent something. He is supposed to represent the death of innocence… and the determination that no one should have to have impressed upon them, at such a young age, the fact that evil sometimes does triumph, no matter what you may read in the storybooks. The Joker, on the other hand, is the incarnation of random violence. The notion that no one is safe, that evil strikes for the most capricious and foolish of reasons, and laughs at the carnage it leaves in its wake. In case any of you out there have forgotten… we’re supposed to be rooting for Batman.

Instead, the Joker won. And Robin died. And the Joker had the last laugh.

I hope all of you who voted to execute Robin enjoyed your thrill.

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

 

Six Months Later

Six month ago as I was lying in bed, flat on my back from the stroke that I had spent hours denying was happening, I said to Kath, “Put it up on my website.” I was in no shape to do it myself, so I dictated a quick statement that she typed verbatim (prompting one Internet genius to comment, “He can’t be too bad off; he’s typing on the Net.”)

For some reason, I honestly had no idea that it would take off. But it did. Within fifteen minutes it was on Bleeding Cool, and that was because Rich Johnston received three dozen emails during the intervening time.

From that point on it was all over the place. Every board everywhere, it seemed, was determined to spread the news. One asshole—just one—declared I had it coming. Otherwise there was an outpouring of support, prayers, etc.

Then followed ten days in the hospital, the first few of which Kathleen was informed that eighty percent of people who have this particular type of stroke tend to die, and she might have “tough decisions” to make. When I didn’t happen to do that, I then spent five weeks at Brooks Rehab hospital in Jacksonville, where Ali, my physical therapist, busted ass to enable me to learn how to walk again. When I first arrived, the plan was that I’d leave in a wheelchair. By the time I left, I was using a cane.

Now, months later, I am done with physical therapy and next Tuesday is my last occupational therapy. My right shoulder still hurts and my endurance is not remotely what it was, but I am working to return to normal. It continues to be a long path, but with the relentless support of my wife and friends, at least I’m able to walk it.

PAD

Kath here-We would like to thank everyone for your help through this, for lack of a better word, adventure. We couldn’t have done it with out y’all.

This will be the last of these entries. I started with daily updates and then went to weekly and finally monthly as things kept getting closer to normal. We do still have a long way to go but we have made it this far and it is nice to say that after 6 months Peter is pretty much back to normal (or pre-stroke as the medical people are saying).

We still have a lot of doctor’s visits in our near and far future. It just has become a part of our lives. But these visits give us the information we need to continue his recovery and rehabilitation.

Again y’all have our thanks and gratitude.

Kath

The Bureau of Overthinking Things

Originally published January 1, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1311

People often ask, “Where do you get your ideas for the weekly grind of But I Digress?” That’s not the most often-asked question I get. The most often-asked is, “Who the hell do you think you are?” But a close second would be the one stated above. The answer is: lots of places. One of those places would be the Bureau of Overthinking Things, a think-tank in Oyster Bay which specializes in dwelling upon matters that are of little to no consequence. They then send out news releases to subscribers, and we in turn make what use of it we desire.

I’m ashamed to say that I’ve used these reports from time to time if I can’t come up with anything on my own, and then passed that work off as something that I myself had developed. But the guilt has become overwhelming, and I’m afraid I have to confess to it. And before you hold me in too much contempt: Hey, at least I’m coming clean about it. Certain comedians have built entire careers on the Bureau’s releases (right, Seinfeld?)

And so, whenever the Bureau sends out something that I think might be of interest to our rather skewed little sensibilities here at BID, I’ll simply run the release as is, properly credited, so I no longer feel like such a hypocrite.

REPORT FROM: The Bureau of Overthinking Things

SUBJECT MATTER: Rugrats

OVERTHOUGHT TOPIC: The Aging of Tommy Pickles

CATALYST: The Rugrats Movie

PROBLEM: The internal continuity of Rugrats is horrific. The first episode of Rugrats, aired some years ago on Nickelodeon, was “Tommy’s First Birthday” (hereinafter referred to as TFB). For the purpose of this overthinking, we will posit that TFB was the first adventure of the children as explored in the series, due to the highly introductory nature of the storyline, and the fact that subsequent episodes have dealt with further exploration of childhood development.

In the subsequent run of the series, at least a year’s worth of time, if not more, passes, as indicated by several episodes dealing with watermarks of child development, as well as episodes depicting such calendar specific times as Passover, Chanukah, and Christmas. Furthermore, Tommy’s mother has conceived a child by the last “new episode” of the current series run. Assuming a normal nine month pregnancy (resulting in the birth of baby Dill in the theatrical film) it is safe to say that approximately two years has gone by since the characters’ introduction.

Yet Tommy has not aged. He remains developmentally no different than he was at age one. Chucky has had marginally better luck. Established as being two years old, he has become potty trained, moved out of his crib, etc., in the intervening time. But Angelica, who was established as aged four, was and is capable of conversing with adults, a talent that eludes the others because of their youth. By the time of the film, Angelica should be six, Chucky four (and therefore able to communicate with the grown-ups as well) and Tommy at least three. He should be out of diapers, have more hair, more teeth, and walking properly. And we won’t even get started on Phil and Lil.

Granted, we have discussed bizarre age depiction before (See: “What’s Up With DeeDee’s Parents? What Generation is She Supposed to Be? What is DeeDee, in her mid sixties, that she has Parents Who talk and Act Like They Just Moved out of the Ukraine?”) But Tommy’s stunted development is truly odd, particularly when compared with the hypersonic maturation of Dill. Barely a few weeks out of the womb, when most infants have not yet found their hands or are truly aware of themselves as entities separate from their mothers, Dill is capable of: Sitting Up; Steering a Motorized Vehicle; Utilizing a gripping reflex that is capable of defying the best efforts of his older sibling to break; Displaying not only awareness of his own bowel movements, but the ability to announce its production with the word, “Poopies.” If Tommy displayed the proportionate degree of maturation, by this point he should be capable of taking the SATs.

SUGGESTED RESOLUTIONS: (1) The Pickles children are genetically screwed up, possibly due to some leaking radiation or similar mishap thanks to their fairly incompetent toy-making father, and therefore should be pitied and perhaps even feared; (2) a letter writing campaign should be commenced at once to force the producers to have greater respect for continuity; (3) we should ignore it as we have in other similar cases of strange non-aging (See: Peanuts; Dennis the Menace; Franklin Richards; Dick Clark.)

 

REPORT FROM: The Bureau of Overthinking Things

SUBJECT MATTER: Peter Pan and Tinkerbell

OVERTHOUGHT TOPIC: “Clap if You Believe in Fairies” Act Two Climax

CATALYST: Peter Pan production currently starring Cathy Rigby

PROBLEM: The production itself, presently running on Broadway, is sensational. Cathy Rigby is, quite simply, the best Peter Pan this Bureau has ever seen, and that includes Mary Martin and Sandy Duncan (heretical as that may sound.). The comfortable physicality of flying and tumbling is to be expected, but it’s also a superb acting job, from her boyish behavior to the Artful Dodger-ish accent she displays. Furthermore, changes have been made to streamline and improve the book. For example, the endless and show-stopping (as in, causing it to grind to a halt) “Oh My Mysterious Lady” duet has been replaced by the dramatic and accurate-to-the-book confrontation on Marooned Rock, right down to Pan’s being stabbed and contemplating death as a great adventure.

Nothing, however, has been done to rectify the clunky and improbable Act Two Climax.

Peter Pan is asleep in the hiding place of the Lost Boys. Captain Hook has gained entrance. He has his enemy at his mercy–a quality that he is sorely lacking. Instead of killing him, however, Hook instead leaves poison (disguised as medicine) for Peter to ingest, wasting a golden opportunity. After his departure, Tinkerbell alerts Peter to the plight of Wendy and the Lost Boys, who have been captured by the pirates. Pan believes her, and prepares to head after them. But first he stops to drink his medicine. When Miss Bell informs him that it is, in fact, poison left by Hook, Pan suddenly finds her untrustworthy, even though a moment earlier he believed her story about the Boys’ capture.

With time of the essence, the sane, rational, logical thing for Miss Bell to do is knock the bottle over, spilling the poison so that Pan cannot drink it, and head out. With Pan’s memory, he’d probably forget about it in the crush of subsequent events anyway. Instead, Miss Bell—in a burst of total insanity—consumes the poison, nearly killing herself. The last time we saw a Fairy this nuts was when we watched “Sweatin’ to the Oldies.”

(But I Digress apologizes to any offended by the Bureau’s above remark. This is actually the sort of comment we delete when we process it for the column, but in the interests of accuracy, we are presented unexpurgated reports. Sorry for any inconvenience.)

Miss Bell is subsequently resuscitated by, basically, a massive Clap. There is an ironic subtext of being saved from poison by the Clap, but that we will save for another investigation. Truthfully, it seems as if the contrived development was created specifically so that the second act could end on an artificially created, manipulative emotional high of applause.

SUGGESTED RESOLUTIONS: (1) Restructure the play so that it’s a standard two-act play instead of a three act, thereby eliminating any artificial need for a rousing send-off. (2) Have Hook attempt to kill Peter in his sleep. Tinkerbell intercepts the strike of Hook’s hook, the brouhaha awakens Pan, Hook flees, and Miss Bell is left mortally wounded. The applause scenario can then be maintained.

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

 

Con Voyage to Mexico City

Originally published December 25, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1310

I was more than halfway up the Temple of the Sun when my legs gave out. I flopped to the stone surface, crouched on the narrow and inclined stairs, my heart slamming against my chest, and I tried to remember what the hell I was doing there…

The convention was called the MECYF 98, a massive convention in Mexico City. Held from July 11-15, the convention had grown exponentially in its few years of existence, drawing in twice, three times the number of attendees of the San Diego Comic Con. Other scheduled guests for the convention included Alan Grant, Denny O’Neil, Karl and Barbara Kesel, Marv Wolfman, Mike Carlin, and Sergio Aragones.

I was a bit nervous about attending. First, I only went to a handful of conventions this year, due to various family concerns. And second, this was the first convention I was attending as one half of a new “couple,” since Kathleen was going to be coming with me. Although Kathleen was no novice to the convention scene, she was known for herself and her many accomplishments in such fields as puppetry and costuming (including a devastating “Vincent” costume she wore as part of a Beauty and the Beast presentation at one convention.). But at the MECYF, she was going to be, as far as the fans were concerned, “Peter David’s girlfriend.” I was reasonably sure she would take it in good stride and not feel her own identity was threatened, but nonetheless I was a bit apprehensive. Plus there were going to be several other “significant others” in attendance as well (Alan Grant was bringing his wife, Susan, and Denny O’Neil’s wife, Mary Fran, was also coming), so naturally I was hoping she’d have no trouble meshing with them.

But once we actually got to the convention, I found far many other things to be apprehensive about. Understand, the people running the con couldn’t possibly have been sweeter. They were solicitous above and beyond the call of duty. All of the guests had personal gofers/aides attached to us for the duration of the con, and everyone was determined to make the convention a pleasant experience for all concerned. Nonetheless, there were certain… little things… that made me a bit apprehensive. For instance, our hotel was in downtown Mexico City. “Is there any problem,” I asked, “if we just want to walk around on our own at some point?”

“No problem,” I was told, but then was given the admonition, “but… I would try not to walk around alone. Always walk in groups.” This, for some reason, made me a bit apprehensive.

My apprehension grew when the shuttle brought a group of us to the convention center for the first time. We had had emphasized to us that crowd control was a top priority. Indeed, when we went anywhere, we were always going to be escorted by large numbers of volunteers. And furthermore, any time we were going anywhere at the convention, our route would be prearranged and scores of volunteers would form human barricades to keep the fans at bay. I had a hard time relating to all of it, because I’ve been attending conventions for years and have never once been mobbed. Oh, sure, there’s been the occasional occurrence where I stop to talk to someone in a dealer’s room, I start signing a few books while I’m talking, and suddenly discover that an autograph line has materialized.

And there have been some autograph sessions that became nearly unmanageable. But I’m not exactly Leo DeCaprio, y’know? I’ve never needed to concern myself about stampeding herds thrusting themselves at me or endangering life and limb.

So the shuttle pulled up to the convention center… and there were cops outside. Armed cops. Heavily armed. With very large guns. And flack jackets. And helmets.

“I want to go home now,” I said, fighting down panic and not doing a terribly good job of it. Oddly enough, no one brought me home.

It turned out that, in addition to our little comic book love fest, it was also an incendiary time for the city itself due to some sort of major political brouhaha that was on the verge of reaching a flashpoint.

Still, once we were in the convention center, things seemed a bit calmer.

There was a dazzling display of fan crafted art which was exhibited along the main corridor. The dealer’s room was unbelievably crowded. Every so often someone noticed me and came over to have me sign something. You’ll find that the best way to avoid being mobbed is to go somewhere where everyone is already packed in. You don’t have to worry about that first, crushing surge of bodies because since they’re already jammed in fairly tight, it’s hard to get any sort of momentum going.

The thing is, most of the time when I go to a convention, I never get to see anything of the surrounding area. That’s annoying enough when it’s someplace in the States. But if I’m on foreign soil and I get to see nothing of the area, it really seems a waste. So I was bound and determined, as were a number of other attendees, to get out and about and see some neat stuff.

Did you know there were pyramids in Mexico? I didn’t know that. Apparently everyone else there did, however, and an expedition was mounted during one afternoon when our schedule was cleared of autograph sessions and panels. We caravanned out to see the pyramids, which I was all excited about until I found out that the Sphinx was in another country completely. So I had to deal with the disappointment.

A half an hour outside of Mexico City is the ancient city of Teotihuacan (which means “Home of the Gods.”) Once upon a time, Teotihuacan was a bustling center of commerce with a population of 100,000. Now all that remains is ancient ruins. One of those, the centerpiece of the excavation, is the Pyramid of the Sun, built in the second century A.D., stretching over 200 feet high and measuring 650 feet square. It’s situated on the Street of the Dead, and just down the street is the slightly shorter Pyramid of the Moon.

I figured we were all going to go look at the things. Just, y’know, look.

But as we made the approach, I saw specks walking around along the top of the Sun Pyramid. It turned out, much to my surprise, that one can actually scale the pyramid by means of a narrow and very angular stairway that runs up the west side.

Naturally, we intrepid comic book folk decided that we must embark upon the challenge. And scaling the thing was no mean feat; not only was the pyramid 210 feet high, but each of the sides actually measured 730 feet. Plus not only was the air already thinner than what we were used to, but naturally it got thinner still the higher you went. Plus, one was climbing at a fairly steep angle on stairs that, in some instances, were barely deep enough to place your foot. All of those elements combined to lend credence to the sign at the bottom which warned, “Climbing the pyramids can be dangerous.”

Nonetheless, a group of us began the trek.

Did you know the Pyramid of the Sun is the third largest in the world?

It very quickly began to feel like it.

The climb quickly began to take on a pattern for all of us who were not in shape. There would be a flight of stairs that would take us to a plateau… where we would rest… and then embark on the next flight of steps (each one becoming progressively narrower). As we reached each plateau, with tourists and Mexican citizens trotting past us with disgusting ease, one or more of us would say, “Okay, that’s it…” and declare that they were going no further.

I would have liked to think poorly of them. I would have liked to think that those who didn’t have the stamina to make it to the top were somehow lacking in The Right Stuff. In point of fact, as I left the stragglers and quitters behind, I came to the conclusion that they, indeed, had the Right Stuff: That stuff being, of course, brains. I, on the other hand, was possessed of two decidedly Wrong Stuffs: First, a deadly mixture of pride and stubbornness, and second, a girlfriend who I quickly discovered was one half damn mountain goat.

“My God… I’m dating Xena, warrior princess,” I gasped as I lay on the pyramid about three quarters up and watched the superbly in-shape Kathleen lope ahead as if she were doing five minutes on a stairmaster. By that point, my legs were absolutely leaden, and I couldn’t feel anything in my arms.

“Meet you up there!” I tried to call after her, but I doubt she heard me. She probably had the theme from Rocky sounding in her ears.

Do not get the impression that I was the only comic pro to attempt the top. Barbara Kesel sped by. I wanted to kill her. Not only was she bounding up the steps like a gazelle, but she was perky. “Young people,” I growled. “I hate young people.”

Denny O’Neil, who is about 109 years old, trotted past me, going in the opposite direction. He’d already made it to the top and was trotting back down with no hint of exertion whatsoever. He wasn’t even sweating. I was pouring out sufficient moisture that it threatened to slick up the entire side of the pyramid.

I trudged up another flight, which seemed about a thousand feet long. It was probably about thirty. I collapsed again. The stairs were so narrow, my exhaustion so complete, that I was reduce to crawling on my hands and knees. I heard a child burble behind me and I looked down. A mother was coming up the stairs with her son. The kid couldn’t have been more than two years old. He was mounting the steps with infinite patience and no discernible strength. We locked eyes, him young and innocent, me with a dull ache where my lungs used to be and hauling four lead weights that once resembled arms and legs.

“So what! I can rent a car! You can’t!” I croaked at the child. His lower lip stuck out. He almost cried. Separated from the incident, I look back on it and feel badly. At the time all I thought was, Good. Little creep. He toddled past me and left me behind. I looked to the top, which was in view. Kathleen was busy using her chakram to flatten armed troops. Barbara was leading an aerobics class. I was busy trying to restore sensation to my toes.

I crawled, literally crawled the rest of the way. Now I knew why the central street was called the Street of the Dead. I was ready to kill myself for having embarked on this insanity. Once I reached the top, I would have had an easier time admiring the view if only the crash cart, the guys applying paddles to my chest, and the concerned faces of the doctors hadn’t gotten in my way.

In the center of the top was a small metal tab. The notion was that one was supposed to touch it and, upon doing so, one feels energized and reinvigorated. I touched it. I would have felt more reinvigorated if touching the tab had caused a water fountain to spring out. Kathleen and I spent a few minutes walking around the top while I tried to figure out how I was going to tell her that I had no intention of going back down. I was there, I was staying put. I even considered suggesting that the convention be moved in its entirety to Teotihuacan. Relocate the autograph sessions to the top of the pyramid. Make the fans work for that autograph. Let’s see ’em haul my entire run of Hulk hundreds of feet at a seventy degree angle.

Ultimately, though, I realized that staying there simply wasn’t an option. I considered just hurling myself off the side, but opted simply to take the stairs down. It was, incredibly more terrifying than going up, because I constantly felt as if I was on the verge of tumbling forward. There was a railing partway down, but since I had no strength in my arms, it wasn’t of too much use.

To my horror, Barbara, Kathleen, Karl, Denny, and a number of other insane people were already galloping toward the Pyramid of the Moon at the end of the street. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said in nothing resembling my normal voice. “Don’t worry! It’s shorter than the Pyramid of the Sun,” she told me.

That was my out. I drew myself up and said disdainfully, “I already climbed the taller one. The shorter one isn’t worth my time. Unlike some people, I don’t have to prove anything.”

I then went off to a corner to find an emergency oxygen tank while the Comic Olympic Team scampered up the Pyramid of the Moon as if it were a jungle gym.

That evening, I was looking in a guidebook and said to Kathleen, “Guess how many steps it was up to the top of the Sun pyramid.”

“Two hundred and forty seven,” she said. “I counted.”

I looked back at the guidebook and said, “Well… ha ha. That’s how much you know. You’re wrong.”

“How many then?”

“Two hundred and forty eight.” I paused for dramatic emphasis and added, “Xena would have known.”

Kathleen just polished her sword and looked smug.

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

 

Bob Kane’s Creations

Originally published December 11, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1308

With the passing of Bob Kane, I thought I’d indulge in some memories of the character most associated with him, namely…

Courageous Cat.

Okay, not really. But boy, do I remember Courageous (as I date myself to such a degree that you can measure it in radioactive half-life.)

Courageous Cat, for those of you too young to recall, was a cartoon series credited to Bob Kane. Truthfully, I have no idea how much of it was developed by Kane himself, just as I remain fuzzy on just how much of Batman’s creation was by Kane, as opposed to such imaginative craftsman as Bill Finger or Jerry Robinson. Nevertheless, Courageous Cat (simply “Courageous” to his associates) was somewhat unique.

He had an insidiously catchy theme tune that was annoying impossible to get out of your head once it was in there. Indeed, the damned thing is probably going to be stuck within my skull for the rest of the evening just as a result of my having written this column.

Courageous Cat (and I’m working from memory here) was a costumed crime fighter, decked out in a garish leotard with, I believe, a star on it. He resided in a cave called, naturally, the Cat Cave. I seem to recall the cave entrance being in the shape of a cat head. He also had a side kick with a high pitched voice named “Minute Mouse.” It was never clear exactly why he was called this. Perhaps it was supposed to be a takeoff on “Minute Men.” Perhaps that was how long he could talk in that annoying falsetto before you were ready to hurl a brick through the TV screen. Maybe a minute was all he managed to last in the sack. It was hard to tell, really.

All we knew for sure was that they were a dedicated team, fighting crime by leaping into the Catmobile and hurtling into the city to battle such vicious foes as a scheming frog who had a tendency to dress in jackets and slacks that made him look like Ricky Ricardo during show nights down at the club.

Courageous Cat and Minute Mouse sped around town in the Catmobile (whether his residence was the stately Cat House was never mentioned.) Neither had any civilian identity that was ever indicated, and their faces were not masked.

And best of all was Courageous’ main means of fighting crime. Batman may not have carried guns (at least, later in his career he didn’t) but Courageous more than made up for it. He used, so help me God, trick guns, not dissimilar from trick arrows favored by Green Arrow (and I have to say, by the way, in relation to nothing in particular… am I the only person in the world who was never blown away by the name “Green Arrow?” I don’t pretend to know everything—you could drive a fleet of Hondas through the gaps in my education—so maybe there’s some sort of historical reference that I’m missing. And no disrespect is intended to the comic greats who developed the characters. But as a kid, it seemed to me that the reasoning was, “So, okay. We’ve got this guy. And he’ll be rich like Batman, and have a sidekick like Batman, and drive a car like Batman, but he’ll use arrows and be dressed in green like Robin Hood… so, uhm… we’ll call him… uh… Green Arrow.” Wow. I mean, sure, the arrows were green, too (when the colorist remembered) but it just doesn’t seem that daunting. Robert Louis Stevenson, of course, wrote the famous novel The Black Arrow, detailing the story of young Richard Shelton and his involvement with the titular outlaw band. Black’s a cool color. You wouldn’t want to hear the Black Arrow is after you. But “green” just doesn’t do it somehow. And I’m not sure that “Green Lantern” was any better. Melding two different words into a new name works if it conjures up an image; even a ludicrous one… “He’s a cat… and he’s courageous!” Courageous Cat!” “Batman! He’s a man… but looks like a bat!” “Green Lantern! He’s… got this lantern, and it’s, uh… it’s, y’know…green…” Perhaps that’s why the team-up book in the 1960s worked so well; it combined the two guys at DC whose names made the least sense. But I digress…)

Anyway, Courageous used trick guns. The actual operation and make of the gun seemed to vary from one cartoon to the next. In some, Courageous had a single gun with a variety of trick settings to it, making it capable of firing lariats, nets, and blasts of water with equal facility. This was somewhat beyond ludicrous (as if the talking cat fighting a frog who was the same height as the cat was somehow more credible.) The alternate version showed Courageous using different guns for different occasions. How did he store them? In the lining of his cape. He’d pulled wide his cape to reveal a variety of guns hanging in pouches. This, of course, probably would have required that his cape be so heavy that it likely would have strangled him, but heck… maybe that’s what made him so darned courageous.

Of course, since Batman had Catwoman, it would have been nice if Courageous Cat could have gone up against Batwoman, but the name was already taken by DC. Darn. What an intercompany crossover that could have been.

* * *

I didn’t understand Batman at first when I was a kid. Since my primary exposure to heroes had been Superman, I didn’t understand why Batman didn’t fly or have super strength. He was a master detective, true, but so was Sherlock Holmes, and he didn’t require a cape and mask to go about his job. I had no clue as to why Batman was, or should be considered, a superhero.

For some reason, my grasp of the character crystallized in an issue of World’s Finest. There was a sequence where Batman was squaring off against, of all things, an army of knights. As Batman descended upon him, the knights were apparently unaware that our hero’s attire was supposed to strike fear and terror into their cowardly hearts… possibly because, being knights (of the round table, as I recall) they weren’t cowards. The knights unleashed a volley of arrows directly at Batman while the caped crusader was dropping towards them from above. By rights, Batman should have been a pincushion. Instead he actually manages to twist and turn in midair and avoid the deadly barrage. And I’ve always remembered the captions that ran in that panel, that went something like this: “No ordinary man could possibly dodge a hail of arrows in mid-air. But we never said Batman was ordinary!”

And I read that as a kid and said, “Oh, okay. I get it now. Although Batman supposedly achieved his status through years of training, in point of fact he’s got about as much to do with normal humanity as does Superman.”

Batman has been compared to Sherlock Holmes, but Holmes wasn’t superhuman. Arthur Conan Doyle based the character’s amazing analytical skills upon a real individual, Dr. Joseph Bell. Batman’s also been compared to Zorro, but–at least when he started out–Zorro was eminently human. He only came out at night when he could hide in shadow, and at one climactic point of Zorro’s first literary outing (in The Curse of Capistrano), Zorro and the heroine find themselves pinned down in a deserted house, outnumbered by soldiers with nowhere to run. Zorro doesn’t superhumanly fight his way out against insurmountable odds. He basically turns to the girl and says, in effect, “Well, we’re screwed now. We’re done for. Sorry.” Only a last minute, timely arrival of an authority figure prevents Zorro from being captured and executed. The early sequence in the recent film, The Mask of Zorro depicting Zorro riding up in broad daylight and engaging a dozen or so soldiers in swordplay—while unquestionably spectacular—has nothing whatever to do with Zorro as originally conceived. Batman was a superhero because he was above humanity. If you worked and trained hard enough to the point where you could distinguish two hundred different types of tobacco or dirt samples, you could be Holmes. If you trained in fencing and horsemanship, and stuck to back roads at night when you rob people, you could pull off Zorro. But train all you want, study as much as you desire—ain’t no way you dodge a volley of arrows in mid-air. Will Not Happen.

Even so, I found Batman more accessible than Superman, because even though he was bigger than human, he still had some nominal connection to We Mere Mortals. I blush to disclose that I was a fan of the Adam West TV series. I remember the day my father came home and told me he’d gotten us tickets for opening night to the circus…and it was the night that Batman debuted after an entire summer of promos. I sat at the circus that night and crabbed the whole time (it wasn’t as if I could have set a VCR.)

I remember when we went on a big trip to Europe… the week that the Batman theatrical film opened. I sat in the south of France and crabbed the whole time. I’m amazed, in retrospect, that my father didn’t throw his young son off the top of the Eiffel tower, shouting, “Let’s see Batman get you out of this one, you little ingrate!”

Ah, the joys of youth.

I also had, of all things, a black and white 8 millimeter film that was one of the chapters of the original Batman movie serial which we’d picked up in a department store. In this day and age of easy video release, it’s impossible to describe what that chicken-scratching little reel of silent b&w film meant to me. I ran it over and over again. Never found the next installment, so I spent years wondering how the plummeting Batman at the end of the installment managed to cheat death. Eventually, when I grew up, I got the entire serial (with voices and everything) on video tape. As an adult I was amazed at how unbelievably cheesy it was. Ill-fitting costumes, no budget to speak of, wooden acting… and a hideously anti-Japanese slant (no bad pun intended) that is astounding now, but very much of the time.

“Who created Batman” seems still to be a matter of debate. The question becomes problematic, although the fact that not everyone involved received their due seems indisputable. It’s the same problem one runs into when discussion centers around nearly any commercially crafted character who becomes a franchise. Look at Spock: Gene Roddenberry created the notion of a pointy-eared, Satanic-looking individual, but he was perfectly emotional in his early incarnation, prone to grinning or emotional outbursts. It was Leonard Nimoy who came up with the nerve pinch and the mind meld, and Nimoy claimed that an early director suggested the emotionless reading of the word “Fascinating,” and it was supposedly from that that much of the character’s detached manner was derived.

I think the probable answer is that it both matters and it doesn’t. It matters because, as this column has stated in the past, one should receive credit where one is due. The names of Bill Finger, Jerry Robinson and others deserve to be up there with Kane. On the other hand, it doesn’t matter… in that Batman became more than the sum of his parts.

But one of those parts was indisputably Bob Kane. For that, at least, we should always be grateful.

Gee, I wonder if anyone argues about credit due for Courageous Cat…

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

 

Marvelmanic, Part II

Originally published December 4, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1307

 

A PETER DAVID FILM
MARVELMANIC

(conclusion)

Jack and Rose gasped and threw themselves back against the wall, unable to take their eyes off the spectacle of hundreds upon thousands of spiders. They were skittering along the ceiling, a black mass heading toward, presumably, safety.

Jack watched where they were headed, turned to Rose, and said, “If the spiders are going that way, it’s good enough for me. Come on!” He grabbed Rose’s hand and pulled, and the girl needed no further urging.

“Follow us!” she called over her shoulder to the poor, surviving editors who were huddled together in a frightened mass. As the water moved up to ankle depth, they quivered in fear but otherwise didn’t move. “Hurry!” she shouted again, but still there was no response. It was as if they were still in denial over what was happening, clinging to the notion that somehow, in some way, it was all going to work out.

Jack and Rose pounded up the twisting staircase. The stream of spiders was moving so quickly that they were hard-pressed to keep up with it. They passed another floor—and paused. There was a large door of etched glass, and on the other side of the door, they spotted the architect. He was simply standing there, his back to them, and he seemed to be looking at something with great intensity. The young fans cast a glance at each other and then at the water. They had managed to outrun it temporarily. It would be catch up, certainly, nothing could stop that, but for a moment they were safe. They ran up to the door and shoved it open. Sure enough, there was the architect. He was staring at a painting of a man with graying hair, seated at a drawing board and scowling as if annoyed that someone had interrupted him to paint his portrait. The architect was smiling sadly. He had a box tucked under his arm.

“Mr. Architect,” Rose called out. “Aren’t you going to make a try for it?”

He looked at her, and it took a moment for him to truly focus on her. “I’m sorry, young Rose,” he said ruefully. “I should have built you a better company.”

“You did everything you could.”

“There’s no point in going down with it,” Jack said urgently.

He glanced at the lad. “I didn’t catch your name?”

“Jack.”

“Jack.” This seemed to amuse him, and he looked at the painting as if sharing some secret joke. “You’d better go,” he said softly.

But the spiders had disappeared. Jack cursed the detour they’d taken, prompted by their interest in stopping to chat, at a most inopportune time, with the architect. “We’re lost. We don’t know which way to go.”

He took each of them gently by a shoulder and pointed them in one direction. “Go that way. And just keep facing front, true believers.”

He handed to Rose the box he’d been holding. She took it, clearly puzzled. She shook it slightly. It was very light and it sounded as if something was rattling around in it. “What’s in here?” she asked.

He smiled. “Excelsior.” And that was the last thing she heard him say, as he turned back to the painting and seemed to have forgotten that anybody else was there.

*

The owner watched from a safe distance, as the Marvelmanic sank lower and lower on the horizon.

He sat in his lifeboat, bobbing up and down, unable to believe what he was witnessing. He heard the screams of those who had counted on him. He’d let them down, let them all down. He had had such plans for the place, had intended to accomplish so much. How could he possibly have made such a muddle of it all? He was a rich man, a powerful man. He had become so by making a series of steady, intelligent, and savvy decisions. What had it been about Marvelmanic that had so tampered with his usually impeccable judgment? He had no idea; he might never have an idea.

He wasn’t able to look. All alone, he turned away so that he wouldn’t have to watch. His face was a mess. Fortunately enough, he had a lot of spare make-up around that he could use to touch himself up.

*

Perched atop the Marvelmanic, Jack and Rose had nowhere to go. “I jump, you jump, right, Jack?” Rose called to him over the tremendous roar of the water.

“But where are we jumping to?”

“DC! Or—or WildStorm!”

“That’s also DC!”

“Oh! Well, uh, Image! And maybe Dark Horse!”

“Here it comes!” Jack called to her. They held hands with desperate urgency, as Marvelmanic sank, faster and faster—and then they leaped. Moments later, as they clutched desperately onto the box of excelsior which was miraculously keeping them afloat, they watched in horror as Marvelmanic sank beneath the surface and disappeared beneath a massive sea of red ink.

Neither of them had ever tested any waters other than Marvelmanic, because they were both unvarnished, dyed-in-the-wood Marvelmanic Zombies. It was cold, though, colder than they could possibly have imagined. Cold because, with Marvelmanic gone, so, too, had more than 30% of the market vanished. All around them, store owners were paddling furiously, trying not to sink from sight beneath the waves along with the Marvelmanic.

Rose turned to Jack, who was already shivering from the absence of the Marvelmanic. “Rose…Rose, you must…you must make me this promise… you must… you must…”

“Oh, knock it off!”

Jack, Rose, and everyone else who was within hearing distance, looked at the approaching sight, and it was definitely something to see.

It was a dog, a huge toy dog. A toy dog with an unusually large tail. What was really impressive was that the tail was wagging the dog.

The lapping ocean did not seem to bother him. “People and their histrionics,” said the tail wagging the dog. “Everything is going to be fine. We know what we’re doing. We’re turning the Marvelmanic around. So it seems to have gone under. We can raise it again—raise it and make it float, bigger and better than ever.”

He shook a firm paw and Jack and Rose. “And don’t let anybody else tell you different. Good day, folks.” And he paddled away.

“He thinks he walks on water,” Jack said with a disdainful shrug.

“Could he be right? The tail wagging the dog—could he be right? Will Marvelmanic surface? I love their comics—but will our love go on?” Rose asked.

“I’m not sure,” he said cautiously. “I hope so.”

He looked around and saw a mass of dead spiders dotting the ocean, a vista that seemed endless. And he intoned in a low voice, “I… hope so…”

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

 

Marvelmanic, Part I

Originally published November 27, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1306

A PETER DAVID FILM
MARVELMANIC

The owner was not happy.

The collision had jolted him from his sound sleep. It had been a serene slumber, for he had had his usual pleasant dreams. It had been dreams of his ownership of the Marvelmanic, the biggest, most powerful of its kind. He dreamt of others looking on in amazement, Marveling at what he had constructed. He was the king of all there was, he was the surveyor of a world that looked upon him with awe. He reveled in adulation, he foresaw new towers of power that he would climb and from there he would look down upon all those whom he had left behind. They admired him, they feared him, they sought to be like him and all the while knew that they could never begin to match his greatness.

And there were the headlines, the headlines he was always boasting that he would achieve, headlines that he was constantly seeking. Headlines describing his latest, greatest triumph—whatever that might happen to be. He was determined that Marvelmanic was going to give him opportunities for newer, even bigger headlines. Full-page banners, crowning him as the new king of entertainment, touting his empire…

All very pleasant dreams—until the sudden, massive thud, followed quickly by a grinding noise evocative of a thousand coffin lids opening. It sent him tumbling to the floor, and, once he pulled himself together, he yanked on a robe and headed to the command center.

There he saw a situation that could best be defined as controlled chaos. The captain was there, and so was the architect. The architect, of advancing years but astoundingly spry, was bent over various charts of the Marvelmanic’s infrastructure. He looked like a coiled spring, ready to leap out in any direction but, instead, barely contained. The captain was cool and yet he seemed apprehensive.

“What’s going on?” demanded the owner. “Why have we stopped?”

“Five compartments, yes, but not six,” the architect was saying.

“What are you talking about? What’s this about compartments?”

“We appear, sir,” the captain said, “to have hit something. A series of somethings. And it’s had a calamitous effect on the Marvelmanic.”

The owner shook his head in annoyance. “Oh, nonsense. Certainly, we’ve had some bumps in reorganization—but it was bound to happen. It’s nothing to be concerned about. So when can we get under way again?”

“You don’t understand,” said the architect. Almost through force of will, he guided the owner’s gaze to the diagrams. “Those ‘bumps’ you speak of are just the tip of the iceberg. Look here.” He started pointing, one compartment after the other. “Management who knew what they were doing were replaced by management who had no comprehension of the comics market. That’s one. Then we tried to self-distribute, and it was a disaster. It laid waste to the direct market, making it not only damned near impossible to get our comic books, but also driving retailers out of business because their shipping and ordering costs skyrocketed. That’s two. We glutted the marketplace with assorted gimmicks and tons of issue #1s. That’s three. We ran up such massive debt that we drove the company into bankruptcy. That’s four. We established a cut-off line for cancellation of titles, thereby guaranteeing that titles which were marginal-but-promising would be dumped, thereby alienating readers. That’s five. We might have been able to stay afloat, even with all of that.

“But we’ve torn an gaping hole in the New Reader Department. We’re doing nothing to bring in new readers. We’re canceling books while, at the same time, firing the editorial staff who would be overseeing new titles and not pushing anything through that’s new and different. We’re withdrawing all but eight titles from the newsstand and concentrating on the direct market—except the direct market doesn’t bring in new readers. The newsstand does that.

“That’s six compartments. She was built to withstand five compartments being breached—but not six.”

The owner still couldn’t quite wrap himself around what the architect was saying. “I—I don’t understand…”

“I’m saying we’re taking on water.” The architect’s hand glided over the diagrams. “It’s spilled in through the breach in the first compartment, and now it’s moving through the second, and third, and so on, faster and faster. Within a very short time—Marvelmanic—will flounder.”

For the briefest of moments, the owner thought it was a joke. A sickly laugh died in his throat. “But—but the Marvelmanic can’t sink.”

“She’s made of paper, sir,” the architect said stiffly. “I assure you—she can. And she will. It is,” and his voice took on a funereal tone, “a mathematical certainty.”

The owner felt the cold, hard stare of the captain upon his neck. He turned to face him.

“Well, Mr. Owner,” the captain said with surprising calm, “it looks like you’re going to get your headlines after all.”

*

Jack and Rose had broken away from the tour group and were running through the halls of the Marvelmanic. The precariousness of their situation had not fully dawned on them yet. They were two young fans who felt as if the entire world was theirs. They believed in Marvelmanic, and managing to get two tickets on the tour had been one of the greatest joys of their young lives.

They had felt the Marvelmanic shudder, but thought nothing of it at first. It had been a disconcerting enough jolt, but it seemed to be of no consequence. It had certainly felt as if they’d hit something, but so what? The Marvelmanic was unsinkable. Everyone knew that.

They took one turn around a corner, then another. Suddenly Jack started to slow. “Hold on, Rose,” he said. “Are you—are you noticing anything?”

“What do you mean, Jack?” she asked, but then she started to look around. “Wait a minute—where is everybody? Didn’t there used to be—people here?”

“Yeah. A lot of people,” Jack said.

The editorial office—the area that had been called “editor’s row”—was empty. Offices were darkened, cleaned out. There was a frightful silence. The famed Bullpen was, likewise, deserted.

They moved quickly, looking for someone, anyone. In one office they found a few editors, huddled together, frightened looks in their eyes. “What’s happened?” Jack demanded. “What’s going on? Where is everyone else?”

“Gone,” whispered one of the editors, as if communicating from beyond the grave. “Gone—all gone. Soon, we will be, too. We’ll—”

Suddenly he stopped talking, something having caught his attention. Jack and Rose turned and saw someone dressed entirely in black, heavily cloaked. It was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman. The figure held a scythe firmly in its grasp.

“Well, this can’t be good,” observed Jack. Rose clutched his arm ever more tightly and whimpered softly in fear.

The figure stood there a long moment, and then stretched out a bony arm and pointed at one of the editors cowering in the back corner of the room. And then the figure spoke six terrifying words in a raspy voice:

“Human Resources wants to see you.”

The selected editor let out a piteous moan and looked to the others for help, but there was nothing to be said. Without a word, he followed the dark figure out.

The moment the dark figure was gone, another editor—looking terrified and desperate—scuttled into the office. “They got Millie,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

There was a loud wail then, cries of utter disbelief, shouts of “Not Millie!” Then, their agony spent, they lapsed into silence once more.

“We have to do something!” Rose cried out. But none of the remaining editors replied. “Don’t just sit there!” she urged once more. “We—”

Then she felt a wetness around her shoes. She and Jack looked down. The carpet was becoming soaked. “Oh—my God,” whispered Rose. “We’re—we’re sinking. Marvelmanic—is sinking.”

“That’s not possible,” Jack said.

Suddenly they heard skittering noises. They looked around, then down—and around—

Spiders. Hundreds, no, thousands of them, moving across the wall and ceiling like a great black mass. Moving as quickly as they could, up and out.

And the water was rising…

To Be Concluded

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