Comics are a Riot

digresssmlOriginally published February 19, 1993, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1005

No kidding around this time.

No fooling.

This time I’m serious.

This time I’m scared.

Because I was at the Great Eastern Convention in New York this weekend, folks, and I saw some behavior that is starting to become all too typical.

Behavior more appropriate to, oh, piranha converging on an unsuspecting bather. Behavior that had previously been limited, in the human world, to rock concerts or soccer games or (on a daily basis) the floor of the stock exchange.

I’m talking about the behavior on the part of some fans that transformed crowds into mobs.

Screaming, shouting, pushing, shoving.

It used to be that way at Great Eastern Cons at the Ramada Hotel (formerly the Penta, formerly the Statler Hilton). The situation was a fire marshal’s nightmare, particularly as the day of the comic book megastar dawned. Certain creators who are the comic book equivalent of rock stars drew in (literally) tons of autograph seekers. Lines stretched up and down aisles, around corners, choking off exits, choking off air. Comic book conventions became endurance tests; more fun was had by victims of the Spanish Inquisition than by fans who wanted to perform the apparently simple act of walking down an aisle but were unable to do so.

Various conventions began handling the situation in a variety of ways. San Diego had several floors to spread hot creators over, to avoid congestion. Chicago spread creators out through several rooms and even into tents–along with a highly criticized, but nevertheless mob-preventing, tactic of handing out time-coordinated tickets (and the rock-star creators helped by limiting people to one signature per person, no ifs, ands, or buts).

And Great Eastern, realizing that crowding into the Ramada was creating a dangerous situation, relocated into the spacious Jacob Javits Center. By any stretch of the imagination, that vast arena should have been sufficient.

It was not.

Oh, the dealers seemed to have enough space. But in the areas where the “hot” folks were set up, it was insanity as usual: staggeringly long lines in confined areas that led to congestion and short tempers.

Even that, though, could have been dealt with. But nothing could cope with the mob mindset of the crowd, which at several times during the convention degenerated into loud, raucous, shoving masses of human flesh.

I was staked out signing books at the Comics Buyer’s Guide table, generously accorded space there by Don and Maggie (since, before I found them, I wandered around aimlessly with no clue as to where–if, indeed, anywhere–I was supposed to be). The people waiting for me to deface their comics with my signature were orderly by comparison with the crowds in some other parts of the convention. But on Saturday, particularly, they had a hard time grasping the notion of remaining single file. Fans were crowded in three and four abreast.

At one particularly horrendous point, there was a boy about 10 years old. Comics in hand, he was trying to move forward as much as the line would allow him (since people were, as mentioned before, four across, it made it that much more difficult for anyone to leave once I’d signed their comics for them).

I saw the boy start to make headway–and then two “adults,” each about a foot taller and at least a hundred pounds heavier, came in from either side. The boy’s head was at their shoulder-level and, to my horror, their shoulders converged on the boy’s skull, starting to crush it between them, as they obliviously tried to get to me.

I leaned over the table, reached into the crowd, grabbed the boy by the shirt, and pulled him forward. I signed his books for him and then made sure that he got out of there safely.

(The next day we were far more on top of it. Maggie, who missed her calling as a bouncer, made dámņëd sure that people remained single-file, ordering people back into place when they showed signs of repeating the previous day’s threats to life and limb.)

My problem in such situations is that I’m torn between trying to be accommodating (chatting with the fans, not setting tight limits on the numbers of books I’ll sign) and trying just to get the job done. I’m paranoid enough to feel that it doesn’t matter if I sign 3000 signatures and talk to 1000 fans; the one guy to whom I say, “Sorry, I just finished, I really have to go now,” or, “Look, I can’t sign fifty copies of Spider-Man 2099 #1–I’ll do a few, but that’s it,” is going to be the guy who goes around to all his friends or writes letters to fanzines saying, “Yeah, I met Peter David–what a jerk! He wouldn’t sign my books.”

But the absolute low point of the convention came Sunday afternoon. I’m still unclear as to precisely what happened. What I do know is that it occurred at one of the “rock-comics star” tables. At various times during the day, the occupants of that table had given away single editions of various “hot” comics, and it had been those charitable notions that had caused the loud, raucous feeding frenzies to which I alluded earlier.

But those had been isolated incidents. On Sunday afternoon, however–

It’s hard to say exactly what happened. As is usual at disasters, accounts varied wildly. The one most often repeated was that one of the creators started actually throwing “hot” comics into the crowd, thereby instigating a wave of pandemonium that would only have been surpassed if, say, Michelle Pfeiffer had shown up in full Catwoman regalia, climbed up on a piano, and started doing a striptease while singing “Makin’ Whoopie.”

Another version was that it was announced that a lot of “hot” comics were about to be given away free, and the crowd surged forward, waves crashing against the shore.

Perhaps the two accounts aren’t mutually exclusive–perhaps the announcement was made, the crowd went berserk, and (in self-defense) the star creators started throwing the comic books into the crowd (the way that you’ve seen burglars in movies distract deadly guard dogs by tossing hunks of raw meat).

What everyone seems to agree upon is that the unruly mob (although, as Don Thompson pointed out, have you ever seen a ruly mob–or even the word “ruly?”) went crazy. No swimmer with an open vein had ever attracted more enthusiastic sharks than the announcement of free “hot” comics being distributed to people in the crowds.

The other thing that everyone seems to agree upon is that the security guards at the Javits Center converged on the scene, broke up the mob, and shut down the table. End of giveaways. End of convention display. Great Eastern was only lucky that the guards didn’t shut down all the neighboring tables, as well.

Ladies and gentlemen: This type of behavior was (to use Daffy Duck’s favorite word) despicable. At one point earlier in the day, when the crowd was getting excessively uncontrolled, I actually shouted at it to knock it off. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I don’t need such trivialities as bullhorns in order to make myself heard. It actually worked for a little while–until the flying comics incident precipitated near chaos. If it hadn’t been for the Javits cops, I hate to think what would have happened.

Now that we’ve had a few days to compose ourselves; now that you’re reading this column at your leisure (perhaps in your living room or den or lying in your bed or sitting in your office or on the toilet or perhaps lining your birdcage with it, stopping briefly to see if there’s anything of any importance to skim before Tweety relieves himself); now that, in short, we’re all calm–

I’d like to say something.

I’m not talking to all of you, of course. I hope you know who you are.

Let me put this just as straightforwardedly as I know how:

They’re just comics, OK? Get a grip!

They’re funny books! Some of them are better done than others, but the bottom line is they’re all flights of fancy! They’re air. They don’t mean anything aside from a few moments of diversion from the everyday and humdrum.

They’re not gold bars. They’re not diamonds. They’re not stocks and bonds. They’re not Krugerrands. They’re not the Treasure of Sierra Madre or the Maltese Falcon.

They’re comic books. They’re black and white or four-color ravings produced by people who are paid fabricators. They’re made from pulped trees. They have no permanence. No matter what you do, sooner or later, they will crumble and rot and go away, OK?

By and large, they chronicle the adventures of wish-fulfillment steroid-cased outsized costumed bozos.

They are not to be taken seriously.

They are subjected to insane inflated prices, driven there by: greedy speculators; money-grubbing retailers and distributors; pandering creators; profit-motivated publishers bent on developing newer and newer gimmicks to cover a fundamental lack of substance; ignorant fans who are incapable of grasping the simplest law of supply and demand no matter how often it’s explained to them in words of one syllable; and media flacks who delight in beginning story after story with the words, “Remember those comic books your mother threw away? Now they’re worth thousands of dollars!”–thereby pouring kerosene onto the raging fire of speculation.

In the cosmic scheme of things, they’re meaningless. We used to buy them, roll them up and shove them in our back pockets.

And there is no comic in this world–no comic book, be it silver, gold, platinum, or puce; bagged or unbagged, hologrammed, holofaxed, holofixed, holocaust; laminated or unlaminated; embossed or flat; Image, DC, Marvel, Valiant, Dark Horse, anything–that is worth the risk of a single injury to a single person.

The concept that a comic book convention, which should be a wonderful introduction for kids to the dazzling and varied world of comics collecting–where a kid can meet and greet the creators he’s always admired and ask questions and feel that much closer to the (to him) magical process that brings super-hero adventures to him every month, and perhaps even fantasize about a time when he’ll be on the other side of that table, signing autographs or drawing sketches for kids that are the age that he is right then–the concept that such a convention should ever become a dangerous place, where young fans risk life and limb and might be trampled by alleged “adults” trying to get a hundred copies of the latest “hot” comic book signed so that they can tack on a few more bucks to the selling price–

It is intolerable.

Intolerable.

And we should not suffer it to continue.

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

***

Footnotes from the BID book collection:

1) In the same issue, Don and Maggie ran a proposed list of convention rules to avoid such a debacle recurring. Some cons have already adopted it.

2) Image representatives have continued to throw comics into crowds.

16 comments on “Comics are a Riot

  1. That’s a horrible shame that anything like this happened. I’ve notice, with greater frequency as of late, the increased negativity on the message boards. “Fans” calling for the heads of creators (i include writers, artists, and editors as creators). Its deplorable. At the end of the day, whether moved by a comic or not… its just a story. its not worth obsessing over or, in the case of the eastern con, trampling a little boy over.

    1. First time poster here, but I have to agree with both of you. I have never been to one of the big shows, but I have noticed similar behavior at a convention we have in Raleigh, NC. I’m standing looking at a box, trying to methodically filter through the randomness of a dealer’s chaotic dollar box. There are boxes open to my left and my right to look through. Out of nowhere some shmuck comes over and stands right on top of me and starts to look through the same box, past where I am. Anybody who has looked through an average long box will tell you that this is not helpful to the person in the front of the box. On top of that, apparently this 40 something year old man had never heard of the wonderful inventions of soap and deodorant. Then, and I’m not making this up, I swear, he proceeds to flatulate loudly and stink up the air in the general vicinity. I’m talking rancid.
      My point is this, besides inaugurating myself to this board with a disgusting story of a lack of personal hygiene,courtesy and comic fans apparently don’t mix. I’ve had shoulders thrown, people take comics out of the pile I’m gathering, personal space ignored, etc.
      Unfortunately these behaviors only add to the stereotypical depiction of comic fans as being rude, condescending ogres with no social skills. So, before you go to the con, brush up on your hygiene (nobody ever died from taking a shower), your manners (those crazy things your parents should have taught you years ago) and leave your farts at the door.

      1. You’re preaching tot he choir, bro. Someone like that is so far gone they are unlikely to even know what you’re talking about.
        .
        Ever been to some of the gaming rooms at recent cons? The smell could knock a buzzard off a šhìŧ wagon.
        .
        This is only a small subset of fandom but in my experience it only takes one flatulent kid to stink up a whole classroom. At least the kids do it for cheap laughs; the guy you describe has no idea what he does is socially unacceptable!

      2. When I used to go to the Creation Star Trek conventions, there was always this couple who didn’t seem to understand the concept of soap. And every year, no matter wherever I sat, they’d always be “upwind” of me.
        .
        Speaking of conventions, did anyone go to the Motor City Comic Con this weekend? I didn’t, in part because I’d just been to the Cincinnati Old Time Radio and Nostalgia Convention last weekend. Hope it was a enjoyable con.
        .
        Oh, and speaking of that soap-free couple. They would bid several hundred dollars on those Star Trek “collectors” plates. One vendor at the Cincinnati OTR convention was selling them for $20 each.
        .
        As to searching through a box, whether at a convention or in a comic shop, if there’s someone else around, I’ll put whatever comics I’ve accumulated atop that same box, so I don’t block the box next to it. And I don’t try to look through the same box as someone else. Fortunately, I haven’t had any experiences of people trying to take my comics or look through the same box I’m looking through. Or it’s happened so infrequently that I’ve forgotten.
        .
        Rick

      3. Bill, something else we have in common! In my case, though, the “classroom” was the pool where I was trying to teach the short ones to swim. Flatulence becomes all the more hysterical when there are bubbles, it seems….

  2. Was this at the last Great Eastern Convention you did, Peter? I remember that when I first met you, Shana was there, and when she saw the books I had for you to sign, she enthusiastically mentioned that she knew how to forge your signature (odd, I thought, that she would admit this in front of you). In any event, I remember that mob scene, as IIRC, I was down the aisle from it. It was ridiculous. By and large, all those “gold Supremes” (that was the comic I heard they were giving out) probably have rotted away. And what do those people who managed to snag one have to show for it?

    1. Memories.
      .
      It’s odd, but sometimes we form an attachment with the recklessly irresponsible moments. It may have to do with not having a care in the world, as much as that should contradict the stunts people will pull for the sake of something as trivial as a comic title they’ll abandon within the next three years.
      .
      It’s a sad substitution for accomplishment, but it felt like it meant something at the time. It doesn’t excuse anything, not for comic books or bridal bouquets or any of the other easy winner’s circles.

  3. Aside from the first year, the New York Comic Con has been thankfully free of this nonsense. And there, it was just overcrowding; I don’t recall any near-stampedes precipitated by comics giveaways.

    1. that’s as I remember it too, mike – the cramped corners in the first year, along with the fire marshal having to close off the floor – I got lucky in being on the “right side” of the line.
      I also remember a bit on the evening news about “near riots” outside from paying ticketholders who couldn’t get in – if I remember correctly in the end it was a lot of shouting but no real pushing/shoving or escalation beyond the voices raised in a rightious state of P.O’d.

      1. that said – better and better yearly sence then and very much looking forward to this year – got a great costume planned!

  4. I seem to rember that from the collection there was reference made to a female “Wartist” who took you to task about the above stating that you must hate comics (I think the word “raving”may have given her the wrong idea) My ? is who was that masked woman?

    I do however think that Great Eastern was (ir)responsible for the events that weekend, furthermore I think that the column unintentionally portended the speculator bust

  5. Every time I’ve ever gone to an autograph signing, I sit down and decide which one item I want to get autographed. It just seems to me to be the polite thing to do.
    .
    I remember about 15 years ago my wife (now ex-wife) and I went to a Dragon Con that you were at. She took my copy of Trancers 4 to get you to sign it, and also two of her books (A Game of You and Angry Candy) to get Neil Gaimen and Harlan Ellison to sign.
    .
    I may have a bit of the details muddled after so many years but the way I remember her account of it was that there were three separate lines, one for each of you. She got there early but still managed to be behind the last person in line. The volunteer managing the lines let her in anyway. And, when she got to the front you and Mr Ellison let her slide over from one line to the next to the next to get everyone’s autograph.
    .
    Another thing that is brought to mind right now is that a few years ago a gaming company almost recreated the stampede effect. They threw plastic miniatures and packs of cards to the crowd that was waiting in line. I don’t know if it was a deliberate attempt to duplicate what happened at Great Eastern, but that is what the result reminded me of.
    .
    Theno

  6. That kid whose life you saved would be 27 today. I hope he’s reading this and realizes what you did for him.

    That was heroic, Peter. Kinda super-heroic, ironically enough. You’re a good guy.

    1. I hardly think I saved his life; I sure hope I wasn’t claiming to have done so. Skulls are pretty tough. I stopped him from getting banged around though.
      .
      PAD

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