World Horror Con 2011 is over—but it’s never too soon to think about World Horror Con 2012. And what I really mean by that is—it’s not to soon to see what Adam Richman of Man v. Food has in store for us all in Salt Lake City.

Some of you who were at World Horror last weekend and at World Fantasy in October were dragged along with me on my Man v. Food triathlons. So be warned—if you plan to be in Salt Lake City March 29-April 1, 2012 for next year’s WHC, here’s where you might be roped into going.

Get ready for the Hell Fire Challenge! (Which for a horror convention will seem quite appropriate.)

Originally published at Scott Edelman. You can comment here or there.

Sunday at the World Horror Convention began in the middle of the night, which is appropriate, I guess, for a horror con. But the things that went bump in the night weren’t vampires or werewolves, but instead those damned frat boys, who for whatever reason decided to begin moving furniture from one hotel room to another at around 3:45 a.m., drunkenly bumping into walls as they carried box springs while shouting directions at each other. When I phoned the front desk, the immediate answer I got was, “I’m sick of these complaints. I’m calling the PD.” Whether the police ever arrived, and what they might have done when they got there, I have no idea, because I turned up the fan to block the noise and struggled to get back to sleep. Which, after 45 minutes or so, I was finally able to do.

After I woke, packed, and checked out, I headed to the 10:00 a.m. “Zombies Mega-Panel,” a 90-minute celebration of the living dead moderated by Joe McKinney and featuring me, RJ Sevin, Julia Sevin, Joe R. Lansdale, and John Skipp. (And Brian Keene, too, whom we pulled onstage about halfway through.) But before we began, I tossed out a couple of dozen glow-in-the-dark zombie finger puppets to get people in the mood.

It turns out that Lee Thomas also had something planned to get people in the mood—a video which was played before any of us began talking about why we loved zombies so much. Thanks for warming up the crowd, Lee! Check out what we all saw in Austin.

As soon as the panel ended, I ran off with my only willing victim … er, volunteer … Liz Gorinsky, to the Cathedral of Junk, which I already told you about, after which I dropped Liz back at the hotel and headed to the airport … where I discovered the con was not yet over.

I had lunch at the airport branch of the Salt Lick, which as you might expect wasn’t quite as good as its Driftwood branch (no ribs!), but was still some of the best airport food I’ve had in awhile. And then when I wandered toward my gate, I bumped into this motley crew …

That’s Derek Clendenning, Gord Rollo, and Eunice Magill, and since the pic was taken by Michael Kelly, you can see that World Horror was the con which wouldn’t die. I hung out with these guys as long as I could, but eventually I had to board my flight to Dulles. But WHC wasn’t over then either, as I happened to overhear the person in front of me mention the word “horror,” and when I asked, learned he was Henrik Sundqvist, one of the artists who had displayed work in Austin. We chatted a bit, until my exhaustion overtook me (damned frat boys!) and I slept for most of the flight.

And that was my World Horror Con!

Well … there is one more thing I have to tell you about—my Friday night outing to the Rude Mechanicals production of the play “I’ve Never Been So Happy.” But I’ll leave that for another day …

Originally published at Scott Edelman. You can comment here or there.

After a long Friday at the World Horror Convention last week, I went to bed early Saturday morning at the Doubletree Hotel looking forward to some good sleep. But I wasn’t to get it, thanks to the sound of a crying woman and a man’s muffled voice that woke me around 4:00 a.m.

I was suddenly fully awake and at the door of my room, heart pounding, not sure whether or not I was going to have to leap out and interfere in a possible sexual assault. I listened for a brief moment to the voices outside my door. I peered through the peephole, but couldn’t see what was going on. The wailing woman was drunk and incoherent, and the man’s voice, based on what he was saying into a walkie-talkie, seemed to belong to a hotel employee, but that didn’t necessarily mean that he was helping (turned out he was, but you can’t be sure about these things), so I leapt out and asked the woman if she needed help, if she felt safe. She was blonde, in her late teens or early twenties, and from what I could gather (and from what I learned the next day from others who were also on the fifth floor) had been going down the hall banging on random doors because she was unable to remember her room number and find her boyfriend.

She cried into her cell phone, telling her boyfriend that she had no idea where she was or where she was supposed to be, and would he please come get her? Eventually, he did, and I went to back to sleep. Or tried to go back to sleep. I don’t know about you, but thinking I might have to get into a physical confrontation kicks in my adrenaline, and it took about an hour before I could wind down enough again to fall back to sleep. And it wasn’t an unbroken sleep, either, because for the rest of the morning, I could hear drunken kids returning from their late nights of partying.

When I went to the front desk the next morning, I was told that a couple of busloads of frat boys had arrived the day before, though the hotel claimed that if they’d known in advance that they were from a fraternity, the reservation wouldn’t have been accepted. I was also told that the group was now on a zero tolerance policy, and any infringement would result in immediate expulsion. (You’ll see below how much good that did.)

Originally published at Scott Edelman. You can comment here or there.

I woke up far too early last Friday morning while in Austin for the World Horror Convention. I have no idea why I was unable to get back to sleep at 5:15 a.m., but for whatever reason, I was suddenly wide awake. Since I knew my first stop was going to be Round Rock Donuts (part of my Man v. Food triathlon), which opens at 4 a.m. each day, I figured, why not just get going? So I showered, shaved, cruised the lobby for any other bleary attendees who might want to board the crazy bus, and then hopped in the car and pointed it toward the city of Round Rock, TX.

By the time I got there, not that much past six, the sun was barely up, but the parking lot was packed, as were the nearby streets, the line for the drive-through went around the block, and people had to step aside so I could get in the lobby. I bought six dozen donuts, plus that one monster donut I showed you here, and headed back to the con hotel where, since the con suite was not yet open, I set up in the lobby and made sure people started the day out right by handing out free donuts as they woke.

Luckily, that con suite eventually did open, so I was able to dump the remaining donuts there and head off in time to see the Yvonne Navarro/Weston Ochse reading which started at 10:00 a.m.

Yvonne went first, reading Chapter 13 of her novel Concrete Savior, and if you click below, it’ll be just as if you were there.

Wes went next, reading the short story “Fugue on the Sea of Cortez” from his collection Multiplex Fandango.

Originally published at Scott Edelman. You can comment here or there.

I’ve already told you about my trip from Hell to get to Dulles Airport last Thursday morning, and where I stopped In Austin on the way to the World Horror Con hotel that afternoon. But what about the rest of Thursday?

Well, the first thing I did was take a long, hot shower to make up for the icy sponge bath I’d had to suffer that morning due to our thunderstorm-induced power outage. Then I headed down to the lobby in search of trouble, which I found in the form of dastardly duo Eunice Magill and Scott Browne, who kidnapped me for a massive dinner at The Cedar Door with Weston Ochse, Yvonne Navarro, Rain Graves, John Tomaszewski, Bradley and Sue Sinor, Chris Marrs and others, after which we headed to the Congress Avenue Bridge to wait for nightfall.

To wait for bats!

The wait was fun (see how Yvonne and I are smiling?), but unfortunately, the bats only come out at night, which means … the bats only come out in the dark. I couldn’t see them very well, so they didn’t look like much more than a swarm of gnats to me. Then it was back to the hotel, just in time to catch Norman Prentiss reading his short story “The Man Who Could Not Be Bothered To Die” from Blood Lite 3.

And now you can see it, too. It’s a fun one!

Then it was party time, where I chatted with Joe Lansdale (whose short story “Letter from the South, Two Moons West of Nacogdoches,” I published in Last Wave 25 years ago way back in 1986) and Steve Niles (whom I’d never met before, but whose Guest of Honor interview I’d be conducting two days later). I only partied for an hour or two, because the lack of sleep the night before and the tense trip getting to Austin had left me exhausted, so I headed off to crash at around 12:30 a.m.

But as you’ll see when I fill you in on Friday, I wouldn’t end up sleeping for long …

Originally published at Scott Edelman. You can comment here or there.

I seem to have had fewer dreams in April than during any other month I’ve yet shared with you. Some of that is due to the exhaustion of two con weekends—Ad Astra and World Horror—which messed with my sleep cycle so much I was unable to bring any back from my subconscious. We had our daffodil party weekend that month, too, which also had me running on fumes.

In any case, here’s what April left me with—visits from Walt Disney, Adam-Troy Castro, Dan Aykroyd, Stan Lee … and maybe you.

April 2011

I dreamt I was at a snooty club ordering a drink and explaining to Barbara Walters why life was like an Amtrak train ride from DC to NYC. 26 Apr

I dreamt that when I opened my local newspaper, every comic strip there was drawn by the same guy — Dave Cockrum’s (nonexistent) brother. 25 Apr

I dreamt Paul Di Filippo and I found a cache of hand grenades near a school and raced to submerge them in wet concrete before they exploded. 25 Apr

I dreamt I was bitching because my favorite local comics shop was closing and would reopen where I’d never be able to visit it — in London. 25 Apr

I dreamt I was a woman dying of cancer who was working up the nerve to break up with her girlfriend in order to attend a Worldcon in Israel. 25 Apr

I dreamt I tried to crack open a safe — if clumsily hitting it over and over again with a hammer can in any way be considering “cracking.” 24 Apr

I dreamt I snuck into K. Tempest Bradford’s dorm room (next to my own) to pull a prank involving old timey rolls of fax paper and Mars bars. 24 Apr

I dreamt Stephen Colbert and I wandered a college campus as he told he about the new character he’d portray — the anime hero Charlie-Har. 24 Apr

I dreamt I wandered Ocean Parkway in Brooklyn, where I bumped into Bob Eggleton and asked him in amazement — Bob, when did you move HERE? 24 Apr

I dreamt I was at a luncheonette counter discussing spousal abuse, which I could see struck a nerve with the other couples sitting there. 24 Apr

Some of my favorite things at last weekend’s World Horror Convention had absolutely nothing to do with the World Horror Convention. There was my Man v. Food triathlon. There was the illicit cultural outing to a performance of “I’ve Never Been So Happy” by the Rude Mechanicals, about which more later. And there was the trip to the Cathedral of Junk.

While in Austin, I’d planned to visit the Museum of Natural and Artificial Ephemerata. I’d been there before, but had liked it so much I’d hoped to drag some of my friends along while I checked out any new exhibits. When this came up while talking to a friendly flight attendant—who also had some great BBQ suggestions—she said I sounded like the kind of person who might want to visit the Cathedral of Junk, a bizarre construct a guy built in his backyard out of tons of … let’s not call it junk. Let’s call it treasure.

Once I did some research, I decided I had to see this for myself before the county shut it down, which it seems to be constantly threatening to do. So I put out the call for volunteers. Only Liz Gorinsky was brave enough to rise to the challenge.

Here I am in Vince Hannemann’s suburban backyard, showing as much of the “junk” as can be fit into one picture.

You can find more photos of the Cathedral of Junk over on my Flickr stream starting here.

But photos don’t tell the whole story, so here’s a video of me walking through Vince’s marvelous folly. It only shows the ground level, though, not the second level or the third level crow’s nest/gangplank, a little bit of which you can see in those pics.

Once you watch this, if you’re anything like me, you’ll be ready for a road trip.

Originally published at Scott Edelman. You can comment here or there.

Since I failed to keep up a contemporaneous account of this year’s World Horror Con while attending this year’s World Horror Con, expect there to be many posts over the next week as I play catch-up. I’ve already shared twice about things that occurred on the way to the hotel, but now I’m going to start talking about con itself by posting video of my reading, since there’s no law that says I must write the trip up chronologically.

On Saturday, April 30, 2011, I read my short story “Are We Not a New People?,” which had originally appeared in the anthology Zombie Apocalypse. The faceless woman who introduces me is Martel Sardina. As for what you see me tossing to the audience before I begin, those are glow-in-the-dark zombie finger puppets, some of which I’d already given out before the reading began.

And now, a message from the President of the United States …

Originally published at Scott Edelman. You can comment here or there.

To start catching up with the weekend’s World Horror Convention trip …

Since the con wasn’t going to start until late Thursday afternoon, and my flight was supposed to land in Austin around 11:00 a.m.—at least until the weather delayed my takeoff by two hours—I made plans to get together for lunch with a high school friend I hadn’t seen since 1973.

As so many high school friends have, Rita popped back into my life on Facebook, but unlike most of those other friends, she now lived in a city that was on my con circuit. Turns out she’d moved from Brooklyn to Austin many decades ago, and once we reconnected, we figured we’re try to get together during WHC. Since I live and breathe cons once I hit the hotel, Thursday lunch seemed to be the only possible time.

We met at Rudy’s, which claims it serves “the worst bar-b-q in Texas,” and proceeded to catch up on about 70 years of history. (That’s around 35 years apiece.) I’ll keep the details between Rita and me, and instead just present you with a visual aid so you can see what the years have done to us.

Here we are Thursday at Rudy’s.

And here’s how we appeared in our high school yearbook.

Still about the same, huh?

What do you think? Do I need to bring back the goatee?

Originally published at Scott Edelman. You can comment here or there.

I have long stressed that the most important thing about convention reporting is that it be done while the convention is still going on. In fact, I’ve codified that in Edelman’s Schadenfreude Rule of Convention Reporting, which states that it isn’t enough for me to be having a good time, you must know I’m having that good time and regret not being there to have it with me.

Updating statuses on Twitter and Facebook doesn’t feel sufficient in terms of making you miserable enough to make me happy. I need to post photos, videos, and blog entries. But as far as this year’s World Horror is concerned, I have failed.

I wrote a blog post about getting to the con, but nothing about the con itself, because I was that busy and tired. The half dozen videos I shot haven’t made it to YouTube yet. And I only just now, 24 hours after returning home, got my pics up on Flickr.

Go check them out. And remember, as you can see below—everything is bigger in Texas!

There’ll be more World Horror commentary later—but first I think I need to recover from World Horror!

Originally published at Scott Edelman. You can comment here or there.

Some higher power is trying to do everything it can to stop me from getting to this year’s World Horror Convention in Austin. Could it be … Cthulhu?

It all began with one of the most horrendous storms I’ve ever experienced, with thunder and lightning so great it was as if someone was in my bedroom banging a drum and flipping the light switch on and off. (And no, it wasn’t Irene!)

So I woke with a lousy night’s sleep, a little before I had to. The alarm was set for 4:15, but by 4:00, after having been woken at least half a dozen times through the night, I’d given up, figuring, OK, I may feel like crap, but that will be easily solved by sleeping on the plane. And then, in the few minutes between getting out of bed and heading to the bathroom … our power went out. Which meant an icy cold sponge bath. And, since I couldn’t open the refrigerator, no breakfast. 

I got into my clothes, feeling oogy, and headed out onto roads—well, after manually opening the electric garage door, that is—for which there was both a flood and tornado watch. 

I didn’t get far.

About two miles from the house, an indicator light went on reflecting low tire pressure. I took a look and, because I wasn’t 100% sure which tire it was and if I took the time to change the tire I’d miss my flight, turned around and tried to make it home before I lost so much air it was unsafe to drive.

I didn’t make it all the way. I had to abandon the car about half a mile from our house and walk home in the dark and the rain. Under other circumstances, it could have been beautiful. I told Irene the story, took the other car, drove to my Jeep, grabbed the luggage, and headed to Dulles, feeling grungy, hungry, wet, and tired … and wondering what would go wrong next.

Thanks to the rain, there was so much stopped traffic that I didn’t make it to the gate until just as boarding was beginning. In fact, if there’d been another couple of dozen people at security, I might not have made it at all.

But my travails weren’t over yet.

You should know that even with all my traveling, I’ve never been trapped in a plane. I’ve had flight cancellations, which have often led to some interesting adventures, but I’ve never been stuck on the tarmac. Until this morning. Due to the weather, the flight was delayed for nearly two hours. 

I’m now writing this above the clouds, somewhere between Dulles and Austin, and will post it while waiting for my luggage. But I wonder … do you think I’ll make it all the way to the World Horror Con hotel?

I’m not so sure. I think Cthulhu still has more in store for me.

But don’t worry. There IS a moral here. 

With so many consecutive calamities, I’ve realized—

One thing going wrong is a problem. Two things going wrong could possibly be a disaster. But four or five things in a row going wrong? That’s a farce. And farces are to be savored.

So I’m savoring it.

At least until the next thing goes wrong.

Originally published at Scott Edelman. You can comment here or there.

As those of you who were at the World Fantasy Con with me in Columbus last year already know, during my travels these days I try to follow in the footsteps of Adam Richman of Man v. Food.

Here I am, for example, at The Thurman Cafe, where I had the best burger of my life.

Early tomorrow morning, I’ll be heading to Austin for this year’s World Horror Convention. Well, that’s what I’m telling people. Those of you who know be best are aware I’ll really be there to compete in the Man v. Food triathlon.

For those who’ve never seen the show, I’ve embedded the Austin episode below so you can see where I’ll be dragging some of you this weekend.

So—who’s ready for a road trip?

Originally published at Scott Edelman. You can comment here or there.

Back in the mid-’80s, I wrote seven Ethics columns for The Comics Journal, which proved to be a very cathartic experience. But two additional columns were never published, both bounced by TCJ.

One of them, about my relationship with Jim Shooter, was in retrospect so personal that it was probably best that no one other then me and Gary Groth ever read it. The other, about a case of advertising censorship at The Comic Buyer’s Guide, was so of its time that it’s probably no longer of interest.

But one small part of that latter column shouldn’t vanish, and that’s a letter I received from Bill Gaines, publisher of MAD magazine. I wrote to ask what he thought about the banning of the word “sex,” considering that he once plastered it on one of his own covers, and this is what he had to say.

Gaines wrote:

“Well, I deplore it—but can understand CBG’s desire to avoid controversy. If, in fact, they followed their ad policy of censoring ads, you pays your money & takes your chances! Personally, I wouldn’t advertise there!”

My apologies to Bill’s ghost for not letting this quote out into the wild until now.

Originally published at Scott Edelman. You can comment here or there.

I don’t know how I missed this, but back on January 14, Peter Tennant had some extremely kind words to say about my zombie collection What Will Come After (which is now also available as an ebook).

Over at Black Static, Tennant wrote of the book:

A collection of zombie stories, with Edelman injecting new life into an old archetype and giving a kick in the pants to those who think zombies are good for nothing except shoot ‘em ups (though those are fun too). What delighted me about this collection was the sheer variety, both thematically and in terms of technical virtuosity, with verse plays, stories within stories, grue playing off against a metaphysical dimension, and reifications of classic literature.

Thank you, Peter! Why, that’s almost enough to make my zombie heart start beating again.

Originally published at Scott Edelman. You can comment here or there.

Ad Astra 2011 was so overflowing with Guests of Honor (since it was the con’s 30th year, the committee attempted to bring back every previous Guest of Honor) that rather than have us give Guest of Honor speeches or be interviewed individually, the con doubled (and sometimes tripled) us up for low-key chats. Which ended up being fun and comfortable, because it was just like hanging out and catching up with a friend.

Here’s my final piece of Ad Astra video, as Kathryn Cramer and I ramble for what’s hopefully an entertaining hour.

(And please forgive the ambient noise seeping through from the hallway. It took awhile before an audience member thought to shut the doors. But I think you’ll be able to understand us throughout anyway.)

Originally published at Scott Edelman. You can comment here or there.

Two weeks ago, I told you that my collection of zombie short stories What Will Come After (now a Shirley Jackson Awards nominee!) was available as an ebook.

But that’s no longer my only ebook, for those of you who’d prefer reading me via pixels as opposed to dead trees. Because The Hunger of Empty Vessels, which was a 2009 Stoker Awards finalist in the category of Best Long Fiction, can now be purchased electronically, too.

Why should you buy my novella? If you don’t trust me, trust David Mack, who wrote:

“The Hunger of Empty Vessels is an unnerving work that peers into the darkest corner of the human soul and makes one fear what lurks at the bottom of that abyss—but also makes it impossible to look away. I dare you to try.”

Plus it’s only $2.99. Cheap! What a deal!

Originally published at Scott Edelman. You can comment here or there.

I’ve been thinking about exploding cows for the past couple of days, and of how I should finally share in some permanent way that long shaggy dog (shaggy cow?) story of mine. I’ve shared it several times to crowded rooms at conventions, but that’s as far as it’s gone.

What has me recalling those unfortunate bovines right now is The Collected Stores of Jack Williamson Volume Eight, which showed up in the mail this week.

When I began flipping through the book, what first caught my eye were the two Science Fiction Age covers printed on the inside front and back covers, which made me smile. Then, looking to see what was written about the stories reprinted from those issues, I got a little choked up, because I discovered that Jack had spoken to me from beyond the grave.

Since Jack died several years ago, I’d assumed that any story notes would have to be written by someone else, but no—Jack had known the contents of this volume so far in advance that he’d been able to write about them in 2005. And this is the final sentence of his passage about having “The Firefly Tree” published in Science Fiction Age:

It was the first of mine that Scott Edelman bought for Science Fiction Age, a great magazine while it lived.

Thank, Jack. That means a lot.

After reading that, I set the book aside for a bit, pleased by Jack’s kudos. When I picked it up again, it was to read Connie Willis’ introduction. I expected to see her love for Jack shining through, but what I didn’t expect to find were exploding cows.

Yes. Exploding cows. My exploding cows.

First Connie mentioned in passing that some of the difficulties those of us who visited Portales faced in getting there were “floods, blizzards, and exploding cows.” But in the next paragraph, discussing those of us who’d made multiple visits to the Jack Williamson Lectureship series, she got more explicit, saying that I personally had returned:

” … in spite of the fact that one time, he not only witnessed a wreck between a train and a truck full of cattle, but ended up on a smoke-filled plane which had to make an emergency landing.”

Which got me to thinking—I’ve told the tale of this adventure before crowds many times at cons, once with Connie on my lap as if she were a little girl being told a bedtime story. So isn’t it time I told it to you?

I think i should. But how? I can’t decide whether to simply write it out as a blog entry here, record a podcast, or create a YouTube video so you can see me as I recount that crazy day. I’m not sure when I’ll get the time to do any of those things, but when I finally do, which do you think it should be?

Let me know.

[BTW --this is my first attempt to post here from my iPad as opposed to my laptop, so if you're reading this -- it worked!]

Originally published at Scott Edelman. You can comment here or there.

I was skimming Us Weekly today and—

Before I go any further, I guess I should stop there and explain why the heck I’ve got a copy of Us Weekly around. I had some expiring frequent flier miles a few months back, and rather than let them go to waste, I traded in miles for a subscription. (As well as subs to Wired and The New York Observer and Time and a few other magazines.)

But now that I see what Us Weekly really is, I realize I’d have been better off letting those miles expire … because it makes People seem like The Atlantic.

The latest issue contained a list on “25 Stars Who Are Authors,” and here’s who the editors chose:

Britney Spears
Brooke Shields
Carrie Fisher
Chelsea Handler
Ethan Hawke
Felicity Huffman
Howard Stern
Jay-Z
Jenny McCarthy
Julianne Moore
JWoww
Kendra Wilkinson
Kim Cattrall
Lauren Conrad
Madonna
Nicole Richie
Pamela Anderson
Paris Hilton
Rob Lowe
Rosie O’Donnell
Sammy Hagar
Snooki
Tommy Lee
Whitney Port
Whoopi Goldberg

That was the best they could come up with? Some of them are acceptable, but as for the rest, well, I doubt that a couple of these stars even read the books they were supposed to have written!

How about Steve Martin? Or Danica McKellar? Or James Franco? Anybody but Snookie and JWoww … please!

I know, I know. I’m expecting too much. But somehow I suspect Us Weekly would find a way to disappoint me even if I was expecting too little.

Originally published at Scott Edelman. You can comment here or there.

I’d thought enough time had passed that I could forgive Jack Kirby. But I just learned I was wrong.

I was on staff at Marvel Comics in the mid-’70s when the King returned and tried to pick up where he’d left off. At the time, as I sat there in the Bullpen with my blue pencil and proofread the original art for some of his initial issues of titles such as Captain America, which he not only drew, but wrote and edited, I was horrified. The art could still be the stuff of dreams at times, but the words that came out of his characters’ mouths seemed more like a nightmare.

The buzz from us kids in the office wasn’t kind. I’ll admit it. Kirby was a god to us for what he did during the ’60s, but what he was doing at Marvel in the ’70s made us wince, and we didn’t have the tact or maturity to say it appropriately. So we acted like ungrateful punks. But now that the years have passed, as I read some of those issues of Captain America over again, I’m wincing still.

The reason I’m subjecting myself to them once more is because two of the backup stories I wrote at the time have been reprinted in The Essential Captain America Vol. 6, and after first rereading my own work (of course!), I decided to give Kirby’s another shot.

The powerful artwork still made me smile, and the frenetic pacing caused my childhood to rush back again, but as for the words on the page—Ouch!

Not only do none of the characters talk the way people actually talk—or even the hyperbolic, melodramatic way superheroes talk—but they are barely coherent. And what’s worse, in Captain America #207, old winghead, after discovering that a tyrannical dictator in a banana republic was torturing his people, decided to do NOTHING, basically declaring it none of his business!

Here’s that disturbing panel.

Until this rereading began, I was only offended by the crudeness and incomprehensibility of Kirby’s dialogue, but now, decades later, I’m also repulsed by Cap’s decision, no matter how well or poorly it was phrased.

Shame on you, Captain America!

If I ever needed a reminder of how much Stan Lee and Jack Kirby needed each other, neither ever creating separately at anywhere near the level they did when together, man oh man, this was certainly it.

Originally published at Scott Edelman. You can comment here or there.

I normally tweet my dreams, but this one turned out to be too intriguing to condense into 140 characters.

I dreamt I was nominated for a Hugo Award, and had entered an area by the side of the stage where a cocktail party was being held for the nominees. Once inside, I mingled with friends until I came upon one of my old Marvel bosses, the long-dead Archie Goodwin. While chatting with him, and wondering in what category the comic book writer/editor had been nominated, I was strangely unsurprised to see him there alive (in the waking world, he died in 1998), looking much as he had when I’d last known him in the early ’80s.

While wandering the room and continuing to schmooze, I suddenly noticed that I wasn’t wearing the suit I usually would for such an event—I was instead In a tie-dyed t-shirt and a pair of jeans shorts.

What I found so interesting about the dream is this—here is where it could all have veered into anxiety dream territory, with me stumbling about, crying “Oh, no,” and wondering how the heck I could get back to my hotel room and change into a suit in time. I could have felt embarrassed over my state, or started to worry about how silly I’d look if I won that night and had to take the stage dressed that way.

Instead, I immediately found it funny.

I told a seated George R.R. Martin that this oversight might be a good omen, that I’d lost the Hugo all four times I’d previously been nominated and showed up wearing a suit, and so perhaps this time, dressed like that, the universe was playing a joke on me and would have me win so I’d have to go up in front of thousands of people that way. That turned the whole dream around, banishing any anxiety that might have arisen, and I found it all hilarious, instantly thinking of how much fun I could have laying it out that way in my acceptance speech.

And as I went around the room sharing this silliness with friends, I woke happy, not just because of that dreamworld realization, but also because of the real-world realization that I’d turned what could have been an anxiety dream inside out. I was glad that, even unconscious, I could look on the bright side of life.

No idea what category I was nominated in, though.

Originally published at Scott Edelman. You can comment here or there.