Peter David's Blog, page 79

Babylon 5: An Overview

Originally published February 6, 2012, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1264

“It’s not going to be as good.”

That’s what I heard fans muttering when word broke of the syndication deal that would provide Babylon 5 with a regular slot on TNT, aired five times a week in a time slot that—unlike in many cities—wasn’t at such a hideous hour of the morning that viewing it required either a VCR or a healthy shot of No-Doze.

B5 has been somewhat unique in television history: An ongoing novel by J. Michael Straczynski (usually called “Joe”; indeed, fake “pals” and “intimate friends” of Joe have been weeded out by the switchboard at Babylonian Productions when they’ve called up and asked to speak to Michael or—even better—their good friend Mike), B5 was a tough sell from the get-go. Not only did fans have to convince potential converts to put aside their Star Trek prejudices, and not only did the potential converts have to find the damned show, but then they had to commit to watching several episodes just to get a feel for the series.

Thanks to the perpetually dropped clues that never paid off in the same episode, the stockpiling of hints, the mysteries wrapped in enigmas, and dialogue so impenetrable that Jason Vorhees couldn’t hack his way through it, becoming involved in Babylon 5‘s acclaimed arc was a demanding proposition. Fans had to be willing to give more commitment to a TV show than Larry King gives to the average marriage. In this day and age where channel surfing is the norm, that’s asking a lot.

Yet somehow, through sheer force of will by both creators and fans, Babylon 5 survived challenge after challenge to its very existence and managed to make it to a fifth season on TNT. The first four seasons are stripped into syndication at 7 p.m. EST, and new episodes have begun airing probably by the time you read this. Furthermore, the series was launched with a two hour prequel, In the Beginning, which details the circumstances involving some of the major backstories of the series including the Earth/Minbari war (or, as an actress is caught saying in one of the outtake reels, the Earth/Minibar war).

Fans seemed perfectly prepared to watch the series from the beginning, taking the opportunity to tape it if they hadn’t already. They were eagerly anticipating being able to see the entire tapestry from the beginning, with all the apparently throwaway comments or seemingly random developments that actually related to the overall thrust of the story.

In the relaunch of the series, we also have the opportunity to reevaluate to the show in its developmental stages. Seeing the characterizations of the war-mongering and belligerent Ambassador G’Kar (Andreas Katsulas) and the broken down pathos of Ambassador Londo Mollari (Peter Jurasik) for instance, now is fraught with poignancy and irony when one considers the directions that their respective character arcs took them.

We notice redesigns and adjustments on alien make-up (most conspicuously on Ambassador Delenn (Mira Furlan), and come to realize that some characters deserved to disappear from the series if, for no other reason, than that they looked stupid from the get-go and never stopped looking stupid (a puppet-like alien who bore a resemblance to a giant preying mantis comes to mind).

We also have the opportunity to reassess Michael O’Hare’s performance as Commander Jeffrey Sinclair. I admit that I was underwhelmed when I first saw Sinclair in action; he reminded me of nothing so much as one of the marionette performers in Fireball XL-5. But I got used to him as the season progressed and now, in watching his work from the beginning, his body of work seems far more impressive. Sinclair comes across as stately, thoughtful and cerebral. More comfortable and confident in his role of diplomat than his successor, Sheridan (Bruce Boxleitner). Plus the ghosts that haunt Sinclair, the “hole in his mind” as is mentioned in the pilot film, are more understandable since we not only know all the subsequent developments, but—for those who weren’t watching the series in the first place—much of it is laid out up front in In the Beginning.

Indeed, for many fans, that seems to be the rub.

The general thought was that the syndication of the series—and the attendant publicity, something that was never forthcoming during the original run—would result in new viewers for the series. As opposed to waiting weeks for plot threads to unfold, the story would now reveal itself within days. Plus anyone watching the prequel would know a number of the key mysteries which were not explained until late into the first season or even the second. The reason for the Minbari surrender during the Earth/Minbari war, the threat of the upcoming Shadow war, the real reason as to why Delenn was on the station—many of the secrets fans waited weeks, even years to learn were now being handed up front to newcomers.

It almost seemed like cheating. As if to really enjoy Babylon 5, one had to be willing to watch the series for lengthy periods of time in confusion and bewilderment, else it didn’t really count. Kind of like whether one is “more Jewish” if one keeps milk and meat plates separate; knowing what was going on with B5 at the very start of the series just didn’t seem kosher somehow.

If anything, long-time fans felt sorry for newcomers. If they watched In the Beginning (which apparently they did, in considerable numbers) Babylon 5 would lose what many considered to be its greatest draw: the mystery. The chance to try and figure things out or be surprised. In the pilot film, The Gathering, Jeffrey Sinclair describes the climax of the famed “Battle of the Line,” the last battle of the Earth/Minbari war. He speaks of how, in a last desperate gesture, he set his fighter barreling towards a Minbari cruiser—and the next thing he knew, it was twenty-four hours later and he had no recollection of the intervening time. In the original airing, the viewers were as clueless as Sinclair. This time around, anyone who watched Beginning knew exactly what had happened to Sinclair, and why.

The question to be considered is: Does that automatically mean that watching B5 is less of an experience for newbies?

I don’t think so. Actually, I think it’s superior. I wish they could’ve done it this way the first time.

First, with all deference to the notion that we were watching a novel-for-television, let’s face it: How often do you go into a novel with practically no idea of what it’s about? Between word of mouth, reviews, and promo copy on the dust jacket, you usually have some idea of what the overall thrust of the book is. With B5, beyond the fact that it was essentially “Rick’s Place” in space, an orbiting Casablanca, the audience went in not knowing much of anything. For many would-be viewers, it was the equivalent of being a child in the backseat of a car who has no clue as to the whereabouts or nature of the destination, demanding over and over, “Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” And Joe would be the irritated father in the front seat saying, “No! We’re not there yet! While we’re getting there, try and see how many different license plates you can spot!” And as it turns out, all those license plates would have been relevant, but the temptation was to say, “The heck with this,” and leap out of the car en route.

With the current way that it’s being done, the annoyance factor is gone. The initial sense of aimlessness, the concern that none of these vague hints was ever going to pay off, never materialize. Fear of perpetual obtuseness shouldn’t be mandatory for watching a television show. It’s a more relaxed and enjoyable experience.

“But isn’t there now a lack of suspense?” many will ask. Wasn’t the entire draw of the series its mystery? With the key secrets revealed, how can there be any suspense?

Well, there is, but it’s a different kind of suspense. It’s soap opera suspense, which is fairly appropriate since it’s now a daily drama rather than a weekly series.

In the average soap opera, secrets held by various characters which are unknown to the viewer are the more boring variety of suspense-generators. Soap operas function on the rumor-mill theory of suspense, and since human beings eat, sleep and breathe rumors, it’s a formula that has functioned extraordinarily well. For on soap operas—and, this time around, on Babylon 5—key secrets are known by the audience. They are not, however, known to the characters, and that is where the suspense comes in. For instance, let’s say that a soap character named Lance is married to Rosa. Rosa has an affair with Barry. This fact is not hidden from the audience. Viewers don’t wonder if Rosa had an affair or who it was with. In fact, the audience was probably present when the affair was consummated.

Knowledge, however, is very empowering. There’s nothing greater than feeling as if you are one step ahead of the characters, particularly when dealing with the daily soap opera format.

Because what happens in the above scenario is that the viewer tunes in every day, not to find out who Rosa had an affair with, but instead to learn what will happen when Lance learns of the affair—as he inevitably will. And Lance is usually the last to know. What will happen before that is that every single person in town except Lance learns that Rosa has been catting around. The husband, as they say, is always the last to know. So not only does the suspense build as we wait to see Lance’s reaction to the news, but to his inevitable subsequent discovery that everyone else in town knows already. Will he feel used? Betrayed? Angry? Will he kill someone as a result? Will he kill Rosa? Kill himself? The viewer has the opportunity to conjure up all sorts of scenarios because he has a foundation upon which to build.

Audiences like being in control. The initial run of B5 required that the viewer turn himself completely over to Joe Straczynski. This time, although Joe is naturally still in command, the viewer has some control of the situation. Granted, it’s control that was ceded by Joe in the first place, but it was given over nonetheless.

And why not? Isn’t that what many audiences want nowadays? Isn’t that, after all, part of what has made interactive computer games so popular? They’re interactive stories wherein the audience has control over the situation, taking the narrative where he wants it to go. For some people, novels are simply too regimented. Why should they let the author steer the boat when they themselves might have a better idea? Audiences control their computer games, readers control—to some measure—what goes on in comic books (and if you disagree, you need look no further than the demise of the spider-clone due almost entirely to massive fan rejection of the concept). And, as of this point, although Joe remains the storyteller, fans can comfortably exert some empowering “control” over Babylon 5 simply by dint of the fact that they know what’s going on with the story and Sinclair et al don’t.

To that end, Joe Straczynski—who wound up filming the series-concluding episode of B5 as part of season 4, although it now won’t air until season 5—may want to consider a totally different tack with his follow-up series, Crusade. He might actually want to run the last episode as the pilot, and then have everything else build backwards towards it. Kind of like a Harold Pinter play, or an episode of Seinfeld. Maybe we should do it with all films and television series coming out nowadays. After all, the biggest film in theaters right now has an ending that’s been known to audiences for over eighty years, namely, the ship sinks.

Guess Joe wasted his time on Murder She Wrote. He should really have been writing episodes of Columbo.

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

 

An Open Request to Mitt Romney

Governor: allow me to warn you off a particular direction that your advisors seem to be taking you, as per the New York Times. According to the newspaper of record:

Mr. Romney’s team has concluded that debates are about creating moments and has equipped him with a series of zingers that he has memorized and has been practicing on aides since August.

Please don’t do this. I mean, yes, I want to see you crash and burn in the elections, but I also have a fundamental sense of decency.

Do not do this to yourself.

You’re not funny.

Your aides claim that you have a dry wit. No. Jack Benny had a dry wit. You are a modern day Jack Benny in the sense that in modern day, Jack Benny is dead.

I know the temptation is great to aim for the sound bite audience. After all, most Americans are ADD when it comes to serious political topics and have a much easier time wrapping what passes for their brains around jokes, quips, and memorable bon mots. And you probably figure that Obama is a stiff and thus an easy target. I think that’s a serious miscalculation. Obama was able to crack jokes about bin Laden at the same time that he was dispatching Seal Team Six to cap him. Obama is funny in the clutch; you’re funny as a crutch.

In my opinion, the absolute worst thing you can do is go into the debates under the impression that you’re going to be a conservative pundit a la Stephen Colbert. Governor, I’ve met Stephen Colbert. I’ve watched Stephen Colbert. Stephen Colbert is an acquaintance of mine. You,sir, are no Stephen Colbert.

PAD

Where Man Peter, and More

Originally published January 30, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1263

Although I’m still getting letters sent in to “Where Man Peter,” the special-interest aspect of the column in which I asked for descriptions of oddities that folks in publishing have found in unsolicited manuscripts, something had been brought to my attention that deserves to be attended to immediately.

In the earlier column, I described how an alert reader brought a book I recalled as being titled Star Crash to my attention, back when I was working for Elsevier/Nelson books seventeen-plus years ago.

The book was virtually a word-for-word rip-off of a Gardner Fox book entitled Escape Across the Cosmos. Well, the following letter landed on my desk today from Greg Ketter of DreamHaven Books & Comics in Minneapolis. The alert Greg wrote:

 I very much enjoyed your column in CBG issue #1260 concerning the plagiarized Gardner Fox novel, Escape Across the Cosmos. I was wondering if you knew that your version is not the end of the story.

Star Chase (the actual title you referred to) as by Brian James Royal, is dedicated “For James Harvey, truly a grand uncle.” “James Harvey” was the author of a Manor Books title, Titans of the Universe. Titans was marketed with a very scantily clad female on the cover and was made to look like softcore porn. Star Chase was made to look like a young adult title. Do you see where I’m going with this?

Yes, Star Chase and Titans of the Universe are the same book. And yes, they are both Escape Across the Cosmos as well. “Harvey” or “Royal” are likely the same person, and an amazingly dishonest and stupid one at that. I’m sure that whoever it was thought that Gardner Fox’s book was obscure enough that no one would notice if he claimed it as his own. Little did this person know that science fiction readers are an omnivorous lot and someone would likely notice the theft.

It was great to hear this story from another angle. Keep ‘em coming.

This story was becoming so Byzantine that I called Greg, who put me in touch with “Uncle Hugo’s Books,” and a fellow there named Scott in turn put me in touch with—as fate would have it—the fellow who alerted Elsevier/Nelson (and, as it so happened, me) to the disservice that had been done to Fox. Here now, as Paul Harvey (appropriately, although presumably no relation) would say, is the rest of the story:

Sometime in 1979/1980, someone (who’ll probably come forward after this column sees print) wrote to Locus in high dudgeon. He had read Titans of the Universe and was irate because he recognized it as being identical to the Fox book, save for the alteration of some character names and a rearranging of sentences in the first two paragraphs. Apparently misunderstanding what it was he had encountered, the letter writer believed that this was a scam on the part of the publishers to recycle an old book.

The complaint, and the name of the “author,” one James Harvey, stuck with a very thorough and knowledgeable fan with a gargantuan collection and an impressive memory. His name was, and is, Stuart Wells. Stuart, a voracious collector, acquired a copy of Star Chase and happened to notice the dedication which Greg Ketter quoted above. Not only that, but Star Chase was copyrighted in James Harvey’s name. The name “James Harvey” struck a chord with him, and he connected it to the complainant in Locus. Hauling out a copy of Escape Across the Cosmos, Stuart discovered that—sure enough—he had happened upon a second swiping of the Fox novel.

Greg and Scott helped me track down Stuart to follow up on what had happened nearly two decades ago. Stuart stopped collecting SF titles in 1990, having run out of room in amassing a assemblage of—so help me God—eight thousand books. And Stuart remembers very clearly what happened when he realized that Gardner Fox had been ripped off, not once, but twice.

It was Stuart Wells who alerted Elsevier/Nelson to the theft. He wound up speaking to the woman who was my boss at the time, and she asked him to send a copy of the original Fox novel for comparison. She also told him that Mr. “Brian James Royal” had submitted several other manuscripts for consideration. Stuart sent along the book, but for some reason it was misrouted into the slush pile and that’s how it eventually happened to land on my desk. I cracked it open, read it, and immediately alerted my boss to the plagiarism.

Star Chase never went back to press, so it never saw print with Fox’s name on it. The advance money was sent to Fox (at least she said it was) but she never informed Stuart of the outcome. Furthermore, she never told me about the additional manuscripts, and that’s a crying shame. I would have loved the opportunity, as would Stuart as well, to have taken the manuscripts and see if they too were lifted either from Fox novels or other science fiction works.

And the biggest mystery of all was: Who the hell was Brian James Royal? Or James Harvey? Was either of them the real name of the plagiarist?

I wish that it had occurred to me, all those years ago, to try and get my hands on the contract and see if the author’s real name was on there. My suspicion is that my former boss wanted to hush things up as much as she could, so that she wouldn’t look like a fool for having bought a totally plagiarized manuscript. Because of that, the opportunity to track down the perpetrator, and the other potentially ripped-off novels he was trying to pedal, was lost.

One has to wonder at the type of mind that would not only engage in such bold-faced theft, but would then do everything he could to put himself in a position of being caught. Was he trying to be caught, or was he just so arrogant that he figured he could do anything and no one would notice? Was he simply a con artist, or a frustrated writer who was willing to do anything just to get a book in print? Does he have any conscience at all? Did he do it out of desperation to feed his family? Did he do it out of cynical opportunism.

Was he Gardner Fox’s biggest fan, rationalizing to himself that Fox’s story deserved to stay in print and he was going to make sure that they did—and if he pocketed some money while doing so, then what’s the harm? I’d dearly love to know.

***

I took the kids to Disneyland for the holidays. The previous New Year’s I was about as low as I’d ever been in my life, so this year I was determined to end the year on a completely high note. An equal and opposite reaction, as it were. And indeed, we were in the Magic Kingdom at the stroke of midnight (Pacific time), with fire works over the Magic Castle. It was serious great.

However, a couple of days before New Years, I was wandering around Fantasyland (appropriately) and noticed a couple of guards heading my way. Disney security guys in jackets and ties, side by side, which naturally meant that there was someone behind them of interest. Sure enough there were two more guards bringing up the rear, and in between this protective core of four guys was—

Well, I wasn’t sure.

Walking between them was a single individual, close to six feet tall, I thought, but it was hard to tell.

He/she/it/whatever was enveloped, head-to-toe, in robes. Head completely covered.

My first impression was that it was a Vorlon, only without the big helmet and wing-type shoulder things. Then I thought it was the wife of some high-and-mighty Arab muck-a-muck, the head of a harem or something. But I’ve seen women dressed in that style, and even then you can at least see the eyes. In this instance, not even the eyes were visible, obscured behind dark lenses. Then I thought it was the Elephant Man.

Then I saw a hand, or part of a hand, protruding from the sleeve, as I stepped to one side so the group could pass. The hand looked relatively masculine, but delicate, and the skin was ever-so-slightly dark, but very light.

And the combination of the skin color and the Elephant Man resemblance tipped it to me.

Just as they were passing, I said, just loudly enough to be heard by the group, “Nice disguise there, Michael.”

For the briefest of moments, although it might have been my imagination, the figure in the middle seemed to pause ever so slightly, and then it quickly went on its way.

The next day I happened to pass a Disney cop. This was a guy in full uniform with a park badge.

And I said to him, “Excuse me. This may sound like a very strange question but, the other day in the park, walking around here, I thought I saw—”

“Michael Jackson?” said the guard, nodding. “Yup. Every so often he comes here, and that’s always how he insists on doing it.”

That sounds pretty sad to me. I mean, if the guy wore a baseball cap, shades, ratty jacket and jeans, my guess is that no one would give him a second look. (At most they’d probably go, “Is that… nah. Couldn’t be.”) Can you imagine feeling either such a need to be isolated or such a need for attention—a desperate desire to be alone in a crowd—that one has to go to such lengths? Amazing that someone can be that talented, that rich, and that pathetic.

***

When I went with my sister, Beth, to see Titanic, we got there twenty minutes late thanks to a screw up in the movie times in the newspaper. We arrived just at the beginning of “Old Rose’s” narrative about the ship launching. We watched the film, yadda yadda, brilliant, you’ve heard it all. And then we stayed for the next show to watch the first twenty minutes.

After getting to the point in the film where we’d come in, having seen all the cool underwater footage and finding out the events that set the story into motion, we got up to leave. People nearby us looked at us in puzzlement. Clearly they were wondering why in the world we were bailing out (sorry) just when the story was really getting started.

Understand, I’m not in the habit of disrupting films. But I couldn’t pass this up. In an angry whisper, I said to them with as much indignation as I could, “The ship sinks! Can you believe that? I’m supposed to sit for three hours to watch a ship sink? And it’s not even a surprise, because they show it at the beginning!” And I turned to Beth and hissed, “I can’t believe you dragged me to this! It sinks, for God’s sake! What’s the point?!”

All around us, jaws were dropping. How in God’s name, they must have wondered, could someone not know the fate of the Titanic? Beth, straight-faced, immediately said, “You saw the trailer! Didn’t you realize?”

“I figured Cameron would pull something!” I retorted. “He’s supposed to be clever! He just lets them all sink? You call that clever?”

And we walked out of the theater. Outside we happened to run into some ushers and cleaning people, and we went into the exact same routine.

I highly recommend it if you want to amuse yourself. And hey, don’t laugh. Last film I saw Leonardo DiCaprio in was Romeo and Juliet, and at least half the teenaged audience was stunned at the demise of the lead characters. Just wait—they’ll make a film with DiCaprio called Hindenberg and I guarantee at least a portion of the audience will be stunned when it goes up in flames. (And why am I flashing on Beavis and Butthead sitting in the front row saying, “Heh heh… cool…”)

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

 

The Muppet Tour

Originally published January 23, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1262

It was a perfectly nondescript townhouse in New York City.

I stood there and scanned it carefully for a moment, to see if I was missing anything. Perhaps there was something small and hidden, something I wasn’t seeing. A flipper mark, perhaps, or a stained glass window with a bear in it. But there was absolutely nothing. It was quiet, understated, no markings of any kind whatsoever. You could have stared at it for hours and garnered nothing about the inside by the exterior.

I walked up to the large doors for closer inspection and found nothing aside from an advisory about where to bring deliveries. I didn’t even see a bell to ring to let them know inside that there was a visitor.

But I didn’t have to worry about it for more than a few seconds, because a buzzer promptly sounded.

It was at that moment that I noticed a camera lens focused directly on me. Clearly a monitoring system enabled those within to be alerted to the presence of someone at the door (which meant, I suppose, that any vampires who came by would be out of luck, what with not being able to photograph and all). I pushed open the door and went in.

To my immediate left was the first thing that tipped off the occupants of the building. It was a window display built into the wall at my left. There was Kermit the Frog as Santa Claus, struggling with a sizeable bag of ties while being aided by Rizzo Rat and company.

(I’ll never forget the time when I was talking to Shana about the Dustin Hoffman film, Hero, and I commented that critics had unfairly dismissed Hoffman’s performance in the film by saying it was simply a rehash of his Midnight Cowboy character, “Ratso Rizzo.” And Shana immediately said, “Ratso Rizzo? You mean like Rizzo Rat from The Muppet Show?” I felt like a complete dope. Character’s been around over a decade, and I never made the connection in all that time. But I digress…)

I walked into the main lobby of the place that had once been called Henson Associates, or simply HA! Henson Associates had been dissolved as a corporation, however, to be replaced by Jim Henson Productions, Inc., and thanks to the serendipitous meeting between myself and an employee there, I was going to get a guided tour of the legendary townhouse.

Rewind to an annual event called “New York is Book Country,” a public book fair held along Fifth Avenue. One year while there, I encountered a gentleman named Craig Shemin. Craig is an associate creative director and staff writer for Henson whose credits include, among other things, The Wubbulous World of Doctor Seuss on Nickelodeon (and anyone who has to deal with the “creative” bureaucracy of Nickelodeon certainly has my instant sympathies). I don’t recall off hand how Craig knew who I was—whether I was wearing one of my more conspicuous jackets, like the Babylon 5 or Space Cases jackets—or whether he just knew my face from a picture. But he was familiar with my work, and we shared a mutual “Your-job-is-so-cool” discussion. And in the course of it, Craig extended an invitation to come over, see the place, and do lunch.

It was a wonderful suggestion which I would have capitalized upon immediately, had I not then promptly misplaced his business card. Why? Because I’m the single most disorganized person on earth. Ask anyone. Ask the guy who came up with “Doc Savage Dragon,” whose name I misplaced, who then wrote a letter to me, and then I misplaced that freakin’ letter. I would quite literally misplace my head if it weren’t screwed on.

But recently, while making one of my occasional endeavors to clean up my office, I stumbled upon his card. (I also tripped over the Lost Ark, but we won’t get into that.) I had nothing in particular to do Christmas week, so I gave him a call, asked if he was free, he said sure.

And that’s how I wound up in a front lobby that had, to my left, a wall mural with assorted Muppets seated in a theater, along with a row of theater seats that served as a convenient waiting area for guests. Not that any guest would be inclined to simply sit around in that lobby. One can stand at the bottom of the stairwell and look up in wonderment at the sculpture that hangs from the ceiling, four or five stories up, all the way down to the lobby. A spiral-shaped sculpture that is an intricate design of tiny stairways and catwalks with tiny plastic representations of the Muppets walking around on them. Over the archway was a group of sculptures featuring Kermit and Fozzie and a sort of Greco/Roman styling. In a room off to my right was a large display case absolutely crammed with awards. Emmy awards, Oscars, Grammies, Cable Ace Awards, a plaque called the Fran Allison award and another called the Ollie Award (although, in a move designed to outrage clown puppets everywhere, there did not appear to be a Kukla award.)

Craig showed up in short order and brought me to the top of the brownstone in an elevator so that we could then work our way down in leisurely fashion. A fountain of information about the place, he informed me that the place had once been someone’s home, the domicile of a single rich gentlemen with a number of servants. Henson wound up purchasing the place back in the 1970s for the even-then bargain price of $400,000.

The offices were an amazing combination of nostalgia, invention and whimsy. Over in one corner was a Christmas tree sculpture composed entirely of Kermit the Frog toys which had decorated the hallway in previous years. Feeling that equal time was in order, a Kermit menorah had also been crafted. Everywhere assorted toys and Muppet-oriented decorations sat at people’s desks, and there were pictures of Muppet performers (please do not call them puppeteers) or pictures or more murals or newspaper clippings that gave the office a feel of living history rather than just someplace that people went to work. Rather than the sterile working environment so typical of workplaces these days, there is a good deal of antique furniture, or handcrafting ranging from furniture to sculptures.

One of the highlights was Jim Henson’s office. Although other top company executives now use it from time to time, I got the distinct impression that it’s still conceived of mostly as a shrine to Henson. Along one shelf is a bound set of every single script for The Muppet Show. Framed behind the desk is a stained glass window which was created in two stages. The upper section of the window was made first, and features Bert and Ernie. The second, lower half was constructed at a later date, and has representations of Henson and Frank Oz beneath, performing their respective characters. On the wall was a paper-sculpture moose head, which Henson had originally purchased for someone else until the intended recipient explained that he wasn’t interested in having it, telling Henson that it seemed far more like something Henson himself would want to have. Henson apparently agreed.

Everywhere I looked, there was “neat stuff.” In the conference room, a throne from Dark Crystal was set up in a corner, while Muppet penguins sat nearby and chattered with one another. One wall had the original poster art from Laybrinth hanging on it. As we walked and looked around, Craig brought me up to speed on the next Muppet-oriented film from the Henson stable, which apparently is going to be a Muppets-in-space themed. The script hasn’t been settled on yet, although if I had my druthers, I’d want to see Swine Trek: The Motion Picture, because I could sure get behind the big-screen debut of Pigs in Space, couldn’t you? Still, I did like one notion being bandied about, which was that the Great Gonzo, going in search of his roots (since no one really seems to know exactly what Gonzo is), discovers that he is, in fact, an alien. It makes an amazing amount of sense really. Don’t know yet what direction they’ll go in, but one hopes/assumes they’ll be up to par with the previous Muppet filmic efforts.

Craig also screened for me a couple of Muppet efforts he’s worked on. One involves the fact that Animal (the berserker drummer of Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem) is apparently the new mascot of the Olympic Sledboarding team. In the course of the video, which features VJ Kennedy (impressively straight-faced and efficient), Animal demonstrates his enthusiasm and such useful board tactics as slamming it into one’s head repeatedly like something out of Monty Python and the Holy Grail. He also showed me a charming short piece featuring Miss Piggy winning an award about “Women in Toys.” Piggy claims she is “unable to attend” due to her latest starring role—until an annoying Assistant Director (played by Craig!) shows up and demands to know why she’s not back with the coffees.

As we were heading out, I was fortunate enough to run into Jim’s widow, Jane Henson. We chatted for a very short while and I got to make a complete idiot of myself by asking her to pose with me for a picture. Craig then brought us over to the Muppet workshop some blocks away. This time, in front of the extremely non-descript warehouse-type building, one actually gets a clue. At the bottom of the front door, in the cement, is a set of telltale flippers. According to Craig, it was somewhat nip and tuck getting the imprint in to stay, since the determined concrete pourers would keep seeing flipper marks and troweling them over.

The Muppet workshop is a dazzlingly impressive place, and yet unimpressive, all at the same time. You see scraps of cloth, unfinished Muppets, foam rubber, all of that, and it look most uninspiring. But look over there, it’s Kermit himself, in a Santa outfit. And there’s Animal, exhausted from his sledding experience, apparently ready to catch a cold. Hanging from the ceiling were Big Bird’s legs (with cutesy slippers on.) From another ceiling was the lower half of Bear, who will reside in Bear in The Big Blue House, a new series on Disney.

And the entire cast of Seuss was there as well. We covered several floors, and from there moved on to the relatively deserted studio of Seuss, where everyone is waiting to find out if the show is going to be picked up. Nickelodeon drove Craig and his associates nuts (so what else is new) by suddenly informing them, out of the blue, that they had decided the core audience was under six, so the stories should be scaled down to avoid confusion.

There were Muppets in pieces, there were Muppets in drawers, Muppets in latex molds, Muppets in plastic wrapping. And yet somehow, even seeing them “off-duty,” they just never lost the magic for me.

Such is the legacy of Jim Henson.

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

 

 

The Most Awards 1997

Originally published January 16, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1261

Yes, it’s that time of year again. The time when we here (okay, me here) at BID issue—The Most Awards. Yes, named for no particular reason after Donny Most (Ralph on Happy Days), The Most Awards are a sort of stream-of-consciousness commentary on whatever caught my fancy or whatever I think is worth making a snide remark about that I somehow missed. May I have the envelopes, please?

Most Bizarre Usenet Discussion — “Borg breasts.” There may have been stranger discussions than this one (’cause Usenet’s a big place), but I couldn’t help but notice the extensive thread entitled “Borg Breasts: What They Mean to the Collective” as a consequence of the introduction of “7 of 9″ to Star Trek: Voyager. Apparently the fact that actress Jeri Ryan is well-endowed (I say “apparently” since, for all we know, she was built up for the role) sparked a lengthy discussion as to the nature of, and need for, the aforementioned mammaries.

Some wondered why the Borg wouldn’t simply remove women’s breasts upon transforming them into Borg. I dunno—nobody seemed to speculate as to whether they freed Picard’s willy when he became Locutus. Other fans wondered if perhaps the breasts served as some sort of liquid containers, leading me to ponder whether they, in fact, have spigots instead of nipples and Borg women make “glug” sounds like water coolers. In the final analysis, I think the Borg should change their calling card to “We are the Borg. You will be T&Assimilated.”

Actually, 7 of 9 dovetails into a subcategory that I call:

Most Personal Irony — When I wrote a Trek novel called Vendetta in 1991, it featured a female Borg whom the crew of the Enterprise brought aboard the ship and divested of Borg accoutrements and whose lost humanity they tried to recapture. Although the proposal was initially accepted by Paramount (else the book wouldn’t have been written), after the novel was finished, it was rejected by a flunky of Gene Roddenberry’s office because, we were told, there were no such things as female Borg.

This seemed preposterous; they assimilated entire cultures—but only the men? Was Borg society based on Orthodox Judaism? The existence of the female Borg seemed a given. Nope, no female Borg, we were told. “Change it,” was the dictate from the flunky. Well, it was too late to change it. The book was already being typeset, and the cover, with a female Borg, had been printed. So Roddenberry’s office insisted upon a disclaimer that read, “The plot and background details of Vendetta are solely the author’s interpretation of the universe of Star Trek and vary in some respects from the universe as created by Gene Roddenberry.”

There would have been an audio version of the book, but the audio division wasn’t allowed to adapt it because of the disclaimer. Since then, with the introduction of the Borg Queen and 7 of 9, the universe caught up with the book. But the disclaimer is still carried on the book (and fans still ask me about it), and there never was an audio version. Resistance is futile. So is common sense, sometimes.

SF Movie Dialogue Most Deserving of an MST3K Response — In Starship Troopers, “Doogie Nazi” Neil Patrick Harris, looking stylish in his Gestapo ensemble as psychic Colonel Carl Jenkins (these are the good guys, remember), informs his former schoolmates-turned-troopers that they will be returning to a Bug-infested planet that’s designated in an alphabetic manner. The line (say it out loud): “We’re going back to P.” To which the obvious response is, “Well, you should have thought of that before you left.” Twenty-six letters in the alphabet; they had to use that one. I wonder if there are outtakes of Harris breaking up or pleading for the planet to be called anything else.

Most Aggressive Attempt to Pick a Fight With Me — Kevin Smith. Boy, am I tired of fans asking me what I intend to “do” about the noted director apparently having singled out Aquaman for repeated critical assault. Well, nothing. Life’s too short to get dragged into a feud with a director whose work I like. Besides, the last thing it would be appropriate for the writer of the Sea King to do is rise to obvious bait.

Most Significant Science Fiction Dates This Year — Oct. 16, Aug. 29. This one was a tie.

Oct. 16, 1997, was the date that the legendary Jupiter II took off and, in short order, became lost in space—prompting a TV series of the same name. This anniversary got proper attention from the media, not to mention the show’s current home on the Sci-Fi Channel, which sponsored an LiS marathon—including my personal favorite, “Return from Outer Space,” in which Will Robinson found a transmat beam and sent himself back home—except that no one would believe that he was who he said he was.

The episode suffers in retrospect. For instance, at one point Will said that his parents were ten light years away, but on the other hand, he said they’re clear in another galaxy. Also, it’s usually amusing to see how the future is depicted in the movies. Sequences that are set thirty years in the future usually feature flying cars, incredibly “futuristic” clothes, etc. Not LiS. Apparently forgetting that the series was supposedly set in 1997, Will landed in a town that was not only hopelessly behind for 1997, it was antiquated by 1960s standards. The phones had no dials, instead being fed through a switchboard run by a 50-year-old woman. A photographer’s camera was a massive affair. One almost expected to see Sheriff Andy Taylor lounging at the corner. However, amazingly, the drugstore did stock nice big bottles of carbon tetrachloride, something that I can’t even find at my local (and massive) CVS pharmacy—although my druggist did admit that, in some extremely rural areas, carbon tet might be available for various purposes, such as dry cleaning for people who don’t live anywhere near a dry cleaner.

However, the Jupiter II would never have had the opportunity to lift off, were it not for Sarah Conner. That daring freedom fighter managed to stave off judgment day, cited as Aug. 29, 1997, the day that a duplicitous supercomputer engineered the demise of mankind and established the future seen in Terminator and T2. I hear scuttlebutt of a Terminator III. I sure hope not. It’s hard to believe it could be as satisfying as the first two.

Most Welcome Return to Editorial — Chris Claremont. A productive year for Chris, who is the father of twin boys with his lovely wife, Beth, and has now been hired in a creative position at Marvel Comics. Chris is expected to put the creative personnel at Marvel through their paces. He’ll be looking for writers to rethink characterizations, refine plotting, develop greater focus, make the comics easier to understand for newcomers, and, of course, be prepared to answer the quintessential Chris Claremont question: “Is there any reason this character can’t be a woman?”

Most Giggle-Inducing Poster — Eye for an Eye. It’s hardly a new movie, but at a convention they were auctioning off, for some reason, a poster from the aforementioned Sally Field film. It features an angry Field holding a gun in a double-handed grip and looking really steamed. I’m sorry, I think she’s a wonderful actress and all, and I even saw the film (it wasn’t half bad), but I just have difficulty buying Sally Field as an engine of revenge. I wanted to take the film poster and retitle it Gidget Goes Postal, with the promo line “She shot me, she really, really shot me.”

Most Nutso Fan-Created Toy I Heard About — “Tickle Me Emperor.” Star Wars novelist Timothy Zahn told how some thoroughly demented fans got a plush Quasimodo from Disney’s Hunchback, opened up its back, and inserted the innards from a “Tickle Me Elmo” doll. Then they designed a hooded black robe, draped it over Quasimodo, and presto: “Tickle Me Emperor” as not seen in Return of the Jedi. The Force is silly in that one.

Most Babylon 5-esque Title for a Film — Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, based on the bestselling book of the same name. Doesn’t it sound like a typical Joe Straczynski B5 episode?

Most Frustrating FBI Case — TWA Flight 800. The FBI, after investigating for months and months, comes to the conclusion that there was no criminal action involved in the destruction of the Europe-bound flight and, therefore, nothing else for the FBI to do. Am I the only one who feels that it’s about time they stopped messing around and assigned Scully and Mulder to the case?

Most Unexpected Use of a Cartoon Theme — Honda. There’s a commercial for the Honda Accord that shows an executive-type descending to a Green Hornet-esque secret garage, complete with swiveling floor, and climbing into his Accord after several other models prove either unready or inadequate. And during the commercial, a familiar theme song is playing. It’s the music from the old Courageous Cat cartoon, the Batman-esque adventures of a cat-and-mouse superhero team created by Bob Kane.

Most Embarrassing Repetition in This Column — Babearlon 5. In January of this year I wrote a column telling “the bear story” in relation to the now-infamous stuffed bear that showed up in both an episode of Babylon 5 and Space Cases. And then, months later, after a summer of telling the stupid story repeatedly at conventions, I clean forgot I’d already written it once and rewrote the whole damned story over again in another column. The one bright spot is that some readers who noticed it said, “Aren’t his editors supposed to catch stuff like that?” So fine. It’s their fault.

Most Disbelieved Claim — The Fighting American artwork. Rob, you wanna recycle the Captain America pages? Go ahead. But c’mon, don’t tell people that’s not what you were doing.

Most Amazingly Humorous Treatment of an Amazingly Non-Humorous Topic — Doonesbury. There is nothing funny about Alzheimer’s disease. Not a thing. Yet Garry Trudeau remarkably charts the genteel Lacy Davenport’s wrestling with the dreaded disease and manages to get genuine, if slightly black, humor out of the situation. One assumes that Trudeau will stop short of depicting the disease in its bleaker stages, but, nonetheless, he deserves credit for embarking on a subject that most people wouldn’t think to touch. Runner-up — For Better or For Worse, as Ellie has to wrestle with young April having picked up a case of head lice.

Most Frightening Casting Notion — Just imagine a movie that stars Hugh Grant, Jeff Goldblum, and Bob Newhart. With all three stammering, hesitating, and stuttering out their lines in their trademark manners, a film that would ordinarily run 90 minutes would probably top out at two and a half hours.

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

 

Insane Doctor Who Scenario

I’m not marking this as a spoiler because it’s just me doing totally nuts speculation.

The Doctor and River Song actually produce a child. The child is a foundling and adopted in the late 1980s by Mr. and Mrs. Pond. They name her “Amy” and raise her as their own. Amy, in a story development that Heinlein would approve of, grows up and gives birth to her own mother. And in her final appearance, on the verge of death (via accident or perhaps simply old age) Amy Pond regenerates into the Doctor’s new companion.

I’m sure it’s not remotely right, but it’s fun to think about.

PAD

Where Man Josh

Originally published January 9, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1260

And now, we present: Peter’s True Horror Stories of Publishing.

Before I became the full-time and eminently competent writer I are now, I spent time toiling in the field of book publishing. One of my varied duties in that endeavor was to deal with the public and go through the material that found its way onto what is cheerfully known as the slush pile. This is the term for unsolicited material, over-the-transom stuff that comes in, and no one knows quite what to do with it.

My first publishing job was with a small imprint called Elsevier/Nelson, which was a division of E.P. Dutton. Working within the confines of Dutton was certainly interesting enough. There were the more curious perks, such as the time when I discovered that the original Winnie-the-Pooh stuffed toys were sitting in boxes in a closet, awaiting the eventual construction of a showcase in the front hallway. I tracked down the closet, hauled them out, and held the genuine, Christopher Robin Milne-owned Pooh bear on one knee and Tigger on the other. Several years later the animals took up permanent residence in, I believe, the New York Public Library, where they reside to this day. No one gets to play with them anymore which, at heart, I think is a bit of a shame.

My main job at Elsevier/Nelson was assistant to the editor-in-chief. Basically, I was a secretary. Don’t laugh. It paid the bills, and besides, my main job-seeking assets were a journalism degree that I had decided not to use, and a typing speed of 110 words per minute. So what else was I gonna do? But every so often I would tackle material that came into the slush pile, usually when I had nothing else to do. I actually volunteered for the assignment, and got it easily enough; it’s not as other people were falling over each other to bag the job.

The manuscript that I remember most vividly was the single most illiterate piece of… work… I have ever seen, then or now. We received the manuscript typed on erasable bond paper, guaranteed to make it a tricky read to begin with. The book was incomprehensible. It went beyond bad grammar; it was unassailable. The title alone should have tipped me: Where Man Josh. I remember looking at the title page and trying to figure out what it could possibly mean. Was it a question? Was it someone’s name? What the hell was it?

The dedication was extremely memorable. It wasn’t easy to decipher what the author, a woman from somewhere in the Midwest, was saying in it. As near as I could determine, though, she was thanking her husband for saving the book from total destruction. Apparently their house had been burning down, and he ran back into the flames to save the manuscript from perishing in the fire. Now I seem to recall literary anecdotes such as that Robert Louis Stevenson was so dissatisfied with the manuscript for The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde that he endeavored to toss it on the fire, and his wife salvaged the work. But there are some books which deserve to go up in flames, and Where Man Josh was definitely one of them.

The general rule of thumb is that a book should hook you within the first ten pages. I tried to slog through it and discovered I couldn’t make it past the first three. Words were misspelled throughout. Tense switched from present to past to future, point of view shifted from first person to third, within paragraphs of each other, sometimes within the same sentence. Sentences made no sense at all, and some of them seared themselves into my brain for the rest of my life.

I think—think, mind you—that the beginning involved a cowboy, by himself, settling down for the night after a long day. Ponder, if you will, the meaning of the following sentence:

“He hung his hat just a conversation piece away.”

Read it again. Read it slowly. Turn it over in your mind, try to get at the hidden meaning. Was he planning to converse with his hat? Did he consider the hat something worth discussing with someone else, should they show up? Was it something else entirely?

I never knew for sure. And in addition to the many sentences such as the one above that simply left me with my head scratching, there were those which resulted in unintentional hilarity because she used the wrong word. When the cowboy (I think) dwells momentarily on a traumatic recollection (I believe) the author expresses it thusly:

“He knew he would never forget that offal sight.”

Now obviously, she meant to write “awful.” But somehow describing an “offal sight” not only was hysterically appropriate, but it seemed to summarize the entire book.

So ghastly was this book that I immortalized it in a personal manner. Some years later I wrote a book called Howling Mad which was a satire of werewolf legends. It was about a wolf who transformed into a human being. I’m loathe to call him a “wereman,” because “were” means “man,” so it’s like saying he’s a man-man, which makes no sense. Nonetheless, “wereman” is probably the easiest way to summarize the sense of what I was doing. And for my own amusement, I named him “Josh” after Where Man Josh, the worst book I never read.

But I’ll never forget when something else landed in the slush pile and came to my attention—something that I discovered with a good deal of alarm. It had been shunted over to the slush pile because it was a large manila envelope, but when I cracked it open, out fell an already published book and a cover letter alerting us to the single most blatant case of plagiarism I have ever encountered.

Elsevier/Nelson had published a book called Star Crash, a science fiction novel by some guy whose name escapes me (fortunately enough). And in the envelope was a letter from a reader informing us that Star Crash was a word-for-word copy of another book.

And who was the original author? None other than comic book legend Gardner Fox.

The book was originally published in the early 1960s, entitled Escape Across the Cosmos. The informant wanted nothing for himself; he simply wanted to make sure that justice was done, and had sent along a copy of the book in question in order to prove his point. I cracked open Escape, pulled out a copy of Star Crash, and sat down to compare them.

To my utter horror, the informant was one hundred percent accurate. It was a complete ripoff, absolutely word for word. The only thing that the author of Star Crash had done differently was to put his own name on the manuscript.

And I thought, “My God. We ripped off a legend.”

I went to my boss, showing her the letter and the two books. Immediately determining for herself that one was a repeat of the other, she sought salvation in the possibility that it wasn’t as bad as it looked. “Maybe,” she postulated, “the name ‘Gardner Fox’ is a pen name that this author has used.” In other words, she was hoping that what the author had done was recycle a book he’d had published fifteen years earlier. It’s not like that would have earned him a gold star for decency. It still would have meant that he’d fobbed off an already-existing work as something original. But at least he would have been ripping off himself rather than indulging in the single most despicable crime that an author can perpetrate.

“Absolutely impossible,” I told her flatly. “Gardner Fox is a well-respected author with a track record all his own, plus he’s much older than this guy. There’s absolutely no way this is anything else other than a bald-faced theft.”

“Can you track down this Gardner Fox?” she asked.

I had no idea how to do it. Naturally, I said, “Sure.”

“Good. Find his number. You’re going to talk to him, since you’re familiar with him. I’ll handle our author,” she said, her face darkening with fury. No publisher is pleased to discover that they’ve been hosed. “You tell Mr. Fox that we’ll be recalling the advance that we paid the author, that the entirety of the advance is going to be paid to Mr. Fox instead, plus any royalties that the book generates—and that if the book is ever reprinted, his name will go on it instead.”

I went back to my desk and took the only shot I could think of: I called DC Comics. I have absolutely no idea who I spoke with, but I told them who I was (and they said, “Oh! Peter David! Sure! You’ll be writing Aquaman and Supergirl in about fourteen years, nice to talk to you!”) and explained the situation. As I recall, they wouldn’t give me his number, but they said they would get in touch with him and have him call me.

Ten minutes later, my phone rang. It was Gardner Fox.

I can’t begin to tell you how incredible that was for me. It was the first interaction with a genuine comic book talent that I’d had in my adult life, and of all people! Of all circumstances!

I laid out the situation for him, told him what my boss intended to do in order to make restitution. We were in a delicate area here; after all, if Fox had wanted to make real problems for us, he might very well have been able to do so.

Instead he took the entire thing with remarkable good humor and grace. Since his book had been long out of print, he considered Star Crash to be found money. Here some guy had gone to the work and effort of getting one of Fox’s books back into print. Indeed, he actually seemed a bit sorry for the author of Star Crash. He felt it sad that this guy had been so bereft of his own creative vision or ideas that he had chosen to swipe someone else’s work wholesale.

I relayed my conversation with Fox to my boss, who seemed rather relieved about the whole thing. I wish Fox had lived long enough that I’d had the opportunity to talk to him in person about it.

There’s other fun stories regarding stuff one finds in slush piles. I have some others of my own I’ll touch on in later columns. Also, I’d be more than happy to hear from anyone else within the industry about their own experiences. Certainly there are folks reading this column who have had bizarre run-ins with would-be authors. Send ‘em in to me and I’ll run them in a future column.

Just send them to “Where Man Peter.”

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

 

The Ultimate Reason to Vote Against Romney

In the year 2000, Mitt Romney’s Bain Capital took over KB Toys, a company that has made children happy since 1922.

In no time flat, Mitt Romney and his associates saddled KB with massive debt and drove it into bankruptcy while pocketing $83 million dollars for themselves.

The ramifications of this are obvious:

Mitt Romney doesn’t care about making children happy.

Mitt Romney doesn’t care about toys.

If Mitt Romney doesn’t care about making children happy and Mitt Romney doesn’t care about toys…

It means Mitt Romney doesn’t care about Santa.

And if Mitt Romney doesn’t care about Santa, then Mitt Romney doesn’t care about Christmas.

And if Mitt Romney doesn’t care about Christmas, then that means he’s part of the war against Christmas.

Don’t join the war against Christmas.

Vote Obama.

Thank you.

PAD

The Last Dinosaur Extinction

Originally published January 2, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1259

Give way to your imagination, and see the prehistory of man. See our ancestors in the hunt, pursuing some great beast whose remains can only be viewed now as a wired together skeleton at the Museum of Natural History.

The beast struggles, trying to flee from its oppressors. It is large and mighty, and they are small and puny. But there are many of them, and they swarm all over him. He wonders in the back of his primitive, peanut-sized brain what he could possibly have done to offend them, and perhaps he even tries to determine what he might have done to deserve this. He was minding his own business, and suddenly they were upon him, bringing him down, howling and cackling while onlookers cheered.

It is a primitive, awful spectacle, and we can only pat ourselves on the back and be cheered over how far we’ve come since then…

I wanted to do something really special for the girls this year.

New York is home, of course, to one of the best-known parades on the planet: The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. So identified with the holiday has it become, that oftentimes people refer to it in a shortened manner as the Macy’s Day Parade, as if the holiday were about Macy’s rather than the first celebration that the Pilgrims shared with the residents of America who would eventually be completely disenfranchised. I wonder if Native Americans celebrate Thanksgiving with equal fervor nowadays (and I’m sure I’ll wind up hearing from some Native Americans who will inform me one way or the other).

I wanted to take the girls to see the parade, which I hadn’t for a number of years. Oh, sure, they’d watched it on television. Been able to sleep until 9 a.m. and then roll out of bed into the comfort of their living room with hot chocolate, a nice breakfast, and easily available bathrooms, and watch the parade while seated on a comfortable couch. But, gosh darn it, you just don’t get the real parade experience unless you have to haul your carcass out at an ungodly hour, schlep the ninety minutes into Manhattan, find a piece of concrete real estate that you cling on to for dear life, freeze your butt off while desperately wrapping yourself in a blanket against the chill of gale-force arctic winds, munch on an ice-cold bagel and be crushed by five thousand cranky people, all of whom have kids loudly announcing, “I gotta go potty.”

Me, I wanted it all. I wanted the kids to have the parade experience, but not have it carry with it the kind of personal physical exhilaration one could usually only get from—oh—being executed by Edward Longshanks because one was trying to free Scotland.

So I decided we’d go first class.

I made reservations at a hotel called the Novotel, conveniently situated on 52nd Street and Broadway, right along the parade route. We arrived Wednesday night, with the parade set for Thursday morning.

Both of our rooms faced right out onto Broadway, so the parade could be viewed from the comfort of the hotel room but still be live. Furthermore, the Novotel had a large open-air terrace seven floors up, so the parade could actually be watched outside as well. Best of both worlds. The girls could watch it outdoors without the crush of the crowds which ran, on average, twenty levels deep, and if the cold air became too much for them, they could go inside and watch from the rooms.

We took positions outside on the terrace at a little before 9 a.m. That was the start time of the parade, but it actually commenced its march some twenty blocks further uptown, so it would be a while before it got to us. There was a staggeringly fierce wind up on the terrace, blowing with such force that people were staggering under it. It seemed like Another Great David Idea, because of course I should have realized that the altitude would bring with it a much stiffer breeze. The terrace area facing onto Broadway itself was already jammed, but we were able to take up positions against the railing facing onto 52nd street, and we had a clear view of the intersection through which the parade would be passing.

Adults pulled together to accommodate the children and shield them from the majority of the wind’s force. The kids were all forward, peering through the terrace wall (which consisted of a brick wall several feet high and a protective railing—but there was enough space between the railing and the top of the wall that little people could peer through unobstructed). The adults then clustered in behind them, our bodies serving as breakers against the wind. So there we stood for half an hour, primarily breaking wind, and then we heard the first strains of music that indicated freezing teenagers from some high school in the Midwest were—even at that very moment—marching right down Broadway, freezing to death and wondering whether this supposed honor was really such a keen idea.

Down below, the mob at curbside looked like this solid, massive thing rather than something that was composed of individual human beings. They cheered and shouted as bands and floats went by. But the big attraction, as always, was the gigantic balloons.

I had expected that the balloons would be several stories higher up, much closer to us than them. But the winds were so fierce that day that the balloon handlers were keeping them much nearer to the street, which was a mild disappointment. But this quickly became a fascinating spectator sport for those of us safely seven stories up as the balloons attempted either to (a) break free of their restraints and/or (b) attack the bystanders.

“Whoooooaaa!” the crowd would shout as a new fist of wind would seize a balloon and send it careening straight towards them. The handlers struggled mightily to haul the balloon back into position. It was an amazing struggle, almost on a primal level. How could anyone turn away from such a spectacle?

My eldest, Shana, had no trouble turning away. She’d gotten one sense of the breeze, immediately pivoted on her heel and headed back up to her room. Under an hour later, Gwen announced, “I’ve had enough,” and she too retreated to the warmth and comfort of the rooms.

Which left six-year-old Ariel and me. Ariel was bundled up in her parka, eyes peering through her elongated hood, looking like one of the kids from South Park. Truth to tell, I wouldn’t have entirely minded calling it a morning myself. We’d been down there for over an hour, and the wind showed no sign of letting up.

“Ariel,” I said generously, “if you want us to go upstairs, that’s okay. We can go.”

“No,” she said with quiet authority. “I want to stay.”

She wouldn’t budge. That determined six-year-old stayed put as teenagers, adults, and adolescents of much fainter heart than she decided to bag being buffeted by winds. The view improved considerably and soon I was standing next to her at the railing as, with quiet resolution, she continued to watch every moment of the parade.

Spider-Man came chugging along, partly deflated and somewhat limp wristed, while several dozen trustees hauled him along. Marvel in microcosm.

Unbeknownst to us, meantime, there had been problems uptown. The Cat in the Hat had slammed against a lamp post, which had come crashing down on the crowd. People had been injured, and as of this writing at least one woman is suing, although whether she’s going after Macys, the City, the North Wind or the estate of Doctor Seuss, I’m really not sure. (Paul Dini said that he would love to sue just so he could walk into court and announce loudly, “These are my lawyers, Thing One and Thing Two.) As a result of that accident, the parade handlers were very nervous about any other such disasters.

And then came Barney.

Barney, lurching forward from PBS into the streets of New York. Barney, beloved by children and despised by anyone over the age of nine.

Barney—who got ripped.

I don’t mean drunk, although that alone would have been something to see. No, Barney got a significant tear in him as he passed in front of our hotel and began to deflate with frightening velocity.

The big purple dinosaur was in danger of hugging the crowd to death. This looked like a job for New York’s Finest.

Yes, that’s right: The police “Rodney Kinged” Barney.

To the delight of parents and the horror of children, Barney the giant purple balloon was hauled down to street level and murdered. Police came charging in, wielding knives or scissors (it was hard to tell) and proceeded to release all the remaining air within him through the most expedient means, namely stabbing him to death.

It was an incredible spectacle to witness, and damn it, I couldn’t get close enough to see it clearly or get a good picture. But I heard it, God in heaven, did I hear it. Shouts and screams and cheers, ululations of some sort of demented ecstasy, primitive man in his glory brought howling back to life right down there, right in the streets of the city, as the mighty pre-historic beast was brought down.

One cop in particular was a bit too flamboyant, playing to the crowd as he repeatedly gouged the writhing balloon over and over again. Ostensibly a complaint was leveled against him. Yeah. I can just see that police board of inquiry, desperately trying to keep straight faces while they issued punishment. “You stabbed Barney to death too enthusiastically. We’re going to give you a time out.”

A friend of mine and his family, unbeknownst to me, were down in the crowd when it happened. Their two kids, seven and three respectively, were so traumatized that they had to leave immediately thereafter. Ariel, fortunately, didn’t see it. But not too long thereafter, she’d reached even her cold threshold (a good hour after her sisters) and we watched the closing moments of the parade in refined comfort. But that peaceful, civilized environment as we looked down from on high—somehow it posed a striking contrast to the barbaric spectacle which had unfolded minutes before.

We think we’re so civilized. We have such a high opinion of ourselves. But our primitive ancestry is so close to the surface that it all it takes is the slightest incentive to strip away that veneer of civilization and reduce ordinary, everyday people to primal bloodlust.

Or, to put it another way:

They killed Barney!

Yaaaaaaaaayyyy!!!!

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

 

A brilliant safety measure for con attendees w/children

As my nine year old daughter gets older, she craves more freedom at conventions. Even large ones like Dragon*Con. If she needs to go to the rest room and it’s across the hall, she doesn’t want to feel she needs to be escorted. If I’ve a table in artist’s alley, which is a completely contained area with guards at the exits, she wants to be able to walk around without my holding her hand. Think of it as monitored independence.

But she thinks ahead.

When we were getting her her badge for Dragon*Con, she insisted on a name other than her own on the badge. Not a gaming or character name, but just a simple, ordinary girl’s name that wasn’t hers.

“Why?” said my wife.

“Because,” replied my daughter, “if I’m walking around and someone runs up to me and tells me you sent them, and they call me by the fake name on the badge, I know they’re bad people.”

I think that’s freaking brilliant for ANY parent who has a youngster of any age at the convention. The broader rule is that dressing your kids in clothing that has their name on it is a risky proposition. But convention badges is another good place to avoid ID’ing your child or, even better, mis-IDing her to red flag anyone with bad intentions.

PAD