Comic-Con 1992, Part 3

Originally published September 25, 1992, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #984

Concluding my endless recollections on the San Diego Comic Con:

Upon my arrival at Los Angeles prior to the convention, I decided that I would rent a cool car. Since so much of that lifestyle hinges on looking cool, I thought I would take a stab at it. I rent a white Sunbird convertible. Shooting along Route 5 between LA and San Diego, with the radio cranked up full volume to the rock and roll oldies station–and wearing my brand new prescription sunglasses–I am so cool I have the defroster on.

Equally cool California babes pull alongside. One draws apace and mouths something. I turn down the radio to hear her.

It turns out she’s shouting, “Turn down the dámņëd radio.” Undeterred in my pursuit of coolness, I make certain to drive the Sunbird (top down, of course) in San Diego, even when walking or cabbing is a reasonable alternative. This includes when I go over to the hall where the costume competition is being held Saturday night.

I sit next to the lovely Len Wein and his even more lovely wife, Chris (I hope her name was Chris. Please, let it have been Chris. Otherwise I just know I’m going to hear about it).

Len tells me how, every year, he passes up dinner invitations and such to attend the masquerade, and every year keeps asking himself why he did it. There’s no question in my mind why I look forward to it.

It’s because for the four days of the conventions, the pros are doing their best to impress the fans. Dazzle them with charm and wit and knowledge and the ability to sign autographs for hours on end or do amazing sketches in record time. The masquerade is the only time during the convention where a guest can kick back and watch the fans put on a show. It’s a nice break.

MC Phil Foglio, resplendent in his white tuxedo, shows up late, due to having taken the shuttle which, of course, stopped at every single hotel along the way. How tragic to think that if someone had only asked me, I would happily have given Phil a ride in my cool white convertible.

I’m still glowing from having won an Eisner award mere hours before. I had considered, but ultimately dismissed, the notion of wearing it around my neck on a chain. However I mention it to Len, and also tell him that awards are great, but I’ll know that I’ve really arrived as a comic book creator when someone shows up at a masquerade dressed as a character that I’ve created.

The audience is extremely rowdy. They show a proclivity for hissing, and I start to feel as if I’m at a P.D.Q. Bach concert.

And then, twenty-some contestants into the show, Phil announces the next group as “The Atlantis Chronicles.” This draws a chorus of “Who? What?” from nearby… yet another testimonial to the DC promotion and marketing department for their handling of that limited series. To my shock, the first of the characters walks out: A dead ringer for Orin, the protagonist of the first five issues. Others start to emerge, looking like they’d stepped right off the page… And because the audience doesn’t know who they are, and doesn’t understand why the costumes are so elaborate, and it all looks antediluvian to them (gee, I wonder why) they start to murmur and make remarks.

I blow my stack. I didn’t care one way or the other if they were wisecracking about other costumes, but these are my characters and I won’t have it. I fill up my lungs and bellow, “Shut up!”, easily filling the hall with my unmiked volume. Everyone shuts up, or at least everyone near me shuts up.

They re-enact a battle sequence from the series, which is prematurely disrupted when the blonde wig on Kordax’s head is knocked askew. The curse of blonde Atlantean hair seems to hold true, even at the San Diego Comic Con. The audience thinks it’s a hoot and this time I can’t blame them… but then they start whistling and cheering when a skimpily clad Atlanna pirouettes across the stage.

I’m flying. The past five hours have been one huge adrenaline rush. Later I hook up with the Atlantis crew and get my picture taken with them. If I manage to get copies in time to run this column, I will do so. Otherwise in a later column, then. I can’t express my excitement enough about it. Chronicles remains my favorite work, and I’m thrilled that it inspired the nine people involved to recreate it on stage.

They subsequently win for best DC Costume, the prize as promised by Bob Greenberger as ostensibly being either a cash award or a week at my house.  If they choose the latter that’s fine with me, so long as they spend it in costume. I don’t have a swimming pool, but all things are possible.

No Marvel rep is in evidence to award the best Marvel costume. So Bob Greenberger steps back out, generously announcing that the Marvel prize will consist of $3000 or two weeks at my house. He’s about to award the prize from Dark Horse when Steve Saffel materializes and tries to kill him.

“Atlantis Chronicles” also wins for best group. Yea, team. Once again I find myself hoping that someday DC (interested but unswayed by the letters from over a hundred fans that came in to the office last time I mentioned this in the column) will collect the dámņëd thing.  They could do a photocover…

During the judging break, various trailers are screened including lengthy sequences from Disney’s upcoming Aladdin. Five minutes of Aladdin’s monkey sidekick is more than enough for me. I’ve never been real big on monkey sidekicks. Chim-Chim on Speed Racer ruined them forever for me.

However, the Genie is a pure delight. Unlike his Hook or Fisher King work, Robin Williams is not making any effort to be anyone or anything other than Robin Williams this go around. The Genie’s patter is rapid-fire, vintage Williams. It’s as if the Disney animators cracked their knuckles and said, “Go ahead. Take your best shot. Go as fast, and as stream-of-consciousness, as you want. We’ll keep up with you.” And they do.

The Genie seems to have stepped straight out of modern-day Las Vegas, taking such anachronistic actions as turning his own vapor tail into a microphone. “Hi, what’s your name?” he asks the young hero, and thrusts the “mike” into his face. “Aladdin,” the befuddled lad replies, and his name immediately appears in the neon logo of the like-named Vegas hotel.

“Carpet! Three thousand years no see!” the Genie crows to the magic flying carpet, which appears to be completely computer animated. “Gimme some tassel!” The carpet obediently brushes the Genie’s massive blue palm with a tassel. The Genie then performs “A Friend Like Me,” the obvious intended show-stopper that’s supposed to be the “Under the Sea”/”Be Our Guest” for this newest animated feature. It doesn’t have quite the build as those two, but it’s effective in its way.

I suspect the main problem with “Aladdin” is that, in a crowded theater, many of the Genie’s lines are going to be obscured by laughter because Williams goes so fast. Still, the collective ten minutes looks very, very promising.

They also screen the conclusion of the first Two-Face episode from the Batman animated series. Naturally the first Two-Face adventure was a two-parter, the first half having run Friday at the convention. The conclusion is no let-down. I continue to be impressed by everything I see that’s connected with this series. Indeed, by the time this column sees print, the series will have started airing… and then you can be impressed, too.

Afterwards I give several folks a ride back to the hotel in my Sunbird.

We all look cool.

I have business in Los Angeles on Monday. The directions are fairly straightforward. The simplest route to my destination is to take Laurel Canyon Road, which is somewhat twisty and turning. But I’ve navigated it any number of times in the past, and it beats the high-speed hëll of the Freeways.

I check out of my hotel where I’ve stayed the night (Ma Maison Sofitel, as always), toss all my luggage into the trunk, and set off on my way.

I start up Laurel Canyon.

My radio is cranked up. Rock and roll.  I check myself in the rear view. All I need is a car phone to my ear and I’m all set.

Ahead of me, a black car has signalled that it’s making a right turn, into the parking lot of some sort of store. Just about the only right turn one can make at any point on Laurel Canyon. I slow down in response, playing it safe.  I glance in my rear view again. A red Toyota is bearing down on me.

Too fast. There is no way in hëll it’s going to slow down. I can’t accelerate in time to get back up to speed. I can’t swerve into oncoming traffic (obviously). There’s no shoulder of the road.

I’m going to get clobbered.

The only thing that flashes through my mind is Please don’t let them break my Eisner award plaque and then the Toyota slams into me. The rear of the Sunbird crunches in, but I don’t hear it because I’m yelling a loud profanity.

My head snaps forward and back. The Sunbird leaps forward a few feet, matching the speed of the Toyota, and I move slightly towards the oncoming lane. But I had already cut the wheel over towards the curbside, and am not in any real danger. For a moment I wonder if the Toyota is being driven by the mountain goat I almost hit in Glasgow, seeking revenge.

I pull over to the first open area and for a moment wonder if I’m going to be a hit-and-run victim. But no… the Toyota pulls over and the driver gets out.

She’s a woman from Portland, Oregon. It figures. I’ve never had any luck with Portland. The last time I was there, my Buckaroo Banzai jacket was stolen, and someone tried to mug me behind a 7-11. Since I won’t go there again, apparently the residents are coming after me. Talk about being vindictive.

The trunk of my cool car is now somewhere in the rear passenger seat. I can’t possibly open the trunk to check if my luggage is intact, because the lock is jammed, and besides, I probably couldn’t get it closed again. It’s not just my plaque that concerns me. My computer is also in there. Here’s hoping the shock-absorbing case lives up to its advertising.

I turn my attention back to the driver. “Didn’t you see me slowing down?” I ask.

“No,” she admits. “I wasn’t paying attention. I was looking around at the houses.”

Avis’s insurance company is just going to love her.

Upon learning that the car is a rental, she starts pleading with me to lie about the circumstances of its abrupt remodeling.

Tell Avis that it was hit in a parking lot, she begs, and I have no idea who did it.

This doesn’t seem the swiftest move to me. The Sunbird doesn’t look like a car that was in a parking lot fender bender. It crumbled like paper on impact. (The Toyota, by the way, has only a slight paint chip above the headlight, but otherwise is undamaged. New car buyers take note.)  In short, the Sunbird looks like a car that was hit from behind at 30 miles per hour, and they’re going to want to know whys and wherefores.

Why her concern, I ask her.

Because, she tells me, the car she’s driving is fairly new… like, a day or so. It won’t look good to her insurance company to have been in an accident so soon. Not only that but, she tells me… she’s on probation.

The light dawns. “You’ve been in accidents before?” I ask her. “Rear ended people?” She nods.

Any smidgen of sympathy I have for her vanishes. I wasn’t inclined to lie in the first place. Now I’m hoping they take her car away, her license away. I’m hoping they ban her from the road before she kills somebody.

I get her license, registration, phone number, social security number. I get everything except her measurements. It occurs to me that if I’m out to meet a girl, this is the way to do it. But I’m not. I’ve got a girl at home, who is going to be happy that I’m back in one piece. And she drives a lot better than the one from Portland.

My neck is already getting stiff from when my head bounced around like one of those little ceramic baseball players. It will take three days before the stiffness finally goes away. I return the car to Avis, where they crowbar the trunk open to get my luggage, and then give me a new car.

It’s not cool.

But at least it’s in one piece.

I return home in similar fashion.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, once again invites any artists who owe him barf bag hand puppets to send them to me c/o To Be Continued, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, New York 11705. Artists living in Portland need not reply.)