Salon Internacional del Comic convention, part 3

Originally published November 22, 1996, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1201

Concluding my travel journal of my trip to the Salon Internacional in Spain. It was Saturday, Oct. 12, at the Haxtur Awards ceremony, and I’d just been presented with an award for Best Script for Incredible Hulk #420.

Harlan Ellison has stated that all the excuses for one’s actions, from exceeding the speed limit to infidelity, really boil down to one: It seemed like a good idea at the time.

So there I was up on stage in front of a packed auditorium.

The convention organizers had flown me several thousand miles to give me a solid bronze statue. I figured I should say or do something memorable, rather than just smile, wave, and exit. But I’ve never been terribly good at giving acceptance speeches for awards.

There are many people to whom awards mean nothing. I am not one of those people. Such recognition means a lot to me, and I usually get choked up or tongue-tied upon receiving them. Getting tongue-tied and depending on Sofia to sort out what I was saying seemed problematic. But there she was on stage, asking me if I wanted to say something.

And before I had time to consider the wisdom of my actions, I leaned forward into the podium mike and said, slowly and carefully, “I would like to say ‘Thank you’ in what I am told is a traditional Spanish method.'”

And I stepped back from the podium and did the Macarena. Not that there was any music or anything. I just went through the arm movements and did the hip swivel.

The place went absolutely nuts. Even though I had not waited for a translation to be made, clearly enough of the audience understood the gist of what I’d said.

I exited the stage quickly with the applause sweeping over me, figuring that—at the very least—I’d provided an amusing anecdote for those who were in attendance.

After the awards were given out, I was once again reminded of one of the perks of not being an artist: The artist guests were brought up on stage and, as if tradition at the convention, each rendered a sketch on a gigantic piece of paper. Sketches from the previous years’ guests, such as a Walt Simonson Thor (shouting “Hola!”) and a Joe Kubert Tarzan, looked down from on high as the artists did their stuff in front of an appreciative audience. The most ambitious was Bryan Talbot, who was on stage for a good 20 minutes after the other artists had left, rendering an incredibly detailed armored figure from, I think, Judge Dredd.

After the ceremony was over, it was time for the massive “final dinner” of the convention. Many people converged on a hotel restaurant that had a large dining room reserved for the occasion. Various artists were doing sketches in books and on napkins. I handed Art Adams a small heel of bread and asked him to draw “Judge Bread.” With a fine-point marker, he promptly drew a perfectly serviceable Judge Dredd helmet on the crust. It looked pretty sharp. I should have lacquered it or something to make sure it doesn’t disintegrate.

It was the final night to party, so after dinner a group of us went to a disco. And we stayed out… and out… and out…

By the time I was crammed into the back seat of a car returning to the hotel, it was coming up on 5:30 a.m. Sofia wanted to check out other night spots, and the rest of the passengers in the car, including Art, were more than up for it. Me, I’d had it. I was dropped off in front of the hotel, where I stood and watched the car drive away.

I headed to my room. I still had a little bit of energy left, so I got some scripting done. By the time I dropped into bed it was a quarter to seven in the morning. Of all things, Babylon 5 was on TV. It was the second hour of the original pilot film—dubbed, naturally, into Spanish. I watched 10 minutes of it, and my eyes closed.

The phone rang, jolting me awake. I sat up so fast the room spun around me. I was so confused that I thought, “Gotta get the phone before it wakes up the kids,” forgetting for a moment that the kids were on the other side of the Atlantic. I lunged for the phone and almost put my fist through the wall lamp.

“Hello,” said a voice from back home. “This is your wakeup call.”

I wondered how long I’d been asleep. I looked at my watch. It was 7 a.m. I’d been asleep for five minutes.

Trying to remember how to make my mouth work, I said, “Oh… good. Thank you.”

I flopped back on the pillow and tried to focus.

“You sound very relaxed.”

“Yeah, well, a good night’s sleep will do that for you,” I replied.

Sunday, Oct. 13—The previous evening (or morning—it’s all started to blend together) a group of us had decided that we’d meet for lunch about 2 p.m. We met down in the lobby, as planned. Art was nowhere in sight. We didn’t want to just ditch him, so I called his room. Art answered the phone in a tone that was very familiar to me.

“Hi, Art. We were all supposed to meet down here and we’re wondering if you’re joining us. We didn’t want to just head out to lunch and show up five minutes late, wondering where we’d all got off to.”

For a moment there was dead silence on the other end. “Who is this?” asked Art.

“This is Peter David.”

I paused. There was no reply.

“I write Incredible Hulk,” I offered helpfully.

“Oh.”

“I woke you up, didn’t I?” I said. Mr. Quick-on-the-Uptake. “Look, if you want to go back to sleep, just say so.”

Another long pause.

“I’m going back to sleep,” he said.

I hung up and hoped to God that Art would wake up later without remembering our conversation, because otherwise he was probably going to hate my guts.

I turned around, and several of the convention organizers were there. I was shown a local newspaper called El Comercio, which, as it turned out, had full-page coverage of the Haxtur Awards ceremony. It was apparently a very big deal in Gijon. There was a big picture of Paul Gulacy and (the now slumbering) Art Adams doing their sketches, and there was a shot of Roy Thomas applauding with his eyes closed.

And there I was with my hands on my head. Doing the Macarena.

“Oh, Jesus,” I muttered.

I skimmed the article. There was a whole paragraph about me doing the stupid dance. Must have been a slow news day.

We went to the restaurant where we were to have lunch. We passed a newsstand. I figured I’d pick up a copy of the local paper to amuse the family back home. I got the other local paper too, La Nueva Espana, to see if it contained any convention coverage.

This one, in addition to a full-page feature, had an entire sidebar with the headline, “Dibujo en vivo y agradecimientos al ritmo de <<Macarena>>.” Go translate it for yourself.

There was another picture of me, this time with my hands fully extended in front of myself. I looked like Frankenstein’s monster. (Which actually wouldn’t be a bad gag: the monster lurching forward, hands outstretched, and then the music kicks in and he starts doing the Macarena.)

It must have been a reeeeeaaally slow news day. At this point I think I’m pretty much known as Peter “Macarena” David.

At lunch we found that Sofia was speaking in a voice that was merely a gravelly whisper. We took some measure of comfort in this, knowing that the Iron Woman party animal had human frailty. For the first time since the convention started, she made it clear that she wasn’t going to be dancing that evening.

Monday, Oct. 14—I had to leave the hotel at 6:30 a.m. in order to catch my plane home. Although I had driven from Madrid to Gijon, I had no desire to repeat that journey. I’d fly this time, thanks.

Faustino and Sofia drove me to the airport. Her voice had somewhat recovered, and they waited with me until it was time for me to board my plane. They were nothing if not thorough hosts.

Just before I got on the plane, I turned to them and said, “One last time.” I stuck out my arms, and Faustino and Sofia grinned and did likewise. And the three of us stood there in the airport and did the Macarena.

Hey—it seemed like a good idea at the time.

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