PARKER PRESHOW

Ah, life back on the east coast, I could get to Florida in an hour or two. Or nine if I drove. Now I have to fly out unnaturally early the day before the show. Across the aisle sits Hollywood mogul Ford Gilmore. We've chosen Southwest for our airline this weekend, the airline that encourages their attendants to perform stand-up shtick over the intercom. The Soupy of Flight 2145 has plenty of material today, because the whole back of the plane is filled with middle-to-highschool girls heading to Orlando for some dance/cheering competition. Soupy launches into the first few verses of "Leaving on a Jet Plane", and the girls actually joined in on the refrain. Being Donnie Darko fans, Gilmore and I always referred to the kids as Sparklemotion. In fact, they surprised everyone by being quiet back there. I passed out through most of it anyway. Once in Disneytown, we cabbed to the Amerisuites, where I passed out again.

Later I awake to reunite with one of my first pals in the industry, painter/cartoonist Bo Hampton. Bo gave me assistant work on many jobs of his when I was a snot-nosed kid, like Uther The Half-Dead King from NBM. Since moving to Atlanta he's mainly focused on advertising work, so it's exciting to see him coming to a show and investigating the comics scene again. I assure him that the industry can't possibly get any worse. (Any web-designing Hampton fans might want to offer him a trade of work for painted pages. His site was literally done by a 12 year old.)

Encouraged with that thought, we meet Ford and go bumbling down the highway through weeds looking for food. We find a place called Something-or-another's Bait Shack, and get some so-so seafood. Then the Annoying begins. All during the meal, some British woman from another table peeks from behind a planter, calling "Yoo-hoooo! Mar-teeee!! Yoo-hooo!! I promise, it wasn't just a few times. You'd think even a complete loon would get tired of doing this, but not this intrepid spitfire. At first I think, hey great, something wacky to put in the con report. But after she interrupts us a few more times, we lose interest in playing along. Then, she finally actually talks like a sensible human being, and attempts to explain what she's doing. Apparently on that Michael Jackson mini-documentary, Michael (the Crypt-Keeper) kept calling like this to Martin Bashir, and she seemed to think one of us somehow looked like Martin. "Thanks," we say, assuming it's over. Then we foolishly return to whatever we were talking about when a few minutes later, "Yoohoo!! Marteee!!" starts up again. At this point I'd like to lodge a complaint, and I pre-apologize to all my friends in the U.K. But I see this phenomenon a lot, especially in California. We get a lot of British transplants who for some reason hit the U.S. thinking "Woo-hoo, I'm in the lawless Wild West! No mores or decorum! I can reinvent myself-- everyone's just backdrop in my new absurdist reality!!! And they all act as they never would back at home, lest a bobbie rap them upside the head with those sticks of theirs. Perhaps they're exiles.

It's just after midnight, Thursday, the day before the show, and I'm not feeling well. Sore throat, stuffy head, trouble breathing, the works. I consider bagging the show and staying home in bed. But a few months ago I canceled my appearance at another show at the last minute. Don't want to get a rep for that. Plus I've already shipped a bunch of books to myself there, and besides, it's Orlando. That means sunshine, and I could definitely use some of that.

So I go. At the airport, I pick up a copy of Paul Theroux's "FRESH AIR FIEND" to read on the plane. It's a collection of short travel essays, and it quickly sets the theme for the weekend: "It is a fact of life that what is regarded as human perversity is our most specific humanity. What separates us from animals is our capacity for deviant behavior."

The Orlando airport's signage is nightmarish. Doors have assigned numbers, but they're not posted anywhere near the door. Following the arrows to the taxi stand will take you in the wrong direction. I'm so, so glad to be dragging a couple of heavy bags back and forth, moving from the chilling blasts of air conditioning into the night's creeping, buttery humidity, just trying to find a goddamn taxicab.
At last, the cab stand. The latest round of Nyquil has kicked in, and I'm relaxing. My cabbie and I talk, about his job and the town. He indicates the computer that juts awkwardly from the dashboard. "Yellow Cab is very strict. We tell them, by this machine, when we pick up. Where. To where. They know how long we need. If it takes longer, you explain or they fire you. Just like that." And the town? "It's seems very big but no one lives here. It's all from out of towners, tourists." He rolls down the window to toss a coin in the toll basket. "Without them, we are nothing."

We arrive at the Amerisuites. It's nothing to write home about, and there's a slight whiff of mildew. It's only about 8:00 pm here, so I decide to hook up with friends instead of stewing in the room. A quick call and I learn that Parker, Ford Gilmore and Bo Hampton are at a restaurant in a shopping mall near here. Change of shirt and I'm off to eat at the mall like every other stooge in this town.
Orlando doesn't like pedestrians. There's no sidewalk between here and there. The mall is in sight, but to get there I'll need to walk along the highway through an area that's been roped off, across bare dirt pocked with mudholes full of standing water. The mall is near "WonderWorks" an upside-down building that just makes me wish that someone would come along and upend its neighbors, too. I'm in Orlando, where they manufacture fun. I hate fun.

Parker FRIDAY

Well, if no one's suicided themselves after Lieber's entrance, we started the day with an Amerisuites breakfast, and I happen to think the hotel is quite nice. Of course, we've now realized that it's one of the places filled by those award-wanting, Cheering/Dance kids, who make themselves completely at home, putting pictures of themselves and friends on their room doors, along with Hello Kitty and the like. The breakfast buffet is mostly continental, but they also have these neat do-it-yourself wafflemakers. All my subsequent energy this weekend came from these self-hewn waffles.

We set up at the convention center early, and are already selling stuff before the doors open. Oh yeah. Once people start filtering through to artist alley, I meet readers who heard about my book in the new Entertainment Weekly comics section. I get a little worried because I also meet fellow creators who come up saying they want to do lengthy color graphic novels as well, and ask me what the trick to it is. Being raving mad, I tell them. The one exception is Patrick Neighly, of MadYak Press. He's been looking into overseas printers, and has probably figured out his business plan way better than I did. We talk about printing and shipping for a while, which is fun to me, but I'll spare you.

The next most popular topic is other creator's asking "how I get me one a' them there movie deals?" I explain that I'm a funnybook guy, and that they want to talk to Gilmore. So repeatedly Artist/Writer X goes to him and babbles about how they think Hollywood works. Ford then politely and measuredly lays out to them how things actually work, and what to reasonably expect. Then creator X or Y thanks him, and walks away with the same notions they had before, as far as I can tell.

Considering that Crossgen is the dominating force at this show, I meant to have a lot to say about them. But I was wrong about when the big Crossgen party was-it was this night,, and I missed it completely. The only folks I saw from there were Chuck Dixon and Chris Oarr, who are both VP's with the company now. Well, I'm the president of Octopus, so there. I finally met Mr. 30 Days of Night, Steve Niles in the flesh, and like everyone else he talks to, exclaimed jealousy at the premise of his book. Nearby, Floridian cartoonist Greg Kirkpatrick was doing some great sketches for people. But after each transaction completed, his wife would appear with a new piece of Buffy merchandise and counteract the money dynamic.

Lieber FRIDAY

I'm up inexplicably early, investigating the deadly brawl at the breakfast buffet. It's feeding time at the fucking zoo, and all the animals are fighting for meat. Or doughnuts. Whatever. There's hot tea and I'm going to guzzle a lot of that. I'm not suffering much in the way of cold symptoms, but my voice is terrible -- weak and scratchy. I have a hard time making myself understood in the elevator when someone asks "What floor?" How am I going to talk to people in a convention center?

Time to find out. It's gray and threatening to rain, so we cab over to the convention center, which is is enormous and divided into sections labeled A, B, C, etc. None of us knows which section is the correct one. First we try driving around, looking for familiar, comic-bookish people. This doesn't work, so we ride up to a security guard who points us to a door we'd passed earlier. As we start to unload our gear, another security guard approaches and tells us we're not permitted to unload here, not even luggage from the trunk of a cab. There are no other vehicles around, so this seems a bit extreme, but he means it. Where can we unload? Back where the other guard answered our question.

Getting the badge is effortless. They handwrite our names on a label and stick it to a laminated badge, which is then hung from a string of mardi gras beads. There's a frowning dowager working security at the door, and she's got a dozen or so strings of the beads around her neck. I spend the next minute or so suppressing the image of her flashing drunkards in the French Quarter.

Table space is first come, first serve, rather than pre-assigned. Haven't seen that in a while. I set up next to Parker, who's brought all his tinkertoys and assembles a nice looking frame to support his professionally printed INTERMAN sign, He's got books, posters, bookmarks and orignal art. My table is the usual scattering of art, comics, and Sara Ryan's prose novel, all propped up with the clever folding stands I've accumulated over the years. Next to me is Ford, who is borrowing a bit of my space. His display consists of a crudely lettered sign that says FORD GILMORE and a single issue of THUNDERCATS that came out a few weeks ago. He'll generate more traffic than any five of us combined. And next to Ford is Greg Kirkpatrick, who could've easily spent the weekend signing photos of Michael Rosenbaum for ten bucks a pop. He's a goddamn fool for not having done so.

My voice really is shot. I keep a bottle of Nyquil on my table as a handy prop to quickly explain why I'm so difficult to understand. I wave it from the neck like a little dinner bell and a look of comprehension instantly appears on people's faces.
An attractive woman approaches and asks if I have a copy of Two-Fisted Science. I pivot to grab the copy I brought, then realize that it's still on the dining room table in Portland, 3000 miles away, so I pivot back, knocking down a standee full of old comics. The comics are sliding off the table in an awkward cascade and as I'm pushing them back up, (having no luck, because they're slippery,) I start to explain about the 3000 miles. That's when my voice fails completely and all that comes out is a weird, gurgly whistle -- imagine Jerry Lewis having an asthma attack. I can't imagine what this looks like from her perspective.

Joel Meadows is roaming the room, showing off the first issue of the new, full color TRIPWIRE magazine. He's fielding a lot of questions about how he can afford to do it, and his answer is thorough, covering the matter from a number of angles: marketing, distribution, projected ad revenue and so forth. Parker gets the same question about Interman: "How could you afford to print it in color?" He gives them a level, serious look and says "I'm a badass."

Matt Idelson stops by the table. I've met him before and worked for him on several comics but I don't recognize him at all. Typically at a convention, I can recognize an editor as an editor, even if I've never seen him, or her, before. But Matt doesn't look tense- his guard isn't up. Give him time, though. All it takes is one mini-series proposal passed under the door of a bathroom stall, and he'll be wearing the same fretful mug as his peers.

PAT AND THE REBELS!

Debonair artist Pat Quinn and his Empire-defying friends.

PARKER

I got nothing. No wait, I remember some kind of hullabaloo going on near artist alley, and found out it was a face-painter decorating a nearly nude girl. The local retail chain, which I'll talk about shortly, sponsored this and charged guys money for photos with this illustrated woman, proceeds going to ACTOR. Show security came over and made them knock it off, but not before the intrepid Gilmore snapped a picture.

There are better than usual choices of food and snacks in this center, but every vendor has a line of those SparkleMotion Jon Benets, with tons of paint on their faces to creep everyone out. Every girl group seems to have a trophy, so they must have all won somehow. I finally get a pesto pretzel, yay for me. Back at the table, Bo has generously given me three pages from a Batman Adventures comic I assisted him on years ago. An hour later, art seller Hugo Brache comes by and takes them all of my hands. Good times!

LIEBER

There's a "Celebrity Pavilion" at the show, a big corral surrounded by skirted tables. I make my pass during a slow period, and the center space is entirely empty, except for a pair of pre-schoolers turning somersaults and playing tag. On the fringes, thirty feet away from this tumult, is Gil Gerard. He played Buck Rogers. His hands are folded on the table in front of him and he's just looking around the room. He's a little paunchy now, wearing heavy-framed glasses and a resigned, but good-natured expression. I'm reminded of the genial guy who makes change at the VFW rummage sale back home. His co-star Erin Grey is seated at another table, a few feet to his left, and she's still unmistakably a Hollywood actress. And all the way across from them, M*A*S*H's Jamie Farr is holding court. He's got a deep Florida tan beneath shocking white hair and is neatly dressed in a dark sportscoat. He looks like he's having a great time, which isn't surprising because he's charging twenty dollars for an autograph or a photo, and has a healthy crowd lining up to pay. Overheard: "Fuck that. For twenty bucks I wanna see him in a frock."

A friend wants me and Parker to pose with Farr. We refuse, claiming that it's somehow creepy and insensitive pretend to be "big fans" just to get a funny picture for the con report. Truth is, we just don't want to cough up the twenty.
In the morning, I recognize Benno Rothschild's name over the loudspeaker. A couple of hours later, I fail to recognize Benno. Sorry 'bout that.

Cartoonists Kelly Yates and Casey Jones.

Remember when I used to write funny captions?

Maureen makes her rounds and everyone is instantly happier.
At the Fantagraphics booth, Jaime Hernandez is looking a little bored. He's doodling, and glancing up occasionally when a moving body enters his peripheral vision. There's a portfolio of his original art in front of him, and one of Gilbert's too. I flip through them casually, admiring their simplicity, marveling at great scenes I remember and thinking " I WANT TO OWN THESE THINGS! I DESERVE THEM! THEY SHOULD BE MINE!" I tear myself away, buy a copy of NIGHTMARE ALLEY, and go back to my table to brood.

Chris Oarr is walking the room, showing off a demo copy of one of Crossgen's books in their new format. He takes a minute to dish, then stops and casts an appraising eye over Parker's and my displays. Mine is familiar, except for the card hyping something I'm planning to self-publish. He quizzes me and gets satisfactory answers. Parker's setup gets a more thorough scrutiny, then he smiles and in that distinctive, cigarettey croak, offers a few tips. The final judgment? "Nice job, man. You're out-Liebering Lieber." Parker is happy, and I... I guess I'm a verb now.

PARKER: THAT NIGHT . . .

Our gang plus Saviuk and his pal all hop on the little trolley that takes you up and down the street for 75 cents, and decide to take on a seafood buffet. We get the kind of lobster we deserve for going to a buffet, but other things were pretty decent. It's worth it just to watch grown men in the room walk up to the hot bar with those idiotic plastic lobster bibs tucked into their collars. I guess that's in case they find some random seafood before they make it back to the table and have to go ahead and devour it. We have some great dinner conversation about artistic heroes, and Alex, Lieber and I ruin it all by comparing our acid reflux problems. Shoot us now, won't you? Alex and his local pal go god-knows-where after dinner, and we stop by the Crowne Hotel, where lots of friends are milling about. Except Lieber, he went back to the room to make good on the commissions he promised people earlier.

As a new group is formed, I meet Brendan Boyle of the Coliseum of Comics retail empire. We find out that we both had loosely promised the hosts of Radio SciFi, Frank and Joey, that we would appear on their call-in show tonight. Feeling a little obligated, we temporarily split off from our friends and headed back to the con to find where the radio guys were set up. On the way over we worked up a routine in which we'd start debating how to improve the comics industry, and then our dialogue would degenerate into arguing over who would win between The Hulk and Thor.

I didn't realize how monstrous in size that convention center was until we walked through it from the back. When we finally reached the upstairs, we found the live remote site next to a hall set up for dancing, populated by straight-up, hard-core furries. Big ol' full-suit furries too, not just some wry Omaha fan with some whiskers drawn on. In retrospect, considering the city is essentially built upon a talking mouse, it should have been obvious that Orlando would be a big furvert enclave.

We hung out for a good while as the hosts interviewed a couch full of guests, and it became apparent that we weren't getting on air any time soon. The important thing was, we looked as if we were being helpful, and isn't that what really matters? It was also fun to see attendees of the Boating convention ponder the furries as their paths crossed. Still, stack the furries next to the glitterkid-cheerdancers, and I'm hard pressed to determine which is more bizarre. I'm just disappointed no one got to hear our scenario where Hulk and Thor turn into Bruce Banner and Donald Blake to finish their battle as puny humans.

Consciences clean, Brendan and I went to Citywalk and met up with a veritable gang of DC editors, past and future. This was at "Margaritaville", the Jimmy Buffett chain of bars, and I have to announce that I do not personally endorse Mr. Buffett's brand of music. They keep it nice and loud inside so there's no chance any information will be exchanged, so I really couldn't tell you what anyone was talking about most of the time. That dreamy Matt Idelson from the Bat Office just kept lobbing zingers at me, so I eschewed his company for the nicer Maureen McTigue, and we impressed the rest of the room by successfully performing a "Miss Merry Mac" hand-slap routine. While this compromised any claim to manliness I might have had, I freeloaded beer, and that's really what you should focus on.
I engaged in some real shoptalk with Brendan's brother Phil, the Kingpin behind Coliseum of Comics (which franchises now, by the way).

Phil told me of how his stores make the most of Free Comic Book Day, and how he's been having trouble getting comics into the local library system down there. Which was a little surprising, I hope they warm up to more graphic novels and trades like other libraries around the country have. It's pretty interesting talking to someone who's been dealing with the business since he was 12.
Everyone keeps thinking Bo's three sheets to the wind, but in fact he's just amusing himself the way someone who works and watches their 3-year old for months on end will when allowed to leave town for the weekend. The Boyles drop us back off at the Crown Hotel where most comics folk seemed to be hanging, and we hoofed it the rest of the way. Back at the Amerisuites, Lieber had diligently finished commissioned sketches, and we all kicked back and watched cartoons. First, a vintage Superfriends show, and then one of the Fantastic Four cartoons from the 60's where the Thing has about 10 rocks. I like cartoons.

SUNDAY: Lieber

Cough syrup and lipton tea help me finish up the last of yesterday's sketches. For the next week or so, you can view it here Trish Mulvihill and Mike McAvennie are wandering the room. I don't recognize Mike at all. This time it's not the Nyquil- he just looks completely different than the last time I saw him. I tell him the premise of the story I'm working on and he instantly comes back at me with a pair of good ideas. Sharp guy.

Jamie Farr is walking the room and has paused at Marty Nodell's table. He patiently waits for a couple of Marty's fans to finish, then offers a handshake. I'm twenty yards away but from here they seem to be chatting with an easy familiarity. Do they know each other? Was Farr a Green Lantern reader as a kid? Maybe they share a friend? Now Farr's gone behind the table to pose for a picture with Marty. I want to try to figure out what's the deal, but there's someone here who wants a portfolio critique. When I look back again, Farr is gone.
Bo Hampton wants to borrow some ink. I fish around in my art bin and hand him a bottle. Unfortunately, it's the wrong bottle. The kind I give him is dense with shellac, completely unsuited for what he's doing,and it nearly ruins his painting. I feel sort of stupid and guilty, and I want to apologize, but I know with my voice in the shape it's in, it'll take forever just to make myself understood, and he needs that time to repair the picture.

Jimmy Palmiotti stops by the table as I'm packing up. He tells me that Justin Gray sends his best. I'd wanted to say howdy to Justin but didn't get a chance. It's always great to talk to Jimmy- he's one of the funniest guys around. And it turns out that we have something in common, and that we both came to the same conclusion about it.

PARKER

Everybody's moving pretty slow today. Half the tables aren't filled, so someone must have been having fun. We're early as always though, running on the energy of self-made waffles. Nearby, Greg Kirkpatrick and his wife are deep in a heated game of Buffy Chess, he's lost his Spike and his Giles and is two moves away from having his Angel in check. I walk over and talk to the man who makes Comicon.com happen everyday, Steve Conley. Like a few thousand other people, I got a free copy of Astounding Space Thrills, a special promotional issue Steve put together just for Megacon. I would have gladly paid for it, it was a great read on the airplane later. He has a lot of Douglas Adams-style humor throughout, and there isn't enough of that anymore. Conley's going to have another free book available at the Pittsburgh show in April--maybe selling ad space IS a good idea . . .Bo packs up his stuff and bolts to catch an aeroplane. The day is winding down.

Casey took us to the town of Celebration, the grand experiment in New Urbanism that creeps lots of people out, but appeals strongly to my Inner Fascist. It's ultra-pleasant, pedestrian friendly to the extreme, and a refreshing break from endless stripmalls and chain restaurants. I could never afford to live there, but it's a model.

Casey's been drawing Birds of Prey from Gilbert Hernandez scripts, which is almost too good to be true, and is filling in a couple of issues on Fantastic Four soon. I'm so tired I could puke-if it weren't so tiring. Can't remember much more, finishing this report is a job for Lieber . . .

After the show, Casey Jones puts me and Parker into his Volkswagen. Between the three of us and our hefty convention supplies, the bug barely clears the road. Nevertheless, we hit the highway and Casey drives us out to Celebration. It really does feel oddly like being in a Norman Rockwell painting or on a movie set. But enforced quiet, properly paved sidewalks, and human scale New-Urbanist architecture are precisely the opiate I need. Well, that and a decent meal. The one we have there is the first we've had since arriving, and we stuff ourselves, but in a genteel and leisurely manner.

Back at the hotel. I'm exhausted. I'm afraid my efforts to conserve my voice might have made some people who stopped by think I was grumpy, hurt my reputation rather than helped it. I put my books into some new hands, but beyond that, what did I accomplish by dragging my raw, inflamed throat 3000 miles from home? Let's try bibliomancy and ask the book. I flip through Theroux and read a line at random:

"...I never regarded that time as failure. It was reality, an opportunity, and my discomfort made me look more closely and gave me something to write about."

This self-important diatribe brought to you by . . .

stevelieber.com and parkerspace.com