Penny Wise

For as long as I've lived out here in Southern California, I've frequented a retail chain called the 99¢ Stores. They proudly advertise that nothing in the store ever costs more than 99¢. Ever. In fact, one of the things I always found most comforting about the 99¢ Store was its consistency. Most items were indeed 99¢, the remaining items were sold in increments that added up to 99¢. So a dozen eggs, for example, was 99¢. So was a six-pack of Shasta Cola. Bottles of Hydrogen Peroxide were two for 99¢, a vast assortment of candy bars were three for 99¢, and so on.

Some of my fondest afternoons have been spent cruising up and down the myriad aisles of the 99¢ Store with my bosom buddy Harlan Ellison, picking up various items from the shelves and loudly querying one another as to what the price of such items might be and constantly being astonished by the inevitable answer. (Well, Harlan finds it funny. But then Harlan is also fascinated by bright, shiny baubles and cheese.)

So imagine my horror when I dropped into the store this week to discover that this country's undeclared recession has finally reached my beloved 99¢ Store as well. Suddenly, it's now a half-dozen eggs for 99¢. Four cans of Shasta Cola for 99¢. Bottles of Hydrogen Peroxide are now 59¢ apiece. And candy bars are now 39¢ each. Granted, much of the merchandise available in the store remains unchanged. A big box of Sun-maid Raisins or smaller six-pack of Sun-maid Raisins are still 99¢, for instance. Most of the plates and glasses and tools and generic drugs and socks and toys and whatever are still 99¢ but the automatic comfort level is gone. No longer can I just pop into the store and pick up a six-pack of soda and three candy bars and a roll of duct tape and a dish towel and a new dog food bowl and think to myself, "Well, that's a quick five dollars plus tax." Now I actually have to do math.

Did I ever happen to mention just how much I hate math? Thanks a bundle, George W. Bush!

Wedded Blitz

Last evening, my lovely wife Christine and I attended the long-awaited and much-anticipated wedding of our dear friends, "Beat the Geeks" star/music producer Andy Zax and his intended, the enchanting actress/photographer/designer Lisa Jane Persky, both of whom we've mentioned here often before. To say the wedding was spectacular would be an understatement. The bride was resplendent in a white gown she herself designed. The groom was his usual droll, articulate self. Both sets of parent were beaming. And the room was riddled with celebrities too numerous to name, though I ought to name a few.

Sitting at our table were old friends J. Keith van Straaten and Jim Newman, host and director respectively of the mightily-missed What's My Line - Live on Stage. J. Keith also served as Master of Ceremonies for the evening and did his usual splendid job of it. At the next table over was my beloved buddy Harlan Ellison and his sainted wife Susan, and across the room I noticed Beat the Geeks movie expert Marc Edward Heuck. The ceremony itself was presided over by Chief Justice of California and longtime Zax family friend, the Honorable (and I have no reason to believe otherwise) Ronald M. George.

But it really wasn't the celebrities that made the evening special. It was the wonderful sense of humor which pervaded the entire affair.

When we first arrived at the reception and ordered a refreshment from the bar, we noticed the silver embossed cocktail napkins which read:

"Andy's Mom asked us
if we wanted
customized cocktail napkins
and we said "Okay."

- AZ/LJP.

When we sat for the ceremony, there was a carefully folded program card on each seat. On the first page, under an illustration of two fingers locked together in those old Chinese handcuffs we played with as children and the words MATRIMONIAL BOND was the name, date and location of the wedding. On the second page, printed over an illustration of two wedding bands, was the Cast of Characters (in order of appearance), which proceeded to list the musicians (who, btw, were The Moog Cookbook, in their first public performance since 1997) and the aforementioned officiant. On the third page, printed over an illustration of a large wood screw was the following warning:

Not here at all:
(Lisa and Andy apologize in advance for any disappointment)
No maid of honor. No best man. No flower girl. No ring bearer. No bridesmaids. No bridesmaids' dresses. No Groomsmen. No ushers. No children's choir. No marching band. No dramatic reading. No laser light show. No doves erupting from a box.
And especially:
No special guest appearance by Durward Kirby.

On the fourth page, printed over an illustration of a pair of Groucho glasses, was a list of the people walking down the aisle.

When we arrived at the dinner table, the neatly-folded million-thread-count satin napkin at each place setting was wrapped in a piece of natural tree bark that enclosed a sprig of lavender and a kazoo. Beneath it was one of Lisa's marvelous Iris Blue Hand Fans, designed specifically for the occasion, and a printed menu which included a footnote that stated: "The happy couple freely admit that, were it not for the demands and expectations of the occasion as well as their great feelings of empathy and compassion towards their assembled friends and family, they would have been just as happy to serve up several thousand pigs-in-blankets and then skip directly to dessert." Instead, the menu consisted of an appetizer, a salad, a choice or either Filet Mignon or some sort of fish or this completely fictional third option:

Partkargens Havlevat on Rinastered Toasts Points,
Fescue-Infused Agar-Agar,
Larks' Tongues in Aspic (Part 2), and Canned Vole
(which, another footnote warned us, might contain nuts).

The wonderful wedding cake was topped by...um...er...well, let's just call it an armored-dillo as was depicted on some old Emerson, Lake & Palmer album near and dear to Lisa's heart.

The after-dinner entertainment was led by a young man whose name at the moment sadly escapes me, who played accordion and as near as I can tell attempted to lead the audience in a singalong of old Polish drinking songs (though I could be wrong about that last part; when the accordion appeared, I fled the room).

In the back of the room, there was one of those old-fashioned photo booths that produce a four-shot strip of film. Guests were encouraged to have their pictures taken, which could then be pasted into a book of memories for Lisa and Andy. We, of course, happily complied.

As each guest left for the evening, they were given a bag of bagels and cream cheese to help get them through Sunday morning and a copy of today's New York Times that includes an announcement of the wedding, and which strikes me as pretty impressive. When Christine and I were married 16 years ago, I think the event might have rated a mention in the local Pennysaver.

And that, it appears, concludes my first report from the social front, which leaves me with just this to say:

Lisa and Andy, may your days together give you both as much joy and love as you have always given us. Let's do lunch when you get back from the honeymoon, okay? We miss ya, you crazy kids.

Himself, the Elf

Harlan Ellison is one of my oldest and closest friends. He is a brother to me in everything but blood. He is creative, crotchety, compassionate, cantankerous, compulsive, compelling, and pretty much every other adjective one might find in the dictionary, except one. The one thing Harlan Ellison is not, not now, not ever, is boring.

We have been friends since that day, thirty-some-very odd years ago, when Harlan confronted me in the corridors of DC Comics, introduced himself, and told me he was there to punch me in the nose. It's an interesting story, one I'd be happy to relate here sometime, if enough of you are interested in hearing it. But that's not what I'm here to talk about right now.

The major reason I didn't blog more yesterday, despite my recent promise, was that my lovely wife Christine and I spent the entire day and evening wrangling Harlan as he became the first speaker in the Creative Voices series of lectures at local Pierce College, where Christine teaches photography. The speakers for the second Creative Voices lecture, to be held this fall, are our friends Ted Elliott and Terry Rossio, who have some minor, rickyticky movie about pirates or something opening this weekend, which all of you will probably go see. But I digress.

Harlan spoke twice during the day. First, in the afternoon at the Campus Center, to a group of students, then in the evening, at the Pierce Performing Arts Center, to an audience of students, adults, and anyone else wearing Kevlar underwear, who was brave enough to attend. Watching Harlan speak is not unlike what I imagine those old EST seminars of the '70s were like, except that you're allowed to go to the bathroom during the Ellison talk.

Harlan takes the stage, refuses to give it back, and then enthusiastically starts challenging the audience as he launches into a series of fascinating stories that keep getting interrupted by some new story the previous one has just reminded him of. Eventually, albeit with occasional prodding from the audience, Harlan will indeed finish every one of the stories he's begun, but the process is not unlike eating an artichoke, peeling away at the outer layers piece by piece until you reach the soft and tasty heart inside. It's something that is far better experienced than described.

The highlight of the day's two performances, however, came during the afternoon session, when Harlan called for any questions from the audience. One of the students, reading from Harlan's abbreviated biography from the program, asked, in unwitting reference to an honor bestowed upon Harlan last year by the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, "How did you become one of only 29 Grand Masters?" Harlan replied, "Do you know what a Grand Master is?" Without missing a beat, the kid answered, "Not really, but I think it has something to do with the Ku Klux Klan."

It took us twenty minutes to scrape Harlan up off the floor.