So Long, Steve

By now, many of you have heard that the comics industry lost Steve Gerber this week. Steve was the noted co-creator of Howard the Duck and Omega the Unknown, among many other weird and wonderful characters. He was also my friend.

I first met Steve during those halcyon days of the early '70s Marvel Bullpen. He was sharp, funny, acerbic, and always had a cigarette in his hand. That irreverence and wit made him the astonishing writer so many of us came to envy and admire. Those cigarettes ultimately killed him.

We had an odd bond, Steve and I, since we had both built our reputations somewhat by chronicling the adventures of iconic marsh monsters, me by creating and writing Swamp Thing, Steve by turning Man-Thing into one of the most offbeat books in Marvel history. One day, over lunch, we realized each of us had grown tired of a particular Marvel title we were writing. We went back to the office and asked then-Editor-in-Chief Roy Thomas if we could swap books. Roy quickly agreed. Thus, I managed to write all of one-half issue of Daredevil before some now-long-forgotten scheduling conflict forced me to turn the title over to my old buddy Marv Wolfman. Steve, on the other hand, went on to turn The Defenders into one of the single most surreal super-team series ever.

I didn't see Steve much after I moved out here to LA, aside from the occasional encounter at some convention or another. I always regretted that. The last time I ran into him was about a year or so ago here in town. I was in the company of fellow blogger Mark Evanier when Mark picked Steve up to join a small group of fellow writers for dinner. I, unfortunately, had other commitments that evening and had to beg off. But I promised Steve we'd get together the next time he was in town. That next time now, sadly, will never occur.

Mark has a much more detailed and articulate obit for Steve over on his blog, which you can link to over on the right, so might I direct your attention there. I have to go say a final farewell to an old friend.

Blast From The Past - Pt. 1

This being the first of what may well become a series of reminiscences of my early days in the comics biz.

Okay, so it's 1973 and I'm the Editor-in-Chief of Marvel Comics, not bad for a kid in his mid-20s. The Marvel offices are on 575 Madison Avenue, I can't remember which floor. Head Honcho Stan Lee has the corner office, and what has lovingly come to be known as the Marvel Bullpen fills most of the rest of the same side of the hall. The Editor-in-Chief's office is a glass-walled room inside the much larger Bullpen area, so the E-i-C is available as needed to his staff. The Marvel editorial staff in those days, as best I can remember it now, includes Chris Claremont, Scott Edelman, Roger Slifer, Roger Stern, Irene Vartanoff, and almost certainly several others who will e-mail me immediately after this is published to chastise me for forgetting them.

Anyway, on this particular day, I had just returned from my annual pilgrimage to the West Coast to attend the now-omnipresent San Diego Comic-Con and spend some vacation time visiting with friends. During the course of my trip, I'd paid a visit to the self-proclaimed "Happiest Place on Earth", Disneyland. Now, being a responsible person and knowing I can't return home to the "kids" empty-handed, while at Disneyland, I've bought my entire staff those classic Mickey Mouse ears with their names embroidered on the back. Got it so far? Good.

So here it is, the end of the day, and the entire Marvel Bullpen is sitting at their desks, diligently doing their jobs, copy editing, color correcting, making bad puns, all of them to a man and woman wearing their mouse ears, and Stan strides by the Bullpen, heading for the lobby and the subway home. He glances into the Bullpen distractedly as he strides by, wishing us all a good evening, and then he's gone from sight.

A beat. Two beats.

Then Stan's hands come into view, grasping the side of the Bullpen door frame, followed a moment later by the top half of Stan's head, peering into the room sideways as if to verify he did indeed see what he just thought he saw. He looked a bit like the famous Kilroy drawing that was so popular during the Second World War. Seeing Stan's confusion, I raise a finger and open my mouth to explain why his entire staff is sitting there, wearing mouse ears. But, with a gesture, Stan stops me before I can utter a word.

"No, don't tell me," he mutters, sadly shaking his head, as he picks up his attache case and heads for the door, "I don't think I want to know."