Peter David's Blog, page 90

Caroline's Science Experiment. Of Particular Interest if you Hate Cats.

Caroline is doing a project for her third grade science fair this year. She's decide to myth bust the following belief: that if you drop a piece of buttered bread, it will always land butter side down. Her belief was that, in fact, even buttered bread would attend to the law of averages and probability and simply fall butter side down half the time.

She was also aware that cats always land on their feet. So she further decided to see what would happen if you strapped a piece of buttered bread to the back of a cat and let it fall. Would it fall butter side down? Cat feet down? Or would the dropped cat simply spin perpetually in the air on a horizontal plane, like a chicken on a spit roast, unable to land since it was caught between two absolutes?

The family pitched in and here are the results:



We dropped three different types of bread–whole wheat, white, and pumpernickel–from a height of six feet. Each of the pieces was cut into a perfect circle to minimize the drag coefficient. Each slice was dropped fifty times with three different types of spreads: butter; margarine; and "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter." (Personally I want to launch a new spread called, "What the F*ck Is This?" but that's for a later time.) Each slice was held vertically, by hand, so as not to allow for a predisposition of one side or the other.

The results proved Caroline's hypothesis. The overall average of the drops were somewhere between 24 for one side and 26 for the other, or reasonably close to fifty percent per slice. There was no pattern to the drops. It's not as if, for instance, it consistently started falling on the butter side and then, over time, shifted to the unbuttered side as the buttered side diminished. At any given time it could fall either way. The ONLY exception to this was pumpernickel with "I Can't Believe it's not Butter" on it. In that instance, it skewed widely toward falling on the buttered side (or, if you will, the "I Can't Believe it's not Buttered" side.) The anomalous result leads one to believe that, if you want to avoid having your buttered bread falling butter side down, you'd be wise to avoid either pumpernickel or else "I Can't Believe it's not Butter." We leave the choice of which one to avoid to your personal taste.

Then we moved on to the cat portion.

Kathleen created a harness and strapped it to one of our gray tabbies. A dish was on the other side of the harness, and a piece of white buttered bread was attached to it. The cat was then carried to the proper height and held sideways as much as the squirming animal would allow, and then dropped. The cat landed feet first. Trying this fifty times wasn't practical, but we did manage to complete three drops. In retrospect, the dropper–Kathleen–should have been wearing gloves and long sleeves as the third time the cat did a pretty good number on her arms before she was able to release it. Once again the cat landed on its feet. Then it managed to twist its head around and tear up the bread–our last sample–with its teeth, thus bringing to an abrupt termination both the experiment and our hopes of winning the Nobel Prize for inventing a perpetual motion machine. It did, however, prompt me to make a note about creating a space ship that runs on the energy generated by a spinning cat with buttered bread on its back.

Science marches on.

PAD

The BID Poll Revisited, part 1

Originally published November 29, 1996, in Comics Buyer's Guide #1202

There was recent discussion on CompuServ regarding the But I Digress poll.

For those poor folks who came in late: Four years ago, we conducted a reader survey, inspired by a magazine which tried to assess what folks thought their world would be like come the next century. The BID poll asked fans to share their thoughts, via multiple-choice possibilities, of what the world of comics would be like 10 years down the road.

I have no idea whether BID (or even I) will be around in another six years. So it might be instructive to see the changes a mere four years have brought and get a feel for where we are—and, perhaps, where we're going.

Ten years from 1992

1. The #1 Comic book company will be:

Marvel 95 (43.8%)

DC 39 (17.81%)

Valiant 23 (10.50%)

Doesn't exist yet 20 (9.13%)

Image 13 (5.94%)

Dark Horse 11 (5.02%)

Malibu 2 (0.91%)

Tundra 2 (0.91%)

Single votes were also recorded for, among others, Fantagraphics, Blue Sky Blue, Archie, and a merger of Marvel and DC.

Well, according to numbers based on comics ordered for October shipping—provided by CBG's sister publication, Comics Retailer—Marvel remains the number one company, with a market share (based on unit sales) of 39.5% (including Malibu). DC is #2 at 25.2%. Valiant, however, which looked like the up and comer four years ago, has spiraled down, hovering below such high-powered lines as the Fantagraphics/Eros line. Now the #3 is Image (not counting Extreme, Homage, and Top Cow) at 9.5% (and if you fold in Top Cow and Homage, it would be 12.9%). Dark Horse is #4 at 4.2, Extreme/Maximum is #5 at 4%, Chaos is 1.7%, Topps is 1.6%, Sirius is 1%, Crusade is 0.94%, Archie is 0.84%, London Night is 0.81%, Harris is 0.64%, Viz is 0.61%, Fantagraphics/Eros is 0.49%, Bongo is 0.48%, Acclaim/Valiant (there it is!) is 0.47%, Event Comics is 0.40%, Big is 0.34%, and Kitchen Sink (which bought out Tundra) is 0.34%.

And hey, let's not rule out that Marvel/DC merger.

Interestingly, even at the time that Image was placed below Valiant by the reader rankings, Image was outselling Valiant. The voters clearly believed in Valiant's long-term health over Image's. The reason is quickly obvious with the next question.

2. The following company (or companies) will no longer exist:

Image 136 (62.10%)

Valiant 74 (33.79%)

Dark Horse 32 (14.61%)

DC            21 ( 9.59%)

Marvel 12 ( 5.48%)

Innovation 9 ( 4.11%)

Now 7 ( 3.20%)

Comico 6 ( 2.74%)

Eclipse 6 ( 2.74%)

Fantagraphics 5 ( 2.28%)

Malibu 3 ( 1.37%)

Disney 2 ( 0.91%)

Archie 2 ( 0.91%)

Personality 2 ( 0.91%)

In looking over this list, I hear the tune "Another One Bites the Dust" thumping through my head. Image is still around, but Valiant barely is. Dark Horse, DC and Marvel are still plugging away. But then publishers start dropping faster than sales on the Spider-clone stories. Innovation, Now, and Eclipse are all vapor mist, and new releases from Comico are few and far between. Malibu no longer exists as an independent company. Disney is gone, and Personality has split. (Get it? Split Personality? Split… oh, forget it.)

3. The top selling comic book will be:

Doesn't exist yet 94 (42.92%)

X-Men 26 (11.87%)

Spider-Man 19 ( 8.68%)

Superman 11 ( 5.02%)

Batman 11 ( 5.02%)

Next Men 7 ( 3.20%)

Spawn 4 ( 1.38%)

Harbinger 2 ( 0.91%)

Legion of Super-Heroes 2 ( 0.91%)

Cerebus 2 ( 0.91%)

Hulk 2 ( 0.91%)

Lobo 2 ( 0.91%)

Single votes were also recorded for, among others, New Warriors, Nestrobber (Jo Duffy, the Blue Sky Blue publisher, at it again), Jughead, Sandman, Doom Patrol, and Captain America.

Well, everyone was right. The #1 selling book didn't exist at the time. It is, of course, Supergirl. At least, that's what the folks at DC keep telling me.

Okay, okay, I'm kidding.

According to the October 1996 sales chart in Comics Retailer, X-Men is the top selling book (followed by two more mutant books.) Of the books under discussion on the list, Spawn overcame its vote of non-support to come in at #4 and #5 (thanks to Spawn the Impaler). Spider-Man comes next (#21), followed by Incredible Hulk (#30), Batman (#36) and Superman (#42, tied with two other Batman-related titles.) Next Men is pushing up daisies, as is Harbinger. Legion of Super-Heroes is #114, tied with several other titles, Lobo is #135, and Cerebus is at #205 (as is Pinky and the Brain. Something about little furry guys, I guess.)

Of the comics that got single votes, New Warriors is canceled, Nestrobber is M.I.A., Jughead is way down at #326 (the top-selling Archie title is, unsurprisingly, Sabrina), Sandman is gone as is Doom Patrol. And Captain America, which got one lowly vote—

Well, actually, that's #11.

I wonder if the one vote was placed by Rob Liefeld?

4. The following character(s) will have died and been replaced by someone else bearing the same name:

Iron Man 126 (57.53%)

Robin 113 (51.60%)

Punisher 97 (44.29%)

Captain America 89 (40.64%)

Superman 67 (30.59%)

Spawn 65 (29.68%)

Wonder Woman 54 (24.66%)

Spider-Man 44 (20.09%)

Batman 33 (15.07%)

Wolverine 23 (10.50%)

Hulk 7 ( 3.20%)

Flash 6 ( 2.74%)

Green Lantern 5 ( 2.28%)

Lobo 3 ( 1.37%)

Thor 2 ( 0.91%)

Archie 2 ( 0.91%)

Daredevil 2 ( 0.91%)

Aquaman 2 ( 0.91%)

Single votes were also received for, among others, Clark Kent, Swamp Thing, Dr. Strange, Warlock, Grimjack, Quicksilver, Jean Grey, Aunt May, and Barbie.

Well, if we wanted to be acerbic about it, we could argue that Iron Man and Captain America indeed did die and then were… what's the word I'm looking for… reborn? Because that creep-o in the Iron Man armor sure ain't Tony Stark. And Steve Rogers has turned into someone else completely. Still, technically, they are Tony and Steve, so I guess they don't count.

Spider-Man didn't die, but he was replaced by Ben Reilly for a while. Punisher apparently died and was replaced by a few Punishers. Superman was dead for a while, came back, but was replaced by four different Supermans (Supersman? Supermen?) in the meantime. Batman didn't die, but he had his back broken and was replaced by Azrael. Green Lantern was replaced by Kyle Rayner and then died. Wonder Woman didn't die, but she was replaced for a while by Artemis. Aquaman, jeez, he might as well be a replacement with all the stuff they've done to the poor fella. Aunt May died but wasn't replaced. And Sandman died and was replaced by a different guy. (He wasn't one of those targeted, but I just thought I'd mention it.)

And I still haven't figured out how Barbie got on the list.

5. The following person will be the editor in chief of Marvel Comics (should there be a Marvel Comics):

Mark Gruenwald 49 (22.37%)

Fabian Nicieza 28 (12.79%)

Peter David 28 (12.79%)

Tom DeFalco 19 ( 8.68%)

Jim Shooter 12 ( 5.48%)

John Byrne 12 ( 5.48%)

Chris Claremont 10 ( 4.57%)

Rob Liefeld 8 ( 3.65%)

Bob Harras 8 ( 3.65%)

Mike Carlin 6 ( 2.74%)

Who Cares? 6 ( 2.74%)

Todd McFarlane 3 ( 1.37%)

Paul Levitz 2 ( 0.91%)

Name Withheld 2 ( 0.91%)

Single votes were also noted for, among others, Joey Cavalieri, Al Milgrom, Roy Thomas, Scott Lobdell, Jim Starlin, Stan Lee, Alan Moore, and Renee Witterstaetter.

Well, there's a #1 vote getter that gets you a little misty-eyed, huh?

For a time there were actually five group editors, so Mark was—for a while, at least—an editor-in-chief of his own sphere. Ultimately, however, Bob Harras was made EIC. Fabian is over at Acclaim. I'm selling pencils on street corners. Tom DeFalco is freelancing; Jim Shooter is over at Broadway; John Byrne continues to freelance, as does Chris Claremont; Rob Liefeld is master of his domain (so to speak); Mike Carlin has a job over at DC; Who Cares? was re-elected President of the United States; Todd McFarlane and Name Withheld plug away in poverty; and Paul Levitz hasn't aged a day. How the hell are ya, Paul?

6. The following person will be the editor in chief of DC Comics, (should there still be a DC Comics):

Mike Carlin 37 (16.89%)

Paul Levitz 36 (16.44%)

Jim Shooter 30 (13.70%)

Peter David 17 ( 7.76%)

John Byrne 10 ( 4.57%)

Tom DeFalco 9 ( 4.11%)

Who Cares? 7 ( 3.20%)

Rob Liefeld 6 ( 2.74%)

Joey Cavalieri 6 ( 2.74%)

Chris Claremont 5 ( 2.28%)

Mark Gruenwald 5 ( 2.28%)

Bob Harras 5 ( 2.28%)

Todd McFarlane 3 ( 1.37%)

Frank Miller 2 ( 0.91%)

Denny O'Neil 2 ( 0.91%)

Single votes were also recorded for, among others, Fabian Nicieza, Marv Wolfman, Ross Perot, Archie Goodwin, Neal Pozner, Mike Eury, Karen Berger, Howard Stern (!), Len Wein, and Katie Main.

Although technically Jenette Kahn is the editor in chief at DC, and Paul Levitz is publisher, in point of fact—and in day to day operation—it is my opinion that Mike Carlin is Da Guy (although he works in close coordination with Denny O'Neil and Archie Goodwin, and Jenette and Paul have the ultimate responsibility for what's published).

Here's a note of interest. Joey Cavalieri was over at Marvel when the survey was taken, but six voters pegged him as the future DC editor in chief (as opposed to his garnering exactly one vote for being the Marvel editor in chief). What I wrote at the time was, "It makes you wonder whether people think he's going to jump back to DC…"

Which he did.

Cue the Twilight Zone music.

Boy, I thought I'd be able to get the whole thing into one installment, but I'm outta room. OK, we'll wrap it next week.

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

 

Salon Internacional del Comic convention, part 3

Originally published November 22, 1996, in Comics Buyer's Guide #1201

Concluding my travel journal of my trip to the Salon Internacional in Spain. It was Saturday, Oct. 12, at the Haxtur Awards ceremony, and I'd just been presented with an award for Best Script for Incredible Hulk #420.

Harlan Ellison has stated that all the excuses for one's actions, from exceeding the speed limit to infidelity, really boil down to one: It seemed like a good idea at the time.

So there I was up on stage in front of a packed auditorium.

The convention organizers had flown me several thousand miles to give me a solid bronze statue. I figured I should say or do something memorable, rather than just smile, wave, and exit. But I've never been terribly good at giving acceptance speeches for awards.

There are many people to whom awards mean nothing. I am not one of those people. Such recognition means a lot to me, and I usually get choked up or tongue-tied upon receiving them. Getting tongue-tied and depending on Sofia to sort out what I was saying seemed problematic. But there she was on stage, asking me if I wanted to say something.

And before I had time to consider the wisdom of my actions, I leaned forward into the podium mike and said, slowly and carefully, "I would like to say 'Thank you' in what I am told is a traditional Spanish method.'"

And I stepped back from the podium and did the Macarena. Not that there was any music or anything. I just went through the arm movements and did the hip swivel.

The place went absolutely nuts. Even though I had not waited for a translation to be made, clearly enough of the audience understood the gist of what I'd said.

I exited the stage quickly with the applause sweeping over me, figuring that—at the very least—I'd provided an amusing anecdote for those who were in attendance.

After the awards were given out, I was once again reminded of one of the perks of not being an artist: The artist guests were brought up on stage and, as if tradition at the convention, each rendered a sketch on a gigantic piece of paper. Sketches from the previous years' guests, such as a Walt Simonson Thor (shouting "Hola!") and a Joe Kubert Tarzan, looked down from on high as the artists did their stuff in front of an appreciative audience. The most ambitious was Bryan Talbot, who was on stage for a good 20 minutes after the other artists had left, rendering an incredibly detailed armored figure from, I think, Judge Dredd.

After the ceremony was over, it was time for the massive "final dinner" of the convention. Many people converged on a hotel restaurant that had a large dining room reserved for the occasion. Various artists were doing sketches in books and on napkins. I handed Art Adams a small heel of bread and asked him to draw "Judge Bread." With a fine-point marker, he promptly drew a perfectly serviceable Judge Dredd helmet on the crust. It looked pretty sharp. I should have lacquered it or something to make sure it doesn't disintegrate.

It was the final night to party, so after dinner a group of us went to a disco. And we stayed out… and out… and out…

By the time I was crammed into the back seat of a car returning to the hotel, it was coming up on 5:30 a.m. Sofia wanted to check out other night spots, and the rest of the passengers in the car, including Art, were more than up for it. Me, I'd had it. I was dropped off in front of the hotel, where I stood and watched the car drive away.

I headed to my room. I still had a little bit of energy left, so I got some scripting done. By the time I dropped into bed it was a quarter to seven in the morning. Of all things, Babylon 5 was on TV. It was the second hour of the original pilot film—dubbed, naturally, into Spanish. I watched 10 minutes of it, and my eyes closed.

The phone rang, jolting me awake. I sat up so fast the room spun around me. I was so confused that I thought, "Gotta get the phone before it wakes up the kids," forgetting for a moment that the kids were on the other side of the Atlantic. I lunged for the phone and almost put my fist through the wall lamp.

"Hello," said a voice from back home. "This is your wakeup call."

I wondered how long I'd been asleep. I looked at my watch. It was 7 a.m. I'd been asleep for five minutes.

Trying to remember how to make my mouth work, I said, "Oh… good. Thank you."

I flopped back on the pillow and tried to focus.

"You sound very relaxed."

"Yeah, well, a good night's sleep will do that for you," I replied.

Sunday, Oct. 13—The previous evening (or morning—it's all started to blend together) a group of us had decided that we'd meet for lunch about 2 p.m. We met down in the lobby, as planned. Art was nowhere in sight. We didn't want to just ditch him, so I called his room. Art answered the phone in a tone that was very familiar to me.

"Hi, Art. We were all supposed to meet down here and we're wondering if you're joining us. We didn't want to just head out to lunch and show up five minutes late, wondering where we'd all got off to."

For a moment there was dead silence on the other end. "Who is this?" asked Art.

"This is Peter David."

I paused. There was no reply.

"I write Incredible Hulk," I offered helpfully.

"Oh."

"I woke you up, didn't I?" I said. Mr. Quick-on-the-Uptake. "Look, if you want to go back to sleep, just say so."

Another long pause.

"I'm going back to sleep," he said.

I hung up and hoped to God that Art would wake up later without remembering our conversation, because otherwise he was probably going to hate my guts.

I turned around, and several of the convention organizers were there. I was shown a local newspaper called El Comercio, which, as it turned out, had full-page coverage of the Haxtur Awards ceremony. It was apparently a very big deal in Gijon. There was a big picture of Paul Gulacy and (the now slumbering) Art Adams doing their sketches, and there was a shot of Roy Thomas applauding with his eyes closed.

And there I was with my hands on my head. Doing the Macarena.

"Oh, Jesus," I muttered.

I skimmed the article. There was a whole paragraph about me doing the stupid dance. Must have been a slow news day.

We went to the restaurant where we were to have lunch. We passed a newsstand. I figured I'd pick up a copy of the local paper to amuse the family back home. I got the other local paper too, La Nueva Espana, to see if it contained any convention coverage.

This one, in addition to a full-page feature, had an entire sidebar with the headline, "Dibujo en vivo y agradecimientos al ritmo de <>." Go translate it for yourself.

There was another picture of me, this time with my hands fully extended in front of myself. I looked like Frankenstein's monster. (Which actually wouldn't be a bad gag: the monster lurching forward, hands outstretched, and then the music kicks in and he starts doing the Macarena.)

It must have been a reeeeeaaally slow news day. At this point I think I'm pretty much known as Peter "Macarena" David.

At lunch we found that Sofia was speaking in a voice that was merely a gravelly whisper. We took some measure of comfort in this, knowing that the Iron Woman party animal had human frailty. For the first time since the convention started, she made it clear that she wasn't going to be dancing that evening.

Monday, Oct. 14—I had to leave the hotel at 6:30 a.m. in order to catch my plane home. Although I had driven from Madrid to Gijon, I had no desire to repeat that journey. I'd fly this time, thanks.

Faustino and Sofia drove me to the airport. Her voice had somewhat recovered, and they waited with me until it was time for me to board my plane. They were nothing if not thorough hosts.

Just before I got on the plane, I turned to them and said, "One last time." I stuck out my arms, and Faustino and Sofia grinned and did likewise. And the three of us stood there in the airport and did the Macarena.

Hey—it seemed like a good idea at the time.

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

Open Letter to the Huffington Post

You've just gone live with a lurid story over how Stephen Hawking visits sex clubs.

How in God's name is this anybody's business? I mean, part of me cringes even bringing it up because it just gives more exposure to this garbage, but I do so because I think it brings up a wider issue worth addressing.

Y'know, years ago–before any and all sense of privacy and decorum was crushed into non-existence–if this crap had crossed the desk of any responsible news editor, he would have taken one look at it and asked a simple question: "Is this news?" And by "news," he would have meant information that was covered by the public's right to know.

The answer in this instance would have been an uncategorical "no." He would have tossed it. He might even have upbraided the reporter for wasting his time with such garbage. He would have said, "This is tabloid crap."

Remember tabloid crap? The tabloids were considered the nadir of journalism. They weren't even seen as real newspapers. Any serious journalist wouldn't have been caught dead writing a story that would have been front-page fodder for the likes of the National Enquirer.

I know it makes me seem like some sort of elderly coot if I wax nostalgic for "the old days," but you know what? Journalism used to mean standards. Integrity. An understanding that just because something was known to the news organization, it did not automatically have to become known to the general population. Here's a rule of thumb: if you can't imagine Walter Cronkite reporting the story–if you simply cannot hear these words coming out of his mouth–then chances are it's not worthy to be disseminated. Assuming people remember who Walter Cronkite was.

And do not, Huffpo, just shrug and say, "Don't kill the messenger." That's not it. What's intrinsically wrong with killing the messenger is that the poor bastard had no choice. He was handed a message by his king or queen or warlord or emperor or whatever and told, "Deliver this." You don't kill him because he was simply doing his job and you're just pissed off at the guy who sent him with the message. This–this right here–was not something you were obliged to do. The public had neither right nor need to know this. It will have no impact on their lives, affect nothing. It's just opening a peep show into someone else's life that is none of the public's goddamn business.

You're better than this, Huffpo. Or if you're not, then you damned well should be. More and more, the term "responsible journalism" is becoming an oxymoron. True journalism balances the public's right to know against the the public's need to know. If the story doesn't fit both criteria, it should be spiked, if for no other reason than sheer human decency.

PAD

Salon Internacional del Comic convention, part 2

Originally published November 15, 1996, in Comics Buyer's Guide #1200

Continuing my travel journal of my trip to the Salon Internacional in Spain:

Thursday, Oct. 10—I was supposed to do my Q&A session. I was sitting up there on stage, and a fellow named Jordi, who was doing the translating, was giving an introduction. The crowd was listening with great politeness. I don't do well with greatly polite crowds. I like slightly rowdy crowds. While Jordi was talking, I started mugging like Chevy Chase used to do on Saturday Night Live while Jane Curtin would pontificate during "Weekend Update." The crowd started giggling.

Jordi wasn't quite sure what he'd said that was so funny. He checked to see what I was doing, but I was watching him from the corner of my eye and was utterly deadpan when he looked my way. He continued talking. I continued making faces and not getting caught at it. The crowd loved it. Later I took pains to assure Jordi that I wasn't making fun of him, per se, I was just trying to connect with the audience. He nodded and grinned. "Definitely a good way to break the ice," he said.

I also had an opening speech, written for me by my teenage daughter Shana, in Spanish. I informed the crowd that Shana had "assured" me that it was a harmless, "Thanks for having me out here"-type of speech. I warned them that, knowing Shana, I suspected foul play, but that I was willing to give Shana the benefit of the doubt. I read the first sentences and the audience erupted into hysterics. I turned to Jordi and asked him what I had just said. He replied, "You said, 'Hello. My waiter has a hot sausage in his pants. Last night I danced with a prostitute.'"

Needless to say, the speech was well received.

Questions covered a wide variety of topics, ranging from "Why do you hate [certain particular comics professionals]?" (Answer: I don't) to "Why doesn't the Hulk have a huge [male sexual accoutrement]?" (Answer: He does).

The thing that was disconcerting was that occasionally a question would be asked, and it would garner laughter from the audience. And I was sitting there, the one person in the room who didn't know what was so funny, feeling a sense of impending doom as I wondered, "Ohhh jeez, what do they want to know?"

I also did an interview with a newspaper reporter. She asked me a number of questions about censorship. This wasn't the first time I'd been asked about it since I'd arrived; indeed, it seemed a topic of paramount interest. I asked Sofia why.

Her answer surprised me. According to her, Spain regards the United States as a hotbed of censorship. She claimed that all they ever hear about is massive movements of artistic repression. This was, to me, ironic. Here's the United States, a country which felt so strongly about freedom of expression that it spelled it out with the First Amendment. Yet on the other side of the Atlantic, we are perceived as being intolerant and constantly censorious of all artistic expression: sexually uptight and repressed. Which, y'know, we are.

The center of democracy and leaders of the Free World. Nice image to have, huh?

I asked Sofia whether they ever encountered such problems in her neck of the woods.

"No, we never have any problem with that," she said proudly. "It's not like America."

"Yeah, well—at least our stores are open in the middle of the afternoon," I retorted.

Friday, Oct. 11—I bought souvenirs for the family, also for myself. I found a toy store with all kinds of PVC figures you can't get in the United States and grabbed a whole bunch including Hawkman, Silver Surfer, and Zorro.

Bryan and Mary and I were driven to a university in Oviedo where Bryan and I were to participate in a question and answer session with university students. Oviedo had apparently kicked in money for the convention, and we were brought over there as sort of an exchange program. There were about 50 or so students in attendance. Not surprisingly, seven or eight people kept asking all the questions, everyone else content to sit and watch. Which is pretty much what would happen in the United States, I'd wager.

We returned to Gijon. Roy and Dann Thomas had shown up by this point, as had Paul Gulacy and his wife Jan. They were both speaking that evening. I also signed a number of autographs. The nice thing about signing for fans in Spain was that I didn't get anyone coming up to me with 50 copies of Spider-Man 2099 #1.

I couldn't help but admire the job that Spanish publishers have done in the collection of my work. Many people brought me trade paperback editions of multiple-issue runs of Hulk and Aquaman. By and large, they were extremely well made, beautifully colored. The one exception was the Spanish edition of Hulk: Future Imperfect, where the pages kept coming right out of the binding.

Something else I encountered here in surprising numbers was bound volumes. Maybe once every other year or so in the United States I meet someone who wants me to sign a set of comics that he himself has bound. But during the course of this convention I signed a dozen bound volumes of my work: everything from Spider-Man 2099 to Atlantis Chronicles.

It was another late night. Since it was Friday night, many of the discos and bars were extremely busy. We finally wound up at a place right near the hotel. It was about 2 a.m. and the place was relatively empty. By 3:30 in the morning, the chill air from the nearby ocean was cutting through me, and I figured it was time to call it a night. Apparently most of Gijon disagreed; as I was leaving, mobs of people were approaching the place. (Perhaps having heard I was departing, an "all clear" was quickly spread throughout the town.) I left behind me a packed disco. I couldn't believe it. They have one hell of a night life in this country.

Saturday, Oct. 12—A group of us, including Art Adams, went out to lunch. For some reason we fixated on making jokes about a dessert called "flan." We (OK, I) ran the gag completely into the ground with such ghastly puns as Silence of the Flans (complete with Flannibal Lecter), film swashbuckler Errol Flan, the Flantastic Four, etc.

It was the final night of the convention, which had an awards ceremony in which they presented an award called the Haxtur. It was sort of a cross between the Eisners and the Inkpots.

There were nominations for particular works, and then the convention committee decided to whom they wanted to give the awards. It was impressive. Haxtur is a heroic character created by artist Victor de la Fuentes, whose name rang a bell with me until I realized I was thinking of "Victor Fuentes," the character played by Jimmy Smits on L.A. Law. The award looked like an Oscar: a bronzed statue of the character, about a foot tall, mounted on a marble base. Beautifully made.

It was also an impressive ceremony with very much an "Oscar" feel to it. Sofia, in a black mini-dress, announced the winners from a podium, while music composed by Tim Truman pounded over speakers and huge sketches by previous guests surveyed the proceedings. Slides of the nominees' work were flashed on the now-familiar movie screen. It made other ceremonies I've attended at U.S. conventions look anemic, to be honest. I've come to the conclusion that folks in Spain lead the world (or at least every place I've been in it) in knowing how to celebrate. Doesn't matter whether they're celebrating achievements in comics or the fact that it's a weekend.

Haxturs were given out in the category of Best Long Story to Jean Van Hamme and Philip Franq for Largo Winch #5, Best Penciller to Jose Luis Garcia Lopez for Kal, Best Short Story to Denny O'Neil and Rick Burchett for Batman Chronicles #1, and Best Cover to Art Adams for Classic Star Wars #1. "The Author We Love," which is sort of a Lifetime Achievement Award, was given to Roy Thomas. I must admit I liked that term better; Lifetime Achievement sounds as if that's pretty much it for everything you're going to do while you're alive.

And they presented me with one for Best Script for "Lest Darkness Fall" in Incredible Hulk #420.

I got up on stage and did something I will later regret.

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

ll

Hi, and welcome to the annual tradition here at www.peterdavid.net of live-blogging the Oscars. It's fun. It's entertaining. It's not limited to 140 characters a comment (or response for that matter). And best of all, it guarantees that I'll stay awake.

I've been paying mild attention to the red carpet. Every year I come to the same two conclusions: Women will wear damned near anything, and no man on the planet looks as good in a tux as Pierce Brosnan did in the Bond films. Also, good news: apparently Cirque du Soleil will be doing a performance at some point.

So…let's all get ready and hope no one gets a paper cut opening an envelope.

8:30: No one back stage could have said to Morgan Freeman, "Hold still. Let me straighten your tie." Really? That's not anyone's job?

8:31: Well, the montage is off to a good start.

8:32: Rick Santorum just shat himself when Clooney kissed Billy Crystal.

8:33: As the 18 to 24 year olds wonder not only who Billy Crystal is, but why he's in blackface calling himself "Sammy." What's up with that?, they'll be wondering. Isn't blackface totally insulting?

8:34: More people saw "Tin Tin" just then than when the film was in the theaters.

8:35: Let's see how long til there's a Ricky Jervais joke.

8:36: Slam dunk on the line about millionaires accepting gold statues taking people's minds off the economy. And yes, Billy, we wouldn't have minded if you hadn't done the song. Especially since they don't seem to have the sound balanced and we have to fight to hear you over the orchestra.

8:39: Hearing Billy Crystal sing that Hawaiian-themed summary for "The Descendants" reminds me of how much fun Nathan Lane is at hosting stuff. Over all, not bad, although his voice flatted out toward the end.

8:42: My God, I wore a powder blue tux just like that when I went to my senior prom. I wonder if he rented it from the same place.

8:43: Cinematography was apparently won by Mike Grell's Warlord.

8:44: Art direction: I'll guess Hugo.

8:45: Bingo.

8:47: I had no idea Meryl Streep's Oscar win history got off to a Rocky start.

8:51: Not the movie palaces of MY youth, Billy. Yours, maybe, but not mine.

8:51: I remember years ago when the entertainment on Oscar was nothing but montages. Nobody like it. I sure hope they don't make that mistake again.

8:53: I like the recurring dream line.

8:54: Rooting for: Artist. Hugo will probably win.

8:55: Yea! Honestly, I'm rooting for "The Artist" for Best Picture. I've seen most of the others and they're great, but "The Artist" was just incredible and unique.

8:56: Make-up. I'm guessing Albert Nobbs, but they're all strong. For sheer size, Potter should.

8:58: I'll be damned. Now all you have to do is put make up on Meryl Streep and you win.

9:00: How about that. I saw "King Kong" when I was six and a half as well. It was cut up by commercials and they edited stuff out, but that's how old I was when I saw it.

9:01: No, it's not going to change; "Moneyball" is not going to win for best picture.

9:06: Wow. Sandra Bullock can actually make German sound really sexy. I didn't think that was possible. As for foreign film, I've no clue. I'll root for the Israeli one.

9:07: Okay, I don't get it. If we Jews run show business, how the hell did an Iranian film beat out Israel?

9:09: "And be careful, you're in his eyeline." Wow, genuine snark from Billy.

9:10: Best supporting actress. Rooting for Bejo. Help might split vote.

9:12: Nope. Oh well.

9:18: The very first focus groups. Uh huh.

9:19: On the one hand, I don't understand why they're doing what's basically an SNL sketch during the Oscars. On the other hand, it has Eugene Levy and Fred Willard, two of the funniest men alive, in one place. And Larry from "Newhart."

9:22: Film editing. Rooting for "Dragon Tattoo." Will probably be Hugo.

9:24: Wow! Okay, they got it right.

9:25: Anyone want to start placing bets now as to which deceased individual will be egregiously ignored when they get to that part?

9:25: Sound editing. Took me too long to put up "Hugo," but that's what I thought.

9:26: If they do Sound Mixing next, that'll probably be Hugo as well.

9:28: Okay, can't say I didn't call this one. Although really, from the brief clips they showed, it almost seems like Transformers should win, considering the hellacious amount of noise they have to deal with.

9:30: As long as Cirque doesn't do an interpretative dance to "War Horse," I'll be happy.

9:34: Finally! The Muppets!

9:35: Yeah. When I go to the movies, there's always guys swinging overhead. I hate those guys. They're almost as bad as the people talking on their phones.

9:36: The poor director. He has no freaking idea where to point the camera. One of the performers just fell, but he seems okay.

9:37: Clooney looks fascinated. His girlfriend is sitting there looking like, "God, I hate Cirque. Maybe I should have gone to the bathroom."

9:37: Jesus, lady! Down in front!

9:38: Caroline just said, "That's how to do it, yo." Who IS this child?

9:40: "The Flo-Max theater." Like that he's addressing the aging of the audience straight on, especially considering all the people who felt he was too old to host.

9:41: I never realized how much taller Paltrow is than he is. Or maybe she's just wearing high heels. Love the documentary gag, though.

9:44: Ah, they're trying to play them off. First time.

9:45: Animated. If they're doing animated short, Fantastic Flying Books. For feature, I'd love to see Rango win just because it was borderline surreal. I also like that Puss in Boots is up against A Cat in Paris. When was the last time you saw a real cat fight at the Oscars.

9:47: Holy crap! Rango won! Nailed it! Booyah.

9:51: Okay, well that seemed kinda pointless.

9:53: My God, he barely comes up to her shoulder. And why does she look like a big Christmas present?

9:55: Will probably be Hugo. Love to see "Real Steel" take it. Wait, I take it back; it should be Planet of the Apes. Just to give Serkis his moment.

9:56: Damn, I hate that I was right on this. It really SHOULD have been Apes. Bad enough that Serkis got screwed over. If they'd won, it would have been a chance to acknowledge him during the Oscarcast and get in their faces about it.

9:58: Oh, thank God, I thought they were about to do a Harry Potter sketch.

9:58: Man, best supporting. That's brutal. I'd guess at Von Sydow, but it's purely guess.

10:01: Well, Plummer was my second guess. But hey, Von Sydow still has a chance to set the record for oldest actor to win. Let's see if they have the balls to play Plummer off.

10:03: They were playing off the documentary people by now. Man, what a gracious and witty speech. THIS is how it's done. They were smart not to even TRY to play him off.

10:08: They're thinking, "Oh God, not this schtick."

10:09: If "The Artist" wins, you just KNOW they'll bring the dog on with them. That alone is enough reason to root for them.

10:10: Who the hell is this guy? He looks like a police captain. And why is he guarding his crotch so diligently?

10:11: Okay, Billy is really settling in nicely. "Thanks for whipping the crowd into a frenzy."

10:12: Music. If it's best original score, it's criminal if "The Artist" doesn't win.

10:14: Excellent. They're now saying that the guy who won has no formal education in scoring. Meanwhile four other composes are now going, "Really? REALLY? Yeah, THAT was tuition money down the drain."

10:15: The audience is filled with the greatest sound people in Hollywood. Is there ANYONE THERE WHO CAN DO SOMETHING ABOUT THE GODDAMN FEEDBACK FROM THE MICROPHONE?!

10:16: Is it just me or does the giant music book look like two huge butt cheeks?

10:17: Well, obviously this has to be Man or Muppet.

10:18: Once Jim Parsons was in the mix, it was a sure thing. I feel sorry for the "Rio" guys. 50/50 chance and they lost out. You just don't get better odds than that and they still came up short.

10:20: Good lord, for a moment I thought they'd revived "Pan Am."

10:24: Screw that. Let them buy the Mets.

10:24: Sorry, Billy. Only Robin Williams can pull off the backward talking them.

10:25: For those who think the customer is always right, keep in mind that at some point Angelina Jolie thought that dress looked good.

10:26: Best adapted. Should be "Moneyball"; will be "Hugo."

10:27: Hunh. Okay. I thought the script for "Descendants" was pretty good, but "Hugo" was better. And remember, kids: If you do a great movie adaptation of a book, you're called an Oscar winner. If you do a great book adaptation of a movie, you're called a talented hack.

10:28: Best original screenplay. Should be "Midnight in Paris." Could be "Artist." Be insane if it were Bridesmaids.

10:30: Has anyone ever considered the possibility that Woody Allen never attends because he figures he couldn't do a good enough job hiding disappointment if he lost?

10:31: "It sticks to you. It becomes part of your existence." Oddly, so does chewing gum if you swallow it.

10:33: Sooner or later, the Oscars are going to be like the Super Bowl: Fun to watch for the commercials.

10:36: Oh, thank God. After Jolie, I was worried that women had suddenly forgotten how to wear make-up or dress elegantly. Thank you, Mila.

10:38: Best live action short. No clue. Although time freak looks cute.

10:40: Oh well. A film that I never saw or heard of was beaten out by another film I never saw or heard of.

10:42: I dunno. The one with Elvis?

10:43: Kathleen just told me what "Saving Face" was about. I'm really glad it won. Yes, I believe that the GOP is waging a war against American women, but this movie is about Pakistani women who get acid thrown in their faces. Jesus.

10:44: Morgan Freeman is so bored he can't even bring himself to applaud.

10:44: Flying Books?

10:45: Well, I had that one (wait for it…) covered.

10:46: I wonder if the women in the blue outfits are giving out No-Doze.

10:50: You'd think that Michael Douglas only made "Fatal Attraction." A billion movie trailers feature "The American President" and whenever Douglas comes out at an award show it's always Fatal Attraction.

10:51: C'mon, best director for "The Artist." Probably Scorsese, though.

10:52: HOT DAMN! One step closer to the dog on stage. I think he's probably right about being the happiest director in the world right now. All the competition for the title of happiest director in the world are staring up at him and I doubt they're happier than he is.

10:55: Meryl Streep is a dedicated Horta? What?

10:58: Yea! Three winners for huge awards who aren't being allowed anywhere near a microphone! That'll move things along.

11:03: My guess: Betty Garrett will be overlooked.

11:04: Are we doing this AGAIN? Wasting screen time on a singer and then they'll claim that there wasn't enough time?

11:07: Yup. Missed Betty Garrett.

11:11: If she sees herself on the screen, she knows she exists? Somewhere a psychiatrist is saying, "Oh, I could have a field day with her."

11:12: Thank God Billy Crystal is puncturing the pretensions of these ridiculous montages.

11:13: Ah, Natalie Portman. The girl my daughter Shana couldn't stand when they were both 10 years old at an acting camp in Long Island. "That stupid Natalie Portman acts like she'll be a movie star! She's so obnoxious!" Ah,the old days.

11:15: Best actor. Clooney is the one to beat, although obviously I'm rooting for Dujardin.

11:16: If Dujardin wins, will he speaks soundlessly into the mike? At least there won't be any feedback.

11:17: Shocking to think Oldman's never been nominated.

11:18: Yes!

11:20: Ah well. If he had spoken silently, people would have just thought his mike was cut.

11:24: Best actress. Wow, this is a tough one. For sheer fearlessness, I'm rooting for Mara. But it'd be nice if Close finally won instead of just coming, uhm…close. Wouldn't surprise me if Viola Davis took it, though.

11:26: Just seeing that clip makes me think, "How do you NOT vote for Mara?"

11:30: Aw, come ON. DAMMIT. This is the first one I got wrong that I'm actually pissed off about.

11:30: Yes, Meryl. As proven by this blog, that is indeed what America said. Like Obi-Wan, you heard the sound of millions of voices crying out, "COME ON!"

11:32: I wish Tom Cruise had come sliding out in his socks and jockey shorts and starting lip synching to "Old Time Rock and Roll." That would have amused me.

11:33: So obviously I'm rooting for "The Artist." But boy, the Oscars have been so spread around it's impossible to predict.

11:34: I wonder how they do split screens of everybody for reactions without it looking like Hollywood Squares.

11:35: YES! YES YES YES! BRING THE DOG! BRING THE DOG!

11:36: Now let the dog upstage him!

11:38: Ah well, the dog didn't upstage him. I was happy otherwise, though.

Good night, everyone. Hope your favorites won.

Live blogging the Oscars

As is my yearly tradition, I will be live blogging the Oscars tomorrow night, starting at 8:30 Eastern. Be here, because otherwise you risk not being here.

PAD

Boy, I'm REALLY torn about this

Kathleen just brought me up to speed on California's Prop 69 (which isn't at ALL about what you'd think based on the number) which was approved back in 2004, fully implemented in 2009, and is now being challenged in the courts.

What it puts forward is the following: that anyone who is arrested on a felony charge is required to provide a DNA sample so it can be cross matched against DNA taken from other crimes and see if there's a hit. (There are similar laws on the books in many other states.) There seems little doubt that it will wind up in the Supreme Court. And I honestly don't know how I feel about it.

On the one hand, imagine a guy who's busted for having a couple of kilos of crack. They take his fingerprints and all that does is prove that he is who he says he is: a first time offender with no criminal record. And besides, he was wearing gloves when he strangled those five women in Colorado. But one of those women, in her death throes, scratched his face and there were DNA traces under her fingernails. Suddenly a simple drug arrest, for which he may have walked since he was a first-time offender, cracks a case and saves the lives of who-knows-how-many future victims. How could anyone in his right mind object to that scenario? After all, DNA evidence has been used to free many people falsely accused. Why shouldn't it be allowed to cut both ways? To save people who were innocent, and to nail bad guys who might otherwise have remained at liberty?

Except aren't there privacy issues? Fourth amendment issues? One of the plaintiffs in the current ACLU-supported case (the law was just upheld in the Federal appeals court) was arrested at an anti-war demonstration. Released, never charged. In California every year, one hundred thousand people are charged with felonies but ultimately cleared. Yet their DNA lives on in FBI files. Is everyone okay with this? On the surface you can think, "Well, sure, because I'll never commit a crime, so what does it matter if the Feds have my DNA forever?" Okay, but where does it stop? Look at Arizona, where you can more or less be arrested on the charge of driving while being Hispanic. If there's a violent crime in Phoenix, and a witness thinks he saw a dark-skinned man fleeing the scene, isn't there a temptation to start arresting Hispanics, Mexicans, any person of color on trumped up charges purely with the intention of testing their DNA and then kicking them loose, only to rearrest should they get a DNA hit? "Round up the usual genetic suspects." What's to stop a law mandating that DNA swabs be presented to the government for every newborn child on the off-chance he grows up to become a repeat offender? Bad enough that there are people out there backing a Physician Rape law for women contemplating abortion, advocating that government should be just small enough to fit into a vagina. Now government should be even smaller, small enough to get into our lives at a genetic level?

Let's take it out of the genetic arena. The law now (to my understanding) is that if you're pulled over for speeding, the officer doesn't have carte blanche to search your entire vehicle unless he has reason to suspect something is wrong (like, say, blood dripping out of your trunk.) How long before there's new laws stating that cops can search your car for any reason? Of course, you could say what's wrong with that? If it gives the cops a better chance of finding a body in the trunk, isn't that a good thing? I suppose it is. So if you just obey the speed limit and don't stick a corpse in the trunk, you'll be fine.

But the thing is, limits are placed on power–all power–for a reason. And the moment you toss any of those limits away, the temptation for abuse of that power always grows. And the people who are supposed to be protected from abuse of that power–namely those without power–are rendered that much more vulnerable.

It would be facile to say there's no easy answer to this, but that's not true. On the one hand, there's an easy answer: law enforcement agencies should be able to use every tool at their command to nail the bad guys. On the other hand, there's an easy answer: this is a clear Fourth amendment violation, illegal search and seizure being steamrolled in the interest of overzealous police enforcement.

So which way do I fall on the subject? Still haven't decided.

(Oh, and to make it easier for some of the usual suspects around here, here's a hint: Obama is in favor of it, so you'll know to be against it. You're welcome)

PAD

Salon Internacional del Comic convention, part 1

Originally published November 8, 1996, in Comics Buyer's Guide #1199

Tuesday, Oct. 8—I arrived in Spain for the Salon Internacional del Comic. Lately I've been trying to cut back on comic con appearances, to concentrate more on work and family. But hey—it's Spain. Can't pass that up.

Unfortunately, my command of Spanish is limited to a couple of words I picked up from watching Zorro, and, of course, "Hasta la vista, baby" (not to mention the ability to say "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die" in a bad Castilian accent).

But I suffer from the same conceit most Americans do, one that is oddly both self-aggrandizing and self-deflating. My reasoning is that everyone is going to be able to speak English because it's such an important language and because everyone in Spain, from infancy to dotage, is smarter than I am and can thoroughly master two languages while I'm limited to my native tongue and a smattering of French.

The convention was being held in Gijon, situated in an area called Asturias. It had been highly recommended to me by Walt Simonson, who apparently attended a previous year. Unfortunately, my plane got into Madrid at 10 a.m. and there was no connecting flight until 4 p.m. The notion of cooling my heels for six hours didn't appeal to me. Even though it was a five-hour car trip, I found the thought of driving preferable. So I rented a car and made the drive up.

I stopped for gas. The attendant didn't speak English. I managed to struggle through getting my tank filled. As I pulled out, I called, "Hasta la vista, baby!" I got a blank stare.

I stopped to try to get something to eat at a crowded roadside cafe. I got a menu written entirely in Spanish with no translation. The waiter didn't speak English, nor did the maitre d', or anyone else around me. And I, brain that I am, forgot to bring the Berlitz guide I'd been advised to buy. I grabbed a bag of potato chips from a vending machine and left, shouting "Hasta la vista, baby!" behind me. Blank stares.

I was getting worried. This might not be as easy as I'd thought.

Still, the directions written out for me by the convention organizers were quite clear. On the last leg of my journey—a trip that took me across half of Spain, including farmland, mountains, and other lovely scenery—I passed a large city called Oviedo. Fifteen minutes later I was at the outskirts of Gijon. According to the little map of Gijon, I was no more than five minutes from the hotel. I was supposed to get to an intersection, where I could either go straight or turn right—it made no difference—and the map would guide me straight to the hotel.

I got to the intersection and went straight.

Forty-five minutes later, I was heading back towards Oviedo.

I hadn't intended to; I just suddenly realized that I was on the road out of town. I'd wound up going in a complete circle, never having found a single one of the streets on my little map. It took me about 10 minutes to find somewhere to execute a U-turn, and eventually I found myself back at the intersection. This time I hung a right.

Thirty minutes later I was Oviedo-bound again. I was still hopelessly lost, but at least I was doing it more efficiently.

I'd even stopped at one point to ask a couple of policemen, neither of whom (naturally) spoke English and consequently were of no help. I'd handed them my map. They looked at it and laughed. Never a good sign. I didn't bother with my Terminator 2 line for fear it'd be misinterpreted and I'd end up in jail. Then again, at least I'd have had a room for the night.

By this time I was shouting profanities and reminding myself to thank Walt Simonson with a brick.

I pulled over and pondered the situation. When I'd been wandering through Gijon, I'd kept seeing signs for Oviedo, which I'd tried to avoid, and signs for sections of town I did want to go to, which I'd tried to follow. And I kept winding up heading towards Oviedo.

I had three choices: 1) Take another shot at finding my way; 2) find a cab and hire him to drive to the hotel, and then follow him; 3) drive to Oviedo and hope they moved the convention there. The first option seemed hopeless, the second embarrassing (not to mention tough to explain to a cabbie), and the third not terribly likely.

I was sitting there going "Think-think-think" in a very Winnie-the-Pooh-like manner, and then I was reminded of the Milne story wherein Pooh, Piglet, and Rabbit are hopelessly lost in the Hundred Acre Wood. Every time they wander away from a particular clearing to try to find their way home, they wind up back at the clearing. And Pooh reasons that they should walk away from the clearing and then try to find—not their way home—but the clearing. In other words, they should try to stay lost and, in so doing, they will achieve their real destination. The idea works. They lose the clearing, but make it home.

Having nothing to lose, I entered Gijon and followed the signs to Oviedo. Five minutes later, I was at the hotel.

Bear of Very Little Brain, indeed.

Wednesday, Oct. 9—This convention was like none I've ever encountered. For starters, there was no dealers' room. Plus, there were no daytime activities at all. The activities didn't start until 7 p.m.

This was not a convention in the standard, commercial sense of the word. The money for the convention came from the government, with comic books being treated as a cultural phenomenon to be discussed by panelists and guests in a scholarly fashion.

The disparity between Spain and the United States is immediately apparent: In Spain, tax dollars go towards celebrating comics as an art form; in the United States, tax dollars go towards paying the salaries of DAs and cops so that they can shut down comic book stores and prosecute creators.

By this point I had met the organizer of the convention: Faustino Rodriguez Arbesu, a bearded, barrel-chested man who was also a teacher—outgoing, slightly bigger-than-life, and, so I was told, something of a local legend. There was also his eldest daughter, Sofia, who served as translator and guest organizer.

I had also met some of the other guests, such as Alan Grant and his wife Sue, Bryan Talbot and his wife Mary, and Charles Dougherty.

I had attended the previous night's discussions. Unfortunately, the darkness of the auditorium and the two hours of sleep I'd had in the previous 48 caught up with me. I sat there in the audience and kept dozing off during Bryan's speech. That, I figured, did not look good, so when Sofia suggested that I might just want to go back to the hotel and crash (perhaps my snoring was disturbing other attendees) I took her up on it. I slept 12 hours, then got up, did some writing, and now I was ready to go and explore the city.

It was closed.

Alan and Sue had told me that stores closed at noon and didn't open again until 5 p.m., but I hadn't quite believed that everything really did. But they knew whereof they spoke. The entire city was shut down. Nothing to see, nothing to do.

I went to the evening's speeches. Jose Ortiz did a one-hour Q&A—entirely in Spanish. It would have been an utterly boring endeavor for the English-speaking audience members (such as, for instance, me) but the way the speakers were set up, there was a huge movie screen to the right of the speaker. And all during the Q&A, slides of the participants' work appeared on the screen. Ortiz's artwork was quite splendid, particularly project 45 feet tall.

Charles Dougherty had his Q&A next. I carefully watched Charles' interaction with the crowd. This was not going to be easy. When you were up on stage, it was impossible to make eye contact with the crowd because the lights were down. Plus the language barrier further distanced one from the fans; Charles had to wait until a question was translated, then make his response, and then the questioner had to wait until the answer was translated. On that basis, it was tough to connect with the fans on any sort of emotional level.

A late dinner was served, after which I was indoctrinated into the Spanish night life. We didn't get out of the restaurant until after midnight, at which point we went to a bar which also had dancing. At one point the DJ put on "The Macarena." No one danced to it. I was astounded. In the United States, the entire Democratic National Convention was dancing to this Spanish tune, but in Spain, people didn't even seem to know it.

A fun fact that I learned, which went a long way toward explaining the previous day's blank stares: When Terminator 2 was released in Spain and dubbed into Spanish, it was decided that having Arnold say "Hasta la vista, baby" didn't work; the line didn't stand out. So Spanish audiences heard the Terminator rumble, "Sayonara, baby." Which actually isn't half bad. I wonder if, in Japan, he's back to Spanish or whether he speaks in Urdu or something.

I asked what types of questions I could expect the next day, and was told that fans were really anxious to learn why I hate Image.

Oy.

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

 

The Price Increase That Wasn't, or, "How the Hell Did *I* Get Blamed for This?"

So all of a sudden I was being asked from various sources about a price increase for "X-Factor." I knew nothing about it. Eventually I traced the source of the rumor to a thread on Comic Book Resources, the website that I'd put in my rearview over a year ago because of the frequently toxic environment. There I discovered a lengthy thread keying off some sort of early solicit material that declared the price was now $3.99.

Some people used it as an opportunity to complain about Marvel in general. Some used it as a chance to slag the book or me or both. Others steadfastly declared that the book was easily worth the additional money and they felt that Marvel had been disrespectful by not giving me a heads up. One or two even recalled when I went to the mat over a price increase some years back with "Captain Marvel." Right. A tactic that: nearly destroyed my career at Marvel; got me widely derided by the professional community with exactly zero words of support; and eventually resulted in "U-Decide" which prompted many fans to decide that it had all been a publicity stunt from the get-go. So I lost credibility with pros, fans, and the book was cancelled two years later anyway. Yeah, THAT worked out. A repeat performance? I don't think so.

Well, guess what. Turned out the preliminary info was wrong. The reason Marvel didn't tell me was because there was no price increase; just a typo. The actual final solicits had it at $2.99.

Some people, combining conspiracy theories with self-aggrandizement, decided that it hadn't been a typo at all, but rather a trial balloon, and that the fan responses had deterred Marvel from raising the price. Saying it was a typo was allegedly only a cover story.

But some others decided to put the blame for their being upset on the real culprit: Me.

"Do you know what, Marvel and PAD we're (sic) aware of the 'mistake' and did nothing to put peoples (sic) minds to rest until today."

"Marvel could have put people right on this at any time…Why didn't PAD post something?"



"I agree, this whole episode has reflected badly on PAD. Very negligent behaviour."

Hard to believe I left the mutant boards at CBR behind, huh.

PAD