Peter David's Blog, page 68

The Trouble with MCI

Originally published November 13, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1304

And now, a cautionary tale having nothing to do with comics, but which should be duly noted in the log of “things that could happen to you, so watch it.”

A few months ago, the phone rang in my office (as it is wont to do). I answered it, and there was a representative from MCI on the other end. “Hello, Mr. David,” said the rep. “We’re calling to verify your new MCI calling card.”

I, like most of you out there, get calls from people trying to sell stuff all the time. You know the drill: “You have just been selected to receive: (1) a free subscription to a magazine you never heard of; (2) a free pair of Ginsu knives, (3) a pre-approved Visa card, etc.” (The most irritating was when I would get calls offering me a subscription to Newsday, which I found particularly annoying since I already had one. During one particularly obnoxious round the subscription calls were coming on a weekly basis, and I finally got them to go away by calling the subscription supervisor and threatening to cancel my subscription if I got one more call asking me to subscribe.)

In short, one offer blends into another. Plus, sometimes I’ll get calls from one service outfit or another offering me enrollment in some new plan guaranteed to save me money if only I will spend money that I hadn’t intended to spend in the first place. So I figured that this was simply yet another endeavor to sell me something I didn’t want by acting as if I’d ordered it in the first place.

“I don’t have an MCI calling card,” I explained, “nor did I order one, nor do I want one.”

“Are you sure?” they asked.

“Quite sure, yes.”

“Okay,” they said.

Next day, they called again. And the day after that. There was never any further explanation beyond, “We’re calling to verify your new MCI calling card.” I saw it merely as a fairly irritating sales ploy.

Because sometimes I’m a bit slow, you see. I didn’t realize that someone actually was ordering the cards.

Flash forward to a few weeks later. I got a call from a guy identifying himself as being from the fraud bureau of AT&T. “We’re calling about some unusual activity on your calling card.”

Now, I really do have an AT&T calling card, and there indeed had been some “unusual” activity in that my eldest daughter, Shana, had been out of town for over a month and run up a fairly high bill on the calling card. So I said confidently, “Oh, yes, I knew all about that.”

“So you made all these calls,” he said.

“Well, not me, my daughter, but I know all about it. It’s legit.”

“So she knows people in Egypt?”

I stopped dead. I could feel the color draining from my face. “What?” I said slowly.

“Egypt.” He paused, and then added, “And Yemen.”

“Yemen?!” I squawked. “No! I don’t think anyone in my family even knows where Yemen is! This is on my calling card?”

“Yes, sir. The calling card you ordered in September.”

“I didn’t order a calling card in September! The calling card I’ve got, I’ve had for seven years!”

“Yes, sir, I was afraid of that. Someone ordered a calling card in your name, attached to your phone number.”

I was astounded. Apparently this kind of thing goes on all the time. Not only that, but there’s a sort of worldwide fraudulent phone number ring, with sending and receiving points in Egypt and Yemen (which is why those calls lit up the AT&T security system). The thieves order the false cards (from a payphone) and then, once they’ve got the numbers, contact the switching points in Egypt and Yemen and relay the new numbers to them. The fake numbers are immediately passed along to customers around the world and my phone number starts racking up toll calls.

Usually AT&T reps catch this kind of thing before it actually happens. They run verification procedures. But according to the guy I was speaking with, every so often, a rep gets sloppy, doesn’t do his or her job thoroughly, and a fake card slips through. Then it’s up to the fraud department to catch it before it gets out of control—which this fellow just had done.

“We’ll shut down the account immediately, sir,” he said, apologizing for inconvenience as if he had done anything wrong. I thanked him profusely for doing his job.

That evening my girlfriend, Kathleen, who was out of town, attempted to call me using my usual calling card number, which I had given her for just this purpose. It wouldn’t work. Instead, she got a recording saying the account was unavailable.

AT&T had been too thorough. In addition to shutting down the false account, my legit account had also been blocked. Fortunately enough, the guy at the fraud department had left me his number, and I called him in frustration and explained what had happened. It still took two days to straighten it out, however, as he had to find a way to finesse the computer into putting the correct number back.

Just wait. It gets better. So now we’re into October, and I got a bill from MCI. This struck me as rather odd. I mean, I think Candice Bergen is great and all of that, but I hadn’t switched long distance carriers, although I’d been tempted from time to time because they had some really neat bribes (sorry, “offers”). But I hadn’t made the switch. So I couldn’t figure out what the bill was for.

I cracked the envelope and discovered a bill for $45.

It was for my new MCI calling card. A card for which there were two calls attached.

One to Egypt. The other to Yemen.

“Oh, no,” I moaned softly. (Well, not really—actually I shouted a rather loud profanity that, as Blackadder once said, rhymes with “clucking bell.”)

I immediately called the customer service department for MCI, and hit that joy of the automated age, the automated voice menu. It offered me a series of options and I waded through about four or five until I’d pinpointed it to one that seemed to serve my immediate need. And then I sat. Dead silence on the other end for a couple of minutes. Then a click. Then disconnected.

It gets better yet.

I phoned a second time. This time I employed the stunt I sometimes use to cut through voice menus: I did nothing. When prompted to push a button, I just sat there and listened. When you do this, the voice menu will decide that you either: (a) are one of those rare beings who has a rotary phone, or (b) you don’t comprehend the instructions because you don’t speak English or are just really really stupid. The trick worked. I waited a while, but this time there was Muzak, and finally I got a human being. I explained the situation to him. Unlike the AT&T fraud guy, the MCI customer service guy didn’t seem to have a clue as to what I was talking about. I explained it v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y as the guy methodically took down the entire scenario. Then he paused, giving the situation the full and mighty weight of his brain power.

“I can’t help you,” he said finally. “You need to talk to the fraud department.”

Now understand, the first sentence out of my mouth to the guy had been, “Someone fraudulently ordered a calling card using my phone number,” so you’d have thought that—if he couldn’t handle it—that would have tipped him off. “Ooookay,” I said. “Connect me to the fraud department, then.”

“Hold on, sir.”

Click. Muzak. Click. Voice menu. I listened to a series of options, none of which applied remotely to my situation. I tried my non-response ploy. The voice menu repeated. I remained silent. Voice menu kept repeating. “I’m in hell,” I murmured. Finally it put me through to… more Muzak. More waiting.

I got somebody else, told them the situation, told them my phone number. “And you’re saying your didn’t make these calls on your MCI account?” he asked.

“I don’t have an MCI account.”

“Okay. Sorry, sir. For verification purposes, could you tell me the last four digits of your social security number.”

I paused. “I could tell you,” I said, “but I’d be astounded if it matched up. I doubt whoever set it up knows my social security number. Whatever you have is probably fake.”

Like a broken record, he repeated the request. I told him the four digits. He paused and then, as if he’d just caught me at something, informed me, “That’s not what we have on record, sir.”

“Oh, really, Holmes?” I was making no effort to keep the sarcasm from my voice. I’d already wasted fifteen minutes on this. “I told you it wouldn’t match. Now listen: It’s no skin off my nose, because I have no intention of paying for these calls. But while we’re going back and forth, for all I know, someone in Istanbul is calling Sydney and racking up MCI charges. So let’s cancel this account.”

“I can’t do that, sir.”

“Why… not…?”

“Because it’s not your account. I can’t even discuss it with you since we can’t verify the social security number.”

I couldn’t believe it. I was flashing back onto that immortal scene from Ruthless People in which the cops were confronted with the idiocy of Bill Pullman’s gloriously dim-bulb character, and one of them mutters, “This may well be the most stupid man alive. Maybe we should shoot him.”

“Of course it’s not my account! It’s a fake! It’s fraudulent! Isn’t this the fraud department?”

“No, sir. This is customer service.”

That stopped me dead. “Then why am I talking to you? The previous guy told me he was connecting me to the fraud department! Silly me. I thought this was, therefore, the fraud department! Now will you please connect me to the fraud department.”

“Hold on.”

Click. Click. Muzak. Brand new voice menu. This one was craftier than the previous one. After I listened to a series of options that didn’t apply, I did nothing. It wouldn’t accept nothing. It just kept repeating the same menu. After four repeats I took a shot at something that sounded like “High Toll Calls.” Seemed reasonable.

More waiting. More Muzak. Got a rep. Explained the entire situation over to him again.

“Hold on, sir.” He went away. More Muzak. He came back. “I can’t help you, sir.”

I could feel myself losing it. “Why. The. Hell. Not? Isn’t this the fraud department?”

“No, sir.”

I didn’t even ask why it wasn’t. “Then put me through to the fraud department.”

“I can’t, sir. But I’ll give you another 800-number you can call.”

“Is that the fraud department?”

“No, sir. It’s customer service. They’re the ones who handle this kind of thing.”

And I blew my stack. “Oh no you don’t!” I bellowed. “I started with customer service forty-five minutes ago. And now you want me to start all over again, calling the same department at another number! Forget it! You want me to speak to this other number? Fine! Then you call it, you tell them what’s going on, you get a supervisor, you get whoever is needed to fix this, and you do it now, or I’m going to call MCI’s lawyers, PR department, president, whoever I can get and tell them about the blinding incompetence that is their customer service department!”

“Hold on, please.”

Click. Click. More Muzak. Click.

“Customer service.”

I wanted to scream. However, I stifled it, because this time it was a woman. Charlene, I believe her name was.

“Charlene,” I said, “I’ve been talking to men for nearly an hour now. You’re a woman. That means you’re smarter. Solve this for me, okay?” I laid it out for her. She checked the records. “The account’s already cancelled,” she said.

“What? When?”

“The end of September.” Of course. That was when I got those calls verifying the MCI card in the first place. Those calls that I’d dismissed as an odd high-pressure sales gimmick had actually been from the elusive MCI fraud department, who’d never identified themselves as such, the way AT&T had.

“But—but if it’s already been cancelled for weeks now, why didn’t any of the people I spoke to earlier tell me that?”

“I have no idea, sir. Hold on,” she said, “while I credit the account. There. All done, sir. You shouldn’t be getting any more bills.”

She had accomplished in precisely one and a half minutes what three earlier customer service reps and over fifty minutes of wasted time had failed to produce: An end to my non-existent account and eradication of the bill.

And the morals of the story are: (1) get an unlisted phone number, (2) always check your phone bills very carefully, and (3) Candice Bergen represents the dumbest organization known to modern telephonics.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., Cairo, Egypt.)

 

Comic Reviews: Spider-Man: Chapter One and I Hate Superman

Originally published November 6, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1303

No one can argue the absolute necessity of trying to get new fans, new readers on board. To present stories and concepts that will ideally stir the interests of those who are not currently reading comics and bring them into the hobby.

The last time that comics had massive or rapid expansion, it was driven by the collector mentality. The characters and stories were of no interest; rather, comics were being bought and sold purely as commodities. Purchasers had as much emotional attachment to the characters as stockbrokers have to AT&T stock. It’s just business, with no personal investment or interest. Unfortunately, if one is at all interested in the long-term health of the industry, then ways have to be found to stoke the fire of that interest once more. There are far too many things vying for the attention of potential young readers these days, and comic characters are a very small voice in a very loud wind.

So, companies continue to make efforts to bring in new readers, any way they can.

I have two recent examples of such, both available for under three dollars, and both aimed at substantially different audiences. One is quite charming, and the other is kind of… meh.

First up is Spider-Man: Chapter One.

Marvel Comics is apparently attempting to recapture its title as the House of Ideas. It doesn’t seem to matter that the ideas might be DC’s (having John Byrne reboot a flagship character) or just old (a recycling of a story first published more than three decades ago).

There’s our hero, posed much as he was on the cover of Amazing Fantasy #15. Unfortunately, as opposed to the original cover where the buildings were nicely in line with each other (as one would expect from a Kirby cover), the new version has the backgrounds somewhat out of whack, with apparently all the skyscrapers on the right hand side of the street positioned at about an 80 degree angle relative to the ones across the way, giving the impression that they’re about to topple over. Then again, considering the recent building collapses in Times Square, perhaps this is simply sardonic commentary on Manhattan’s crumbling structures.

Of course, that doesn’t explain Spidey’s webline, which is somewhat flaccid rather than properly taut as in the original. It also appears to be anchored to Spider-Man’s word balloon rather than a building. On the other hand, since the buildings are already in an apparent state of disintegration, that might be a wise move on the webslinger’s part. Spider-Man’s rather arch dialogue from the original (“Though the world may mock Peter Parker, the timid teenager, it will soon marvel at the awesome might of Spider-Man!”) has been replaced by the more colloquial, easier to read “Everybody laughs at the loser, Peter ParkerTM but no one’ll be laughing at the Amazing Spider-Man.” Of course, that still leaves us with the unidentified guy Spidey’s shlepping, who I always envisioned saying, “Ah hah! So you’re Peter Parker, huh!” to which Spidey could reply, like the Maxx, “Damn! I was speaking out loud instead of thinking again!”

The story then proceeds in flashback form, presumably so we can get Spidey upfront faster. Fair enough. The captions are somewhat overwrought and frontloaded with adjectives (“The last soft breezes of dying summer have been swept away on the keening edge of a gathering storm. The wind is cold this autumn night, but the tears that soak this black and scarlet mask are scalding hot, heated by the fires blazing in the soul of a young man who has just seen his world come to an end.”) but at least the buildings are in line with each other, so we shouldn’t be too upset.

Spidey flashes back throughout his life. Here Byrne endeavors to update our hero, with Aunt May and Uncle Ben presenting him with a computer as a kid rather than a microscope. Indeed, one of the purposes of the reboot is to do away with all those nasty topical references which date the original. But old, jarring references (Spidey referring to himself as being “more unpopular than Kruschev”) have been replaced by new jarring references. (Teenagers of recent vintage—they have to be recent if young Peter is getting a PC for his birthday—debating over tickets to a Rolling Stones concert? The Stones? If the sequence is set about five years ago, then a Nirvana concert, maybe. Or perhaps They Might Be Giants. But the Stones, during their Steel Wheelchair Concert? I dunno about that.)

Byrne consolidates the origins of both Spidey and Doc Ock into one nuclear accident, which is probably a smart move. At least, I certainly thought it was smart when Stan Lee first did it in his aborted movie treatment for the Spider-Man film, which was adapted into short story form for the collection, Ultimate Spider-Man. Likewise Byrne’s more educated handling of proper precautions used for a demonstration for radioactivity, while robbing the original of much of its naive charm, at least makes it more believable to a more knowledgeable audience.

While Peter convalesces in a hospital, Uncle Ben purchases yet another PC (my God, these people were more loaded than the computers) and is assisted to his car by a guy who looks sort of like an evil Alfred E. Neuman. This fellow will turn out to be the burglar who winds up robbing the Parker’s home—the burglar who, while casing the house, spots Spider-Man emerging from the upper floor window and jumps to the conclusion that Spidey is a second-story man as well.

It’s all part of Byrne’s take on the assorted coincidences that plague Spidey’s origin. (“I addressed a couple of points that had never quite been made to work as well as they might,” Byrne explains in an essay. “Why did that burglar travel all the way from midtown Manhattan to that house in Queens, of all the houses in Queens?”)

Unfortunately, in endeavoring to explain those coincidences, Byrne piles one confusion upon another. How did the burglar know where Uncle Ben lived? He could have checked the phone book, I suppose, but “Parker” is a common name (Queens information lists over a hundred “Parker”s) and why assume that Ben lived in Queens to begin with just because he bought a computer there? The burglar is next seen in Manhattan, being chased by a uniform police captain—from the Forest Hills precinct. What the hell is the cop—who looks to be about sixty—doing wandering that far afield from his normal precinct? What’d he do, tail the burglar all the way from Queens, while in uniform?

C’mon. If the Manhattan-to-Queens jump was that bothersome to Byrne, why not just set the big wrestling confrontation at Nassau Coliseum, which is a stone’s throw from Queens? Or even just make up an exhibition hall in Forest Hills. Anything’s better than this tortured rationale.

Why would the burglar, upon seeing Spider-Man emerge from the house, assume that Spidey was likewise a crook? What would be the sense in Spidey “casing” the place, as the burglar suggests, if Spidey’s already inside? Spidey clearly isn’t carrying any loot; costume’s too tight, no place to put it. Much more logical would be for him to assume (correctly) that Spidey lives there. For that matter, why did the burglar wait so long to attempt the robbery? If he’s after the computer, better to hit the house fast. Get the thing while it’s still in the box. Easier to carry, easier to resell if it’s brand new.

That aspect of the Spider-Man origin which Byrne considered so unacceptable—the apparently random coincidence—was in fact one of the strongest aspects of the origin.

It was that awful randomness, the incredible unpredictability, that underscored the terrible lesson that Spider-Man learned. Thirty years ago, the robber appeared out of nowhere, disappeared back into nowhere, only to show up from nowhere again. His facelessness made him all the more frightening and disturbing. It accented the capriciousness of fate, and brought into strong relief the eternal vigilance that would be Spider-Man’s price for the powers he had acquired.

The new version suffers from TMI—Too Much Information. Rather than fate pointing its fickle finger and smushing Uncle Ben, Ben instead becomes a piece in a Byzantine game of being endlessly “cased” by a burglar who alternates between being excessively canny and cautious sometimes, and other times possessing the IQ of an egg salad sandwich. I mean, here’s a guy who’s just been positively ID’d by a police captain (outside his precinct, but never mind that) while attempting a robbery backstage at the wrestling arena.

This would be a good time for the thief to get the hell out of town. If he needs quick cash, he can try lifting a few wallets before bolting to Penn Station, Grand Central or Port Authority. Instead he heads back to his normal stomping ground, where an APB has no doubt already been put out for him by the cop who spotted him (because he knows him, remember, as opposed to his originally being a fleeting and unidentified figure) so he can try to burglarize the house and pop Uncle Ben. It’s too involved and rather annoying.

Instead of being a random and frightening act of violence, Ben’s fate is sealed the moment he steps out of the computer store. The burglar was more effective when he seemed almost a force of nature, a faceless incarnation of street violence and misused responsibility. By making him too much of a character, a once-elegantly simple morality tale has become needlessly involved and convoluted, basically because Byrne overthought it.

If I were interested in trying to stir up interest in a young fan, I would be more inclined to hand him a copy of I Hate Superman than Spider-Man: Chapter One.

What’s that, you say? Well, I Hate Superman is an oversized book for kids, published by Little, Brown about two years ago at the unfortunately prohibitive price of $13.95. However, I picked it up just recently at the far more appropriate remainder price of $2.99.

No kiddified Superman tale is this. Written by none other than long-time Superman scribe Louise Simonson, and illustrated by Kevin Altieri (director of Batman: The Animated Series) and painted by wife Kathy Altieri (currently attached to DreamWorks SKG, with animation credits including The Lion King), I Hate Superman tells the story of two brothers in the nastier section of town. While young James hero-worships the Man of Steel, his other idol is older brother Mike, who sticks up for his cape-wearing kid brother when other kids tease him.

As the story unfolds, James spots a robbery at a local shop and summons the passing Superman. To James’ horror, however, he discovers that one of the robbers is none other than big brother Mike, running with a bad crowd. What transpires next is—particularly considering the target audience—almost heartbreaking.

“His heart sank. ‘You can’t take him, Superman!’ James cried, running toward them. ‘It’s a mistake. That’s my brother!’

“‘I’m sorry,’ Superman said softly. ‘But I have to turn them all over to the police. Your brother wasn’t the one with the gun, but he was breaking the law.’”

Off goes Mike to jail (juvenile hall, presumably) and James’ adoration for Superman turns to blind fury. He blames Superman for carting away his brother, and even worse, he blames himself for alerting Superman to the situation in the first place. Consequently he starts vandalizing the neighborhood, spray painting “I Hate Superman” all over the place. Naturally Superman can’t help but notice the rather harsh criticism, and confronts the hurting lad:

“James plowed into Superman, pounding him as hard as he could with both fists. ‘I don’t want to be like you anymore!’ (James said). Superman let James hit him until the boy was just too tired to move. Then Superman gathered him into his arms and held him until James’s sobs quieted.

“I didn’t arrest your brother because you betrayed him. I arrested him because what he was doing was wrong. There was a gun. People could have been seriously hurt,’ Superman said. ‘It’s good to love your brother, but you don’t have to act like him. Or me,’ Superman added.”

Pretty heartfelt and deep for what is ostensibly a kids’ book. There are one or two minor quibbles: The first sentence of the book, for instance, is “Our apartment is sweltering…!” Not exactly a common word used by small kids, or any kids.

And the charmingly cartoony artwork features an assortment of nice bits, ranging from a pair of spindly cats who show upon practically every page, to the name “Walter” (as in Louise’s husband, Walter) etched in graffiti, to the revelation that James and Mike live on the corner of 35th Street and North Yancy. If you’re someone who’s got a mad on for a superhero, where else but Yancy Street would you reside?

The series of books also boasts Batman: The Joker’s Apprentice, written by Chuck Dixon and illustrated by John Calmette. I didn’t spot that one, but if it’s anything approaching the quality of this one, it’s a shame that the series apparently ended with these two installments. This is precisely the sort of project we need in order to get more readers.

And now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for me to sit down with Ariel and watch The Superfriends on the Cartoon Network. Can’t start ‘em too young, you know.

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

 

Hey New York Folk and those around the Tri-State Area

Peter will be appearing at the Soho Digital Gallery tomorrow at 7:00 with Danny Fingeroth.

More information can be found here

Tickets can be purchased here

He will be signing and speaking. Sometimes at the same time.

Kath

Guava Paste is People!

Originally published October 30, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1302

And now, let us step onto the elevator in the BID Department store. Going up….

*

The “Where’s The Rest of Me?” Department:

In the newly released trade paperback, The Ultimate Hulk, edited by Stan Lee and Yours Truly (and featuring a now-ironic foreword in which I discuss how inconceivable it would be for me to leave the comic book series), there is a short story entitled “Truck Stop” by Jo Duffy. To quote Stan’s description, “A deadly gang terrorizing a small, Midwestern town—with Bruce Banner and the incredible Hulk working for opposite sides!” But the story as published, for reasons that remain murky, is missing its last third, the section which pulls it all together. It’s too late to do anything about it now, obviously, with the thing already in print.

*

The “Where’s the Rest of My Title?” Department:

And speaking of Hulk, it’s fairly well known at this point that Marvel cancelled the series just two years shy of issue #500 (because, y’know, there’s so many issue 500s out there, why add to the glut?) Instead, the company—wanting to take no chance of the title continuing its hemorrhaging of sales—will be restarting it with a #1. Furthermore, there will be no adjective. He’ll just be plain old “Hulk.”

Now, I’ll tell ya, the Hulk’s been gray, green, gray and green again, he’s been dumb as a peanut butter cracker, smart as a five-time winner on Jeopardy, he’s been all kinds of things—but for thirty years, he’s always been, without fail, Incredible. But that adjective is no longer welcome. It is retired, finished, kaput.

That just doesn’t seem right somehow, losing one’s adjective. Spider-Man is still amazing. The X-Men remain uncanny. The Four are, to this day, Fantastic. (Okay, granted, Daredevil hasn’t been “Here Comes Daredevil” for a long time, but really, how impressive is it when people say, “Watch out for Daredevil! He’s coming!” That was always pretty lame.)

So I threw it open to the fans over on AOL. I said, “Fans (I call them that. We’re very close.) “Fans,” I said, “since the Hulk will no longer be ‘incredible,’ perhaps someone should do a top 10 list of new possible adjectives.

And the fans, bless their hearts, came through.

Some of them had a few good ones. Eric Y., for example, suggested “Macho Hulk,” “Pantsless Hulk,” and “Hulky Hulk.” Jesse T. (a.k.a. Latveria23) came up with “The Bodacious Hulk” and “The Extreme Hulk.” But my favorite overall was the following list, submitted by “Madjak,” who bills himself as “the former Benevelont (sic) Dictator, Red Raven revival society!” His top 10 list consisted of:

10) The Humongous Hulk

9) The Inflatable Hulk

8) The Hormonally-Imbalanced Hulk

7) Dr. Bruce and Mister Hulk

6) Bruce Banner: The Hulk

50 David Banner: The Reprise

4) Hulk: The Wonder Years (with Bruce Banner narrating from some future point)

3) Size Does Matter Hulk

2) The Savage He-Hulk

And the #1 title:

1) The Wondrous World of Willy Lumpkin

Marvel, hope you’re taking note.

*

The Wisconsin Ham and Cheese Acting Department:

So there we were, at the Saturday night banquet for MadMedia 5, and I decided to indulge in street theater.

MadMedia is a convention in Wisconsin (Madison, hence the “mad” part) which has grown steadily over the past few years. This year’s guest list included Harlan Ellison, Neil Gaiman, Stephen Furst (from B5), Tim Zahn, Mike Baron, and me. One of the events during the convention that required attendance by everyone was the banquet, and we dutifully turned out in force. Rather than seating us all together, we were each “seeded” at a table so that all of the attendees could sit with one of the con guests. This kind of set up always makes me a bit itchy because I then feel (rightly or wrongly) that I’m the draw at the table. (“We sat at Neil Gaiman’s table! He entertained us for an hour with droll and witty observations! How about you?” “We were at Peter David’s table. He got gravy on his tie and spilled soup on his girlfriend.”)

In short, when I’m in that kind of position, I want to try to make people’s evenings memorable. After all, they paid to get in. I didn’t. I figure I owe them something.

So, after the main meal had been served, Harlan was going around with this stuff called “guava paste.” A gelatinous confection which tastes dynamite, particularly when sandwiched next to a small chunk of cream cheese, Harlan had first gone around to all of his friends at the banquet and had us try it. And then, when he found he had plenty left over, he was doling it out to the fans.

So I was watching this, and things were pretty quiet at my table—and naturally, I felt I should be doing something to keep things lively. And suddenly I leaned forward conspiratorially to the fans and said—and I have no idea how this idea leaped, almost fully formed, into my mind—”Remember Soylent Green?” For those of you who don’t, Soylent Green was a futuristic drama starring Charlton Heston, memorable for its chilling climax wherein Heston’s character learns that the titular food stuff is actually reconstituted citizens. “Tell them! Let everybody know! It’s people! Soylent Green is people!” screams Heston, which—in terms of science fiction warnings—is right up there with Kevin McCarthy shouting “They’re coming! They’re coming!” to heedless motorists in Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

The fans nodded in recollection of the film, and I continued in a low voice, “What would you think if I jumped up and started shouting, ‘Guava Paste is people!’” Immediately they nodded eagerly. (Why not? It wasn’t their butt on the line if the gag fell flat.) One of the fans fed me the exact wording that Heston had used. But I felt that just jumping up and shouting wasn’t enough. The bit needed something more.

Then another fan walked up to me and asked me to sign something. I took one look at the guy. He was a head taller than I, broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, with a shaved head. Immediately I said, “Care to help me with a gag?” “Sure,” the behemoth rumbled.

So there was poor Harlan, about one table away, handing out this dessert, and suddenly he’s startled to hear me scream, “Tell them!” His head whipped around so fast it could have been accompanied by one of those “whoosh” sound effects from Xena: Warrior Princess, and gaped at me with a combination of deer-in-the-headlights and clear concern that I had completely snapped.

“Let everybody know!” I continued like a crazed loon. “It’s people! Guava paste is people!”

And on cue, the burly fan ran over from the next table, grabbed me from behind, and proceeded to drag me out the door, as if he’d been dispatched by the Guava Paste Company to make sure their secret was not unveiled. “It’s people! It’s people!” I continued to bellow. The entire banquet hall, now understanding, erupted in laughter. I couldn’t see Ellison’s reaction because I was too busy struggling with the fan and I wanted it to look real. The fan hauled me out the door but I clung to the door frame, still shouting, only my desperately clutching fingertips visible before being yanked completely out of view.

We sauntered back in a moment later, me reaching up to high-five the fan. Harlan was laughing as hard as I’ve ever seen. And then Ellison dropped to the floor, to his knees, and proceeded to salaam and bow in a most Wayne’s World “We’re not worthy” manner. The laughter did not subside for quite some time.

Hopefully, that gave the fans their money’s worth.

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

 

A Test of the Complete Lapse of Good Taste System

Originally published October 23, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1301

Warning: The following is a test of the Complete Lapse of Good Taste System. This is only a test.

*

COMIC BOOK PUBLISHER RECALLS ‘SLUR’ COMIC

NEW YORK, Oct. 1, 1998 (UP) – Marvel Comics has recalled a bestselling issue that contained an anti-Semitic slur, the New York Post reported today.

The latest issue of Wolverine, which went on sale Wednesday, includes a scene in which a character refers to an adversary as “the kike known as Sabretooth.” The comic book was released on the Jewish holy day of Yom Kippur.

“It should have read ‘the killer known as Sabretooth’,” professional industry insider Bunker Jefferson stated. “However, the fact that this typo slipped in is clear proof of an international Jewish conspiracy, formulated to make Marvel look as bad as possible.

“It wouldn’t have been quite as bad if the word had appeared in the next caption, which referred to Wolverine’s young friend Kitty Pryde,’ since, y’know, she really is a kike. So it would have been, y’know, truth in libel or something like that.”

Jefferson went on to say, “We’ve been expecting something like this ever since (Ron) Perelman was forced out. That resentful little Hebe swore that he was going to do something to make us look like fools, and this was most likely it. Our theory is that he called in some favors from the international Jewish conspiracy and this was actually a substitute page slipped in by one of his cronies right at the printer. Every one knows the Jews own all the printers anyway.”

In June, rival DC Comics was criticized for a comic that featured Superman taking on the horrors of the Holocaust, but omitted the word “Jew” from the story. “Frickin’ Hebes are never satisfied,” Jefferson stated.

*

HEARD ON THE STREET

NEW YORK, Oct. 2, 1998 (UP) – Wolverine #131, featuring the famous Jewish epithet sequence, was marked up to $10 by retailers who are completely ignoring the recall and doing brisk business with fans seeking out the “instant collectible.”

“This is great,” said retailer Benny O’Riley of Lindenhurst, New York, who runs “Lotsa Comics” with partner Wallace McTavish. “I’m hoping Marvel recalls every book they shipped in October. I could retire.”

*

CONTROVERSY WIDENS OVER ‘SLUR’ COMIC

SKOKIE, ILL., Oct. 5, 1998 (UP) – The Jewish Anti-Defamation League has publicly condemned Marvel Comics for its use of the word “kike” in relation to Sabretooth.

“Not only are we upset about the use of such a word,” said JADL head Avram Ben Josef, “but also the apparent implication that such a venal character as Sabretooth is supposed to be Jewish. Like we don’t have enough problems.”

“We are also concerned over Marvel Comics perpetuation of the international Jewish conspiracy which is alleged to control the entire entertainment industry,” continued Ben Josef. “This is a lie, and a damnable offensive lie at that. We call upon Marvel to retract that statement immediately, and to donate a six-figure sum which will enable us to plant approximately five thousand trees in the state of Israel. In this way we will be able to commemorate not only Marvel’s offensive behavior, but the trees which gave up their lives to serve as Wolverine #131.”

Attempts to locate a spokesperson for the comic book industry as a whole have failed, so no one has made an official response to the JADL’s statement.

“We are hoping that Marvel will cooperate, but we would not be surprised if they stonewall us,” Ben Josef said. “After all, what else would you expect from a company run by a bunch of wops and spics?”

*

ROME, ITALY, Oct. 6, 1998 (UP) – Outrage was expressed by the Italian government today over the Jewish Anti-Defamation League’s statement that Marvel Comics was run by “a bunch of wops and spics.”

“Atsa no good,” stated public affairs liaison Vincent Tuscadero. “Sucha language, these-a words, it’sa gotta no place inna, whattaya call it, today’s polite society, and those-a Christ-killers, they know-a this.”

According to Tuscadero, there has been a good deal of communication between the Italian and Spanish governments over what actions should be taken.

Attempts to ask the Pope his opinion in the matter were unsuccessful, as it was the Pope’s bowling night and he was unavailable.

*

TEL AVIV, Oct. 7, 1998 (UP) – Israeli officials today publicly condemned the actions of both the Spanish and Italian governments, stating that the Jewish Anti-Defamation League was acting in the best interests of the Jewish community.

“It’s amazing to us that it could have gone this far,” said spokesman Aaron Levy. “Between the spics and the wops running Marvel, and the micks who are selling the books and profiteering—it’s just incredible. But we will not stand for it. And we are going to use the twenty-seven movie studios and eighteen television networks we own and control to drive home the point that we will not stand for these attitudes in our enlightened times.”

*

NEW YORK, Oct. 26, 1998 (UP) – A rush on Marvel stock ensued today as traders practically killed each other attempting to obtain shares, which have undergone a startling climb. Value of the stock shot up 93 points after reports that copies of instant collectible Wolverine #131 were going for as much $50 each.

“I think this may mark the turnaround the company’s been waiting for,” said trader Andy Rushman. Rushman was later taken to the hospital after one particularly aggressive round of trading left him with a dislocated shoulder and two broken ribs.

*

NEW YORK, Oct. 28, 2000 (UP) – The comics world was stunned when the newly energized Marvel Comics purchased rival DC, as well as distributor Diamond Comics.

In other Marvel-related news, Sotheby’s announced in a recent auction that a pristine mint copy of Wolverine #131 sold for in excess of three thousand dollars. Meanwhile, retailer Wallace McTavish of “Losta Comics” in New York has stated that the “corrected” edition of Wolverine #131, which substitutes the word “killer” for “kike” and was shipped October 14, can still be found in most three-for-a-dollar boxes.

*

UNITED NATIONS, Nov. 11, 2000 (UP) – A declaration of war broke out as representatives of Israel, Spain, Ireland, Scotland, Italy and—for no apparent reason—the Ukraine got into a fistfight after an hour of heated exchanging of racial epithets. The open declaration of warfare was roundly condemned by assorted chinks, limeys, frogs, crackers, and the “n-word.”

*

This has been a test of the Complete Lapse of Good Taste System. Had this been an actual lapse in Good Taste, you would have been directed to which department of Krause Publications you could have written.

Geez, louise, it’s just a word, and a typo at that. (Actually, John Byrne offered the most likely scenario: The typist wrote the word “kikkers” instead of “killers,” ran it through a spellchecker, the spellchecker dropped in “kike” instead, and no one noticed it until too late. I can believe that. In this very newspaper, an entire column of But I Digress was rendered incomprehensible—or at least more incomprehensible than usual—when my spellchecker added words throughout the column.)

It was inevitable. It’s always the letterer who’s asked to make up the slack caused by late pencillers, inkers, colorists, and—and I don’t exempt myself from this—writers. The problem is, when you expect the machines to do the work for you (as apparently was the case with the editors who didn’t catch the goof) this is going to happen. Poor ComicCraft has nothing to be ashamed of. They’re caught up in a system that requires letterers to provide miracles of turnaround. As for the word itself—it’s just a word, and has precisely, no more and no less, the impact that you allow it to have. Speaking as a Jew, I absolutely could not care less.

Now, in the old days, letterers had to really work to screw things up. I remember one time when a fan came up to me at a convention with the New Mutants graphic novel, and pointed to a liner note which the letterer had actually lettered in. It was during a transformation sequence for Wolfsbane, and the note said, “Colorist: Be sure to put glow around Rahne.”

“This is really sloppy production,” said the annoyed fan.

Without hesitation, I said, “Is there a glow around Rahne?”

“Yes,” said the fan.

“Then what’s the problem?” I asked. “I mean, if there weren’t a glow around Rahne, then I could see being upset. But there is a glow around her. Be happy the colorist did it right.” The fan walked away, looking somewhat puzzled about the whole thing. He sure had an attitude about it, though. Hmm.

Maybe he was a killer…

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

 

5 Months Later

Yesterday marked 5 months since Peter had his stroke. And what did he do? He went to the premiere of After Earth at the Ziegfeld and then to the after party. We saw our friends at Overbrook along with the rest of the floating heads for Mystery Trekkie Theater (yes, they have picked the episode and no, I won’t tell you what it is but it is gonna be a lot of fun so mark your calendars now for that Sunday slot at Shoreleave that we have grown to know and love). Caroline got to talk to Jaden so she is over the moon right now.

It is amazing to me how far he has come since the stroke stopped attacking his body. We have a tentative diagnosis for what has been going on with the shoulder. They think he has frozen shoulder syndrome. There are ways to counteract it but he has another MRI scheduled to make sure this isn’t any more damage.

He is typing now along with dictating. He is typing as long as he can before switching to dictate. He has been writing the end of X-Factor along with some other projects.

He continues both physical and occupational therapy. That is where we get our empirical evidence that he is improving slowly. They have been measuring what he could do when he got there and what he can do now and the results are encouraging.

Everyone who talked to him at Phoenix Comic Con can attest to how well he is doing. We also got to thank people in person for all their help and well wishes. Wil Wheaton told me that he boosted the signal for Peter on his twitter feed.

There are good days and bad days. He injured his right calf muscle just about right after he had gotten his gait pretty much back to normal so he didn’t need his cane of support. This has now solved itself. He bowled rather well this past Tuesday.

We are still very grateful to everyone who has helped us on this unexpected journey. Your good thoughts and support have helped us through a pretty dark time. I am seeing light at the end of this tunnel and I don’t believe it is the oncoming train.

I am opening this thread to questions you care to ask. Please do understand if we can’t answer it. We live in a household of NDAs and the like. This can be questions for Peter, Caroline or me.

In other household news, Ariel has her driver’s license and has been driving. She graduated from college but will be going back to finish up her masters next year. Anyone know anywhere that is looking for an early elementary school teacher to start in the Fall of 2014?

The History of Supergirl

Originally published October 16, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1300

“Bring back Kara.”

It’s probably the most oft-repeated (if I were cynical or in a bad mood, I’d say “tired”) refrain that I hear as the current writer of the Character Currently Known as Supergirl (and Formerly Known as Kara Zor-El.)

Even those people who like the character’s current incarnation have their first loyalty to Superman’s cousin, who was wiped out of existence during Crisis on Infinite Earths. I’d say “unceremoniously wiped out,” but there was more ceremony, pomp and circumstance around her demise than one usually sees at the average college graduation. There are some fans who would happily see Matrix/Supergirl vanish from the DC universe in a burst of flame if it meant Kara’s return. There are others who sufficiently like her current incarnation, plus supporting cast, to want to keep her around even if Kara came back, but simply call her something else other than “Supergirl” so that the name could be returned to the previous owner.

Yes, yes, I know, Kara wasn’t the “original” Supergirl. There was another one in an earlier story who was a one-shot appearance. And yes, I also know there’s a “Kara” who showed up in a DC/Dark Horse crossover whose presence remains a constant source of interest to fans. But for the purpose of this little dissertation, I’ll be confining all my references to that Silver Age pixie who popped out of a fallen space ship and announced her (fairly obvious) presence to a somewhat startled Superman.

No longer unique. The advent of Supergirl was one of the first steps in the de-uniquing (there’s a new word) of Superman. When something is successful (as Superman unquestionably was) there is a compulsion to try and imitate that success by imitating the originator of it. That’s where spin-offs and sequels come from. It’s not so much a creative impulse as it is a corporate one. Thou Shalt Create New Books and Characters Who Will Sell—and the way to improve the chances of their selling is by creating parallels or tie-ins to established, proven properties.

By the time the 1960s rolled around, Superman had gone from being the last survivor of the doomed planet Krypton (“That’s what we get for naming the place after an element!” said an annoyed Jor-El in a Mad spoof) to being one of a crowd of refugees on par with the Boat People. There was Superman, Supergirl, the Superdog, the entire bottled city of Kandor, even the Phantom Zone villains.

But, as Superman’s popularity diminished over the years, sales dropping precipitously so that the Superman family was among the lower selling of the Big Two’s titles, the feeling seemed to be that the imitation—rather than being the sincerest form of flattery—had cost the Big Blue guy. He was no longer unique, and that was suddenly a bad thing. Something had to be done. The Super-hangers-on had piled onto the Superman legend so thickly that you couldn’t see the original guy anymore, and they had to be scraped away like barnacles.

Just as Supergirl’s advent was emblematic of Superman becoming one of the gang, Supergirl’s demise was one of the first steps in transforming the Man of Steel back into the Last Survivor of Krypton. And she was done away with about as comprehensively as any character could be obliterated. She was wiped right out of existence. Not only was she dead, but thanks to rebooted continuity, she had never lived in the first place. Fans howled, fans raged.

What they did not do, of course, was support her from a sales point of view in the first place.

In terms of sales success, Supergirl was right up there with Hawkman and Aquaman as someone who had a following, but never sufficiently large enough to wield any sort of sales clout. No one ever seemed to know quite what to do with her. So why is it that a character who was, at best, a back-up character, and at worst a cheap female knock-off created primarily to cash in on Superman’s popularity—why and how has she retained such a hold on the hearts and minds of fans?

There is, of course, the simple answer: All you have to do to get fans to want something is to take it away from them. Fans expressed boredom with Chris Claremont on X-Men—until he forcibly had to part company with the series. And now rumors of Claremont back on the mutant titles is enough to kick the salivary glands of fans everywhere into overdrive. When Jean DeWolff was knocked off in one of my earliest Spider-Man stories, we were deluged by letters from people claiming that she was their favorite character—even though her over-a-year absence from the titles had garnered virtually no inquiries whatsoever as to her whereabouts. Both characters and creators who are taken for granted are suddenly coveted once the fans don’t have them to take for granted anymore.

But it may be a bit more complicated than that.

Part of it is that Kara made a terrific first impression. She was young, naive, eager-to-learn—and, most enticingly, she was a secret. Rather than simply announcing her presence to the world, Superman opted to keep her under wraps. Since Superman was apprehensive about Supergirl’s existence being exposed, and was concerned about how she would interact with the unfamiliar planet, he naturally did the one thing that made no sense at all: he plopped her in an orphanage, providing maximum danger of her blowing her identity since it hinged on her ability to interact smoothly with a species she had never met, plus she had to keep that damned wig on.

Why she needed a wig at all was also somewhat questionable. Why not just let her walk around with her normal blonde hair hanging out? No one was going to look at her and say, “Hey, you’re Supergirl!” considering that Supergirl didn’t officially exist. If for some reason she needed a disguise, what was wrong with tying her hair back and wearing glasses. You never saw Clark wearing a wig. And if later on, Superman chose (as he eventually did) to “out” her, she could have worn a mask to conceal her identity at that point in the event that glasses weren’t deemed sufficient. Go figure.

Secret appeal. The thing is, since Kara was a secret, that made her mightily appealing to the readers. We were all in on the secret as well. Not only that, but her adventures were necessarily smaller scale than Superman’s. As opposed to grand cosmic epics, Supergirl’s adventures were more intimate, and oftentimes tests of her ingenuity since she couldn’t make any sort of public appearance. Right at the start, she deemed herself as Midvale’s “guardian angel” (a term that became somewhat literal since I started on the character’s new incarnation).

Plus, Kara seemed so gosh-darned eager to please. To please not only Superman, but us. Her every appearance seemed to cry out, “Like me, like me!” It was hard not to. It would have been like clubbing a baby seal. This perky blonde in her little ice-skating, blue-skirted outfit, was a combination of every kid sister you ever had to look out for, and every girl in class you ever had a crush on.

And talk about crushes—good God, was there ever any character, anywhere, who had more miserable taste in men than Supergirl? She didn’t just encounter the standard, run-of-the-mill schmucks in the dating pool, no, not our girl. Like mosquitos to a fat farm, the most inappropriate mates in the galaxy swarmed to her. If there was a fugitive from a space prison in the area, or an escaped Phantom Zone villain, or someone on the run from the future, or some guy hiding from the past, or a disguised horse—they zeroed in on Supergirl, and she loved them all. And they used her, or loved her, depending upon their disposition.

Perhaps that’s what drew us to her, on an emotional level. As she drifted from one loser beau to the next, we couldn’t help but wish that somehow we could enter the comic and treat her right. We wouldn’t betray her or trap her or use her for vicious, evil ends.

Hell, even Superman was attracted to her, and not just in a big brother fashion. In one memorable story, Supergirl set out to find the ideal mate for her cousin, without much success. When she sorrowfully informed Superman of her failure in the matchmaking department, she is astounded when he chucks her under the chin and told her that if he were on the lookout for Mrs. Superman (his lack of interest, I’m sure, likely coming as the ideal piece of news to Lois Lane) that as far as he was concerned, he’d look no further than Kara herself (and boy, did she look jazzed when he said that).

Readers got the impression that, all things being equal, he’d gladly have wedded her on the spot. And indeed, if one believes Larry Niven’s “Man of Steel, Woman of Kleenex” analysis of Superman’s sex life, Supergirl might indeed be one of the few females on earth who could have handled a night of ardor with the caped one. (For that matter, a non-super male might not have much more luck withstanding a fling with Supergirl. Her super-legs wrapped around you could easily crush you in the throes of passion, to say nothing about spasms in other parts of the body that could prove equally lethal.)

However, since cousins couldn’t marry under Kryptonian law, such a union was out of the question. Considering that Krypton no longer existed except in the shape of assorted hues of rocks, one would have thought that such strictures might have been tossed by the wayside—particularly if it meant the potential propagation of the Kryptonian race. But this was back in the days when Superman never met a rule he didn’t obey. Supergirl subsequently found an older, dead ringer for herself to match up with Kal-El, but she couldn’t survive on our world. Que sera sera.

Also, as opposed to Superman’s graven-in-stone existence, Supergirl’s young life changed. She got adopted parents and a new name, and wound up revealing her identity to them. Superman went public with her existence as well, introducing her to the world once he’d decided she was ready. One got a sense of growth and development—

—and then she foundered. With lack of solid growth and consistent vision, Supergirl started simply to be… there. And that was all.

Perhaps that was part of the reason that Supergirl never really “flew” as a solo star. Aside from being eager to please, she wound up having no real identity outside of Superman. Once she was ready to fly on her own—she plummeted. Her forays into her own title were marked by reader disinterest and uneven stories as writers sought ways to make her distinct from her more famous cousin.

Particularly memorable was the complete loss of her powers and the substitution of an exo-skeleton, plus an array of costumes that would have made Janet van Dyne envious in terms of their variety.

Somehow, out from under Superman’s wing, she just wasn’t that interesting. We were rooting for her, certainly—but we weren’t sure what we were rooting for her to do. We knew that we didn’t want her to die, of course. We just wanted her to appeal to us in that same cousin/kid sister/first crush way that she had intrigued us during her earliest appearances. But as Supergirl grew up, she grew away from us as well, leaving behind whatever claims to uniqueness (personality wise) she may have had and became little more than, well, a female Superman. She was at best a redundancy, at worst an annoyance.

Who better to target for a dramatic hero’s death than Supergirl? Well, maybe the Flash, who had become the world’s fastest man trapped in the world’s slowest story, namely his endless “trial” which effectively killed the book. But the Flash was quickly and easily replaced with Wally West and was instantly revitalized. Supergirl was a bit more problematic; no one could just step in and take her place.

But when Supergirl did return, it seemed to fans like a massive tease and cheat. In name and general appearance she was Supergirl; in reality, she was a protoplasmic blob from a “pocket universe” (whatever the hell that is) that, in subsequent continuity, had never existed in the first place. She’d gone from living in Superman’s shadow to living in his shape (when she impersonated Clark Kent).

When I took on the book, I was all too aware that any number of fans would just as soon have seen Kara return and take up her mantle once more. But that wasn’t going to happen; DC wasn’t going to dilute Superman’s status again. Still, I wanted to make the fans feel more at home. So I gave her as many of the exterior accoutrements of Kara’s former life as I possibly could. I gave her parents, and a secret identity of Linda Danvers, in a small town (called “Leesburg”, in deference to Linda Lee), and a boyfriend named Dick Malverne, and put Stanhope College nearby. Some fans thought I was being “in-jokey.” Nah. I just wanted to make the old readers feel at home as best I could.

And her abysmal taste in men continued unabated. This grand tradition was carried over near the beginning of her re-creation as she hooked up with, of all people, Luthor. I mean, good lord, the only way Supergirl goes more romantically wrong than that is if she has Darkseid’s love child. I decided to maintain that spirit of questionable judgment by having her get involved with a demon from hell, followed by involving both her identities in a four-way love triangle with (honest to God) a super-powered horse-being whose double identity is a randy lesbian.

It took me ten issues to spell out the truth of what was going on with Linda and Andy and Supergirl and Comet (a name taken from her old superhorse pet/paramour). Can you blame me? You don’t drop one like that on the readers over the course of a two-parter.

Rumors in the hopper indicate that DC may bring back the entire multiverse concept, effectively undoing the last vestiges of Crisis. I wouldn’t have thought it likely, but I suppose anything is possible. If that’s the case, then who knows? Kara may return.

And have I got a guy for her…

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

 

Wanna find us at Phoenix Comic Con?

Kath here. I thought I would post our schedule and where Peter’s table is this weekend.

The table is at 2416. We are right across from the Mysterious Galaxy booth.

Caroline is selling her artwork at a 1.00 a drawing. I have a couple of Phluzzies for sale. Peter has a lot of books including Pulling Up Stakes and the Camelot Papers.

Peter’s Schedule is as follows

Friday

12:00-1:00pm

In Defense of Bruce Banner (presented by Drawn to Comics)

RM 126AB

3:00-4:00pm

Spotlight: Peter David

RM 124A

6:00-7:00om

A Day in The Strife: The Making of Babylon 5

RM 128

9:00-?

Phoenix Con Puppet-slam

RM 122

(We are doing Lord of Time again so if you missed it at DragonCon, here’s your chance to see it)

Saturday

We are at the table all Day

Sunday

1:30-2:30

Creating with Someone Else’s Sandbox

RM 104B

So come on by and say Hi.

Image: A Look Back

Originally published October 9, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1299

So was it worth it? Image, I mean. Understand, I’m not speaking of the company in the past tense, although some people already are.

I’m speaking of the original launch, filled with high-flown cries of independence. A group of friends, banding together and displaying their independence, thumbing their collective nose at the Big Two in general and Marvel in particular. Friends, going into business together. “Friends and business, now there’s a volatile mix,” I said, and was roundly castigated for it.

Since that time, the Image boys were watched like hawks, with folks looking for even the slightest hint of a betrayal of the lofty ideals. The early months/years in particular were rough, with Image claiming sales dominance over DC with orders for books that wound up shipping late or not at all. Hundreds of thousands of retailer dollars tied up, unavailable for other titles that did ship. The entire marketplace felt it. In terms of unsettling and undercutting the direct market, it wasn’t quite as comprehensively catastrophic as Marvel’s ill-advised attempt to self-distribute, but it was certainly up there.

And then, one by one, like the comic book version of Ten Little Indians, they began to drop, one by one. One Image founder was quietly removed—another removed much more loudly. And then, lo and behold, suddenly two creators were working for Marvel once more, which many perceived as akin to thumbing a ride with the Anti-Christ. Still, many outside creators kept faith with Image, bringing their projects under the Image umbrella—and they themselves came under criticism in some instances, as if there’s something wrong with seeking wider distribution for one’s work.

(Although one creator, when deciding to do so, defended the decision by choosing to publicly attack me, declaring what a vomitous individual I was—as if I’d criticized the move, which I hadn’t. Kind of hurt at the time, since I’d actually liked the creator in question and was unaware I inspired such revulsion. But I’ve dealt with much deeper cuts since, so it all kind of numbs out.)

So now there’s this latest “defection,” as Wildstorm prepares to sell itself lock, stock and barrel to DC. This is causing some consternation, some hand-wringing, some finger-pointing. Me, I read about it—and I just kind of shrug.

It’s business.

I mean, that’s all it ever was, right from the start, right? Why should anyone be surprised how any of this has developed?

I think part of the problem has stemmed from the truism that business and creativity don’t mix. Not in the public eye, not in the business community, and not in the artistic community. The public has a very solid idea of the way things are Supposed To Be. Creative individuals—i.e., writers and artists—are supposed to be starving in a garret somewhere.

They’re not supposed to be concerned about making a living, but instead about turning out creative greatness, about lifting man’s spirits, about commenting on the human condition and making us all better people, while at the same time paying little heed to their own material wants. An entire species of altruistic beings for whom money is not only secondary, but in fact polluting to the artistic spirit. A true artist doesn’t care about the rent, or sustenance, or buying the kids new shoes. A true artist lives for art and only art.

Then there’s the business side. These would be the network and studio executives, the patrons, the occasional crown prince—the people who make money available for the artist to express himself to the audience. The business side does not understand, does not comprehend what the creator does. Traditionally, most patrons have no artist talent themselves. Patrons can’t paint; that’s why they support artists, so that they can then bask in the reflected glory of making the paintings available to the world. There are the execs, who possess no creative ability but can only try to insert their sensibilities into the project, as welcome as a rectal probe and significantly less useful.

They understand money and only money: How to spend it, where to spend it, and how to juggle it so that it looks as if no money has been made. They are of substantially less moral character than creative types, presuming they have any moral character at all. Control-wise, they’re at the top; spiritually, they’re bottom feeders. They can make all the scummy business decisions they want, and in a way, that’s acceptable because considerations over filthy lucre is what they’re all about.

So along came Image.

Artists becoming businessmen, acting like businessmen.

How dare they.

We all know what artists are supposed to do and how they’re supposed to be. They’re not supposed to get involved with filthy business decisions. Whether we like their work or not—whether we consider them personally arrogant or sweeties, whether we think their endeavors are the height of entertainment or the nadir of recycled swill—we know what their place in life is supposed to be. How dare they join the bottom feeders. How dare they demand their piece of the pie. How dare they act like—*choke*—businessmen. Where the hell do they get off? That’s not their place in the scheme of things, that’s not what they’re supposed to be about, that’s not what we want to see.

They have tainted themselves, soiled their artistic souls. Anyone who associated with them had a bit of the same blemish (how else to explain the loopy fans who claimed that Dave Sim “sold out” because he wrote an issue of Spawn).

And even worse—once they had declared their independence, how dare they then consort with the companies they left?! It doesn’t matter that, in the entertainment industry, that kind of thing happens all the time. That’s why, whenever anyone leaves a high-profile project, be it writer, director, actor or whatever, the oft-quoted line is “artistic differences.” Those “differences” not only gloss over a litany of frustrations and arguments that led to an oft-times acrimonious departure, but it also hedges bets for the future.

The industry is simply too small; people whose throats you were at one day, you might find yourself thrown together with them on a brand new project the next day. You can’t afford to burn bridges behind you. It’s bad business. Jim Lee understood that from the beginning, even when folks ranging from fans to his fellow Image creators didn’t. Playing the firebrand and young turk is fine as long as you really don’t care about the old line about how you should be nice to the people you meet on the way up, because they’re the same people you encounter on the way down.

Which is not to say that Jim Lee or Wildstorm is on its way down. Far from it. It’s now an imprint of DC. So what? This is publishing, folks. Do you have any idea how many book lines are imprints of larger publishers? I remember when Berkley Books went on a buying spree, acquiring an assortment of other lines. For a time the beleaguered receptionist had to answer the phone as follows: “Berkley-Jove-Ace-Playboy-Second Chance at Love, how may I help you?” before they got it sorted out.

I’m still a little unclear on whether the sale was to DC or to Time-Warner. People seem to be using it interchangeably. If it’s the former, then Wildstorm becomes a subsidiary of DC. If it’s the latter, then they’re sister companies, with DC having as much influence over Wildstorm as DC has over Warner Books.

I suppose how you view it depends upon what you, personally, invested in Image’s motivations. If you saw Image as a group of independent young hotshots, determined to break away on their own, create a better world for freelancers than the one they left, and bound to show the Big Two that they had no use for them—that they could do it as well, if not better—then this is a crushing blow. It’s the equivalent of moving back home with your parents. It’s an admission of failure, copping to the notion that you simply couldn’t do it on your own. That it was all a waste of time, a paper tiger, an attempt at independence that ultimately failed.

Me, I just saw it as a bunch of guys trying to make a buck their way. So Jim Lee builds up a company, gets solid assets (i.e., creative talents) into the fold, and then sells it for a significant amount of money. It’s business. It’s not inherently good or bad, right or wrong, virtuous or evil. It just, well… is.

Theoretically, Jim gets a big payoff, none of the talent is hurt by it (although it does somewhat put Alan Moore in the crosshairs), the fans aren’t disenfranchised, and his fellow Image creators….

Well, there’s unhappiness there, I’d wager.

An Image creator said years ago, “We are all working for a common purpose and a common goal.” The goal wasn’t specified, though, and I guessed at the time, in this column, that it involved the creation of a line of titles that put the creators first. But I think now that I was wrong. I think I overcomplicated it. I think it was much, much simpler.

The goal was to be happy. That’s all.

They weren’t happy at Marvel. Whether it was because they weren’t making enough money, or they wanted to do their own characters, or they wanted control—it doesn’t matter. They just… weren’t happy. And they thought that creating Image would make them happy.

Which is really all anyone wants. It’s so fundamental to human nature that the right to pursue happiness is part of the first paragraph of the masterful document which laid out this country’s need for independence.

And self-publishing while writing books for Marvel and DC makes one creator happy. And being a multi-millionaire and toy maven makes another happy. And selling off his company makes another creator happy. To my mind, all are equal, all are deserving and entitled to that, and no one of them is intrinsically better, worse, or superior to the other. It’s just business. Show business.

Besides, those garrets can get pretty windy this time of year.

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

 

Peter Apologizes for Everything

Originally published October 2, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1298

It is a time of national contrition.

Bill Clinton, whose inability to take responsibility for any gaffes or apologize for anything, has launched his Atonement Tour ’98. It’s pretty impressive as he embraces the newfound ability to publicly say he’s sorry with the sort of eagerness and enthusiasm that is usually reserved for Born-Agains or recovering alcoholics who have made it to the atonement step.

I find a couple of things mildly riotous about this. First, there are those who compare Kenneth Starr’s investigation (which, for simplicity’s sake, I’ll refer to as Starrgate—and for television, Starrgate SX 1) to our last scandal which threatened a presidency, namely Watergate. But there are major differences:

In Watergate, a sitting president used the power and influence of his office to try and destroy a host of enemies and obscure his activities to that end.

In Starrgate, a sitting president used the power and influence of his office for consensual sex and getting people jobs or asking them to keep private matters private.

It’s like the difference between Star Trek and Star Trek: The Next Generation.

With original Star Trek, when they battle a cosmic threat, it’s the Doomsday Machine, which, if it swallows you, consumes you in searing fire.

In ST:TNG, they battled the Ribbon which, if it swallows you, sends you to a happy place where you have no problems forever and ever.

Watergate was about destruction, Starrgate about distraction.

Second, the birds are now coming home to roost on hypocritical politicians who were demanding Bill Clinton’s head (so to speak) or wanted to give him the shaft (so to speak) because they found fault with his morality. There’s Rep. Helen Chenoweth of Boise, Idaho, who demanded Clinton’s resignation and proclaimed in a TV ad, “I believe that personal conduct and integrity does matter,” only to confess to the fact that she had an adulterous affair with some guy fourteen years ago. As if being from Boise, Idaho wasn’t stigma enough.

Then there’s GOP hard-liner Rep. Dan Burton of Indiana, who fathered a child out of wedlock in the early 1980s—although not with Chenoweth, although it was around the same time as her affair. Maybe there was something in the water.

The thing is, we look to our president to set an example for us. In this case, he’s being publicly contrite, confessing to his screw-ups, and openly taking responsibility for them.

And here I’ve been, writing this column for eight years and one month, taking potshots at everyone and everything, holding them up to scrutiny—and yet, I’ve never truly copped to my own screw-ups, my own misjudgments. Well, you know what? I’m going to. Right here, right now. And I’m going to apologize for all of it.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I got Wolverine’s adamantium skeleton ripped out of his body.

Yes, it was me. I did it. We were having a big meeting of all the X-writers, back when I was writing X-Factor. We were discussing the upcoming return of Magneto, and we were searching for some sort of major event beyond the fact that Magneto was going to be really torqued upon his reappearance and slug it out with the X-Men.

And, thinking out loud, I said, “Y’know… I don’t know why Magneto even bothers fighting Wolverine. If I were Magneto, I’d just yank his adamantium skeleton right out of his body and be done with him.”

Eyes lit up all around the table. It was like suddenly being surrounded by a half dozen or so Cyclopses. “What a great idea!” declared Bob Harras. “That’s so visual! That’s so great!”

“I… was kidding,” I said quickly. “It was just a passing thought. You don’t really want to do that. Not unless the intent is to kill the character once and for all. He can’t recover from something like that. It’s too much.”

“He has a healing factor,” was the reply.

“Healing factor?! You’re talking about ripping out his entire skeleton! It’s too catastrophic an injury! If he can survive that, he can survive anything! It’s preposterous! It’s a bad idea! Do not, under any circumstance, do it!”

They did it anyway. And it’s my fault.

I’m sorry. I killed Jason Todd.

It’s true. I hated the character so much that I made three thousand phone calls. I wanted to kill him, just to watch him die. It was me. All me.

The collapse of the direct market? Mea culpa.

There are three major elements that various folks have fingered as the cause of the direct market’s disintegration: (1) Image Comics promising tons of product that shipped late or not at all, tying up retailer dollars; (2) speculators withdrawing from the market all in one shot; (3) Marvel Comics attempting to become its own distributor.

All attributable directly to me.

(1) The fact, which can now be revealed, is that the Image creators were so devastated by my early columns criticizing their press release, that they were rendered unable to get their work done. It was rather pathetic to watch, really.

They would just sit around their studios, staring numbly at the drawing board for periods of unproductive time, before picking up the columns of February 21 or April 17, 1992 again, reading them for the thousandth time, and bursting into tears once more. “Why doesn’t he like us?” they would say mournfully. “We…we just want to write and draw our own superhero books. What’s his problem?”

Rob Liefeld, looking haunted, would move through the offices like a ghost, not even able to make direct eye contact with anyone, that’s how mortified he was. By the time they came out of their stupor, books were already months late. My fault. All mine. Sorry.

(2) I was at a comics show, looking at the high priced comics, while collectors and speculators ran right and left in a constant feeding frenzy. “We could keep buying these things for years! They’ll be worth millions!” one of them told me.

Then one of my daughters came to me with a small, bean-baggish teddy bear that had a red heart with the letters “TY” on it. I held it up, studied it carefully, and said, “This is cute. You know…this’ll probably be the next big collectable.”

There was dead silence. It was like an E.F. Hutton commercial. The fans had heard me say it. The dealers quaked in fear. It was just a passing comment, but it was too late to snatch it back from the air. It was out there, and the effects were catastrophic. As with one great gestalt mind, the speculators stampeded from the room, heading for card stores and dinky gift shops. The dark fury which radiated from all the dealers was palpable. Word spread throughout the internet in no time, and just like that—the comics frenzy came to an end.

Whoops. My bad.

(3) So there I was in a steam room, taking a shvitz with Ron Perelman, Marvel’s head honcho, who was whining about the poor treatment that Marvel was receiving at the hands of the distributors. As I shrugged with the sweat cascading off my face, I said, “So, nu, Ron—if you don’t like it, do it yourself.”

I didn’t know he’d take me seriously! It was like the Wolverine comment, only worse!

God, it’s great to be getting this off my chest. What else…what else…

Spider-Clone. Spider-Clone was mine. That was a typo in a proposed storyline of mine. I meant to say, “Don’t you wish sometimes we could just leave Spider-Man alone?” But I typed “leave Spider-Man a clone,” and my spellchecker didn’t pick it up.

Foil covers. That was me, too. It was at a party, and I said something—I don’t remember exactly what, I was kind of drunk at the time—about getting people to take a shine to comics, and it just kind of blossomed from there. I’m sorry.

Disco Dazzler: My fault. Sorry.

DC Implosion: I caused it. I wrote a really cranky fan letter, next thing I knew, blammo. Sorry.

The screenplays for The Punisher, Fantastic Four, Captain America, Howard the Duck—all mine under various pseudonyms. Sorry. Sorry. My fault. Sorry.

I also cancelled Star Trek, I personally green-lighted both Ishtar and Heaven’s Gate, I was on the grassy knoll, and my grandfather misplaced the binoculars on the Titanic.

And I was really, really, really upset about it for a good long time.

But I’m feeling much better now.

(If you are feeling likewise burdened and want to make a clean breast of matters, send your confessions to Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. Don’t you get nostalgic for the days when a presidential sex scandal consisted of Jimmy Carter admitting he had “lusted in his heart”?)