Peter David's Blog, page 87

Movie review: Star Wars Episode IV Special Edition

Originally published March 14, 1997, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1217

“Don’t do it, Luke!”

That was the sound of Ariel, my five-year-old, as she watched The Empire Strikes Back, safe and snug in the confines of her home—as opposed to, say, in a movie theater.

She had never seen the film before, but we had just come back from seeing Star Wars at the Ziegfeld Theater in Manhattan. The last time I’d been to the Ziegfeld was during the rerelease of Lawrence of Arabia, another major movie going experience in my life. I was one of six people in a theater that probably seats a thousand or more, and when the lights came up some woman said to me, “So what did you think of it?” And I replied, “It should have been longer and had more music”—a joke that will make no sense to anyone who hasn’t seen the film.

(Speaking of jokes that don’t make sense: I was in Manhattan the other day and someone walked up to me and said, “Excuse me, how do you get to the Javits Center?” And I said, “Practice, practice, practice!” And they looked at me oddly and ran away since, of course, the answer had nothing to do with the question. But to this day I’m still steamed over the fact that once someone actually asked me how one gets to Carnegie Hall, and all I did was point them in the right direction. So now whenever I’m in New York and people ask me how to get anywhere, my standard answer is “Practice, practice, practice.” But I digress…)

The line to get in to see Star Wars at the Ziegfeld stretched down and around the block and halfway up the other side. However, we had wisely purchased our tickets an hour earlier when there was no one around, so even though we found ourselves on the end of the ticket holders line when we returned for show time, it moved extremely quickly and we waited no more than 10 minutes.

I was impressed by a number of things in that movie-going experience. The first and foremost was the enthusiasm of the crowd. Watching Star Wars is not simply a celebration of the characters (who, let’s face it, were pretty flat; they didn’t get interesting until the second film) or the plot (not particularly innovative from science fiction standards), or the acting (Carrie Fisher hadn’t learned how yet, occasionally attempting a bizarre mid-Atlantic accent), or the dialogue (so arch that it makes even Babylon 5 look slangy by comparison; I mean, even Sheridan never looked over Z’ha’dum and muttered, “You’ll never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy”) —but, rather, a celebration of us watching the film.

The audience cheered the new arrival of each character, as if they were arriving on stage. (This, interestingly, was a marked contrast to my having seen the film a week or so earlier in a theater in Long Island, which was likewise packed but stonily silent. People in Long Island watch a movie. People in Manhattan watch themselves watching a movie.) And watching the new edition of Star Wars is a celebration of new toys that enable footage to be added with technical seamlessness—although not with viewing seamlessness. Watching the new edition of Star Wars is like watching a Hitchcock film if Hitchcock had decided to make twenty cameos instead of just one. You keep saying, “There! There!,” watching for incidental bits of business that don’t particularly further the story or flesh out the universe beyond showing us some new critters. As technically nifty as the Jabba-Meets-Han sequence was, it didn’t tell us anything we didn’t know, plus I kept waiting to see Forrest Gump mixed in with Jabba’s entourage of bounty hunters.

If they were going to add in anything, I’d like it to have been the scene with Luke and his friend, Biggs, in which Biggs informs him that he’s going off to join the alliance. A second scene between the two was restored, but still, considering the number of times that first scene is referenced in the film (not to mention the emotional pay-off when Biggs is blown to smithereens) I would have liked to see it.

But at least they cleaned up those damned FX isolation squares around the ships. And considering that in the latter two films there were only more ships with more squares, I can only assume that Empire and Return of the Jedi will look even better.

So as I noted earlier, Ariel was so caught up with Star Wars that, when I told her there were two more movies, she wanted to see them immediately. I sat down with her and watched Empire, struck not for the first time by how far superior a film it was in terms of story, characterization, dialogue and acting. And she became so caught up in it that, at the climax of the film, when Darth Vader is imploring Luke Skywalker to join him in potential domination of the empire, Ariel was shouting at the TV screen, “Luke, don’t do it! Say no, Luke! Don’t go to the Dark Side!”

Understand that Ariel loves movies. Adores them. She’s seen everything from The Brave Little Toaster to Jurassic Park. But I’ve never seen her so involved that she was begging a character not to make a mistake.

When the film ended in its now-famous cliffhanger, she turned to me and said in no uncertain terms, “Put the next one on—now.” Thank God she didn’t have to wait for two years like the rest of us. And I hope to hell that the rumors are true and that Lucas intends to film the next three films at the same time, a la Back to the Future II/III. Because if Ariel is informed, coming out of the theater in 1999, that she’s going to have to wait until the next century for the follow-up, she’ll probably have a synaptic meltdown.

Ariel’s involvement aside, and audience reaction aside, there was something I was particularly struck by (well, two things, if you count the box of popcorn a kid behind me tossed). And that was the opening words, “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…” It wasn’t the “galaxy far, far away” part that struck a cord with me so much as “A long time ago.”

When the movie first opened, the first four words were simply a reworking of “once upon a time.” Just like “Twenty years ago today, Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play” was simply a lyric. But twenty years later that lyric had new meaning, just as “A long time ago” has a difference resonance.

Because in the measure of not only the real world, but the film world, Star Wars was made a truly long time ago. At the time it came out, it was pilloried as being simplistic, its characters cardboard, its preaching about the Force simple pop religion with the depth of a fortune cookie. And all of those were valid criticisms within the context of 1977 science fiction films, where 2001: Space Odyssey remained the watershed film against which all filmed SF was to be judged. 2001, a film which I saw in my feckless youth and considered incomprehensible and boring, but which I saw many years later as an experienced SF fan and found it to be comprehensible and boring.

But for all the potshots and diatribes hurled at Star Wars, one is inclined to quote Madame Thenardier: “God almighty, have you seen what’s happened since?”

Star Wars, for example, showed the way in terms of merchandising. It’s hard to believe that when the film opened (on a fraction of the screens that the re-release saw) there was virtually no merchandising in place. It simply wasn’t done. Yet nowadays the concept of toylines in conjunction with SF films is so routine that the question isn’t if there’s going to be merchandising tied to a major SF film, but how much and when. It’s even come full circle in that there is Star Wars merchandising for a film that doesn’t even exist: Shadow of the Empire. When I commented that all the neat Pocahontas merchandise was dragged down by the fact that the Disney film wasn’t particularly good, I had no idea that Lucasfilms was actually going to embark on a project which had books, CD-ROMs, toys—everything, in short, except a movie to tie into.

Furthermore, at least Star Wars was about something. Yeah, sure, what it was about was certainly pabulum compared to literary SF, and all the criticisms of the apparent lack of depth were valid, but geez louise, at least George Lucas was trying. That much, at least, came through, both in his attempt to create a religious subtext to his universe and plumb the depths of mythological archetypes that have been part of storytelling since the days of Gilgamesh.

In doing so, he crystallized those archetypes for a new generation, sometimes even to his detriment. When he once again went to the classic archetype of the young farm boy on a journey of discovery in the film Willow, critics ripped into that film stating that the characters were just rehashes of the Star Wars films, as if Star Wars by dint of its success had become the defining word on the subject (a mindset nailed by Julia Louis-Dreyfus on Saturday Night Live who, in the character of a bubble-headed teen-age reviewer, brushed off The Wizard of Oz as a Star Wars rip-off).

I mean, Star Wars actually has lulls. The story takes its time getting into high gear. Little did we know how nostalgic we would be for such moments in SF films. It’s hardly storytelling at its greatest, but next to Independence Day, it’s Dickens. The FX in Star Wars caught the public’s fancy, and the major studios decided—as they often do—to imitate the surface elements of a big hit and ignore the underpinnings which made it unique and different. And this is a tendency that has only magnified as the budgets have skyrocketed. Ultimately, Star Wars is about a voyage of discovery, about redemption, about faith, while Independence Day is about two hours.

And just as an aside: Can we please, please have a moratorium on huge special effects films that feature, as its emotional core, an ex-husband and wife who find as a result of being hurled together in adverse circumstances that they’re still in love with each other? The Abyss, Twister, Independence Day—enough already.

Meantime, 20 years have been even less kind to the basic plot of Star Wars than one could have imagined. Because there is now a gaping plot hole—more of a plot concept, really—that didn’t even exist when the film came out two decades ago.

 (Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. Next week: The gaping plot hole and the untold story of the single most important individual in the entire Star Wars legend.)

 

Making my way across Canada

Been a busy week.

Flew up to Montreal on Monday and then, in a rental car, drove up to Quebec City to do work on a video game. The weather appears to have declared war. The entire drive up to QC it rained, except when it sleeted. Once in QC, whenever I was indoors, the weather was fine; when I set foot outside it started to rain.

Then I drove back down to Montreal on Wednesday afternoon, this time with only intermittent spitting from the skies. Thursday morning the weather I remained indoors so that the weather was clear and flew to Calgary, my current location, attending the Calgary Expo, which seems very well run and organized.

Friday went very well. Met a lot of enthusiastic fans, sold a ton of stuff (guess Canadians have spending money because they don’t have to worry about paying for health care; lucky devils). Had a lengthy chat with Ty Templeton about the fabled golden age hero, Hoverboy. Been trying to take it easy, but this morning I woke up at 4:30 and haven’t been able to fall back to sleep. So here we all are.

PAD

Working for a living

Originally published March 7, 1997, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1216

While Harlan Ellison was busy putting fans in their place, I was busy being put in mine.

Harlan started quite a stir during his opinion piece on the Sci-Fi Channels Sci-Fi Buzz. Ellison stated that writers “owe” fans nothing beyond their best endeavors at plying their craft. Writers who receive wide fan support do not owe the fans any sense of gratitude for “putting” the writers where they are; the writers owe their relative success entirely to their own efforts.

Although many fans understood what Ellison was saying, others angrily accused Ellison of not giving a damn about the fans, of not showing proper deference or allegiance to those who had been loyal to his efforts. I think a few folks also managed to place him at the grassy knoll when JFK went down.

(On a roll, Harlan also went on Politically Incorrect and—in a performance that had friends of his screaming at the screen, “You have a heart condition, for crying out loud, calm down!” —had to have his teeth pried out of the throat of Starr Jones, an ultra-conservative legal commentator who was endeavoring to defend the 1950s practice of turning rat and knuckling under to the communist witch-hunt mentality. It wasn’t the most offbeat PI confrontation of the year—that would be Chevy Chase going mental on Steven Bochco—but it was way up there. Boy, I’d love to go on that show.)

Meantime, in less rarefied atmospheres, I was interested in seeing the John Travolta film Michael. Newspaper ads indicated that members of the Writers Guild of America (which I happen to be) would be admitted free to any showing upon presentation of their WGA card. This is not an uncommon practice, particularly as Oscar nomination time approaches.

It’s a perk, I admit it. C’mon—someone offers you a chance to see a free movie that’s gotten good notices, are you going to turn it down? Besides, I’d been working fairly non-stop on several tight deadlines, including a series of Star Trek novels. I figured I was entitled to a break.

So I went to my local theater. I deliberately chose a performance that I knew would be lightly attended, because the last time I’d used my WGA card (at another theater) it had taken a minute or two as I signed off on a form, and I didn’t want to hold up other folks. With no one in line behind me, I dutifully presented my WGA card and said I wanted a ticket for Michael.

The ticket seller stared at me. “What’s this?” she asked.

“It’s my WGA card.”

“What’s the WGA?”

I tapped the card. “Writers Guild of America. I’m a writer.”

“Why are you giving me this?”

“Well,” I said patiently, “ the newspaper ad says that WGA members are admitted free to any showing of Michael.”

“What newspaper?”

My spider-sense was tingling. “Newsday,” I said.

She stared at me. “I don’t know anything about it.” And she stood there.

Apparently she belonged to that subset of individuals who believe that, if they don’t know about something, it doesn’t exist. Me, I was kicking myself that I hadn’t brought a copy of the paper with me. It hadn’t occurred to me. I mean, you bring a newspaper to the bathroom, or to a doctor’s waiting room, or something like that. Who brings a newspaper to the movies?

“There was an ad for Michael in the paper, and it said that WGA members would be admitted free to any performance upon presentation of their card. Does anyone here have a paper?”

“Hold on,” she said, and picked up a phone. She got the manager on the phone and started muttering a summation of what I’d said, with attendant skepticism in her tone. I sensed that people had wandered in behind me. I shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. I hadn’t wanted to make a big deal about this. It wasn’t as if I couldn’t afford to plunk down for a ticket. They’d made an offer and all I wanted to do was take advantage of it.

She turned to me, phone still to her ear, and said, “The manager doesn’t know anything about it.”

“Does the manager have a newspaper?”

“I don’t know.”

At which point, my attitude was, The hell with it, I’ll just pay for it. Nothing in my life comes easily anyway; might as well pay my way.

And then the guy behind me, a beefy guy who looked to be in about his mid-50s, started saying loudly to the cashier—in that way someone has when they’re more interested in showing how tough they are than actually conveying information—“Think you could make some time for a paying customer?”

Chucking a thumb at my fan, I said to the ticket seller, “Could you sell him a ticket, please?”

But she was too engrossed in listening to the manager apparently reiterating his or her cluelessness. She listened to the phone a moment more, than said to me, “What are you, again?”

It’s not everyone who can take a simple trip to the movies and turn it into an exercise in self-humiliation, but I often manage to succeed in endeavors where lesser mortals might fail. “I am a writer,” I said, adding silently, of stuff.

“He says he’s a writer,” said the ticket seller, and then turned back to me and said, “My manager doesn’t know anything about writers getting—”

“Fine, I’ll buy a ticket,” I said, yanking out my wallet and just wanting to be done with it.

And as I was saying that, my fan from behind—apparently not hearing my stated intention to purchase admission—said loudly to the ticket seller, “C’mon, lady, make some time for somebody who works for a living.”

Works for a living.

I thought about the deadlines I struggled to meet, the days making time for my kids and the nights spent working until 3 a.m. The finishing up of 20 pages of scripting, getting caught up, only to see the fax machine suddenly start pumping through another ten pages, pushing me behind again. The deadlines for the novels, the weekly grind of the column, the exhaustion, the constant struggle of staring at the computer screen day after day, and y’know, every time I turn on the computer, the screen’s always blank. It has yet to come glowing to life with a story already existing there. I thought about the weeks, months I’d spent away from home working on Space Cases, getting to the studio by 8 a.m., leaving at 8 p.m., working at night—either script rewrites or comic book work—until I fell over and then getting up the next day and doing it all over again.

And I grabbed the ticket out of the ticket seller’s hand and rounded on the guy, and snapped, “I work sixteen hour days, hotshot. What’s your work schedule like?”

He glowered at me, his wife next to him. Probably he would have loved to start something, but with his wife standing right there, I guess he felt hesitant. He said nothing. I stood there for a moment, and then turned on my heel and headed to the theater.

And I sat and watched the film, smoldering through much of it, and thinking that it was pretty much okay except that it would have been a better film if they’d gotten Samuel L. Jackson for the William Hurt part, because Hurt was supposed to play a cynic, but he’s too bland to be a good cynic.

I’ll tell you, though…

You go to conventions, and people line up for your autograph, or gather to hear you speak, and laugh at your jokes, and praise your work. It insulates you and even makes you think that perhaps that’s how the entire world views you.

I’ve written before, though, that the general public tends to think of writers in a less-than-lofty capacity, except perhaps for marquee names like Grisham or King. But I’ve never quite had it laid out for me quite as starkly as this: Make some time for somebody who works for a living.

Writers are always being judged. One would think that it goes with the territory, but to my way of thinking, the only thing that goes with the territory is having one’s work being judged. But sometimes that’s almost beside the point. It is writers themselves who are always being held up for scrutiny. If fans don’t like the writer’s latest offering, then the writer supposedly doesn’t care or just hacked it out. Or—here’s my favorite—a writer takes on a job “just because he wants to make money.” And in doing so, the writer is somehow diminished or a lesser being, having sacrificed a sacred trust or spit upon expectations. Hell, remember when Dave Sim had to tell everyone he was giving the money for writing an issue of Spawn to charity because fans were screaming he’d “sold out”?

What an insane, unfair attitude that is for readers to have. If I said that the majority of people in this country take a job, first and foremost, to pay bills, I think I’d be on solid ground. If you stood at a construction site and said disdainfully to a bricklayer, “You only took this job to feed your family; you are therefore a sell-out,” the bricklayer would bounce a brick off your skull.

Writers are constantly being crucified on the cross of others’ expectations. There are the people who hold writers to their own interpretation of the artistic ideal, which apparently includes the notion that filthy considerations such as money or worrying about paying bills should never enter into the writer’s personal radar. At the same time, there are others (such as my fan) who feel that writers are dilettantes, dabblers, engaging in an endeavor that has no relevance to the real world. That writers just sit around making stuff up and people are actually dumb enough to give them money for it.

The writer and his audience: an ongoing love/hate relationship. A delicate balance. On the one hand there is the writer, working to gain the reader’s trust in that constantly dicey proposition called “suspension of disbelief.” And on the other, there is the reader who basically says, “I have given you that trust; that obligates you to me.” It’s a mercurial thing, though, that trust. All trust is. For all that the writer elevates himself or is elevated by the readers, ultimately we’re all just magicians pulling tricks out of our hats. Dancers tapping as fast as we can, sweat pouring down our brows until such time that we fail to entertain, at which point the audience will turn away, toss us aside, forgotten. There are periods where a writer can do no wrong—and then, just as quickly, suddenly he feels as if he can do no right.

What is the writer’s job? To engage the reader. What is the writer’s obligation? To survive. It’s no more and no less involved than that.

But hey—it beats working for a living.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. He just looked at the ad for Adventures in the DC Universe. Is it his imagination, or is this the first time that Captain Marvel has looked “right” in years?)

 

Marvel Writers’ Retreat 1997 and more

Originally published February 28, 1997, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1215

Assorted fun stuff…

* * *

I’ve just returned from a Marvel “writers’ retreat” in Long Island. At that august gathering, an assortment of editors including Bob Harras, Bobbie Chase, and Tom Breevort, and creators including such luminaries as Chris Claremont, Kurt Busiek, John Romita, Sr., Tom DeFalco, Klaus Janson, Larry Hama, Scott Lobdell, and others who are going to be hacked off with me because I didn’t mention them by name, gathered to try and sort out the “Lee-feld Universe.”

The deal with Rob Liefeld and Jim Lee which has them rebooting the Marvel Universe is slated to end around August of this year. Rumors have been rampant through fandom that an extension of the deal is being discussed.

But we were informed at this January meeting that Harras had been given the go-ahead by the Boys in the Back Room to plan the folding of the MIA heroes back into the Marvel Universe. And of course, the thought of the Boys changing their mind is absurd, so we proceeded on the assumption that the return of the heroes was a go.

Now it wouldn’t be proper or cricket for me to go into detail as to precisely what was said and/or discussed.

In point of fact, nothing was absolutely, bottom-line decided upon.

Various ideas were tossed around, giving the editors food for thought as to which direction they should go.

However, there was something about the gathering that really impressed me. And considering the number of times in recent months that I’ve raked Marvel over the coals, I figure it’s only fair that I finally say something positive.

I can’t begin to count the number of times I’ve seen postings from fans on computer boards making snide comments about the creative personnel at Marvel.

I’m always reading that various creators are just hacking material out, or are cynical, just going through the motions, sleepwalking through the stories, not giving a damn about the characters. In short, there’s a plethora of nasty thoughts which would indicate that the creators are producing comic books about which they simply do not care.

I wish all of those sarcastic fans could have been flies on the wall at the meeting. Well—maybe, not all of the fans, because that would be one hell of a lot of flies and there would have been lots of buzzing and, frankly, it would have been kind of disgusting.

What happened over the course of the three days worth of meetings was that various people came up with an assortment of notions about how the re-merge should be handled. And each concept acquired supporters as people started to form into several small “camps.”

And in an extremely large meeting room, with all the tables formed into a giant circle (rectangle, square—whatever—you get the idea) the different camps locked horns as to what would be the best way to go. What storyline would be the best for the characters and, ultimately, for the readers.

I wouldn’t say the discussion became heated, because that implies that there was anger. I don’t think anyone got really angry with anyone else. But the debate over the shape of the Marvel Universe for 1997 was aggressively spirited.

And I was struck by (a 2 x 4 across the face? Nah) the passion that the people around that large table had for the Marvel Universe. You think fans get into intense discussions? It’s nothing compared to the enthusiasm in that room as different creators put forward a variety of concepts. Concepts which were then subjected to scrutiny, criticism, dissection. The “old hands” around the table hurled themselves into the fray with zeal, while some of the newer arrivals in the Marvel talent pool just sat and watched in amazement as creators whose work they’d been reading for years locked horns over the best way to handle the return of the beloved characters.

Now, of course, the fans may not like what finally sees print. The story, whatever it turns out to be, may not satisfy everyone concerned. Although, let’s face it, what story has ever satisfied everyone? It is the readers who ultimately decide whether they think a story works or not.

But for any of you who think the caretakers of the Marvel Universe care any less about the characters than the fans do… well, I don’t want to be so insensitive as to say you’re wrong…

But you’re definitely not right.

* * *

Presented for your inspection: The odd case of Gary St. Lawrence vs. Wizard Press.

St. Lawrence might be known to CBG readers for various articles he’s produced for this noted publication, including the transcript of a certain debate I’d just as soon forget. He’d also been a regular writer for Wizard, including a detailed article a couple years back about the history of Wolverine.

Some months after the St. Lawrence “Wolverine” piece first appeared, Wizard produced a mutant special magazine—and had a writer essentially recycle the St. Lawrence piece. The rewritten piece was—to be honest—better written its predecessor, but nonetheless the basic rehashing of his research work without so much as a by-your-leave bugged the hell out of St. Lawrence. He took issue with the folks at Wizard, which was smart. He also took his complaint to the computer boards, which wasn’t smart, because it cheesed off the editors at Wizard who would have preferred to handle the grievance quietly.

I kind of got pulled into it all because on the one hand, Gary is a friend of mine, and on the other hand, I’ve had a long-standing, mutually beneficial relationship with Wizard. So because I have the IQ of squash, I tried to mediate the dispute. Wizard promised to pay Gary for the recycling of his work, and print a notice that his work had been used in the other article. They also assured that there would be no hard feelings and that St. Lawrence would continue to work for them.

With an egocentric “Well, my work here is done” mentality, I went soaring off into the sky.

Upshot was, St. Lawrence got paid, but the notice was so small and buried that no one noticed it. Also buried was St. Lawrence himself, who was informed that suddenly his work was no longer up to Wizard’s editorial standards. He was frozen out of assignments and even dropped off the comp copy list.

And, of course, since I do have the aforementioned squash-sized IQ, I now publicly call Wizard on it, saying, “Bad form, gentlemen, bad form.” And if I suddenly vanish from the “most popular writers” list or don’t get asked to help with the Wizard awards ceremony, well… that’s the way it goes, I guess. Probably would have been smarter to sit by quietly. But, no one ever accused me of excess brains.

* * *

Sometimes you just stumble over something in a catalogue and there is no question that you’re going to pick up the phone immediately and order it.

Such was the case for me when, paging through Signals, “a catalog for fans and friends of public television,” I stumbled over plush toys from Wallace & Gromit, the three delightful clay-animation British short films by Nick Parks. There are five dolls in all: Wallace, the gently eccentric inventor; Gromit, his mute but infinitely wiser dog; Wendolene, Wallace’s love interest who looks so much like Wallace, one wonders if incest will be the theme of the next short; Shaun, a sweater-wearing sheep; and, most hilariously, Feathers McGraw, the formidable outlaw penguin sporting his devilishly clever chicken disguise. They’re a nice size, averaging a foot tall each.

I’m a sucker for cute plush toys, and for Wallace and Gromit, so this was a lethal combination for the old American Express card.

* * *

For those poor unfortunate devils who aren’t enthusiasts of Wallace and Gromit, the foregoing was a colossal waste of time. To try to make it up to you, it’s about time for—yes, that’s right—another But I Digress contest!

I figure, why not? Now that I have an assistant, Bashful Bernie, I can actually process winners and send out prizes in something less than a couple of years. So, what are we doing for the contest this time?

Well, just to be really ambitious, it’s going to be a two-parter.

What put me in mind of this was when, at that selfsame Marvel retreat, I was chatting with Kurt Busiek and Tom Breevort and we were discussing team ups that made Marvel vs. DC look tame. Basically, we were coming up with historic meetings you’ll never see between mainstream superheroes and characters from the Harvey Comics line. These included: Henry Pym vs. Stumbo; Vision and Scarlet Witch vs. Casper and Wendy the Good Little Witch; The Ghostly Trio and the Warriors Three; Tony Stark and Richie Rich (with a separate team up between Jarvis and Cadbury); Sergeant Fury and Sad Sack.

And now I’m thinking, well heck, let’s really do it up. The first half of the contest involves coming up with battles that are between any two companies or universes except Marvel vs. DC, up to and including anything comics related. That includes animation, comic strips, anything that’s really appropriate (Martian Manhunter and Marvin the Martian vs. Mars Attacks).

But what took Marvel vs. DC to the next level was the Amalgam Universe. So, just to make it challenging, entries must also feature appropriately bizarre combos as if characters or teams of characters or even characters and places had been merged. None of this “Dark Claw” or “Super Soldier” stuff, though. The combos must have clearly identifiable names, and the weirder the better. For example: Popeye the Sailor Moon; The Inferior Babylon 5; Pinky and the Brainiac.

Extra points will be given for entries accompanied by illustrations.

Entries should be addressed to: To Be Continued, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705, ATTN: Everybody vs. Everybody Contest.

Good luck. You’ll need it.

(Editor’s note: Of course, this contest has long since expired. Please do not send in entries).

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at… aw, hell, I just printed the address above. Go read it.)

True Crime

Originally published February 21, 1997, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1214

When one is faced with a pointless death, such as that of Ennis Cosby, one is often seized with the desire to try to do something about it. This is usually not possible. It’s probably not even possible in this case.

But then I read about a rep for the LAPD describing the killing as “a complete whodunit.” Trying to solve mysteries and sort out things that don’t make sense is a natural compulsion (just ask Oliver Stone).

And I also read reports of the actual events surrounding the death of Bill Cosby’s son.

And there’s stuff that’s just bugging the hell out of me. I have no one else to talk to about it, so I figured I’d talk to you.

The following stipulations and understandings must be made clear:

First, the reportage upon which the following speculation is based could be in error. Happens often enough.

A recent article in the New York Daily News about Marvel Comics described the Marvel/DC Amalgam books as “a flop,” despite the fact that they sold extremely well, garnered a good deal of positive fan response, and proved popular enough to prompt follow-up series.

Second, there may very likely be aspects of the crime which are being kept back by the police, a not uncommon practice. So something that seems contradictory may very well have some sort of sensible explanation.

Third, it’s entirely possible that by the time this sees print, they may have caught the guy and the following is proven to be right or (more likely, I admit) absolutely dead wrong.

Fourth, my little notions and theories are not at all intended to be invasive, insensitive, sensationalistic, or condemning. I’m just thinking out loud. This is the kind of half-baked speculation in which folks might engage sitting around at a convention room party at 2 a.m. For that matter, perhaps you should wait until 2 a.m. to read this column. It might be more effective.

The bottom line is: I am someone who makes a living by looking at the world in a skewed manner and saying, “Well, how about it?” And every so often I decide to give that tendency a real-world application. Which I’m about to do right now.

Why?

Because I keep thinking about the fact that many—if not most—murders are not committed by strangers, but by people who knew their victim.

Because I keep thinking about Susan Smith murdering her two children—but at first claiming that the murder was committed by a mysterious black man.

Because of the following…

The most detailed description of the crime I found was in the Feb. 3 issue of People. For the sake of argument, we’re going to assume (always dangerous) that it’s accurate. The pertinent section reads as follows:

“…[O]n January 16, sometime around 1 a.m., as Ennis… was heading north on the 405 freeway to visit a woman friend, he got a flat in the front left tire of a $130,000 green Mercedes 600SL convertible… He pulled off the freeway and stopped on a pitch-black stretch of road called Skirball Center Drive, just off the exit ramp. Using his cell phone he called his woman friend, whom news reports say me met the previous weekend at a party. The woman… arrived minutes later, parking her black Jaguar next to his car so that her headlights could aid him as he changed the flat. As Ennis finished fixing the tire, she reportedly told police, a man holding a gun suddenly tapped on her window and threatened to kill her. Terrified, she said she sped away but returned minutes later, at 1:28 a.m., to find Ennis lying in a pool of blood with a single bullet in his head. Described by police as ‘traumatized,’ the female witness was at first unable to supply a useful description of the assailant. It wasn’t until Jan. 18, two days after the slaying, that a composite sketch of the alleged perpetrator, a white man between 25 and 32 years old in a light-colored knit cap, was released.”

Okay. Let’s think about this.

1) Where did the assailant come from?

Was he lurking in the area on foot? Why? This was a “pitch black” stretch of road. A photo of the crime scene didn’t indicate any sidewalk, so foot traffic would be unlikely. So he was standing out there on a winter night on the off chance that maybe somebody might happen to show up with a flat tire?

Putting aside stretches such as that he was rollerblading or bicycling, the logical alternative is that he showed up in a car. In which case, why did no one see him coming? If it was pitch black, his headlights would have signaled his arrival, so Cosby and the woman would both have been alert to the new arrival, and (since Cosby is New York-raised) to possible jeopardy. The instinct would have been to scope out the other guy or—if there was any doubt—just vacate the area. Unless Cosby was so trusting that he just automatically assumed the newcomer was there to help them, but even then, the woman should have known that someone was coming. The only other possibility is that the assailant pulled up in a car with his headlights out, but Cosby still should have seen him coming, and the extinguished headlights would have been a sure tip that trouble was brewing.

None of this seems terribly plausible. So I wonder…

…why was this man there?

2) We can assume that the woman wasn’t right next to Cosby. Since the left front tire was out, more likely she was behind him. That’s the natural traffic maneuver to avoid going the wrong way and making yourself a target for any oncoming cars that might descend down the exit ramp.

(If you’re skeptical about her being able to provide him with enough light from behind, try it some time. On a dark road, pulled up behind a parked car with your brights on. You’ll find you can fully illuminate the area with no problem.)

So you’re sitting there in a car, using your headlights to illuminate the area. Are you sitting there with the car in drive and your foot on the brake? Very unlikely. You expect that you’re going to be there for a few minutes. What do you do?

You put the car in “Park.”

You watch Cosby change the tire. You don’t offer to assist in any way, which might help things move along faster.

And a guy shows up, tapping the glass with a gun. He’s that close. That close.

Okay, here’s a test. I want you, the reader, to get a friend. You sit in a chair and be the woman; have the friend be the assailant, gun in hand. Mime putting your foot on the break, reaching over to the gear shift, putting it into drive, take your foot off the brake and shifting it to the gas pedal, slam down the gas, turn the wheel and drive away. Your friend’s job is simple. The moment he sees you move a muscle to try and get away, he’s to pull the trigger of the “gun.”

Okay… ready, set—go.

What happened? No—don’t tell me. I’ll tell you. You had a bullet in the brain before you’d shifted the car into park. Because no matter how fast you move your hand, your foot and your car, it’s ponderous compared to the amount of time it takes to squeeze a trigger.

On the off chance, the slight chance, the incredible stretch of a chance that he misses you—he shatters the glass. He tries to stop you from leaving. If he’s that close, he puts a couple of bullets in your car, or better still, he shoots out a tire or two. You don’t get away.

So I wonder…

…why is the woman still alive?

3) Again, going on the assumption that she was behind him—she just drove away and left him? She had to drive right past him. Cosby could have leapt onto the hood and be carried off at five, ten miles an hour, and the moment they had any distance, clambered into the car. Yes, she could have panicked and abandoned him. But that’s a hell of a thing to do. She would have had to be terrified. And if she was that terrified, why did she go back at all? Why didn’t she call the police? (She’s a screenwriter in her 40s who drives a Jaguar. Bet she has a cell phone.) Why didn’t she then wait for the police to show up before going back?

So I wonder…

…why did she leave Cosby to face an armed man who frightened her so thoroughly that she then went back to the scene without waiting for (and, for all we know, summoning) police assistance?

There are pieces of information I’m missing that I wish I knew. Was Cosby shot from close by or some feet away? Was the entry from the side, the rear, or the front? Ostensibly the motive was robbery. Presuming that the killer arrived on foot (because, as noted, showing up by car gives too much warning and the description makes it clear that it was a surprise), was Cosby’s car still there? If you’re into robbery, the hell with the wallet: You take the $130,000 car. Get it to a chop shop and sell it off in no time, plus you get away from the scene of the crime quickly. If the car was still there, it makes even less sense.

So I’m thinking about all this, and how it bugs me. And I thought, if I wanted to turn this into a story, how would I do it? What motivations and people would I plug in so that the actual events are plausible to me. How do I turn fact into fiction which may have some smattering of relation back to fact?

And here’s what I came up with. (Again, I emphasize this is a mental exercise motivated by a desire to try to do something. When I try to do something, no matter what it is, it usually winds up in writing.)

How about this?

Cosby meets the woman at a party the previous week. Let’s arbitrarily assign her a name: Linda. But the woman is not alone. She has come with her boyfriend, named Matt.

Matt watches as Linda becomes enchanted with the ready wit of the self-effacing, humble son of the most popular comedic actor in the country. Matt becomes angry.

Matt isn’t a nice guy. He’s quick tempered, he can even become controlling and despotic.

So it’s a week later and he has shown up unexpectedly at her house—because the one she is expecting is Cosby. They talk. Linda is evasive. Suddenly she gets The Call. Cosby, the man about whom Matt is extremely unhappy, calls and ask for her help. “Have him call triple A!” rages Matt. But she refuses to kowtow; she’s going to go help him.

Matt insists that he’s going to go with her to “protect” her. That’s why he has the gun—ostensibly.

They pull up behind Cosby, shine the light. And Matt gets out of the car, offering to help move things along by aiding in the change of the flat tire. Cosby and Matt talk as they work on the tires. Matt’s anger and jealousy quickly become evident. Cosby refuses to be drawn into it. And an enraged Matt pulls out the gun and, to the horror of Linda, shoots Cosby dead.

“Get us out of here,” he orders her. “Drop me at home, then circle back and then call the cops. And don’t say anything to the cops about my involvement. Wait a few days and give me a head start, or you will regret it.”

She is terrified. Terrified of him. Terrified of what he might do to her if the secret comes out. She spends two days in a state of shock, not because she’s driven up after the fact and found a murder victim. It’s because she knows her boyfriend is responsible and has to give him at least two days so he can get as far from Los Angeles as possible. Which she does.

There.

That’s who I think killed Ennis Cosby. Not some passing stranger who just happened by at a stroke of luck. Rather, someone who knew him and was angry at him. Jealousy—the oldest motive for murder that exists.

Ahhh… the hell with it.

It was probably O.J. Simpson what did it.

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

 

So Fox News is Claiming that the Democrats Have Declared a War on Women

Isn’t that kind of like Hamas accusing the U.S. of launching a war on Israel?

PAD

The Book of Gen-X-is

Originally published February 14, 1997, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1213

From The Book of Gen-X-is:

In the beginning, the comic book market was void and without form.

And the Lord looked down upon the comic book market and stretched out His hand. And two forms spun out into the ether and were shaped into existence.

And the Lord called one Marvel and the other DC, and, sure, there were some other companies like Atlas and Archie and Gold Key, but, lo, they were not truly important. And the Lord looked upon His work, and found it Good. And that was the first day.

And the Lord created retailers to stock the comic books. And, lo, the retailers went out of business, and the Lord realized His omission and, from the soil of the earth, created customers to patronize the stores.

And because that fiasco with Eve had left a bad taste in His mouth, the Lord created only male customers and comics to appeal only to the male, so that icky girls would not come along and mess things up.

And, lo, the retailers continued to go out of business, and the Lord realized His further omission and created the sun so that it would not be dark all the time, and thus would the customers be able to find the stores so they could patronize them. And the Lord looked upon His work and found it Good. And that was the second day.

And the Lord spake unto the customers, for it was still ancient times and words such as “spake” were still in use. “Go forth and multiply,” for the Lord wished them to create more customers from the fruits of their loins.

But, lo, this was a futile endeavor, for as soon as the customers began using their loins for the purpose of bearing fruit, they completely lost interest in comic books and, instead, focused on those pesky female non-comic book fans. And, angered, the Lord spake unto the customers (see previous explanation for “spake”) and said, “I desired multiplying of comic book fans. Do not disobey me, for I am the Lord.”

And His voice was great and terrifying, particularly the “I am the Lord” part, which was so booming that the fans did not quite hear it right and thought that He had said, “I am the law,” and, lo, this inspired a fairly interesting comic book character and not-particularly-good film. And, furthermore, the fans also misunderstood and thought that He desired that they purchase comic books in multiples. So they began to do that very thing, and, although there were not more fans being created, at least the fans who were there were purchasing enough comics to support their retailers. And the Lord looked upon it, and it was not Good, so He downgraded it to Fair. And that was the third day.

And, lo, sales were spiraling downward, and DC Comics imploded, and Marvel wasn’t in terrific shape, for comic books were low-profit-margin, high-maintenance items in a time when newsstands desired high-profit-making, low-maintenance items.

And, lo, comics sales were spiraling but had nowhere to go, and the Lord stretched forth His hand and created toilets, and, lo, sales went down the toilet, and it was a rocky time for Marvel and DC. And, lo, the Lord decided to take control of the matter.

And He stretched out His hand and God created Phil Seuling.

And the Lord spake unto Seuling and said, “Go thou and buy direct from the publisher.” And Seuling said, “But the publishers have never sold direct.” And God said, “Trust me… like it says on the money,” a joke which was later used in Oh, God! which was a fairly good movie and far better than its sequels, which is usually the case except for the Godfather films and maybe Lethal Weapon II.

And Seuling went on his mission from the Lord, and, lo, the direct market was created. And the publishers thrived, and the retailers thrived, and the Lord looked upon his work and upgraded it above Good to Near Mint. And that was the fourth day.

And the Lord decided that Seuling was lonely and that the direct market had tremendous potential.

And the Lord stretched out his hand—and God created Geppi.

And while He was at it, He also created Glenwood and Comics Unlimited and Friendly Frank’s and Second Genesis and Capital and Bud Plant and Pacific and Heroes World and Cavco and warehouses and overnight freighting and rack-support programs and co-op advertising and trade shows and creator-appearance programs. But above them all, there remained Geppi, His greatest creation.

And the retailers thrived, and more publishers came into existence, and, lo, there was great happiness throughout the land.

And Geppi looked out upon the land, and God spake unto Geppi and said, “And, lo, someday, all this shall be yours, for I favor you above all others—well, you and Carl Barks. Go forth, Geppi, and do as thou wilt, for I am with you.”

And Geppi went forth and opened warehouses. And he acquired and acquired and grew and grew, a colossus in the industry, his mighty stride carrying him from one end of the comic book business to the other. And many were those who quaked at the mere mention of the name Geppi, for they knew him to be The One.

And his actions were pleasing unto the Lord, and the Lord spake unto Geppi and said, “Thou hast done well, my greatest creation, but tomorrow thou shalt face they greatest challenge, which I shall create to test you, my greatest creation.”

And the Lord would not give a hint as to what that might be, no matter how much Geppi asked. And this teed off Geppi, but he was willing to wait, for he knew that in the end it would all be his.

And the Lord looked upon his work and found it Mint. And that was the fifth day.

And the Lord stretched out his hand and created The Anti-Geppi, the devourer, the scourge, the leaver of scorched earth, he who was to be reviled. And men spoke The Anti-Geppi’s name in fear, for The Anti-Geppi was called Ron, and Ron was the name by which he was called. And The Anti-Geppi devoured Marvel Comics and he devoured Heroes World and transformed it into an agency to further his own ends. And, lo, The Anti-Geppi brought the direct market crumbling down around the ears of all those concerned. And Comics Unlimited unleashed its Mighty Wang, And The Mighty Wang spoke out against The Anti-Geppi. And the wrath of The Anti-Geppi was a fearsome thing, and The Anti-Geppi smote The Mighty Wang. And Geppi reached out and grabbed the fallen Wang before more damage could be done.

And The Anti-Geppi sliced through the direct market like a scythe through wheat, leveling all in his path. And Heroes World trying to serve the direct market was like a handless man trying to tie his shoes, but The Anti-Geppi cared not, and, lo, it was a terrible thing, as The Anti-Geppi laid waste to years of work.

But he was not able to smite Geppi, try as he might. Instead, Geppi allied with DC, and Geppi absorbed all the remaining distributors with an efficiency that The Borg would have envied, and, lo, The Anti-Geppi continued his hideous ways, but there was Geppi, still standing, still defiant.

And the Lord spake unto Geppi and said, “As I have promised, all this is now yours.”

And Geppi replied to the Lord, “Oh, are you still here? You can leave now. I’m in charge.”

“But I am your creator,” the Lord said unto Geppi. “I am God.”

And Geppi had some people come around and have a few words with the Lord, and the Lord decided that perhaps it would be wiser not to challenge Geppi. And He did not look upon his handiwork, because he was too busy packing. And that was the sixth day.

And on the seventh day God rested, because He had earned the time off, and because Geppi felt that it would probably be the wiser course. And Geppi looked upon the smoking remains of the direct market, and it was His, and He found it Good.

 

Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at To Be Continued Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. Note: Some translations of the book of Gen-X-is indicate that the direct market—and pretty much everything else—was, in fact, created by Jim Shooter. Many scholars tend to dismiss these interpretations; we mention it here in the interest of historical thoroughness.

 

An Old Fashioned Puppet Show

That’s what we more or less attended at Carnegie Hall yesterday.

It was a celebration of the music of the Muppets (and by extension of the life of Jim Henson) with puppeteer John Tartaglia as the MC. And the Muppeteers were there, performing in as low-tech an environment as you can imagine: They had black drapes erected on railings on either side of the stage, about five feet high, and the Muppeteers (dressed in black) would enter in a crouch from either wing, put the Muppets on their hands, and then have them appear over the top of the railing. It was on par with what you’d see during a puppet show mounted at your local library. Personally I thought it was marvelous because it really got the Muppets back to their roots, which was perfect for something celebrating the artistry of Henson (whom Kermit referred to as “my right hand man.”) Kermit, Fozzie, Piggy, the whole gang was there. They even had Statler and Woldorf heckling from one of the balconies. And Kath was teary eyed for a good chunk of it, particularly when Paul Williams was performing “The Rainbow Connection” with Kermit.

PAD

Dialing Up

Originally published February 7, 1997, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1212

Picking up from last week:

So there I was, loaded up with software for America Online. Now I was really in need of some sort of method for picking up messages off the Internet, as my former server had collapsed. And also—I blush to disclose—I’d never in my life gone “websurfing,” a term that I must admit completely befuddles me. Who the hell made it up, anyway? I mean, talk about your mixed metaphors. What sort of image does that bring to mind, surfing a web? It makes no sense. You surf on water; you crawl on a web. How do you surf a web? It’s like saying, “I’m going to mow the linoleum.”

In any event, I was interested in giving the famed AOL a whirl, but quickly found it impossible to get through on any of the half-dozen or so phone lines that allegedly would give me access to the service. I would try from time to time during the day or in the evening, and always it rang busy, busy, busy. Apparently some people get on AOL and simply stay there for hours at a time, an activity exacerbated by a new flat billing rate. I’m unfamiliar with what the rate structure was before, but—operating purely on guesswork—I’d surmise that AOL probably figured that by going to a flat rate, what it’d lose on hourly billing would be offset by the increased number of customers. It may have been right—except if enough people are told, “Don’t bother with AOL, because you can never get through,” then the strategy will be counterproductive and it should have anticipated that.

I’d call and it would always be the same thing.

Busy, busy, busy.

Then, one evening, I got through.

A-ha, I thought. My problems are over, I thought.

Nope.

For starters, I couldn’t find a name.

“PETERDAVID” was taken. So was “PDAVID,” “PADAVID,” PAD,” and every other variation I could think of. Even references from my work such as “DOCBANNER” or “ORIN” were gone. I finally chose a name that I will very likely change (and, as a result, won’t print here).

I got on and immediately everything came to a halt as I was informed that the computer was “adding art.” It added the art. I waited. I moved my mouse in position—

And then it added more art.

I waited. Got ready to click.

More art.

Finally when AOL had had its fill of making me wait for art, it allowed me to make my way over to the Nickelodeon board—

Where I sat as it added art.

And more art. And more. “Enough with the art already!” I shouted at the computer screen. The computer didn’t care. It ran through time bar after time bar of art being loaded on. Thus far my entire involvement with AOL had consisted of busy signals, frustration over trying to find a useable name, and sitting there and staring at the screen informing me that, yup, even more art was shooting my way.

Finally it had added enough art, and I went over to the board on which I could read fan postings about Space Cases. Waited for art. Once there, I found that Nick fans were apparently up in arms over the fact that we had been moved over to 6:30 p.m. Sunday while another series called The Mystery Files of Shelby Woo (which the fans had dubbed, “The Misery Files of Shelby Poo”; whattaya want, it’s kids) had been dropped into our prime time slot of 9 p.m. Saturday. I decided it would probably be better for me to stay out of the line of fire, so I went over to “DC On-Line.”

And sat and waited while AOL added art. And waited. And waited some more.

Finally I went into one of the DC chat rooms. There I found people with names such as Jdani, TMAlisman, Bran, and Sboy, some of them with numbers following their names, chatting about comics. I watched for a few minutes as they speculated about things that were going to be coming up. I got an “Instant Message” with someone asking me my age. “40,” I typed back. “How old are you?” The response came back shortly: “7.” That was a conversation that didn’t seem to be going anywhere.

Finally, I typed on open board, “Hi. I write Aquaman and Supergirl.”

And I waited.

There was a pause, and then the responses trickled in.

“Uh huh.”

“Sure.”

“Right.”

I typed back, “No, really. I do.”

Sboy promptly informed the room, “Yeah, and I write the rest of the DC line.”

“I’m not kidding!” I typed.

They didn’t believe me. They flat-out did not believe me.

It was an entertaining position to be in. DC reps had urged me to try out AOL, to come meet and greet the fans. And after all the work I’d gone to get on the damned thing, participants now thought that I was an impostor.

I supposed I couldn’t entirely blame them. Fakes have been known to populate various boards. For instance, two of the female leads in Space Cases have had people come on board pretending to be them. In one instance the impostor was actually a teenage girl who was looking for attention. In the second instance, more disturbingly, it was a man in his 50s who was looking for teenage girls. Then there was the person who posted commentary on Usenet under my name—commentary that included an assortment of racial epithets.

So, intellectually, I could understand the doubt. Nonetheless, it bugged the hell out of me.

What I was really afraid of was that they would start asking me trivia questions in order to prove my identity. You gotta understand, there have been times where I’ve forgotten the year I was born. My memory is notoriously bad; I’m always dependent on editors to make sure I don’t inadvertently contradict myself. A fan once asked me what my first issue of Dreadstar was, and I didn’t have a clue.

And then, who should suddenly materialize but a fellow identifying himself as John L. Byrne. At first I wondered whether he was an impostor, but the other denizens of the chat room seemed to know him, so I went on the assumption that John had proven his identity to the satisfaction of all concerned at some previous point. I complained to him that they didn’t believe I was who I said I was.

John was skeptical, too. “Why don’t you have a profile?” he asked. I turned sideways and displayed the left side of my face to the monitor. No one seemed swayed.

(I later on learned that members create descriptions of themselves called “profiles” so users can find out something about the people with whom they’re talking. I subsequently created a profile for myself, and then checked out the profiles of others whom I encountered in the course of my time on AOL. I quickly learned that the whole profile business was of questionable merit. One person went by the handle “InvsblWmn.” I checked the profile on a hunch and, sure enough, the profile listed the user’s “real name” as Susan Storm-Richards, and the place of residence was Four Freedoms Plaza. So much for that.)

So I thought about it a moment. I remembered that John had called me a couple of months ago, angered because he’d been informed that we were being portrayed in the pages of Spawn as members of the Ku Klux Klan. I’d known about it and blown it off ages ago because, really, who cares? Well, John did, and he wanted to know if I’d join him in a lawsuit. I wasn’t interested because I know, better than anyone, that all McFarlane craves is publicity and a suit would give him exactly that. Besides, we had no leg to stand on. Ultimately, Todd was just acting like a jerk, and if acting like a jerk were actionable, over half the people in the industry would find themselves looking down the barrel of litigation (and I don’t exclude myself).

So I reminded John of the conversation we had.

No dice. Apparently John had been openly complaining about it some time ago, and felt that I could easily have gotten the information from publicly available sources.

So I thought a moment more.

I thought about how John had come to produce the back cover art for the BID trade paperback. At the time that I approached John about it some years back, the identity of the front cover artist was a bit of a mystery. I had told people that it was going to be produced by a major comic creator who was “the last person you’d expect.” This naturally catapulted most of the Image crew into the front-line ranks of guesses. However, the truth was that it was (as you know) going to be produced by Neil Gaiman. But this was a tightly guarded secret for no other reason than that I thought it’d be fun to keep the fans guessing until the book came out.

But we were going to need back cover art. I had a basic idea of what I wanted. There was going to be a copyline which read, “What the Critics think of But I Digress,” followed by artwork of John doing something ghastly to a copy of the column (or, for that matter, to me.). When I approached John about the possibility, he said, “On one condition: You have to tell me who’s doing the front cover. I want to know who I’m going to be following.”

So I told him. And he thought about that a moment and then said, “Okay, I can live with that.”

So on AOL I reminded John that he was the only other person to know Neil was going to do the cover for the BID trade paperback.

“Better,” responded John. “Not completely convincing, though.”

Geez, Louise. This was rough sledding.

And then John wrote, “If you’ve still got my phone number, call it and let it ring twice—if you can.”

Rising to the challenge of the “if you can,” I dug up my Rolodex and dialed his number, which is 310-278-5444.

(Okay, okay, that’s the phone number for the Hotel Sofitel in Los Angeles. Bet I had you going there for a moment, though. And it’s a really nice hotel, by the way.)

So I dialed John’s number.

Busy.

Naturally. If there was one thing that had become clear to me, it was that everything connected with AOL was a struggle. Nothing came easily.

I wrote, “It’s busy.”

“It wouldn’t be busy,” he replied. Several people in the room were openly chuckling which, when you think about it, takes extra effort on a computer board. You actually have to type out chuckling noises.

I thought, well, great, now what? Maybe it’s not me. Maybe I should just slink away, defeated.

And then John wrote, “Maybe you were dialing the office line instead of the home line.” (Or perhaps it was vice versa, I don’t remember.) He continued, “Dial the same number but with the last number being a 7.”

Even as I dialed I was instantly envious. How the hell did John manage to get two lines separated by only a digit? I have three lines in my house, and each one has a completely different exchange.

It rang twice and I quickly hung up.

And John promptly vouched for me.

Several people said “hi” and one person wrote, “Peter David is a pussy.” I wondered if it was the same guy who I ran into ages ago, the first time I’d ever tried AOL, who had greeted me with, “Your work suuuuuucks.”

In any event, I’ve been on and off AOL since then. Still takes forever to get on. The only time it’s at all easy is at ungodly hours of the morning, like 3 AM. I also finally (sigh) surfed the net, coming upon a bevy of Space Cases websites.

I can see how people can get sucked into these things. The first time I tried my hand at webs, I played with it for a while and then glanced at my watch to see how much time had passed. I’d figured fifteen, twenty minutes. I was horrified to discover I’d been at it for an hour and a half.

Busy busy busy…

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

 

I’ve been invited to Lima, Peru

I received an email from the State Department yesterday that a July book fair in Lima, Peru, asked specifically for me as a guest to come out and talk about comic books and graphic novels. I figure it’s either a great honor or else an incredibly elaborate practical joke or kidnapping plot.

I figure I’ll go. When the State Department says a whole city asked for you to come out, I don’t see how you say no.

PAD