Peter David's Blog, page 91

Space (Between Comment Paragraphs) The Final Frontier

Yeah yeah yeah, so sue me, I've been busy. You've got them now. Enjoy.

And so ends those uncomfortable periods in our lives.

Fan/Pro Interactions

Originally published October 25, 1996, in Comics Buyer's Guide #1197

"That's all I can stands 'cause I can't stands no more."

—Popeye the Sailor

How much is one supposed to take? And, when one has taken as much as he thinks he should, how does one fire back and to what degree? And where does the demarcation between fans and pros lie, and is there one, and should there be one?

Harlan Ellison's noted "Xenogenesis" essays about the abominations perpetrated on pros by fans certainly documented some of the most extreme cases. And I myself was witness to one professional, assaulted by a fan in an elevator who was "miming" strangling the pro with the kind of demented ferocity that seemed to remove all aspects of it being a "game."

But those are all extreme cases, and they occur at conventions.

Conventions used to be the sole venue at which fans and pros interacted. At a convention, everything is very controlled, almost to the point of ritualization.

Pros sit behind tables, fans come up with comic books to be signed, often expressing praise for the pro. There may or may not be panels, but it's rare that someone in the audience stands up and starts mouthing off at one of the panel members because there's something daunting about facing the immediate groans and waves of hostility one has to deal with from the audience in the room. The general sense of, "God, why are you doing this? Just shut up already."

I was even told by one comics pro that there should always be a "curtain" between the fans and pros—not a physical one: a figurative curtain that the pros stand behind and the fans never get behind. A distance, as it were.

And this was easy to maintain when fan/pro interaction was limited to conventions. But the electronic age has brought the entire world closer. It's hardly limited to comics; major movie stars talk it up with fans on live computer chats.

But as it's been pointed out: How do you know it's really them? One could probably make a tidy sum in Hollywood renting oneself out as an online computer personality. You've heard of celebrity lookalikes? These would be Cyberlebrity lookalikes: indistinguishable from the real items, quick on their feet with a thorough bio of their clients at their fingertips. Definite possibilities for a nice little business, particularly for those actors who are not particularly facile and would—left to their own devices—answer most questions with, "Yes," "No," or "I dunno."

Television brought celebrities into our homes and gave us familiarity or an illusion thereof. But computers have brought celebrities even closer, right into our desks and even into our thought process. Computers and cyberspace have become the great leveler, on par only with death when it comes to equality and accessibility for all. We've reached a point where no one needs to be perceived as "above" or "separate" from anyone else. That would seem, on the face of it, to be a good thing.

Yet, at the same time, we have a double standard.

As noted earlier, at conventions there is the palpable pressure from others for obnoxious individuals to "sit down and shut up already." That can be a pretty formidable thing in an "in person" venue. But in the security of cyberspace, no one can be "made" to do anything. So if someone wants to be obnoxious, he can rant and rave, insult and demean and attack, "flame" as much as his little heart desires.

This is, of course, the American way. Freedom of speech and all that. Although nothing, not even freedom of speech, is unlimited.

The question is, if you're a pro: What do you do about it when someone goes after you?

Because although the playing field is ostensibly level, the fact is that it's not level at all. Professionals in the industry, while regarded as a resource and a pleasure to have by some, are considered nuisances or—even worse—targets by others. But while fans can attack full bore, the professional is expected to hold back. To show restraint. To take the high road.

This expectation is even held by those who do the insulting. I remember one flamethrower who was incredibly toxic, obnoxious and insulting, not just to me but to everyone. He was belligerent, vituperative, and blithely libelous in his comments. Consequently, a movement began among the computer community to get in touch with those overseeing his access point to the net and get him thrown off.

And I, who had been one of his most frequent targets, received groveling email from him asking me to intercede. To plead his case, beg indulgence for him, ask the net community to back off so that he could continue to use the facilities that he had so maliciously and ruthlessly abused.

I'd like to tell you that I stepped in and saved his hash in the spirit of free speech. But as far as I was concerned, this wasn't government intervention or out-of-the-blue persecution. This was a guy who had sought to achieve notoriety by setting himself up as a flamethrowing personality, and was now seeing the consequences of that decision. Or, as I put it to him (quoting Super Chicken), "Fred, you knew the job was dangerous when you took it."

Then there was the guy who tried to challenge me to a debate. Having had my fill of people maneuvering me into public forums in order to get publicity for themselves, I ignored him. This tactic infuriated him and his pals. In addition to manufacturing letter-writing campaigns that were laughably, obviously bogus (multiple letters written in the same hand, carrying an assortment of false names and mailed from a variety of fake addresses in envelopes all carrying the same handwriting), he and his associates pled their case in newspapers, on radio, and—naturally—on computer boards.

I refused to bother with him, and after a year—a year—of harassment, he finally went away.

So I took the high road, as one would expect. Take two gold stars out of petty cash.

Another time, however, a guy on a computer net started attacking a friend of mine, one who doesn't frequent nets. I'm far quicker to anger over matters concerning friends than myself, particularly when they're not there to defend themselves, and I rounded on the critic. By net standards, what I said was incredibly mild. Probably didn't even qualify as a flame. Wouldn't have even merited comment if a fan had said it. But because I said it, it caused an entire brouhaha.

Then there was the fan who was angry because I didn't attack him. He had posted a harsh review of one of my Star Trek novels. I very rarely reply to any reviews because I don't want to have any sort of chilling effect on commentary of my work. Usually I'll only post an observation if there's some sort of outright misstatement of fact. And this guy's review didn't have anything particularly wrong in it; he just didn't like the book.

But when I didn't endeavor to make any sort of reply or rebuttal, he was outraged and posted a scathing notice declaring that obviously I didn't give a damn what anyone said because I hadn't defended my book against his diatribe. What's there to defend? Either you like it or you don't. But as far as this guy was concerned, I was the scum of the earth because I hadn't climbed down from the high road and slugged it out with him, passionately defending my work against all comers—a practice that, if I did it, would result in fans commenting, "Boy, that Peter David sure can't handle criticism. Pros should really take the high road."

The question is: Why are pros expected to take the high road? Particularly when taking the high road means that you are simply presenting yourself as a nice clear target so that those on the low road can hurl stuff up at you?

Frankly, I don't know.

Because, at core, all a comics pro is is someone who gets paid for his work by a publisher. That's the only reasonably applied, broad-based definition. And even that is somewhat less defined when one factors in self-publishing. The line keeps being relocated.

Make no mistake: I firmly believe that being a pro, however one defines it, carries certain responsibilities. One has an obligation to the fans to behave with decorum and politeness. I have little patience for those who have little patience with the fans.

But how much patience is one to have with those who have little patience with pros?

Many fans raise pros to a level above themselves and then feel that they can tear down those pros with impunity. But they become outraged when pros refuse to submit to it, and yet also outraged when pros endure whatever harshness is hurled at them.

To paraphrase Shakespeare: Hath not a Pro eyes? Hath not a pro hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you flame us, do we not burn? And if you tee us off, shall we not seek revenge?

It is a fannish conceit that pros should have to take whatever is dished out and bear it with quiet, equanimity, and stoicism. There are, in fact, some pros who are capable of this. There are others who are not.

And when other fans step in in defense of assailed pros, they are immediately accused of being brown-nosers or butt-kissers. As if stepping in simply because one disagrees with what's being said is an impossibility; there must be deeper motives than that, apparently because the motives behind trying to tear someone down are inherently superior to the motives behind trying to build someone up.

(Which cuts across all walks of life, I suppose. People gather to watch and marvel at a factory fire. How often do people gather to marvel at a factory under construction?)

Not that this practice is limited to fans, of course. Pros feud among themselves. Except for me, of course; my affability is legendary and I have no enemies anywhere within the industry.

And yet, fan reaction even to those feuds is often out of proportion. People have disagreements, and whether those people are both fans or both professionals, in point of fact there is nothing inherently more or less worthy of commentary in either situation. If people are arguing and they're paid to clean sewers, or people are arguing and they're paid to write or draw comics, what difference does it make? Indeed, the former argument might have more merit to it.

Where does one draw the line? Should pros get down and dirty, mix it up with the fans at any provocation? Should pros sail above it all, remote and distant, despite the technology that serves to bring people closer to one another? Do people really want that proximity—or do they find it unnerving and unmanageable? Some fans complain about the presence of pros on computer nets because they feel that fans must therefore act with some measure of decorum and restraint. But aren't these attributes to which they should aspire whether pros are there or not?

Why is only the threat of retaliation by the injured party a reason for civil treatment? And why, when there is retaliation, are fans so outraged and surprised? That's what they were expecting, wasn't it?

Let me emphasize one point: As is always the case when discussing something like this, I've been speaking in generalities. Most fans are civil and sane. Most fans don't act out of belligerence. Most fans can even have a disagreement with pros and do so in a calm, rational manner. It is the few, the proud, the angry and belligerent, who poison the well for the others.

All I'm saying is that, as the electronic community draws everyone closer and closer, and as everyone and his brother has their very own website, the line continues to be blurred. And I'm not entirely certain that's a bad thing.

But I'm not entirely certain that it's a good thing, either.

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

 

Remembering Lee Tennant

Originally published October 18, 1996, in Comics Buyer's Guide #1196

"No one ever said life was fair. It's just fairer than death, that's all."

—from The Princess Bride, by William Goldman

 I don't remember when I met Lee Tennant. He was just always… there somehow.

Taking a guess, probably the first time I met him was the first time that I went to a convention in an official capacity for Marvel Comics. I had been working for Carol Kalish, manager of direct sales, as her assistant. I'd only been with the company for about two months, and then one day Carol said to me, "I'm not going to be able to make it out to Chicago this year for the convention. So I want you to go to Chicago and represent Marvel at the Chicago Comicon—which is no relation to the San Diego Comic-Con, even though they both use the term "comicon" and should really resort to legal matters to try and see who has the trademark on the phrase."

(Okay, she didn't say the part after the dash. So fine. When you have your own column, you can write things the way you want to write them.)

While I appreciated the vote of confidence from Carol, I was still petrified by the notion of being the official presence and Marvel spokesman. Not because I was afraid of—oh, I dunno—someone taking a flamethrower to me (which would seem a legitimate concern nowadays), but simply because I didn't want to screw up.

Lee was very likely at that convention, just because he was at all those conventions. He'd be there behind a table, the quintessential aggressive retailer. A massive presence, somewhat Brando-esque in his girth, but he didn't have a particularly loud or booming voice.

What he did have, though, was very much a friendly "Hi, how are ya, glad to see you" attitude. This may sound like nothing particularly unusual when one considers that—at the very least—a retailer should be welcoming of, and encouraging to, any potential customers. Or any potential business contacts. Or any potential guests at his store. In short, anyone who might, in some way, shape or form, be able to result in monetary gain.

But I've encountered enough retailers, and heard horror stories about others, in all walks of life (so no one thinks that I'm holding comic book retailers up for opprobrium; I'm not) who can be quite dismissive or uncaring of people and uninterested in the product they actually sell.

For that matter, I can't tell you the number of times I personally dealt with retailers who were openly hostile. I remember one convention when I: had a breakfast meeting with a retailer who complained about Marvel; opened up the Marvel display booth and worked there until lunch; had a lunch meeting with a retailer who complained about Marvel; worked the display booth until closing; had a dinner meeting with a retailer who complained about Marvel.

The point is, Lee was never one of those retailers who made my life any more difficult than it already was. He was always genuinely happy to see me, genuinely eager to spend time with me. On those occasions we did go out, he loved to take me out to some steak place, occasionally accompanied by his wife, Louisa. They were not, physically, two people you'd expect to see as a couple somehow. As large as Lee was, Louisa was the exact opposite. Diminutive, at least two heads shorter than Lee, quite petite.

I said in the first paragraph that I can't say for sure when I actually met Lee. For that matter, I'm not even sure when it was that I actually became friends with him. It was one of those odd things which one thinks of as a convention friendship. Someone whom you only see at a convention, have a great time with, then go back to your "normal" day-to-day life wherein you don't give the other person much thought for months at a stretch. But the next time you go to a convention, there he is, and you pick up exactly where you left off.

I made a number of stops in Chicago during my tour of duty in sales, and I always made it a point of visiting Lee's then-burgeoning "Heroland" stores. One day I even spent time working behind the counter. At one point a kid came up to me with a copy of The Dark Knight Returns and, curious—not about the story, but about its investment potential—asked, "How high do you think this will go?"

I took the comic and tossed it straight up. It ricocheted off the ceiling, I caught it, and handed it back to the kid. "About that high," I told him. The kid bought the comic while Lee stood there and grinned.

He had a consistently ebullient spirit and was an aggressive businessman who put more than a few noses out of joint. From time to time he made some injudicious decisions which cost him, both reputation-wise and finance-wise. But let's face it, ain't none of us are perfect, and I'm quite certain that—given time—he could easily have worked through things and come out on top. Because he had those kinds of smarts and that kind of spirit.

But he was not given the opportunity.

Instead what he had was a series of health problems. For the longest time he was in the hospital, out of the hospital. There aren't many people whose absence from a convention could be noticed, because how many people are there who are genuine mainstays? But we knew that Lee wasn't there. Word would drift in through the grapevine that Lee was better, then he wasn't, then he was, then wasn't. He would need a transplant, he would need medication, he was up and down and then back up again more often than Bill Clinton's political career.

There was a long period of time where I didn't see him—and then, one convention, I did. He was in a wheelchair, and he easily weighed less than half what had used to weigh. His previously short hair was now almost shoulder length, and he had a long and bushy beard. I didn't recognize him at first, which was certainly understandable—and yet I felt guilty for not realizing.

It was clear that he was fighting a losing fight, his body breaking down. But if Lee realized it, he certainly didn't acknowledge it. He refused to give it its due, was still fighting back. Difficulty upon difficulty was heaped upon him, but Lee still maintained his determination. He became a regular presence on computer boards, CompuServ in particular, holding court regularly. Lee was always the consummate convention presence, and when his body wouldn't allow him to maintain that at real conventions, the BBS served to create a sort of virtual convention where his presence could continue to be felt.

At the end he lay in a hospital bed, comatose, in Rush Hospital in Chicago, his skin tinged yellow with liver failure. He needed a liver transplant, but they couldn't do one because his body was wracked with infection. The infection had to be cured with antibiotics before a transplant was possible, or else his body would reject the liver—but in the meantime, his liver was failing, hence the jaundice. In a way, it was a race against time.

And he lost.

They say that when one lies in a coma, one is in a sort of dream state. I can't help but wonder what Lee was dreaming about. About conventions and steak houses and an industry that was once as big and alive as he was, filled with energy and life? An industry that many feel has become as frail as he himself had become, hooked up to life support and barely recognizable as its former self? He wouldn't have liked to see it that way, just as people hated to see Lee that way.

In the final analysis, Lee was a guy who did what he loved, made a lot of friends, made a life for himself, and then lost it in a hideously unfortunate series of health problems.

And in a way, William Goldman wasn't quite correct. Because death actually is fairer than life: It comes to everyone, young or old, fat or thin, rich or poor. Life is far more unfair, because it capriciously doles out staying power to some, and cuts short others.

Perhaps that's why Lee (and, for that matter, we) loved and love comics so much. Because the good guys win and the bad guys lose.

Unfortunately, when a Lee Tennant dies, we all lose.

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

 

 

My best Gary Carter story

I was at Shea Stadium at 1987. It was a beautiful day for baseball, and it was policy that they let everyone attending the game, no matter where their seats were, to come down to field level and watch the Mets take batting practice. So there I was, standing at the railing, with dozens of fans of various ages all around me. My favorite player, Gary Carter–the guy who started off the rally that salvaged Game 6–was just finishing up batting practice.

I was over on the third base side, nearby the visitor's dugout, and I had a copy of Carter's instant-book account of the 1986 dream season, appropriately titled "A Dream Season."

Carter hit his last ball, tossed aside the bat and started jogging around the bases. Now understand that none of the other players were coming anywhere near the fans lined up all around Shea. But I figured I had nothing to lose. I drew in as much air as my lungs would allow and bellowed, "Hey, Gary! Sign a copy of 'Dream Season?'"

My voice carried across the field, and Carter looked at me (I was the guy holding up a copy of his book), pointed and nodded, circling his hand to convey that he needed to finish running the bases and then he'd be right over.

"Oh my God, oh my God," everyone standing around me said, eager, unbelieving.

And then Gary Carter touched home plate, and started jogging right toward us.

Everyone around me went nuts. "You did it! Holy crap, you did it!" and they were pounding me on the back with such enthusiasm that I had bruises the next day. Fans from further over were quickly trying to scuttle our way to get in on it.

And Carter drew closer and closer, and we collectively started muttering, "Whoa."

He was huge. And he just got bigger the nearer he got.

You don't realize how big some of these guys are when you see them on TV. Football players always come across as gargantuan, but baseball players seem average. Don't you believe it. Carter was built like a brick outhouse. He was wearing the famed perpetual grin that other ballplayers found annoying, but we loved it. The Kid was coming over to play.

No one disputed that I was first in line. He signed my book, and then a variety of baseballs and program books for the other hands, all of whom were counting their blessings that they'd been standing near a guy with the loudest voice they'd ever heard.

And he was so…damned…nice.

A week or so later, when they were playing the Cubs, Andre Dawson got plunked by a pitch. Hawk took umbrage, and he tried to charge the mound. Carter, who was catching, held him back. And I remember seeing the picture in the newspaper, and realized Dawson was taller and wider than Carter. Having a frame of reference for Carter, I could only think, "My God, how huge is Dawson then?"

I know that Carter's dream was to manage in the big leagues, and it never happened. The last time I saw him was a year or so ago where he was managing the Long Island Ducks in the Atlantic League. They held a signing before hand, as they typically do, and I stood in line for Carter, holding an LI Ducks ball. I was one of the last people on line, so I had the chance to tell him, fairly quickly, about that time in 1987 and how much it had meant to me. But I could also see that he was thinner, more wan than when I'd last met him. I could see he wasn't well. I hoped he'd get better. He didn't.

I have the baseball in front of me. Inscribed on it is, "To Peter, Best of luck. God Bless. Gary Carter."

God bless you, Kid. Thanks for everything.

PAD

Had a chance to test my Madonna theory

Back when I was live-blogging the Super Bowl, I opined that teenagers today had no idea who the people she named in "Vogue" were. Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Gene Kelly, Bette Davis: all these and more had no meaning.

Well, I was at the supermarket yesterday, and the cashier seemed quite young. And at a supermarket checking out groceries is pretty much the only circumstance under which some random middle aged guy can idly chat with a teen girl (she turned out to be seventeen) and not have it come across as creepy. As she ran the items across the scanner, I said, "Hey…you know the Madonna song, 'Vogue?'"

"No."

That caught me flat-footed. The question was actually rhetorical, a preamble to the more pertinent point. But not only did she not know the song, I also got the impression that she was vague as to who Madonna was at all. "She sang it during the halftime show at the Super Bowl."

"Yeah, I saw that, and everyone was singing along, and I was just…" She shrugged. I wasn't clear whether "everyone" meant the fans at the stadium or if she was at a Super Bowl party.

So at least she had been exposed to the song. I decided to mush on. "I was just wondering if the names she rattled off during the song meant anything to you. Fred Astaire?" Head shake. "Gene Kelly, Ginger Rogers?" Nothing. "Bette Davis?"

"Her I know!" she said cheerfully.

"Really? You know Bette Davis?"

"Yes. And Joan Rivers."

I know what you're thinking. I wasn't seeing a connection either. As I slid my ATM through the reader to pay for the purchases, I said, "Uh…Bette Davis was an actress; Joan Rivers is a comedienne. I'm just curious why–?"

"They're both old women."

"Okay, well, except Bette Davis is dead, but that's–"

"Wait," she said. "I meant Betty White. I don't know who Bette Davis is." She paused and, seeing I looked slightly crestfallen–I think she wanted me to feel not quite so old–she said chipperly, "I know who Farrah Fawcett was! Does that help?"

I didn't bother to ask if she knew that at one point the actress' name was Farrah Fawcett-Majors, because I was fairly certain she'd never heard of Lee Majors. Although she might know who Steve Austin was. Everyone knows that. He's a wrestler.

I'll tell you one thing–I'm going to make damned sure Caroline is properly educated in the greatness of old movies. The other day I had her watch "Oklahoma." She was resistant to it at first, but slowly she got pulled in by the story and characters. She was fascinated by the dream ballet (which had always bored me when I was that age) and she kept asking about various developments of the story (although explaining the shivaree was a bit of a challenge.) At least to start, it's just a matter of finding entry points for her. I think next I'll show her "Singing in the Rain." Not only has she seen the title song parodied in a number of places, but she was fascinated to learn it starred Princess Leia's mommy.

I know I can do this. I've done it before. When Gwen was in college some years back, she was taking an art history class and the Professor announced that they were going to study the Spanish Inquisition. "What," he asked, "do we know about the Spanish Inquisition?" Immediately Gwen piped up, "It was unexpected." The teacher laughed. No one else did. No one else got it. No one else knew the bit or had ever heard of Monty Python.

Teach your children well.

PAD

THE CHALLENGE OF PUBLISHING "HIDDEN EARTH CHRONICLES, BOOK 2″ (UPDATED)

UPDATED 4:41 PM–Okay. Because a lot of fans on various sites were disappointed having to wait another month, we've decided not to go with B&N exclusively and instead are releasing it on Amazon simultaneously. Here you go. Paperback should be available next week.

For years, people have been asking me, "Where's Book 2 of 'The Hidden Earth?"

I had no ready answer. I had turned in the contracted manuscript years earlier, and it simply languished, untouched, on someone's desk.

They had eighteen months to publish it, and after all that time, we'd reached the promised pub date and it had not even entered the production system. And I said, "This is not how you treat authors. This is not how you do business." (And believe me, I wasn't the only author in that situation. I encountered quite a few bemoaning their manuscript being in limbo.)

So when Mike Friedman suggested that a group of us take our destinies in our own hands and form Crazy 8 Press, this was the book that prompted me to join up.

I basically torched my relationship with that publisher–and quite possibly crippled my career, because book publishers don't like troublemakers–to get back this book and the one before it (which was out of print). So that people could read it.

Book 1, "Darkness of the Light," is on both Amazon and B&N. Book 2 is out right now for the Nook and will be out on Amazon and in paperback next month.

You can order "Heights of the Depths" here.

Please help send a pro-author message to certain publishers by supporting this and other endeavors at Crazy 8 Press. Thank you for your attention.

PAD

PS–I've noticed that no matter what format we put something out with, people immediately say, "Oh, I don't have that; can you put it out in (fill in the blank)." Yeah, not this time. Nook (and Kindle, for that matter) have made it so damned easy to have their platform available that you're out of E-xcuses. To get the Nook app for just about anything electronic you've got, go here.

THE CHALLENGE OF PUBLISHING "HIDDEN EARTH CHRONICLES, BOOK 2″

For years, people have been asking me, "Where's Book 2 of 'The Hidden Earth?"

I had no ready answer. I had turned in the contracted manuscript years earlier, and it simply languished, untouched, on someone's desk.

They had eighteen months to publish it, and after all that time, we'd reached the promised pub date and it had not even entered the production system. And I said, "This is not how you treat authors. This is not how you do business." (And believe me, I wasn't the only author in that situation. I encountered quite a few bemoaning their manuscript being in limbo.)

So when Mike Friedman suggested that a group of us take our destinies in our own hands and form Crazy 8 Press, this was the book that prompted me to join up.

I basically torched my relationship with that publisher–and quite possibly crippled my career, because book publishers don't like troublemakers–to get back this book and the one before it (which was out of print). So that people could read it.

Book 1, "Darkness of the Light," is on both Amazon and B&N. Book 2 is out right now for the Nook and will be out on Amazon and in paperback next month.

You can order "Heights of the Depths" here.

Please help send a pro-author message to certain publishers by supporting this and other endeavors at Crazy 8 Press. Thank you for your attention.

PAD

PS–I've noticed that no matter what format we put something out with, people immediately say, "Oh, I don't have that; can you put it out in (fill in the blank)." Yeah, not this time. Nook (and Kindle, for that matter) have made it so damned easy to have their platform available that you're out of E-xcuses. To get the Nook app for just about anything electronic you've got, go here.

The Ed Wood of Comics

Originally published October 11, 1996, in Comics Buyer's Guide #1195

I think I finally understand Rob Liefeld. Which is cold comfort I suppose, considering the last couple of weeks he's been having, but there it is.

Several things crystallized this newly-found comprehension for me.

First and foremost was the publication of the first issue of his new Captain America. Not since that security guard in Atlanta was raked over the coals during the Olympics (in a still-pending investigation) has any one individual been accused of perpetrating a bomb on unsuspecting Americans before all the evidence was in.

Then, when the book did come out, computer postings seemed to dwell with incredible hostility on every single art gaffe. I do not except myself here; after all, I had the characters make fun of their own goof-ups and inconsistencies in the previous installment of this column. The moral of that particular story being: Never release undialogued black-and-white versions of your work. It makes it too easy. (Although at least somebody caught the nine-button phone keypad just before the book went to the printer and added in the AWOL remaining three buttons. Now if only they'd thought to add a slot for the coin, or a receiver that looks like a receiver rather than a Lady Bic electric shaver.) And then there's that classic first page, as pointed out by retailer Bob Kane (no relation) at Destiny Comics in Long Island: wherein one World War II soldier is wielding a gun apparently never used on this planet, much less in WWII, while another soldier, seemingly not trusting the bizarrely constructed weapon (who can blame him?) is simply firing blasts directly out of his hand. He's miming holding the gun, but there isn't anything there, yet something is shooting.

And then there's—ah, but I swore I wouldn't get into that.

But what really put me into the "right" frame of mind regarding Rob was that I started dwelling on movies. Specifically, Marvel movies. I was thinking about the spate of Marvel films some years back, both TV and theatrical—the ones where unilateral changes were made for apparently no rhyme or reason.

Like the Captain America TV movie with the clear plastic shield.

Or the Incredible Hulk movies that introduced Thor or Daredevil, who were the Marvel characters in name only, as we agonized over watching Don Blake become a channeling device for Thor the Norse biker warrior. Or Daredevil wearing a wrestling outfit with a blindfold over his face, advertising to the entire world that he was blind (although effective performances by Rex Smith as Murdock and John Rhys-Davies as the hirsute Kingpin salvaged it to some degree).

Or the Dr. Strange TV movie, which really wasn't half bad, but if the name had been changed to Mystic Man, the film would have worked exactly the same with no recognizable connection to Doc Strange. In fact, Full Moon's straight-to-video Doctor Mordrid felt more like a Dr. Strange movie than Dr. Strange did. And, of course, there was the Incredible Hulk TV show, which worked to a degree because of Bill Bixby's quiet sincerity, and because it was basically a rehash of the TV-friendly The Fugitive (which in turn was a rehash of Les Miserables, and God only knows where Victor Hugo got it from), thereby making it easy for viewers to get a handle on.

But there were no Rick Jones, no Betty, no Thunderbolt Ross, no Gamma Bomb, and no words out of a seriously depowered Hulk. (And I'm still fielding questions from comic book outsiders who are surprised there's still a Hulk comic, because they saw The Death of the Incredible Hulk, in which the Hulk died falling from a helicopter. And I explain to them that the Hulk could fall from orbit and just dust himself off and walk away.) Basically we had a Dr. Banner who was Banner in name only (and not even the same name) and a Hulk who bore no resemblance to the comic book perception of the character (but, then again, fans of the original Hulk have made the same complaint about my treatment of him, so perhaps I shouldn't point fingers).

And stuff like this drove the fans nuts. The sentiment was, "Why can't Hollywood do the characters right?" And "right" had only one meaning: Do them as they had been done in the comic books. Don't mess with the costumes. Don't muck with the origins. Stan Lee and Jack Kirby knew what they were doing and produced stories that withstood the test of time. Who in hell were these California guys to come in and completely retool the very beginnings of these characters? To re-envision and reinvent them, to tell the stories differently? To call characters by names that had no relation to their comic book counterparts? Well, Marvel heard the complaints. Marvel was unhappy with the results. And Marvel swore it would take a firmer hand on the TV versions of its characters. When next you saw movies featuring the Marvel heroes, it would be with scripts that were faithful to the roots of the Marvel universe.

And what has happened since that pledge? Well… lessee… While the wretched Captain America movie languishes on a few video shelves, and while the ultra-cheapo and fairly dull Fantastic Four movie shows up in the pirated boxes of video dealers at conventions…

The comic books became the movie versions.

Rather than protect the Marvel roots, Marvel tempted root rot by welcoming the movie mindset into its own doors.

California guys have come in and been invited to do "versions" of the classic Marvel characters with no requirement of fealty to the originals. Many of the characters trotting through the pages of the new and improved "Heroes Reborn" comics bear as much resemblance to the original characters as Biker Warrior Thor did to the Son of Odin.

For what reason? To keep up with the fast-paced '90s as opposed to the more leisurely '60s? Hot news flash: The first issue of the new Fantastic Four took 40 pages to tell one half the story that Stan and Jack told in one half the pages at 1/30 the price. This isn't to say it's necessarily bad. It's just different. And many fans equate the latter with the former. (Although curiously, despite all the changes that were made, the one thing that had me teed off was that creature calling itself "Wyatt Wingfoot." I don't know who or what the hell that was, but it weren't no Wyatt Wingfoot.)

But, in the meantime, where are we seeing strict fidelity to the original versions of the Marvel characters? From Hollywood, particularly in animation. The producers of the upcoming Incredible Hulk animated series are promising stories evocative of the original jade giant. And taking it away from Marvel for a moment, many fans claimed they preferred Batman: The Animated Series to the comic book, and the new Superman animated series is being welcomed with open arms.

So it's done a complete 180. Fans look to the TV for the "real" versions of the characters, and to the newsstands for redos of the original tales which seem capriciously changed.

Which brings us back to Rob Liefeld.

The thing is, the story in Captain America #1 isn't that bad. I mean, it's not that good, but it's not that bad. Standard-issue Guy-With-A-Past-He-Doesn't-Know stuff. Been there, done that, but not enough to send you screaming into the middle of the interstate or anything.

But the art is. The art is beyond that bad. No offense, but Rob's artwork has reached a point where one almost expects Rob to come home one day and find John Byrne, John Buscema, and John Romita, Sr. waiting for him. Teamed like the Three Tenors, the Three Johns would pounce, tie him to a chair and do what we in the industry call a BAI: Bad Art Intervention. I fully believe that after 72 straight hours, they could probably hammer enough fundamentals into him that you'd see 100% improvement in his future work. If it takes longer than that, then the book could be produced in the interim by strapping a #2 pencil to the guide pointer of an Ouija board, putting it atop a piece of Bristol board, and letting Jack Kirby pencil it from beyond.

But wait, you say! Peter, you've hosed us! You implied that this column was to be supportive of Rob, not scathing!

And so 'twill be, for let us go on in the fairly safe assumption that said intervention will not take place. Let us further assume that Rob is not going to improve.

Maybe he doesn't have to. Maybe we're looking at his work the wrong way.

Because it's clear that what Rob does have is enthusiasm. Enthusiasm by the carload, by the boatload, by the motherlode. I think he (as do Jim Lee and everyone else, really) genuinely has a fondness for the characters. But, where Jim draws comics, Rob draws criticism. Yet, curiously, of all the new relaunches, I found I was most interested to see where the hell Rob was going with this thing. And I couldn't quite figure out why, because every other book was technically superior—indeed, was superior.

So what was it about Captain America that caught my attention? Especially because the artwork was so bad, so inconsistent, so unrelated to the real world, so inept in terms of its continuity. And that's where the movie connection clicked in for me.

Perhaps we've all been making a mistake about Rob. It's a natural mistake to make. What we've been doing is comparing is work to that of other comic book artists.

But Rob is a child of movies, citing such flicks as Die Hard as being seminal influences on his work. And when we think of Rob in movie creator terms, it makes sense. As a writer, Rob isn't Stan Lee. As an artist, he isn't Jack Kirby. But if we think of him as a creator—particularly a movie creator—then we've got a bead on him.

As a creator… he's Ed Wood.

At the very least, he's the Ed Wood of the Tim Burton film Ed Wood. Someone of boundless zeal. Someone who feels he has stories to tell, can see them in his head, but doesn't have the ability to actually get them down visually in any sort of coherent or aesthetically pleasing manner. Orson Welles without the talent. But Ed Wood films have achieved a status all their own. They're acid trips for the drug-free. They're films where we marvel at the ineptitude because it's just so bad that it's hypnotic. Ed Wood didn't give a damn about continuity, or coherence, or anything. Granted, Rob Liefeld is working on a more leisurely schedule than Wood, with plenty of time to go back and redraw. Wood was working on insane shooting schedules with no money, so one could argue that his lack of caring about detail was strictly due to the circumstances under which the films were made. But the more fun view (and certainly the more appropriate for this column) is the version of Wood in the Scott Alexander & Larry Karaszewski script for the Burton film. At one point during the filming of Plan 9 From Outer Space, Wood's backers challenge his technical ability by pointing out that Wood has deemed "perfect" a take wherein cardboard headstones in a graveyard are knocked over by a stumbling actor. And they complain about the numerous discontinuity shifts between daytime and nighttime.

And an enraged Wood, played by Johnny Depp, retorts, "Film making isn't about the tiny details. It's about the big picture! Haven't you people ever heard of suspension of disbelief?"

Perhaps Rob Liefeld produces work in that spirit. Perhaps he considers what we feel important (continuity, correct perspective, proper anatomy, story telling) to be mere tiny details. What many have deemed simple laziness on his part may be more than that. Maybe it's not laziness. Maybe, to Rob, it's just irrelevant. He has an image (appropriately) in his head—the big picture—and when he looks at the final version, all he sees is what he's picturing from his imagination, rather than the reality of what's there.

So perhaps what we should do when reading a Rob Liefeld comic—rather than carp on the endless gaffes—is to embrace them. Be amused by them in the same way that we giggle at the hokey flying saucers and mismatched shots in Plan 9. Perhaps, like an Ed Wood film, a Rob Liefeld comic should be of interest not in spite of the artistic mess-ups, but rather because of them.

Or—to paraphrase Criswell—

You say, "Prove that it's true." I say, "Prove that it isn't."

 (Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. And if you think this column is the worst you've ever seen, well, my next one will be better! Hello? Hello…?)

Brace Yourselves, Star Wars fans

We took Caroline to see "The Phantom Menace" in 3D yesterday. She'd seen the commercials for it a few weeks ago and said she wanted to see it; we then insisted she watch what we consider the real "first three movies," namely episodes 4, 5 and 6. She did so with some reluctance and found them enjoyable in her own way, as I mentioned in an earlier posting.

So we were most interested to see how she would react to a "Star Wars" film that she had not first seen parodied on "Family Guy." One that is generally reviled as being boring, turgid, poorly acted, badly written, badly directed, and the debut of a character so detested that he actually made people nostalgic for the Ewoks (no small feat, that.)

Personally, watching the film yesterday–the first time I've seen it in its entirety since it premiered years ago–I found it as dissatisfying as ever, with 3D effects that were lackluster at best. Even the pod race, which should have rocked in 3D, was unimpressive.

So what did Caroline think of it?

"It was great!" she burbled. "It was better than all three of those other films put together!"

Holy crap. Holy freaking crap.

Now I know exactly how those older science fiction fans felt in 1977, when relative youngsters like me were singing the praises of this new film called "Star Wars," and the old fogies were dismissing it. Sure, they said, you couldn't argue the quality of the effects. But the story? Bland, flat, preposterous. The characters cardboard at best, stereotypical at worst. A rehash and recycling of "Flash Gordon" movie serials, gussied up with some new age religious tripe called "the Force." It's glitzy, sure, but it was no "Forbidden Planet" or "War of the Worlds," and certainly–as movie SF went–a quantum leap backward from the sophistication of "2001." Hell, even "Star Trek" fans were dissing it, offended that this crap was hitting it big in the movies while any hope of a big screen "Trek" film seemed languishing in development hell. (Two years later they got their wish with "Star Trek: The Motionless Picture," so that wised 'em about getting what you wish for.)

And now here we are, and the next generation–or at least my small representative sample–is embracing "Phantom Menace" with the same energy that we despised it, and with as little care for our appalled reactions as we had for the old fogies that preceded us. (And when I say old, I mean pretty much everyone who's reading this. Trust me, when you're nine years old, everything from thirty-five and up is ancient.)

But how! you ask. How could any child find enjoyment in "Phantom Menace"?

Well, let's see. First of all, she liked that there was a kid protagonist. When he left his mom behind, Caroline was actually tearing up because the concept of separation from one's parent, with no idea of if or when they'll see them again, cuts to the core of a child's greatest fear. So that hit her where she lived. We sit there thinking, "Well, he's off to go and be evil," but that scene completely invested her emotionally in the film.

Second, it's the first and pretty much only "Star Wars" film that featured not one, but two kick-ass females: Padme (Natalie Portman, who my daughter Shana couldn't stand back when they both went to the Usdan drama camp in Long Island. "She goes around acting like she's gonna be a movie star!" Shana would complain to me) and her unnamed decoy (who had Caroline going, "Why do I recognize her voice?" and I said, "Because she played Elizabeth Swann in the 'Pirates of the Caribbean' movies.") Unfortunately, toward the climax of the film, when the Viceroy alien momentarily is tricked into thinking that he's captured the duplicate princess and sends his people running off after the actual decoy, under the false impression she's the real item, all I could think of was the guy in "Spaceballs" shouting, "You fools! You've captured their stunt doubles!"

In any event, between the kid pilot saving the day and two strong females running around, she found it compelling viewing.

And yes, I asked her what she thought of Jar-Jar. Did she say, "Well, obviously I'm offended by him. Not only is the 'humor' involving him over the top and so broad that it's detrimental to the tone of the movie, but it harkens back to racist Step-and-Fetchit shtick that we, as a society, should have outgrown?"

Nooo.

She said, "He's funny!" and "That's so rude!" and then stuck her tongue out and waggled her cheeks.

So if she's representative, then basically this more or less lousy film has hooked in a new generation for the "Star Wars" saga, forcing us to a hard-to-swallow conclusion:

No matter how much we may have reviled "Episode 1," George Lucas knows what he's doing.

PAD

Hi. I'm a Jehovah's Witness and I Run a Faith-Based Business

Through this business, we do everything we can to spread the good word of our faith. Not everyone who works here is actually OF my faith, but they're good, solid clerical people, or janitorial staff, or accountants, so it's not an issue.

But I have a serious problem with the thought of them undergoing any surgical procedures. See, I am adamantly against blood transfusions of any sort. And although my faith does allow for blood substitutes to be used, I'm concerned that that might not always be an option, or worse, they'll be unconscious and unable to reject plasma in a trauma situation. Furthermore, although some of the other witnesses find it acceptable, I reject the concept of transplanting of organs. It is against scripture and God's will.

Therefore, based upon my faith, I refuse to support any insurance coverage that would allow for surgery of any kind. And since other owners of faith-based businesses are being allowed to follow their conscience in terms of what medical coverage they offer, then I should be allowed to as well.

Thank you for your attention.

Skippy the Jehovah's Witness

(Because if conservatives get to speculate that gay marriage will lead to men marrying German Shepherds, I get to speculate that faith-dictated laws and policies lead to a strangulation of individual choice based upon theology.)