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12. Brushes with Celebrity

And I do mean brushes; not friendships, not even long conversations really. Most of the encounters I'm about to describe were brief. If I'd blinked, I would've missed them. Still, it's always kinda neat to be able to drop a name now and then.

The first celebrities I ever met (other than the Channel 3 weather lady), were at a Mid-Ohio Con I attended in November 1986. I took the bus from Canton to Mansfield, the better to ride back with my friend and fellow fan John Pierce. That convention was held at the Richland County fairgrounds in a big ol' barn of a place.

1986 was an exciting year for DC fans. It was the year the Dark Knight returned with Watchmen looking over his cloaked shoulder. In the Superman comics, the Byrne revolution had begun. John Byrne had recently moved from Marvel, where he'd had a successful run on Fantastic Four, over to DC to save Superman. He spoke from the convention stage, telling us his plans for the Man of Steel. As I recall, he referred to himself as a "big gun" and clucked over Marvel Comics' loss of a wonderful writer-artist. Well, I was so impressed with his humility that I stood in a long line waiting for John Byrne to scribble his John Hancock on the first page of a Fantastic Four. (It just occurs to me that, if eBay had existed at the time, I probably could've sold that autographed funnybook for a thousand dollars.) I didn't get to speak with him, but John Pierce was able to stuff a letter in the great man's hand. In the letter, he'd detailed his own ideas on how Superman ought to be handled. Strangely, John's suggestions were never implemented.

We got a little more face time with writer Roger Stern. I can't remember for sure now if we met him in '86 or '87. John saw him from the rear and said, loud enough for Stern to hear, "It's too bad we don't have a Superman comic handy, or we could have Roger Stern autograph it." On hearing his name, Roger turned around and engaged us in conversation. Neither of us can remember specifics, but he talked about his plans for the strip. However, I do remember putting my lowest appendage in my oral cavity, saying, "We like it that you don't write maudlin soap opera like Jerry Ordway." Roger frowned a bit and said, "No, I write maudlin space opera." Sigh. Fans.

Stan Lee also appeared at the '86 and '87 M-OCs. Tony Isabella, columnist for Comics Buyer's Guide, introduced him as the creator of the Fantastic Four, the creator of Spider-Man, the creator of the Hulk, the creator of Thor, the creator of Iron-Man, etc., etc., to which Stan the Creator replied, "And on the seventh day, I rested!" On the page or on the stage, Stan the Man was always entertaining.

At one of the M-OCs, I talked with DC's then-Managing Editor Dick Giordano. I shared my concerns about the fact that children weren't reading comics like they used to. Dick was quite hard of hearing, but I think he got the gist of what I was saying. (Showing his usual good sense, John Pierce wrote out his comments for Dick to read.) He said that DC was producing PG-rated comics for a more mature audience. He added, however, that plans were in the works for a new line for children. (I don't think that ever came to pass; at least, not the way Giordano envisioned it.) Dick's wife, Marie, was with him at the table. Even though she could hear better than her husband, she didn't seem to understand what I was saying. After a while, I got the impression I was making a crazed version of a pastoral call.

Speaking of the pastorate, that's the biggest reason I didn't attend many cons. Mid-Ohio, invariably held on weekends, usually conflicted with my ministerial duties - with one notable exception. In 1999, I got the chance to do a chapel service at the con. The year before, my friend John had helped a man from Chicago named George Macas insert a chapel service into the convention program. Back then, George was crisscrossing the country doing these chapels. John informed George that I'd like to work with him in Columbus. A couple phone calls and some e-mail later, I was onboard. Also on the team were my sixteen-year-old son, Alexander, and a boy named Mark Sowers.

By this time, Mid-Ohio had moved to the Adams Mark hotel in downtown Columbus. We set up the Christian Comic Arts Society booth in the hotel on a Friday night. Afterwards, I took the elevator down. I think I was alone at the time, but I can't remember for sure. The door opened and there stood...the Incredible Hulk. You know how the briefest moments seem strangely long when you recall them later? It was that way as I stood gazing at Lou Ferrigno. My eyes widened. My mouth went dry. Lou stood there like a human tree trunk. He looked strong enough to pick me and anybody else who might've been in the car with me right up off the floor. Unfortunately, he also looked tired and not anxious to chat. What do you say to a man who made a second-string comic book character a household word? In my case, it was a choking "Hello."

Bill Bixby's alter-ego did me one better, cutting his reply by one syllable. "Hi," he said in that sighing, dismissive tone tired men have. I nodded and moved on by, giving the man plenty of room. It was only later that I remembered Ferrigno's deafness. The last thing he needed was some fan silently chattering him up an elevator shaft.

Not that the fan would've been me. You see, all my life I've been hampered by a reclusive temperament. I'm not good at going up to people I don't know and starting conversations. You've heard of the man who never met a stranger? Well, that isn't me. And these people who'd turned green, landed on other planets, and otherwise slipped the surly bonds of reality - at least on TV - were definitely strange to me. Oh, at the right time, in the right mood, I might flip off an embarrassing line like I had with Roger Stern. But that was the exception that proved the rule. I admired these people. I was curious about them. But I was also painfully shy about approaching them.

You'll understand, then, why I didn't talk very long with Gerard Christopher, who'd played Superboy on television. He was sitting alone at his table, some VHS tapes of those adventures spread before him. It was a rare opportunity for a true Superman fan to talk at length with a guy that wore the colors, flew through the air, and the whole bit. This fan, however, had his tongue wrapped around his eye teeth and couldn't see what to say. Maybe I would've said more if Christopher had, but he didn't say much either. I bought a couple of his tapes, telling him that I appreciated how closely his show had followed the comics. He said something like, "Yeah, DC watched us pretty close." He also asked if I wanted to buy two tapes or three. I forget how much he was selling them for, but three would've been the better bargain. By this time, however, I was so discombooberated, I just said, "No, two'll be fine." And I walked away.

The biggest celebrity at that particular con was writer Harlan Ellison. "Celebrity?" I suppose "legend" would be the more accurate term. I would gladly have heard him speak, but the room was packed. I mean waaay past standing room only. So I went back to the CCAS booth. Though our table wasn't far from where the outspoken Ellison was holding forth, all I could hear were the cuss words - and the laughter. The crowd roared again and again. I've often wondered what he said that was so funny.

But what I'll always remember about Ellison's presence there isn't the man himself, but something George Macas did. Ellison was seated at a table in our vicinity autographing his new book. The line twisted and curled a long ways, running beside our table and past it. If you're familiar with Harlan Ellison, you know he's an avowed freethinker and has about as much use for religion as a bowl of horse manure for breakfast. In case you're wondering, no, the people at the Christian Comic Arts Society table were not his biggest fans. But George saw all those people standing in a long, long line, anxious for their chance to get the famous atheist's John Hancock. Now who, atheist or Christian, likes to wait in line for anything? George grabbed up a bowl of candy and walked up the line with it, chatting with these fans, and sharing the candy. He didn't preach to them. He didn't give them tracts. He just offered a treat, a smile, and a few cheerful words.

That may not seem like much, but little gestures of kindness are more often neglected by us than dismissed by others. We may not be able to articulate their omission, but we do notice it.

Our chapel wasn't exactly a huge success. I think maybe six or seven of us were there - if I'm not inflating the figures. But we had a good time together. My son Alex played the guitar. His friend Mark slapped a drum. There was prayer for some sick and hurting people. George and I did a tag-team style sermon loaded with funnybook illustrations.

I wish I could report that Gerard Christopher had shown up. It would've been a gas if Harlan Ellison had appeared, if only to scorn and jeer. These folks had pressing business elsewhere, I guess. And yet...I swear I caught a glimpse of another celebrity there among us. I don't know. Maybe it was only my imagination. If he actually was there, though, it was entirely fitting. After all, we'd put this thing on in his honor. You've probably heard of him. I'd tell you more, but, at the moment, he's in the room with me and I'm feeling more than a little shy.

Don't miss the next thrill-packed episode: Super Son, Super Daughter.

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12. Brushes with Celebrity

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