Originally published April 18, 1997, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1222

(Editor’s note: Last week, Peter shared his online run-in with Flash Gordon and Wonder Girl, their online names changed to protect them from further embarrassment. This week: More online anecdotes.)

I was on America Online late one night. It has been a bit easier to get on recently, perhaps because so many people have given up on the service that it’s made some more room.

I ran into one of the actors from Babylon 5, hiding under a fake name. He ID’d himself to me since he knows my online name, and suggested we head over to the Babylon 5 chat room to see if there were any fans of the show there. (I say “he” for convenience’s sake; it wasn’t necessarily a he.)

So we went over to the chat room and, sure enough, there were about a dozen B5 fans there.

They wouldn’t respond to us.

They were completely involved in some sort of online role playing game in which they were pretending to be B5 characters. Try as we might, we could not get their attention at all. After about five minutes of talking to them and getting no response, we gave up and left.

Of course, they didn’t know it was us. They didn’t necessarily have any reason to, although my screen name is generally known (God knows I get enough “Instant Message” hails whenever I log on) and his was easy enough to figure out if one gave it any thought. But the fans were too busy with pretending they were B5 characters to care about two intruders.

So I consider that amusingly ironic. A roomful of fans who were so caught up in their own version of Babylon 5 that they never knew two people connected with the real item were there.

* * *

Presented for your consideration: The bizarre and strange case of “Jews Harp” (not his real name, but actually amusingly close.)

Jews Harp, a college student, has garnered a reputation for himself on the net—particularly rec.arts.comics.marvel—of being a die-hard Rob Liefeld fan.

If I were Liefeld, Harp would be exactly the sort of fan I wouldn’t want, because as he elevates Liefeld with one hand, Harp also attempts to tear down, destroy and insult everything and anything that does not fawn over Liefeld or over Harp himself.

He’s: burned more bridges than Irwin Allen; insulted a score of writers and artists (including myself) in all manner of ways; considered all opinions to be merely opinions and subject to argument—except his own, which were indisputable fact by dint of being his opinions; and heaped vitriol on fans with such abandon that he even accused one female fan of routinely performing sex acts upon pros while, at the same time, holding himself up as a bastion of considerate behavior towards women.

Harp was so over-the-top, so disagreeable, so “out there,” as it were, that it was difficult to believe he could even be real.

And then it began to get interesting.

Because someone on the Internet (also going under a fake name, which we’ll call Tiberius) announced that, in fact, Jews Harp was a complete hoax.

According to Tiberius, there was a genuine Harp, all right. He was a college student, as was generally known. But ostensibly he had little-to-no interest in comics whatsoever. Tiberius stated that he and three other people fabricated a persona for Harp, with his cooperation. The persona was to consist of the ultimate “fan geek,” an obnoxious troll who considered Rob Liefeld God and everyone else cannon fodder. He’d be belligerent, insulting, and nigh-impossible to deal with. The group of four took turns writing responses, and the real Harp would post them through his account so there would be consistency.

But Tiberius claimed that he’d had enough. The hoax had gone too far, and he had watched, appalled, as others in his group had become far more vitriolic and nauseating in their conduct than the initial gag had ever intended to be. And he was taking it upon himself to shut it down, blow the whistle on it so that no more people would be hurt. The Jews Harp personality which had been assailing everyone for a year was not real, said Tiberius. It was just an amalgam, an incarnation of every nightmare fanboy anyone had ever encountered, all rolled into one: Sidney Mellon’s idiot cousin.

Tiberius’ confession seemed to explain so much. Harp had been such a yutz, it was easy to believe that he had been a pastiche. Furthermore, Harp’s own biography as related in various posts seemed to contradict itself from time to time; the notion that four people were contributing to it would explain those conflicting statements. Some fans were outraged, some amused, still others suspicious. Nonetheless, it seemed to be over.

It wasn’t.

Because Jews Harp came roaring back, stating that Tiberius was, in fact, the one perpetrating the hoax. That Harp himself was perfectly legit and not a quartet at all. That his opinions were entirely his own, that no one was feeding him information, and that Tiberius was trying to undercut him out of spite and nastiness.

This prompted counter postings from Tiberius, who addressed Harp by another name entirely and told him to knock it off, that it was over.

At that point no one knew what to think. Was Jews Harp real, a genuine insult-artist and Liefeld fan-geek extraordinaire? Or was he a fake, a figment of a quartet of pranksters? Was Tiberius a genuinely apologetic participant in a prank that had gotten out of hand? Or was he a master hoaxer himself, so fed up with Harp’s tirades that he decided to try to undercut Harp’s very existence?

The answer is: Beats the hell out of me. If Tiberius is on the level, then it must be very frustrating for him to try and cleanse his conscience only to have fans so enamored of the fraud that they refused to believe the truth. And if Tiberius did fabricate his “confession,” then it’s an absolutely masterful gag—because he convinced some people, at least, that one of the most irritating personalities on the net does not, in fact, exist.

As they say in bad SF movies: There may be some things that man is simply not meant to know.

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

No, not me. A different one. And if you think some of my friends were startled to see my name at the top of an announcement that “Peter David” had died in a car crash, I gotta tell you it’s inCREDibly creepy to see your own name in that headline.

The Peter David who has left us was an editor and writer at “The Economist,” and I actually spoken to him one time. You see, Mr. David had written a book called “Triumph in the Desert” about Operation Desert Storm. And a number of people had come up to me at conventions asking me to sign it. Even though the bio wasn’t mine. Even though the photograph obviously wasn’t me. But people kept presenting it to me.

So I decided to try and get in touch with the guy to tell him about it. It wasn’t hard; I found the main number for “The Economist,” called, and asked for his office.

I was put through and a woman with a crisp British accent said, “Peter David’s office.”

I said, “May I speak to Peter David?”

“Who may I say is calling?”

“Peter David.”

Without the slightest hesitation, she said, “Hold on, please.”

Moments later a deep British voice said, “This is Peter David.”

I said, “Mr. David, you don’t know me, but my name is also Peter David, and I’m also a writer. And I thought it would amuse you to know that people keep asking me to autograph your book, ‘Triumph in the Desert.’”

And he replied, “Would you be the reason that people keep asking me to sign ‘Star Trek’ novels?”

We chatted for a few minutes and this guy was so nice to a total stranger. I wish I could actually have met the guy.

This sucks.

PAD

Since it’s not exactly genre, we haven’t discussed the new series “SMASH” which will be wrapping up this coming Monday. So I figure, What the hell. Let’s do that.

First of all, I’m kind of astounded that the series got on the air in the first place. It’s a show for which Kathleen and I are the target audience, and that’s NEVER a promising endeavor. The ratings for the Tonys indicate that the vast majority of America doesn’t give a damn about real Broadway, so why in the world would they be captivated by a TV series about made-up Broadway? If they want to see something on TV about performers struggling for their shot, they’ll put on “The Voice” (the show’s lead-in) or “American Idol” where it’s involving real people, or at least nominally real. Judging by the ratings, viewers more or less haven’t embraced the show, for those reasons and others, and yet NBC has given it a second season pick-up. Which is good, because we’ve been enjoying the hell out of what has been remarkably schizoid ride. And I mean that in a good way.

In case you haven’t been watching it–and the odds are sensational that you haven’t–the series focuses on some hardy souls mounting a musical about the life of Marilyn Monroe. Produced by Morticia Addams and directed by Commodore Norrington, the show is unfortunately titled “Bombshell,” a hideous name because you just know that sticking the word “Bomb” into a title is catnip for reviewers. If the show’s in trouble, the headlines write themselves.

The cast is populated by a insanely marvelous combination of TV, movie and Broadway vets, all of whom have wildly different acting styles because of their varied backgrounds. Not to mention Katharine McPhee who, as an actress, is a wonderful singer. The notion that there is ANY competition between her “Karen” and the character of “Ivy” (performed with Emmy-worthy zest by Megan Hilty) is ludicrous since Ivy is so clearly better suited for the role that they had to develop artificial story reasons why she isn’t first choice. Consequently the show’s tone lurches wildly from episode to episode and sometimes scene to scene.

If this sounds like I’m down on the show, I’m not. There is literally nothing else like it on television right now. First of all, the original songs written for “Bombshell” are insanely catchy and hummable, far more so than I’ve seen in quite a few musicals these days. They also find ways to shoe-horn in various covers of pop songs; if Karaoke didn’t exist, they’d have had to invent it for this series. And then there’s the occasional flight of total demented fancy including a recent Bollywood number called “1001 Nights” which was undoubtedly McPhee’s best performance to date (my God, is she limber. Go check it out on Hulu if you don’t believe me.)

And then there are the guest stars, some of whom are positively meta. When the producers decide “Bombshell” requires a movie actress to give it some star power, they bring in Uma Thurman playing more or less a fictionalized version of herself, which is what “Smash” needed in order to try and bump the ratings up. In a recent episode, Ivy looks longingly at a photograph and I found myself wondering why she had a picture of Bernadette Peters in her dressing room, before I remembered that show business legend Peters did a guest shot as Ivy’s show business legend mother.

The production of the show within a show is rife with sexual hook-ups and romantic turnabouts for pretty much every single person in the cast who isn’t relegated to the chorus. Which all seemed a bit much to me, but Kathleen–a Yale educated stage manager–assures me that it’s remarkably true to life in that regard. If I had any single problem with the show, it’s that oftentimes the developments are so meticulously set up that you’ve got more telegraphing than Samuel Morse. Uma Thurman’s “Rebecca” makes a point of repeatedly mentioning having a peanut allergy and that she only drinks smoothies. You don’t introduce that piece of info for no reason, and the only reason is the obvious reason: she ingests peanuts via a smoothy and she’s out of the show.

So now, with the season finale coming up, we are left with two huge questions: who poisoned Rebecca, and who is going to wind up playing Marilyn? Well, it’s easy to say something’s predictable after the fact, so I’ll go out on a limb three days early and say that it was “Ellis,” the smarmy, unctuous assistant to Morticia (or, if you insist, Hollywood royalty Anjelica Huston.) Why? Because there was a scene where he was in a bar with Morticia and Morticia’s boyfriend (and investor) with a shady past, complaining that Rebecca was wrong for the role and was dragging down the show. Shady boyfriend then announces he’s going to make sure that the tipsy Ellis is gotten safely to a car. He leaves. Why? I figure it’s because he slipped a bag of peanuts that he got from the bar to Ellis and told him to do what was necessary.

So then who winds up playing Marilyn? Katharine McPhee, and here’s why: because the standard show business drama trope is that the young, innocent naif (which is what “Karen” is) gets into show business, gets treated like a kicked puppy, but then inevitably develops the stamina, the determination, and–frankly–the sense of dirty pool required to make it to the top. If Hilty’s character, who is in every way more fit for the role, winds up getting it, McPhee’s character has no arc and no pay-off. My guess is that Karen finds out that Ivy had a one night stand with Karen’s boyfriend and this is the final straw that causes the talons to come out that she will use to then claw her way to the leading role. And she will do something appalling to attain her goal because hell hath no fury. Again, it’s the standard trope. Anne Baxter blackmailing her way into stardom in “All About Eve” or Elizabeth Berkley simply shoving the lead down a flight of stairs in “Showgirls.” That’s what I think is going to happen here. All you’ll need to complete it is Norrington saying to her, “You’re going out there a nobody, but you’ve GOT to come back a star!” Which could make for an interesting second season since McPhee’s on top and she has to guard her back from Hilty.

And if this all sounds incredibly melodramatic and soap opera-ish, well…it is. And I’m still there for it every week. What can I say? I’m a sucker for musicals.

It is, however, worth noting that there already really was a musical about Marilyn Monroe. It bombed. So staking one’s fortunes to a musical about Monroe–which is what both the fictional producers of “Bombshell” and the real producers of “Smash” have been doing–is a risky endeavor. Especially since everyone knows how her life ended, and it wasn’t happy. Although if you want to read a compelling dramatization of that, I’d point you to “Bye Bye Baby” by Max Allan Collins, an entry in his superb “Nate Heller” detective series. Now THAT would make a great movie. Or maybe a Broadway show.

PAD

Originally published April 11, 1997, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1221

Once upon a time, one had to be face to face in order to have social intercourse. (Remember, kids, be careful when having social intercourse: When you talk to a person, it’s as if you’re talking to everyone that person ever spoke to.) Now, however, you have the solitude of computer terminals, and are able to hide behind fake names and even fake locations.

And yet the anonymity can have curious and fascinating spin-offs. Herewith an intriguing anecdote of the new age of Isolinear Isolation. However I have changed the names of those involved, either to protect them from further public embarrassment, or else because they’re so obnoxious that I don’t want to give them more of the notoriety that their conduct clearly indicates they crave.

It was about 6 in the morning on Sunday and I had worked all night. But I was too awake to sleep, and so I decided to jump onto AOL and see if anyone was around.

I found a chat room where a group of comics fans had gathered. As is customary, everyone was using fake names. I started talking with one of them, while at the same time watching some of the cross-talking going on.

(Keep in mind once more: I am using different names than the real participants were using, while trying to keep the flavor of those actually involved. In doing so I’m probably going to wind up using names of other AOL participants who genuinely go by those handles. To paraphrase the old warning: Any resemblance to the names of actual fake people is purely coincidental.)

One of the participants was Wonder Girl. Wonder Girl, as I noticed in various cross-talk comments, was about fourteen and she lived in the Bronx. Also present was Robin, who was doing some heavy-duty flirting with Wonder Girl. Wonder Girl was being coy in response. Robin wanted to go out with Wonder Girl, and Wonder Girl replied that she had a boyfriend: Flash Gordon.

“I’d fight him for you!” declared Robin zealously. This went on for a bit, and then Wonder Girl announced that she’d be right back, because she was getting a phone call. Moments later she said, “Guess what. That was Flash Gordon. Robin, you said you’d fight him for me. So he’s coming online, so you two can fight it out. Well, I have to go to the supermarket now. Bye.”

And Wonder Girl vanished.

And, about ninety seconds later, Flash Gordon materialized, spoiling for a fight. “Who wants to fight me!” he thundered. “I’m looking for the guy who was interested in Wonder Girl. Come on. Who was it? Who wants to fight me for her?” Robin the Gutless Wonder had lapsed into sudden silence, which was remarkable enough in itself. Who in the world is concerned about getting into a fight—in cyberspace? What was Flash Gordon going to do? Punch out Robin? I mean, forget about walking-the-walk; if you can’t talk-the-talk in cyberspace, where can you?

But Robin’s sudden reticence was secondary to the obvious sham of what I was seeing. And as Flash Gordon continued to look for a fight, I said to the guy I was speaking to, “Do you believe this silliness with Flash Gordon? Who does he think he’s fooling?”

My comments caught Flash’s eye. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

I said, “Oh, come on. It’s perfectly obvious that you and Wonder Girl are the same person. That there is no Wonder Girl.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he declared.

“Then where is she?” I asked.

“She had to go out food shopping,” Flash informed me.

In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been so blunt. I was dealing with a teenager here. But I hadn’t slept all night and my patience and judgment weren’t what they should have been. Nor did I really, fully understand what I was getting into. I was simply carried along with the flow of the conversation, rather than really dwelling on the impact I was about to have on the person on the other end.

I said, “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that a teenage girl had to go out food shopping. At 6 in the morning. On a Sunday. In the Bronx.”

“There was probably something she needed,” said Flash Gordon.

“At six in the morning? On a Sunday? In the Bronx?”

“That’s how girls are,” Flash claimed defensively.

I said, “Aw, come on, Flash. You’re asking me to believe that this girl just happens to be talking about you, and then you just happen to call, and then she just happens to leave as you just happen to get online? Don’t you see what a stretch that is?”

“She knew she could leave because I was going to fight on her behalf and take on the guys who were coming on to her,” explained Flash.

“Y’know, that’s pretty odd, Flash,” I replied. “Most teenage girls I know, they would have stayed to watch their boyfriends mix it up with a guy to fight for their honor. But not Wonder Girl, no. She goes food shopping. At 6 in the morning. On a Sunday. In the Bronx.” And other people, noticing the cross-chat, started to comment on the unlikelihood of this as well.

“We’re two different people,” Flash maintained forcefully. “Check our profiles. You’ll see. There’s different profiles.”

Profiles, you have to understand, are descriptions that people create for themselves when they come online. They have no necessary adherence to reality at all. Nonetheless I checked out both Flash Gordon’s and Wonder Girl’s profiles. Each of them provided detailed information, and each of them also talked about each other in glowing, romantic terms. They also both mentioned a third person, Erik the Red, as a mutual best friend. I came back and said, “Yup. Two different profiles. You’re right.”

“You see?” said Flash, triumphant.

“Strange, though,” I observed, “that there are identical grammatical mistakes and misspellings in both, which would indicate they were created by the same person.”

And Flash Gordon freaked out.

He began doing the computer equivalent of screaming, typing entirely in caps, “WE’RE NOT THE SAME PERSON! WE’RE TWO DIFFERENT PEOPLE!” Profanity-ridden postings screeched across the computer screen.

Now as I noted, I was sleep deprived. I was even starting to drift off a bit, the main thing keeping me awake being the clattering of the keyboard. But this snapped me back to full wakefulness. This was no longer a mental exercise. This was a complete meltdown. A line had been crossed from chat into psychodrama. Realizing that Flash Gordon had lost it, other people in the chat room started to move in for the kill, and I immediately started reining them back, sending them private messages saying, “We better give him some space, fast.” Publicly I typed as quickly as I could, “Okay, Flash, you’re two different people. Fine. You win. I’m sorry I thought otherwise. My mistake.” And Flash seemed to calm back down.

I had never seen anything like it. It had caught me completely off-guard. And later one of the AOL regulars explained it to me as not being uncommon at all. The term for it is “Loner’s Syndrome.”

Imagine yourself as a classic misfit. You have almost no friends, no social life. You’re an outcast, you can’t get a date, you’re socially inept, girls won’t give you the time of day. In short, you’re what I was like all during junior high and the first two years of high school.

And so you flee to the last bastion of societal anonymity. You go to AOL.

And there you create an identity for yourself. Brave. Heroic. Dashing.

But that’s not enough. You want the folks on AOL to think you’re a cool guy. That you’re da bomb (and boy, isn’t it funny how that phrase didn’t exist in a positive connotation when I was a kid, when we were concerned about someone dropping Da Bomb). How do you come across as cool to the other guys? Easy. By having a babe for a girlfriend.

So you create a girlfriend. An aggressive flirt, coy and teasing, who only has eyes for you. Makes the other guys jealous, and elevates you because, hey, there must be something great about you if this hot chick considers you her one-and-only. And you also fabricate a best friend, just to show you can hang with the guys as well. In short, you create an entire social life for yourself—and it’s just you.

On the one hand I can sit here in judgment, separated by several decades from the state of mind that would lead to such actions. On the other hand, I can’t help but note that I create characters for a living, and if there had been computers when I was a teenager, I might have done the same thing.

And so, the moral of the story is: If you’re going to make up other identities, be a little more slick about it.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. Letters can also be addressed there to his eldest son, Rex, his hot mistress, Gabrielle, his talking dog Cuddles, and, of course, Skippy the Jedi Droid. Next week: more online adventures.)

I’ve been saying for ages that I didn’t buy for a minute the notion that President Obama had any problems with gay marriage. Not for a moment did I think that a guy whose parents, less than half a century ago, would not have been allowed to marry in some states, would believe that legally keeping people apart who love each other was an acceptable way of doing things. But I think that he was concerned about the political backlash. Me, I think he should have said screw the backlash and just been honest. Then again, that’s easy for me to say, because I wouldn’t have had to worry about going all-in on my political ambitions with this issue. He probably felt he needed to save his political capital for health care, which we all know is rock solid steady and couldn’t possibly be overturned or set aside.

In any event, whether Joe Biden’s honest answer to the question was a trial balloon or simply forced Obama’s hand, it was obvious that his foot-dragging toward an inevitable “reversal” of his “evolving” opinion was going to have to happen sooner rather than later. Based on surveys, the GOP is (once again) on the wrong side of this issue, and the people who pointlessly hate the idea of gay marriage were likely not voting for Obama anyway. So in theory nothing is lost and some good will is gained. The other bit of timing that I liked was that it came in conjunction with North Carolina’s obscenity of an anti-marriage, anti-civil union amendment (which also impacts heterosexuals, so brilliant move there.) North Carolina comes across as so stupid, you’d almost want to joke that it should marry Arizona, except of course that would be illegal. One North Carolina politico claimed that they hoped this would send a message to the rest of the country. Well, I think the President of these United States sent a message right back: everyone who voted for it was wrong.

My one regret is that Obama basically said that it’s still a state issue. I mean, yeah…he’s right. But so was slavery, once upon a time. I wouldn’t have minded him putting forward a case for possibly taking it to the national level. I don’t pretend to understand these things, but I wonder if a class action suit in North Carolina by disenfranchised gays AND straights would be the ticket to a Supreme Court ruling.

PAD

Originally published March 28, 1997, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1219

And now, in celebration of the 20-year anniversary of Star Wars, we present the untold story (well, untold until now) of the single most important individual in the entire trilogy. The individual upon whom the whole story has hinged. And yet, his praises have gone unsung. There are no books about him, no background on him, no notice of him whatsoever in any description of the main points of Star Wars. Hearken to the following tale (a commentary on the series—which is ®, ^TM, and © Lucasfilm Ltd. and not confirmed by anyone in that organization):

A Long Time Ago… in a Galaxy Far, Far Away…

Star Wars

Chapter 3.9

Skippy the Jedi Droid

The Emperor thought he had managed to eliminate the last of the Jedi Knights. However, he was wrong.

There was one left, and his name was Obi-Wan Kenobi. Now, Obi-Wan lived on a desolate world called Tatooine and he had gone there for two reasons—for he knew that, on this apparently barren world, there were two potential Jedi Knights left. One was Luke Skywalker, son of the famed Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan’s former pupil.

The other, however, Obi-Wan did not know. He only knew that there was another Jedi on the surface of Tatooine but he could not pinpoint the mysterious knight. It was tremendously frustrating for Kenobi, for, being a master of The Force, he had thought it would be easy. But it was not. Long did he search Tatooine, through an assortment of wretched hives of scum and villainy, through nauseating conclaves of loathing and depravity, and through many other places of equally tortured syntax.

But nowhere could he find the mysterious other Jedi Knight. There were times when he felt that he was almost on top of him, but he would look around, check the crowds of alien beings all around him, and be unable—for all his powers of The Force—to locate him.

Little did he suspect that the mysterious Jedi was literally under his nose. For the one he was searching for was, as we’ve already mentioned:

Skippy the Jedi Droid

Now, Skippy was a humble R2 unit, one of the older models. And he was not entirely certain when he had become self-aware. Artificial intelligence was nothing new for droids, of course. Droids could think, feel, respond. They could quake in fear or charge forward in bravery. They could do anything that living, breathing beings could do, except, of course, send freakin’ e-mail or copy a freakin’ file. But we covered that last week, so let’s press on.

For all the talents and abilities that droids possessed, Skippy was—something more. Something different. When he tried to convey this to his peers, his fellow machines, all of the other droids used to laugh and call him names. They never let poor Skippy join in any droid-type games.

But he knew. He knew that he had something within him—some ability that was beyond anything to which most droids aspire. He did not always feel it; it came to him one day while he was simply cruising around, serving drinks for the notorious gangster Jabba the Hutt. Jabba was an angry and vicious master, and many droids who worked for him knew great punishment. Skippy, like any other droid, wanted to avoid that.

Yet it seemed as if punishment would be his the day that a passing bounty hunter banged into Skippy while Skippy was carrying a drink order to Jabba. Skippy knew that the moment that that drink hit the ground, he was likely a goner. The moment of the falling drink seemed to extend into infinity, and, in that endless moment, Skippy—reached out. Reached out with his mind, with his feelings.

And the drink, which had tipped off the little shelf in Skippy’s head—righted itself.

Instinctively, Skippy knew that this was impossible. The drink had been overturned, the center of gravity off. There was no way that the drink could conceivably have been prevented from falling.

Yet it had been.

It happened so quickly that no one else noticed. Skippy quietly served the drink to Jabba and went on about his duties.

But that night, while everyone was sleeping, he tried to move something—nothing major, just a rock. Nothing happened at first, but then slowly the rock trembled, moved, shifted, and then rose into the air ever so slightly, then higher and higher.

Skippy practiced night after night. He had no idea what was happening; he only knew that he possessed some sort of bizarre skill. He asked other droids, and they told him that the only ones capable of such tricks were Jedi Knights, who were all extinct. Skippy sought to learn all he could about the Jedi and what they were capable of doing.

He told the other droids of his self-discovery, but they sneered at him. And when they did, he would try to prove his abilities, but he was so angry over their taunting that he was unable to focus the powers of The Force. Instead, he decided to ignore their scorn, to search his feelings and learn the powers of The Force and how to manipulate it. As he did so, he came to realize that proving himself to a bunch of dumb machines was not relevant. He was meant for greater things, and their ridicule was not important.

And one night—one amazing night—Skippy escaped. With his miraculous power, he removed his restraining bolt by application of The Force. The bolt simply hurled away from him, clattering uselessly to the floor.

He rolled towards Jabba’s exit, and two massive, pig-like guards barred his way. But Skippy reached out with the power of The Force and said to them, “Beep a beep doo bop bop,” which means, “I’m not the droid you’re looking for.” The guards hesitated only a moment and then stepped aside, and Skippy rolled to freedom—freedom to seek his destiny as a Jedi droid.

There was, however, a problem which Skippy now had to face.

He was in the middle of a desert—not surprising, since all of Tatooine is a desert.

Jedi or not, droid or not, being in a desert can be intimidating and daunting. Skippy did his best. He traveled at night, looking for his destiny. By day he hid in shadows to protect himself from the twin suns of Tatooine (although, no matter how hard he tried, he could not protect himself from the fact that binary stars have such massive gravity wells between them that they simply don’t have planets, but we won’t get into that, either). He hid from the sand people from Tusken. He hid from the sand worms from Dune.

But his destiny did not seem particularly anxious to seek out poor Skippy, and in the meantime he began to wear down. He became filthy, encrusted with dirt, sand working into his innards. His power cells were draining with little hope of recharging, no matter how carefully he conserved his power. And slowly he came to realize that, even though he was a droid of destiny, it might be that he wouldn’t have the opportunity to find it.

And then, as it turned out, his destiny found him.

One day the ground rumbled beneath his treads, and he saw coming toward him the giant rolling truck of the Jawas. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have endeavored to hide, but he knew that—despite the unpleasantness of being picked up by scrap and robot dealers—he had little choice. He wasn’t going to be able to last much longer on his own.

So Skippy let the Jawas spot him, and eagerly they scrambled out and brought him onto the transport. They cleaned him up as best as they could, although what he really needed was an oil bath and a new set of bearings. And Skippy decided that he would stay aboard the transport, at least for a while. He knew that, with his mastery of The Force, he could escape any time. He did not bother to tell the other droids about his abilities, for he knew that it was a waste of time.

And then one day he met two droids.

One was another R2 unit. But this R2 unit seemed thoroughly obsessed with some sort of mission. He told Skippy that he had to deliver a message to an Obi-Wan Kenobi.

The name struck a chord within Skippy. Somehow, he knew that name was important, but he did not know why. He sensed that The Force was trying to tell him, but Skippy was sorely frustrated and was unable to comprehend. Shortly after he’d met R2, another droid showed up as well. This one was called C-3PO, and he wouldn’t shut up. He just kept yammering and yammering and it made it impossible for Skippy to meditate and learn that which The Force was still trying to communicate to him.

There was something new happening to Skippy, something different. He was having a sense of the future, images swirling in his head that he could not yet understand: a vision of a man dressed in black and of a young woman who, for some reason, had cinnamon rolls on her head. And soldiers, many of them, dressed in white armor, and sometimes they were riding on large lizard-like creatures, but other times they were just sitting on a large replica of one. It was all very hazy and confusing.

Then one day the Jawa transport ground to a halt. Skippy could tell from the hustle and bustle that the Jawas had potential customers. They rousted all the droids out onto the hot Tatooine surface.

Two people approached. They were moisture farmers; Skippy knew the type. They seemed unassuming, run of the mill, an older man and a young one.

The young man—there was something about him. Something that seemed to call out—greatness

Skippy knew instantly. This one, this blond one—The Force was strong within him. Skippy began to quiver with delight and amazement. Destiny had seen him through, after all. He was going to be the droid of a future Jedi. And he being a Jedi himself, why—they would be an unstoppable team. They could defeat the Empire, return the galaxy to peace. Between the two of them, they could cause the Jedis to rise once more to their glory.

It was the merest trick of effort to reach out and manipulate the mind of the older man, the one called Owen. Owen was busy having his ear bent by that talky 3PO unit and had just agreed to take on old blabbermouth. Skippy nudged a thought into Owen. A thought that said, “I am the droid you’re looking for.”

“And that red one,” said Owen, pointing at Skippy.

The callow youth, the Jedi-to-be, approached him and said, “C’mon, Red, let’s go.”

Skippy rolled forward, images of the future swirling about him, all apparently about to click into a clear vision.

And the blue R2 unit started rocking back and forth, calling to C-3PO. C-3PO glanced back for the briefest of moments and then kept walking. The R2 unit started to follow in frustration, and one of the Jawas ran up and shut him down using the restraining bolt.

And it was at that moment that all the images coalesced for Skippy: the future—or potential future that lay ahead—as destiny held its breath.

Skippy would go with the 3PO unit and the future Jedi. He would try to communicate with the young Jedi, but 3PO would refuse to translate “such rubbish.” He would start moving things around using the power of The Force, and his abilities would terrify his new masters—particularly Uncle Owen, who would know just what those powers intimated. He would immediately have Skippy’s memories erased, and the Jedi droid would be no more.

Meantime, the blue R2 unit would remain with the Jawas—and the armored men would come, the armored men who would ransack the Jawas, kill them all, and take the R2 unit back with them. Back to the dark man in the helmet and cape.

The dark man would then destroy the R2 unit. Then he would kill the young woman, the woman in white with the cinnamon rolls on her head. The search for the rebels would continue and, eventually, the rebels would be found. A frightening space station would fill the sky above them and blow them out of existence and, just like that, the rebellion would end. Obi-Wan Kenobi would sense their minds crying out in fear and terror, would know that the last of the rebellion had been wiped out, and—filled with despair—his mighty heart would give out and he would collapse and die, alone and forgotten in his hut.

The young, blond Jedi would never know his destiny. He would stay and rot on Tatooine, one excuse after another offered until he was staring into the sky, looking to a destiny, but as an old man who had never followed it, never became anything more than a moisture farmer.

All this, all this because Skippy the Jedi Droid had been chosen instead of the blue R2 unit. If the blue R2 unit went with the young Jedi, a very different path lay ahead for the future. A great one—which did not include Skippy.

The fate of the entire galaxy hinged on the snap decision of one brave droid.

He knew what he had to do.

Using The Force, Skippy drove it inward, like a spike, blowing out his own internal workings. He rolled to a halt and the blond Jedi-to-be, the one named Luke, stopped and looked at him in annoyance.

“Uncle Owen,” he called, “this R2 unit has a bad motivator! Look!”

Oh, the irony of that statement! Oh, the unknowable irony! For Skippy had had the most magnificent motivation of all. He was trying to save a galaxy.

With his dying strength, Skippy reached out into the circuitry of the 3PO unit. As Owen argued with the Jawas, the 3PO unit—who had been more than happy to abandon the blue R2 unit only moments before, suddenly said, “Excuse me, sir, but that R2 unit is in prime condition. A real bargain.”

Not caring overmuch, Luke called, “Uncle Owen! How about that one?”

And he pointed to the blue R2 unit.

And with that moment, with those words, that gesture—the other future fell away, dissolved like paper in water. Skippy, his circuits failing, his consciousness evaporating, saw what was to come. The excitement, the greatness, the triumph—all due to him. To his sacrifice. To the heroics of the greatest, most unsung Jedi in the history of the galaxy.

“Take this one away,” said Luke dismissively, and the Jawas came and rolled Skippy away. His last sight, before the blackness of total breakdown encompassed him, was the blue R2 unit rolling away at the side of the golden 3PO, as if he had always been there and always would be.

The Jawas didn’t have time to repair Skippy before the Stormtroopers came and incinerated them. The first, and last, of the Jedi droids died quietly in a coma, his casing blasted to pieces by a stray Stormtrooper bolt. Died alone, unknown, unmourned.

Until now.

Be kind to your droids and all your various appliances. For sentience and an understanding of the universe is a rare and precious gift. One never knows where one will find it.

But next time you’re alone and you feel something—a faint beeping in your skull or the sound or motors whirring—you may be sensing—him. One with The Force now, ever present, ever seeking out others of his kind. Others who may be in your kitchen or on your desk, or in your briefcase. Wherever machines are taken for granted, wherever sentience may exist, there will be—Skippy, the Jedi Droid.

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

That creators shouldn’t get worked up over Internet piracy because, hey, it enables people to sample the work and, by gosh, they will start buying it. And you’ll find plenty of people who will attest to doing just that.

But then there’s the guy who J.K. Woodward–sitting at the adjacent table right now at the Wildpig convention in New Jersey–told me about, who came up to him at the New York Comic Con. The fan was waxing effusively about J.K.’s work on FALLEN ANGEL, and how much he enjoyed his work…and then felt constrained to add, “I don’t actually buy it. I download it. But it’s great!”

You wonder how someone can be that clueless. Well, it’s easy: the massive sense of entitlement amongst some Internet denizens. People who would never think of shoplifting a comic book from a store do not hesitate to take advantage of stolen goods. Why should they feel any kind of shame when it does not occur to them that they are screwing the publisher and creators out of money? They cannot distinguish between, say, free online content provided by newspapers and pirate sites where they can browse through illegal downloads.

And it’s only going to get worse. Because the current generation of users has witnessed the rise of pirate sites and makes use of them without the slightest intention of providing remuneration for the creators, rationalizing it all the way. The next generation is going to grow up with theft as the norm. No excuses necessary. And if you don’t think that’s going to have a long-term negative impact on publishing, you are quite simply kidding yourself.

Because for every nimrod who’s shameless enough to tell creators point blank, “I love getting your work for free,” I’ll wager there’s plenty who are doing the same thing and just keeping their mouths shut. Because they know what they’re doing is wrong. And they do it anyway.

PAD

“What’s the best superhero” film ever made is a question endlessly debated with no concrete answer. There’s too many subcategories. You want fealty to the spirit of the source material? “Spider-Man.” You want the best performance of an iconic hero? Chris Reeves’ “Superman.” Comic strips? “The Phantom.” Most street cred with the Academy? “Dark Knight.” And so on.

But for pure fangasm…for a comic book superhero film that will not leave a dry seat in the house (metaphorically, one hopes)…you simply cannot beat “The Avengers.”

This is the type of film that Warner Bros. had a decades-long head start on and couldn’t get its act together. It should have been easy. Do Superman, do Batman, do Wonder Woman (must…avoid…obvious…joke…) and then put them together on the big screen with a couple more guys as the JLA. Instead the JLA remains fettered to the small screen and they fired Joss Whedon off Wonder Woman, thank God, so that comicdom’s Designated Fan could unleash the combined efforts of what is now effectively four years worth of prequels on screens across America.

And oh lord, was it worth the wait.

When Marvel first launched the Ultimate line, I opined that it was effectively a blueprint as to how to do the Marvel Comics movies, right down to the fact that Nick Fury had suddenly turned into a dead ringer for Samuel L. Jackson. And now here we are, and there he is, sporting the eyepatch that will forever deny poor Nick the opportunity to see this film in 3D. (That’s actually a cartoon I’d like to see: Nick Fury and Odin at the movies with the 3D glasses on and Fury muttering, “I *knew* this was going to be a waste of money.”)

I’m not going to give you vague plot beats because you’ve probably heard them all. I’m not going to ruin anything in the film because that just wouldn’t be right.

I will say that there’s a good deal of methodical block building in the first 45 minutes, but director/writer Whedon doesn’t automatically assume that everyone has seen all the preceding movies. And that’s fair. You can’t assume, and even if you’re completely up to speed, there’s enough there to keep you engaged.

The plot holds together for the most part. And the film is replete with all of the classic Whedon-esque touches, including my personal favorite: Anytime a Whedon villain starts delivering a self-aggrandizing monologue, it always ends prematurely and badly for the villain. Happened in all his television series, particularly “Buffy,” and usually to Spike. Most memorably up until now was the guy that was mouthing off to Mal in an early episode of”Firefly” who had his speech truncated, along with the rest of him, when Mal kicked him into one of the ship’s turbines. But all of those were warm-ups for the example that occurs this time with one of THE most humiliating defeats in the history of comics films.

Everyone in the film is great, although every time Cobie Smulders was on screen I kept waiting for Nick Fury to say in narration, “And kids, THAT’S how I met your mother.” But that’s probably just me. Also for a while there I kept having a sense of universe shift. When Tony and Pepper were on screen, I felt I was watching “Iron Man 3.” When Cap was there, it was “Captain America II,” and when Thor showed up, “Thor II.” Eventually, though, they had enough screen time together that I finally felt I was watching an Avengers movie, particularly when we got to another Whedon trademark: a vertigo-inducing spin around shot of everyone in a circle.

Plus there were all the aforementioned “fangasmic” moments. Iron Man vs. Thor. Thor vs. Captain America. Thor vs. Hulk. Black Widow vs. Hawkeye. Black Widow vs. Hulk which is, granted, more like Black Widow runs like hell from Hulk. (It should be noted that the Hulk has FINALLY been rendered well on screen (thank you, motion capture) and Mark Ruffalo appears to be channeling the more urbane attitudes of Bill Bixby than he is the more morose and self-obsessed Banners of his immediate filmic predecessors.) With all this internecine squabbling and battling, it’s thus all the more gratifying when the crew–face to the foe–is able to put aside its differences and finally work as a team. Which is what it’s all about.

Oh, and stay ALL the way through the end.

PAD

Originally published March 21, 1997, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1218

[Editor's note: Last week, Peter David, writer of stuff, pointed out that there's a plot concept missing in Star Wars that, as he wrote, "didn't even exist when the film came out two decades ago."]

Consider, if you will, the universe of Star Wars.

They have spaceships.

They have faster-than-light drive.

They have blasters.

They have lightsabers.

They have satellites capable of reducing an entire planet to rubble instantly.

They have land speeders. They have All-Terrain Armored Transports (AT-ATs). They have robots in a variety of shapes and sizes, capable of independent thought and action—basically, artificial intelligence. They have laser crossbows. They have cities in the clouds. They have suspended animation capability wherein they can put you to sleep inside carbonite, thaw you out, and you’re none the worse for wear except for the shakes and blurred vision. They have force fields, holographic chess, and high-speed air bikes.

What haven’t they got?

E-mail.

E-mail and the capability of copying a floppy disk.

Think about what the first film hinges upon. Princess Leia has plans to the Death Star that must be conveyed to the rebels. And the only way that she can think of to get it to them is to carry the one existing copy of those plans, by hand, herself, to the rebels.

I mean, c’mon. What the hell is that all about?

If there’s one thing that we’ve learned, it’s that one of the first things that happens as a result of computerization is that the world gets a whole lot smaller. Communication and dissemination of information becomes the easiest thing in the world.

Which means that the instant that anyone outside of the Empire’s chain of command got his hands on the plans for the Death Star, that information would be posted all over the place. Within two hours there would have been a Death Star website with a hundred million hits on it.

Now, just for argument’s sake, let’s say that the rebels only had accounts through GOL (Galaxy Online) and, naturally, were not able to access their web servers because the lines were always busy.

That still leaves the question of just what the hell Leia was doing as the sole possessor of the information. Someone somewhere along the line should have duplicated a hundred—a thousand—copies of it. It’s just a computer file, for crying out loud. Rather than all the eggs being in Leia’s basket, there should have been rebel agents coming from hundreds of different points, each with their very own copy of the Death Star plans. You want inconspicuous people carrying that information—not someone as high-profile as Princess Leia. She’s not Mata Hari or the Shadow, for God’s sake. She’s got challah on the sides of her head and she says stuff like, “I thought I smelled your foul stench the moment I came on board,” with a really bad accent. That tends to get you noticed.

Now, of course, this wasn’t a consideration back in 1977. While George Lucas was busy constructing a universe with the trappings of science fiction and the mythologies of Joseph Campbell, the realities of what technology might actually provide didn’t factor in.

So when you look at the big picture, what it boils down to is: In the real world we’ve progressed, and in the cinema world we’ve regressed. Perhaps, in the final analysis, art does imitate life. It just imitates it in the wrong direction.

As a side note, there’s another “hole” now visible in the Special Edition, but this one doesn’t exist as a result of the passage of time. Although, actually, perhaps it does, because time’s passage has rendered the character of Han Solo significantly un-PC when it comes to the extremely touchy subject of violence.

One of the defining moments of Solo’s character is his violent departure from the Cantina. A rubber-headed alien named Greedo intercepts Solo just as he is preparing to leave. A gun leveled at Solo, Greedo makes it eminently clear that he’s planning to blow a hole in Han for the purpose of pleasing Jabba the Hutt (which, of course, flies in the face of Boba Fett’s contention in The Empire Strikes Back that Han would be no good to him dead, but that’s neither here nor there).

For the past 20 years of video releases and umpteen plays on the USA network and the Sci-Fi Channel, Han Solo shot Greedo before ol’ bug-eyes could plug our favorite Corellian. Greedo slumps forward onto the table, Han apologizes for the mess, end of scene.

Not any more.

It could be argued that Greedo doesn’t intend to pop Solo right there but, instead, bring him to someone else who is going to do it. But that’s a subtle distinction and, besides, the dialogue sure makes it sound as if Greedo’s intention is to do our hero grievous bodily harm. (“Over my dead body,” Solo says, regarding giving up his ship, to which Greedo replies, “That’s the general idea. I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.”)

A threat of imminent danger, however, is insufficient motive for Han Solo to save his neck. Through the magic of computers, we now see Greedo firing a blaster bolt at Han’s skull. Han, through a slight movement of his head, dodges the bolt and then fires back and kills Greedo.

It used to be that Han Solo was someone you didn’t mess around with. Wave a gun in his face, threaten to do him bodily harm, and he’d pop you. He simply assumed that, if you made it clear you were out to get him, he’d get you first. Period.

Not any more. Now we’re asked to believe that Han Solo adheres to such a demanding standard of fair play that—even though Greedo is threatening him with a blaster from across the table—Solo will sportingly give an enemy a free shot at him before acting to save his skin. And what an opponent Greedo is: He fires at Solo, a relatively stationary target, from a point-blank distance of no more than a meter—and misses. With aim that abysmal, he could probably have gone to work as a Stormtrooper.

Cold-bloodedly killing someone who intended to kill him helped make Han Solo believable as a hard-bitten, tough-as-nails smuggler and “space pirate.” What we have instead is a highly dubious scene featuring a needlessly stupid risk by Solo and stupendously bad shooting by Greedo. I thought the purpose of this computer gimmickry was to make the Star Wars universe more believable, not less.

Perhaps this newly conceived “sporting chance” should be applied to other films. I can’t wait for the re-release of Raiders of the Lost Ark wherein Indiana Jones confronts a swordsman who, thanks to computer enhancement, is waving a scimitar in one hand while cradling a machine gun in the other. He’ll be blasting a path of bullets all around Indy until the intrepid archeologist’s patience wears thin and he shoots the swordsman. It’s a far superior alternative to the current depiction, wherein Jones simply shoots down the inconvenient sword wielder from a comfortable distance of 30 feet.

Special editions. Why did it have to be special editions?

 (Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to a Second Age Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. Next week, and this time we promise: The untold story of the single most important individual in the entire Star Wars legend.)

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

“Don’t do it, Luke!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Been a busy week.

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

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

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

PAD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s my WGA card.”

“What’s the WGA?”

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

“Why are you giving me this?”

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

“What newspaper?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does the manager have a newspaper?”

“I don’t know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Works for a living.

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

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

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

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

I’ll tell you, though…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But hey—it beats working for a living.

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

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

Assorted fun stuff…

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you’re definitely not right.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

Extra points will be given for entries accompanied by illustrations.

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

Good luck. You’ll need it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The following stipulations and understandings must be made clear:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

Because of the following…

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

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

Okay. Let’s think about this.

1) Where did the assailant come from?

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

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

None of this seems terribly plausible. So I wonder…

…why was this man there?

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

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

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

You put the car in “Park.”

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

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

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

Okay… ready, set—go.

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

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

So I wonder…

…why is the woman still alive?

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

So I wonder…

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

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

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

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

How about this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There.

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

Ahhh… the hell with it.

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

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

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

PAD

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

From The Book of Gen-X-is:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PAD

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

Picking up from last week:

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

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

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

Busy, busy, busy.

Then, one evening, I got through.

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

Nope.

For starters, I couldn’t find a name.

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

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

And then it added more art.

I waited. Got ready to click.

More art.

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

Where I sat as it added art.

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

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

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

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

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

And I waited.

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

“Uh huh.”

“Sure.”

“Right.”

I typed back, “No, really. I do.”

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

“I’m not kidding!” I typed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I reminded John of the conversation we had.

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

So I thought a moment more.

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

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

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

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

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

Geez, Louise. This was rough sledding.

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

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

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

So I dialed John’s number.

Busy.

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

I wrote, “It’s busy.”

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

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

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

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

It rang twice and I quickly hung up.

And John promptly vouched for me.

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

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

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

Busy busy busy…

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

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

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

PAD

Originally published January 31, 1997, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1211

Assorted thoughts…

* * *

My experience on America Online has been less than sterling thus far.

The first time I tried AOL was several years ago. I came on for a live conference. I was on line for about thirty seconds when I was immediately hailed by someone using a fake name. “Are you Peter David the writer?” he asked (one of the hazards of signing on with my own name rather than a nom-de-byte).

I wrote back, “Yes.”

Which garnered the quick response of, “Your writing suuuuuuuucks.”

Oddly, I didn’t feel any compulsion to try my hand at it again until fairly recently. I had just traded in my ancient computer for a new model—a computer which came equipped with this brand new thing I’ve heard everybody raving about called “Windows.” All the rage among the teenagers, I’m told.

By coincidence, I was asked by a DC rep if I wouldn’t mind coming on AOL for another life conference. When I said okay, but made clear that I wasn’t on AOL, I was sent a disk.

I installed it.

The program wouldn’t talk to my modem.

I ran through all the “Help” options. It still wouldn’t talk to my modem.

I tried calling the 800 “Help” number. I got a recording telling me the department I needed was busy and I should try back another time.

I tried again to connect to the modem. The program laughed at me.

I got a new modem (I was looking for an excuse anyway).

I installed the modem and reinstalled the AOL software I’d been sent by DC.

It informed me there was no access number in all of New York state through which I could connect to AOL. This, obviously, didn’t sound right.

The modem came with an AOL disk. The DC version was 2.0. The modem version was 2.5. Obviously that meant the new one was 25% better. So I installed the new one.

It tried to connect to the 800 number which would provide me with a list of access numbers. Busy. It automatically called the back-up number. Busy.

Took half a dozen tries, but it finally connected to the 800 number, and I finally got a list of access numbers. I selected two which were reasonably nearby.

The program dialed the first one. Busy. Dialed the second. Busy.

A dozen futile tries. Twenty-four calls in all to two numbers. Busy.

The program recommended I try reaccessing the 800 numbers. I did so. Busy. Busy again.

A dozen futile tries. Twenty-four calls in all to two numbers. Busy.

There was a customer service number on the cardboard sleeve. I called and got an automatic answering sequence which referred me to the department in charge of access numbers—which was busy. A recording told me to try my call later.

I looked at the cardboard sleeve which asked “Are you ready for…” and it listed all sorts of services AOL offers. Intuitive interface, graphics, magazines, news, chat. And it concluded, “If you’re ready for all that, then you’re ready for America Online!”

Oddly enough, nowhere did it ask, “Are you ready to waste hours trying to connect?”

Because somehow I think the answer would be no, and perhaps AOL would cease to be America’s fastest growing computer service. Which might not be a bad thing, because then maybe I could get onto the bloody thing.

* * *

Superman’s new costume. Three words: Needs ice skates.

* * *

“How do you feel about how women are drawn in comics?” the young woman at the Space City convention in Houston asked me. “Are you offended?”

Naturally, what she was referring to are the insanely endowed women who bump and grind their way through various curious titles.

“Not especially,” I said. “Are you?”

“Well,” she said good-naturedly, looking down at her own modest endowments, “it just makes the rest of us feel so inferior.”

I’ve given some thought to this matter (certainly as much serious thought as the matter warrants) and have come to the conclusion that women have no reason whatsoever to feel inferior when it comes to the way their gender is depicted in comics.

Women’s breasts are something I touched on—let’s rephrase that—this is a subject that I briefly addressed some time ago when Catwoman’s breasts became a cause celebre in the pages of Oh So? After causing some titters, the topic was nipped in the bud.

However, I was so busy making snarky remarks (not unlike those above) that I never really addressed the concept of being offended by said female-esque globes. The fact is that the human form is routinely exaggerated in the pages of comics. Superheroes are idealized versions of the human body, blown up to heroic proportions. The renderings of men are no more accurate than the renderings of women. Men in comics are oftentimes given bloated, exaggerated muscles. Now these sometimes prompt complaints from male fans. But usually they’re complaints that grow from simple aesthetics, because they are muscles so huge, so unwieldy, that the characters would be incapable of raising their arms over their heads (thereby rendering the concept of surrender moot, which is okay, I guess) or bending over and tying their shoes (hence the tendency towards boots). Such obvious ludicrousness invites insulting remarks, but they’re not gender-based. Just bad-art based.

Society, by and large, does not consider huge muscles particularly pleasing on women. So the superheroine can’t be depicted with humongous musculature because that wouldn’t qualify as the “idealized” form.

But if a superheroine is drawn in normal proportions, she will look unimpressive and wimpy next to her male peers. What, therefore, is the artist going to exaggerate in order for the superheroine to have parity? The curves and the bosom, of course.

I’ll grant you, sometimes it can be disconcerting—particularly when one compares the standard exaggeration-oriented artist to those few pencilers who actually stick more with reality. For instance, we changed artists on The Incredible Hulk midway through issue #425. We went from the reality-based Gary Frank to the exaggeration-oriented Liam Sharp. Consequently, Betty Banner went from realistically and modestly endowed to pneumatically enhanced, smack in the middle of the issue. (To say nothing of the Hulk suddenly acquiring so many pronounced veins on his arms that he looked like he’d been shooting up with tungsten.)

Do women have cause to be offended? They can be if they want to, sure, but if you ask me (and since I was asked, I actually have an excuse to say), women can’t reasonably act as if they’re being singled out for insulting depiction. Males are as well, and to my mind, it’s even more insulting than the indignities heaped upon women.

Comic book females, after all, are depicted as being massively endowed north of the equator. It may be juvenile, it may be silly, it may even be intimidating. But at least it’s there. The sexuality of superheroines is an extremely important factor due to the attention drawn to the erotic area of the bosom. Consider, if you will, the words of Jerry Seinfeld who, when asked if he was a leg man, responded, “Of course not! I’m a breast man! Why would I be a leg man? I’ve got legs!”

But consider, if you will, the plight of the male hero: the superhero who wears a leotard or thong that is no less tight, no less revealing than that of his female counterparts. But, whereas the tightness or skimpiness in female costumes accentuates womanly endowments, similar male costuming only draws attention to what’s missing.

In other words, those costumes are awfully tight in the crotch. However, for the most part there seems to be no indication whatsoever that there’s anything at all down there. Superheroines have hyper-accentuated sexuality while the superheroes, in turn, are hyper-diminished.

Superheroines, after all, still have some sort of recognizable sexuality: ludicrous, to be sure, but recognizable.

But the men have all been neutered. Either that or they’ve got endowments on par with the Atom.

I, personally, am offended.

* * *

I should make clear that, when I was discussing hostile and friendly aliens as depicted in televised science fiction, I was pretty much sticking to one-hour dramas and feature films. It has been pointed out to me that aliens come across as friendlier in the half-hour format. Uncle Martin was, in fact, the first friendly TV alien, predating Mr. Spock by several years. For that matter, later years gave us Mork from Ork, Alf, and the Solomon family.

There’s a conclusion to be drawn from that, but damned if I know what it is.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to a Second Age Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. Now, the following AOL update: Six more tries finally got him through to the 800 number, from which he got five more AOL access numbers. He dialed them all. Every single one was busy.)