Chicago Comicon 1995

Originally published July 28, 1995, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1132

Random thoughts and happenings on the 20th anniversary Chicago Comicon, not necessarily in chronological order:

Once upon a time, this was Sweat Con. Crammed into an airport hotel, with more shvitzing than what went on in your average Roman galley, Chicago Con finally moved out of the overwhelmed airport hotels and into the spacious Rosemont Convention Center. The Rosemont is more than up to the crowds, and is connected to several different hotels via covered walkways commonly referred to as the Habitrails.

But this year they weren’t even needed. It was absolutely gorgeous weather, the best I’ve ever seen. Moderate temperatures, no humidity, no rain or thunder or hail. The gorgeous skies certainly encouraged the official attendance of 23,000 to turn out in force.

* * *

A note to the pro community: If Gary Colabuono or the Chicago Comic Con asks you to be guest of honor, two words—Do It. Gary is the consummate host, making sure that you want for nothing and taking care that every need is anticipated and attended to.

I’ve known Gary for years, since my days as Carol Kalish’s assistant in Marvel’s direct-sales department. He spends most of the convention grinning ear to ear, even though—since one knows the strain involved in running a convention—I’m sure there are times it must be pasted on. I really like Gary, because he’s a stand-up guy and has marginally less hair than I do.

Now if only Carol could have been there.

* * *

My badge designates me as—rather than “Guest”—”Special Guest.” I figure that the difference between “Guest” and “Special Guest” is like the difference between “Olympics” and “Special Olympics.”

* * *

I arrived for the first day of the convention at O’Hare airport and went down to baggage claim, where there’s no one there to meet me.

Thinking I might be in the wrong place, I tried to use the airport paging system. It took me a solid fifteen minutes to get past the busy signal, only to be connected to a recording that informs me, “The American Airlines paging service is closed. Service hours are between 5:30 a.m. and 10:15 p.m.” I screamed at the recording, “It’s 8:45 a.m., you stupid recording!” The recording seemed less than impressed.

Gary showed up late because of other flights having been delayed. We piled into a waiting stretch limo where Chris Claremont was already ensconced, and hied ourselves to a radio interview.

It was to be taped and aired Sunday morning. The interviewer said we were supposed to act like it was Sunday morning rather than Friday. When we were taping, he started asking us about the convention and I said, sounding exhausted and—I like to think—fairly obvious, “God, yes, this has been some convention. I’m really beat.”

The interviewer rolled his eyes. He wasn’t impressed. Clearly he didn’t know I’m “special.” Or maybe he did.

* * *

Paul Dini was supposed to join me on a panel about transferring superheroes to feature films. He was a no-show. I learned later that he decided that, instead of going to Chicago, he was going to Anchorage, Alaska. A reasonable change of itinerary; the two are practically interchangeable.

One person asked the panel what our favorite comic book-based movie is. Mine remains Superman. All films-from-comics have their good points and bad, but Superman has the entire sequence that goes from Clark Kent looking at the telephone stall (while Lois dangles from a helicopter) through to when Superman catches the falling ‘copter. That goes beyond “movie version” to being a transcendent moment for any comic book fan.

That, and Chris Reeve convinced me that a man could (no, not fly—I still don’t buy that) come across like two different people with his only facial disguise being a pair of glasses and a different hair style.

* * *

The Adventures of Joltin’ Joe Straczynski, Part I—A young guy attempted to shoplift in the dealer’s room. He was spotted and tried to bolt, but didn’t get far. As reported by a witness, who was on the scene in the Chicago Con dealers room:

“I heard noise, people running and yelling. And I turned and Joe and another man were converging on a young man from either side. Joe grabbed him from the right, wrapping his arm around the guy’s shoulder and immobilizing him, and his companion was doing the same from the other side.

“Another man whom I imagine to be the victimized dealer caught up with the guy, telling him not to struggle, that they weren’t going to hurt him but he was definitely busted. I also heard him say, ‘Do you know who this is?’ pointing to Joe. The guy didn’t seem to care; he just seemed angry and scared. The dealer came back a minute later with two Rosemont security guards, who led him away. Me, my first thought was, ‘Isn’t this supposed to be security chief Garibaldi’s job?'”

And people wonder where Joe gets his ideas.

* * *

The Stan Lee Roast.

Gary convinced me to be MC. I was a nervous wreck. To the surprise of nearby Bob Greenberger, who’s never seen me drink anything stronger than Coca-Cola, I knocked back a scotch, straight up. (I learned to drink it that way when I was in Scotland for the Glasgow Comic Con because they took me out to a pub and, y’know, you can’t refuse to drink with Scotsmen in a pub. It goes beyond the concept of peer pressure. We’re talking outright insult. In fact, when I tried to order it on the rocks, the bartender looked like he was going to vault the bar and slug me. “I’m not goin’ta put ice in perfectly good scotch!” the outraged Glaswegian told me indignantly.)

It seemed to go well, though. I addressed my remarks to “Ladies, gentlemen, disgruntled former Marvel employees,” and it kind of went from there. On the dais were Sal Buscema, Roy Thomas, John Romita Sr., Chris Claremont, Jim Shooter, Julie Schwartz. Lines of mine that got the best reaction:

“I remember as a kid the first time I saw the name ‘Sal Buscema’ and thought, ‘Wow! John Buscema has a sister!'”

“Chris Claremont, the man who launched a thousand storylines—and actually wrapped up one or two.”

“Jim Shooter is to the creative community what Philip Morris is to asthma sufferers.”

“Stan Lee needed someone to follow Steve Ditko on Spider-Man in the way that swine follows pearls.”

“The name Julie Schwartz was mentioned earlier today, and a kid looked up at me and said, ‘Julie Schwartz? Who’s she?’ And of course, I told him: Sal Buscema’s lesbian lover.'”

Needless to say, I’ll be watching my back for a while.

* * *

Chicago put together, as a secret project, a Peter David ashcan book with testimonials/cartoon strips about me. It was such a successful secret that the first I heard of it was when a fan handed me one to autograph.

There was supposed to be a picture of me on the cover, but the printer screwed up and there was none. There was, however, a credit that said “Cover photo by CBG,” implying that there was in fact something there. Several people told me I’d never looked better. I’d have to agree.

My favorite illustration was by the Alaska-bound Paul Dini, which had a cutaway of my head to reveal the Brain from Pinky and The Brain operating the controls, while sneering at the reader, “You were expecting Harlan Ellison?”

Actually, that explains quite a lot.

* * *

My daughters accompanied me to the convention, which is something of a rarity. Ariel, the three-year-old, endeavored to upstage me at every turn and did so adroitly, although I usually had to translate her conversation for the audience.

(Have you ever seen two parents with two 3-year-olds? And the first 3-year-old says something and the first parent has to translate for the uncomprehending second parent. And then the second 3-year-old replies and the second parent has to translate for the first parent. And in the meantime, the two kids seem to know exactly what the other is saying. Hey, DC! Bring back Sugar and Spike! But I digress…)

At my midnight reading, Shana, 14, performed music from The Piano on a baby grand, not to mention a song from Les Miserables both in normal time and in polka time. I estimate she could do Les Mis in about 43 minutes if she did the whole thing polka.

Jenny, 10, spent most of the convention hanging with her friends and working the hospitality room during the CBG awards. There was one nasty moment that I heard about, however, that shows how thoughtless people can be: Someone came up to her and said, “So you’re Peter David’s daughter!” She grinned.

Then they looked closely at her badge, said, “Oh. You’re not Shana,” and turned and walked away while her eyes teared up.

Like a middle kid doesn’t have enough to put up with, and then she gets subjected to crap like that.

We laugh at Jan Brady saying, “It’s always Marcia Marcia Marcia!” but it can be dámņëd cruel in real life.

* * *

We took in a Cubs game Sunday night. I was excited about it because I’ve never been to the friendly confines of Wrigley. It’s a whole different baseball experience and one that I heartily recommend to those who have only attended a ballgame at the standard behemoth stadiums that are so common these days.

The girls were so-so on the subject of the outing until I informed them that Gary Colabuono had graciously arranged for us to be transported there and back in the stretch limo. Jenny wanted to know if we could just watch the game from inside the limo.

The only hitch was that we had two seats and three seats separated by one section. We kept Ariel with us for the first three innings, but then she insisted on joining her sisters where she stayed for the rest of the game. They were right nearby and perfectly visible to the parental watchful eye—if there was any trouble, I could be there in under five seconds—but nevertheless got to feel as if they were “on their own.”

Besides, not to worry. Three increasingly tipsy guys behind them took a paternal interest in them. One of them spent an entire inning playing peek-a-boo with Ariel. The more they drank, the closer they got to Ariel’s developmental age level, so it worked out fine.

Indeed, at the bottom of the sixth the beer sellers announced “last call.” The peek-a-booer asked if he could buy more than one beer. This strikes me as counterproductive to the concept of having the crowd dry out for the final three innings, but nonetheless the beer seller told him he could.

“I’ll take six,” said the peek-a-booer.

“That’s the most expensive six-pack you’ll ever get,” said the vendor. “It’ll run you $22.”

“Oh, no. No, that’s ridiculous. I don’t want to do that.” He thought a moment and then decided, “I’ll take five.”

* * *

The Adventures of Joltin’ Joe Straczynski, Part II—Joe, his wife, Kathryn, and the David clan walked into a 1950s style restaurant in downtown Chicago.

Joe was wearing his Babylon 5 jacket. The guy seating us asked about his connection to B5 and, when Joe told him, started to bow and say, “We’re not worthy.” And then, to the flustered Joe’s surprise, the guy turns to the already-seated diners and announces, “Attention! Attention! This guy is the creator of the TV series Babylon 5!” Major applause, major ovation.

It’s one thing when you have an audience of rabid B5 fans at a convention cheering you. That’s expected. They’re “pre-sold,” as it were. But what a crying shame that Warner execs couldn’t see that spontaneous outpouring of support from “civilians.”

Joe later expressed a degree of self-consciousness over the entire thing, but he got no sympathy from me. Hey, when you wear a jacket with a big honking Babylon 5 logo and a name patch that reads “Joe Straczynski,” you abrogate the right to complain when you’re recognized as Joe Straczynski of Babylon 5. The jacket is leather and wool and it was 80 degrees out, so it’s not like he needed to wear it.

Ah, the dichotomy of being talented and humble…

* * *

Several fans came up to me on Sunday afternoon, told me they heard me on the radio this morning, and at least one commented I sounded exhausted, probably from the midnight reading. I guess I wasn’t obvious enough.

* * *

Twenty five years ago, three astronauts were trapped in Apollo 13. And in the movie theaters, getting a second lease on life (at least in my neighborhood) was the movie Marooned, about three astronauts trapped in space. A major key to the movie’s plot was cooperation between American astronauts and Russian cosmonauts.

So there we were, the Friday of the convention. In the movie theaters Apollo 13 had opened to rave reviews. And what was the front-page headline? The cooperative space venture between an American space shuttle and a Russian space station.

The foregoing observation is pointless but interesting.

A bit like life, I guess.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. Scene he would have liked to see in Die Hard With a Vengeance:

Bruce Willis on the phone with the voice of bomber Jeremy Irons—who’s heard but not seen for the first hour—demanding, “What kind of animal are you?!” and we cut to Scar from The Lion King on the other end growling into a cellular phone, “You have no idea.”)