Monthly Archives: April 2015

Rube Goldberg was a great cartoonist who became famous for his drawings of "inventions" that worked like what you'll see in this video. This is someone's idea of Passover, Rube Goldberg style. Thanks, Shelly Goldstein…

Jack Rollins just turned 100 years old.

What? You don't know who Jack Rollins is? He's a manager and I'll bet you've heard of his most famous clients. My buddy Steve Stoliar lists just some of them as he reports on the birthday party.

Frank Rich thinks the core of the Brian Williams problem is that America has outgrown the concept of the network anchorman. He's probably right…and that's the way it is.

This short article promises "The Reason McDonald's Chicken McNuggets Come in Four Distinct Shapes" and I'll save you the click by quoting the sizzling, deep-fried revelation…

The reason why they are all a standard shape and size is to ensure consistent cooking times for food safety in all McDonald's restaurants, the company wrote on its Q&A page. But the varying shapes are also geared toward kids. "Our Chicken McNuggets are shaped uniquely for kids and kids at heart-it makes dipping more fun!" the company wrote.

I don't buy that. I mean, I haven't bought Chicken McNuggets in a decade or three but I don't buy that explanation. It always seemed to me that they could have all been pressed/stamped into the same shape but someone was concerned that would constantly remind people that they weren't eating unprocessed chicken. They wanted you to think or maybe just assume that somewhere, someone was cutting up pieces of actual, uncooked chicken and then deep-frying it.

If they'd done that, the McNuggets would not have all looked alike so they said, "Okay, let's stamp them out into several different shapes so they don't all look nearly identical." And then someone else decided that four different shapes were sufficient to create that illusion. That's also why they didn't try to make any of those shapes look like, say, chickens or dinosaurs or letters of the alphabet. The less you think about it, the more you're likely to think there's real chicken under all that fried batter.

Last Friday, DC Comics closed its office in Manhattan, having completed the lengthy process of relocating to Burbank, California. My old pal Bob Greenberger, who worked for them for many years, recalls the office in which he worked and some of the people there.

As I've mentioned here many times, my father spent most of his adult life working for the Internal Revenue Service. It was a job and here were the good things about it:

The weekly paycheck was an absolute certainty. He and his family received very good health insurance. If he didn't do anything stupid, he would receive tiny raises from time to time and be able to retire when he reached 60 years of age. And when he did retire, he would receive a modest pension until he died and if his wife survived him — which she did — she would receive that pension until she died — which she did.

I cannot tell you how important and wonderful that health plan was for her. Without it, she would probably have died 5-10 years sooner, suffered more while she was alive, and worried constantly about medical bills costing her that lovely house he'd left her.

Those were the good things. Note that none of them had to do with what he would do each day when he went to work. All that, he hated. He especially hated answering to unqualified or bossy bosses. Obviously, I am giving you his description of his workplace here. He believed many of the policies he was ordered to almost blindly enforce were foolish, pernicious and unfair. Particularly during the presidency of Richard M. Nixon, my father was sent forth to wring every possible dime out of poor people (especially single parents) but to kiss the derrieres of wealthy folks and to not make too much of a fuss when a rich guy didn't want to pay what the law said he was supposed to pay.

According to my father, some of that was a matter of certain people in Washington rewarding their friends and campaign donors. And some of it was because affluent people could afford good lawyers and accountants. It was simply easier to collect from folks who couldn't…even when they didn't have the money.

The single parent thing really got to him. He did not have the power to waive or prune the tax bill of a delinquent taxpayer. At most, he could negotiate payment plans within predefined department guidelines and he needed the blessing of his superiors to go beyond those guidelines. More than once, he went to his bosses and said something like, "I'd like to forgive a part of this woman's tax bill and give her longer than usual to pay the rest. She was recently widowed. She has five children to feed and clothe and her husband left her in serious debt, above and beyond her taxes, and she has no source of income at the moment."

The reply to that kind of request was usually along the lines of, "Denied. Tell her that if she cares about those kids, she'll hurry up and find a new husband who can support them." Single male parents fared a little better but not by much.

That was one example of many reasons he hated to go to work most mornings. Even though he blamed the stress for causing his bleeding ulcer and many sleepless nights, he did the job. To men of his generation — he was born in 1910 — there was nothing more important than providing for your family both in life and death. He provided well when he was alive. There was never anything I really needed we could not afford, though I recall wishing when I got braces on my teeth, that my orthodonture had not been affordable. My father left my mother a home, a pension and that all-important health insurance.  Oh, yeah: And me but she was half-responsible for that.

It was around 1951 when he married the one and only love of his life. And it was no coincidence that was the year he committed to the I.R.S. job for the rest of his life.

Prior to that, he had worked in a number of different jobs. He worked as a copy boy at the Hartford Courant, then as now the largest newspaper in Connecticut. He worked as the Night Clerk at Mount Sinai Hospital in Hartford. He worked on and off for the I.R.S. division in Hartford. He was originally hired, in part because of his limited experience at the Courant, to work in Press Relations. That was not a bad position, he said, but then they reorganized the division and moved him, much against his will, into being a Revenue Officer. He didn't like it but he did it there and later, he signed on to do it in Los Angeles for the rest of his working days.

Notice I use the word "job" here. My father had jobs. He never had a "career," at least the way he defined it. Once I began to work steadily as a professional writer, he'd sometimes say to me, "You've got a career." He always had a big grin on his face when he said it.

Don't write to me about the real definitions of these words. Around my father, the difference was simple: A job was something you did to buy groceries and pay the mortgage. A career was something you wanted to do. Not one child in all of America has ever said, "I want to grow up to be a Revenue Officer for the Internal Revenue Service."

In '51 when he took that job in L.A., he not only abandoned any hope of ever having a career, he gave up one other important thing. He gave up the dream of ever being rich.

He would henceforth receive a steady paycheck and a pension but the amounts involved would never buy much more than the necessities of life and an occasional vacation. You could not get rich working for the I.R.S.; not even if you took bribes. His best friend at the office tried that and even if he hadn't been caught and sent to prison, he would never have owned a mansion and a yacht. My father, who was so honest he returned found wallets with all the cash intact, would never have even tried it.

Most people in my line of work (writing) never achieve anything even vaguely resembling a steady paycheck. A good many never earn half as much money as my father did at the job he hated. But in writing, there is at least the theoretical possibility of wealth. It may be unlikely but it's not utterly impossible that your next writing job will lead to you publishing a best-selling novel or writing a screenplay that will bring in millions.

That's not why most of us do it. I do it because I never came across any profession that seemed preferable or within my limited skill set. I sometimes pause to consider that fundamental difference between what I do and what my father decided to do. I've never had the job security he had but I've also never had a cap on my potential earnings. There's the trade-off.

As you might imagine, I know a lot of writers. I know writers who are unsuccessful and happy. I know writers who are unsuccessful and unhappy. I know writers who are successful and happy. And I know writers who are successful and unhappy. That last group is generally the saddest of the four.

I suspect some of the unhappy ones (successful or otherwise) would be happier if they had a job instead of a career. Not knowing what your income will be next month — or even if you'll have one — can cause stress and bleeding ulcers and sleepless nights. My father's problem was not that he had a job. It was that he had the wrong job and was never able to find a better one — and once he had the responsibility as the Bread Winner, unwilling to risk the security he'd found.

He retired at the age of 63, just in time to watch and cheer the televised Watergate hearings. There were many revelations in them about how the Nixon Administration had used the I.R.S. to reward its friends and punish its enemies and he was so, so happy to see much of that exposed even if it didn't lead to total reform. Mostly though, he was happy to be out of that damned job.

His last few years at it, he looked more like he was in his eighties than his sixties. The day he retired, he dropped the extra twenty years from his face and maybe five or ten more just out of sheer relief. He lived another 20.5 years in fairly good health. They were not free of stress as he could always find something to worry about but it was never as bad as his years at the I.R.S.

Which is not to say retirement did not have its downsides. The main one was that he was bored out of his mind.

He followed a couple of stocks he owned, more for the hobby than for the money. He rooted for the Lakers and never understood how it was possible for them to win a game if it wasn't televised and he wasn't in front of his TV yelling at the screen. He prayed for jury duty, got it a few times but discovered that his past profession disqualified him from ever actually getting on a jury. At times, I would find busy work for him, giving him errands to run for me. They usually did not turn out well as I've explained here before.

He never wished for a second he was back at his job. But he did wish he had something to do all day and really feel like he was doing something.

I turned 63 last month. Only about a week ago did this dawn on me: I am now the age my father was when he retired. It has never for a second occurred to me to do that.

I consider myself fortunate that I have a career and that every morning, I not only have something to do…I have something I want to do. That's another difference between a job and a career…and it may be the reason I don't feel 63 except sometimes around the knees.

I am in my own computer chair and my full-size antique Northgate keyboard. The biggest news out of WonderCon Anaheim was that next year, it'll be WonderCon Los Angeles. The Anaheim Convention Center has major expansion work planned so the WonderCon/Comic-Con folks have signed to do WonderCon at the L.A. Convention Center in 2016.

At the moment, the thinking is that this is for just one year and it'll be back to Anaheim for 2017. Of course, a few years ago, they moved WonderCon from San Francisco to Anaheim for "just one year" because the Moscone Convention Center in S.F. was having major expansion work. So you never know.

What do I think of this? Not much, I'm afraid. I think the L.A. Convention Center is a confusing mess of parking and traffic and rooms that are too far apart and…well, I don't like the place. About the only thing I can say for it is that it's a better choice than Vegas. Firm dates have not yet been announced.

In case you're in the mood for thirteen minutes of Sesame Street…

There's always an odd feeling when I awake in a hotel room on the final morn of a multi-day convention. I have to start packing; ergo, it feels like the con is over. But shortly I will go over to the hall where the convention is really only two-thirds over and I'll host three panels, almost back-to-back. So there's still a lot to do.

I have been going to comic book conventions (and occasionally, science-fiction or film conventions) for close to 45 years now. My first was the July 4th weekend of 1970 in New York and later that year, I attended the first edition of what we now call Comic-Con International, AKA "The San Diego Con." In the seventies and eighties, I probably averaged five conventions a year not counting the little one-day local ones that were mostly for dealers. I do not even want to guess how many panels I've done but the last decade or so, I've averaged 13 at each Comic-Con. I have been to great conventions and terrible conventions and a few where I was so numb from jetlag and loss of sleep, I never found out if I had a good time or not.

In the last few years, I've done fewer and fewer, declining most invites. The "business model" (that's not quite the proper term) for guests is that they bring us in and give us a table and we sell stuff to make it worth our while to be there. Some professional-type folks make a large part of their livings that way and I think that's great, but it doesn't really work for me. I have very little to sell and an aversion to selling it myself.

I usually have very little business to conduct with publishers and editors — here at WonderCon this year, I've had none — so I really just come to see friends and I do enjoy hosting panels. The Cartoon Voices one yesterday was especially good — because of the panelists, not because of me.

One thing I do enjoy about a convention such as this is the mood and the excitement: There are so many people having a good time, often in participatory ways. Years ago, I read a long article called something like "The Joy of Disneyland" about how one of the things folks most enjoyed about being there was the sheer joy of being there. Rides and attractions aside, there was a fundamental delight in merely being in The Happiest Place on Earth…or one of The Happiest Places on Earth.

There's something delightful about being in a place like WonderCon and much of it flows from the attendees entertaining each other, and all the exhibitors feel like us, not them. At Disneyland, we're entertained by them; by a mega-profitable corporation that always seems to be manipulating us to buy another overpriced Goofy t-shirt or Mulan hat. With a few exceptions, the vendors here at WonderCon don't have that kind of power over us. Most feel like friends or creative folks offering what they've created. And except when they stage photo-ops right where I need to walk, I really like the cosplayers…with, of course, a few exceptions.

I usually go home from one of these cons feeling weary from the walkin' n' talkin' but nourished in a very real way by being around so many creative and happy people. Deadlines on one project necessitated that I spend some of my con time in this hotel room working on this here laptop…but even then, I felt connected. My window looks down on where the cosplayers mingle and I could also see attendees happily carting off their acquisitions. I like being here. Which is not to say I also won't like being back at my full-size keyboard later today and after that, sleeping in my own bed.

What I guess I'm getting at is that it feels good to be here and good to go home. I'll see you later today…at the full-size keyboard.

Rumor has it that tonight's episode of Last Week Tonight with John Oliver will be 45 minutes long instead of 30. If this is so, I have no idea what this does to the rest of the HBO schedule each time the show airs this week.

People in Celoron, New York are objecting to a statue that was erected there to honor a famous person. They say it's ugly and looks nothing like this famous person. Here's an article about this but before you click and read it, see if you can guess who the famous person is. I couldn't.

You'll like this. It's an excerpt from an Art Carney special that aired on December 4, 1959. It was written by Sheldon Keller and Larry Gelbart and directed by Burt Shevelove. Not long after, the last two of those men would co-author the play, A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.

The mystery guest in this spoof of What's My Line? is, of course, Dick Van Dyke. Playing Arlene Francis is Betty Garrett. Playing Bennett Cerf is David Doyle. Playing Dorothy Kilgallen is Gloria Vanderbilt, who was then a prominent actress and socialite, and who is now best known because her names are on a lot of pants. The other actor who doesn't get to say anything is William Pierson, who was in Stalag 17 and many other films, and who years later would have a recurring role on Three's Company. It's a nice little sketch they're in…

I received a couple of e-mails on the subject of the Indiana pizza restaurant which said pretty much the same thing. I went eenie-meenie-minie-moe and picked this one from reader Bill Mulligan to run here…

I hate it when the side of an argument I agree with argues it badly.

[He then quoted much of my posting which you can read by scrolling down.]

Yeah, you kind of left out a few parts to the story, like almost all of it. One could quibble with whether or not they "announced" their ban on gay marriage pizza catering or just answered a hypothetical posed by a reporter who apparently could not find any actual example of how the new law would impact gay people. Since I think such examples actually do exist I'll chalk that up to laziness. Still, I would hope you would not want to give the impression that this was something the pizza purveyors "announced" on their own initiative.

This was followed by a torrent of activity by people who agree with me on gay marriage and decided to advocate for it in the worst way possible; engage in the usual 2 minute internet hatefest. Some of it was harmless — snarky facebook posts (guilty). Some less so — I object to using review sites to lower the rating of businesses and individuals over political differences. That's not what they are for. And some went so far as to issue threats. I do not doubt for a minute that you agree with me that this is both stupidly counter productive and illegal.

It was the reaction to those threats that fueled the gofundme counter protest (which is what it really was). Leaving that out seems dishonest.  Even if you think that they over exaggerated the extent and seriousness of those threats, it seems to me it is very disingenuous to say that the money was sent as a simple reward for their anti gay stance regarding pizza catering.

You can check out [this article] if you doubt me. They mention the threats in the very first line and expand on it later: "The ensuing firestorm, including threats to burn down and rob the place, sent the O'Connors into hiding."

Again, one can certainly speculate on whether or not they overreacted. Frankly, I think it's become a bit ridiculous how every anonymous internet bully gets elevated to the level of Sirhan Sirhan. I don't run to the fainting couch every time someone named Riotgrrrl81 gets a case of the sadz over something I wrote and wishes me ill. But it's a big part of the story and I expect better of you than to leave it out.

Frankly, the story annoys the hell out of me. My side won the day, scored the winning basket with a slam dunk and somehow fouled out. Way. To. Go. Now these toothless goobers, with what I suspect is probably sub-par pizza, look like the victims. The rich victims.

You had me until your last paragraph, Bill. I wouldn't call anyone a "goober" and I certainly wouldn't call them a "toothless goober" without a dental examination. I wouldn't even assume the worst about their pizza without tasting it. (I've had good pizza in Indiana, though I've never been to their establishment or even their city.)

But the part before is right: I did read a number of stories about the pizza place but apparently not the right ones. The people didn't "announce" it and certainly didn't deserve the grief and threats. No one does even if they'd said a lot worse than they did and said it more deliberately…so I'm running this to correct that part of the record.

Still, I stand by what I said about the bigger picture here. There's money in verbal gay-bashing and most of the money donated was probably from folks cheering on anyone who seems to be on their side. The writer and website that launched the fund-raiser are of that ilk, constantly trying to extract money from people by telling them their lives and rights are in danger. You can make a very good living that way and maybe even get elected. Look at all the people who believe that Gay Marriage will mean the end of Straight Marriage but can't explain why. That's a line widely spread by those profiting from that fear.

I appreciate the correction, Bill. There was more to this story than I realized.

I don't pretend to know if and when the Supreme Court will rule that there is a constitutional right to Gay Marriage but here's an interview with a scholar who thinks they ought to.

In other news: You probably heard about the Indiana pizza parlor that announced it would never deliver pizzas to a gay wedding. This is a great example to serve my theory that so much of our political rancor in this country can be explaining by following the money.

There's no evidence that prior to their announcement, this restaurant ever received even one phone call from someone who said, "Hi. Two same-gender homosexuals are getting married here and we'd like you to send over a couple of large pies with pepperoni, mushrooms and extra cheese." Still, to reward them for their "courageous" stand, opponents of Same-Sex Wedlock are donating cash to the pizzeria, so far to the tune of $750,000.

And that's why most politicians and pundits who oppose it oppose it: Because it's an issue that riles some people up to the point where they'll donate cash…and probably even campaign for the person they think will stop it. If people would donate cash to wipe out cole slaw the way they will over Gay Marriage, Ted Cruz and Glenn Beck would be leading the charge against my least favorite side dish.

Sergio and I drove down here Thursday evening. He drove, I navigated. As an experiment, I used an iPhone app called Waze that folks say is the best Global Positioning Route out there today. It's one that's constantly updating and refiguring your route to avoid accidents or police incidents or a moose in the road or whatever. It performed flawlessly up to a point and then suddenly, it seemed to want to send us to San Diego for Comic-Con instead of Anaheim for WonderCon and I overruled "her" — the female voice telling us where to turn, when to stay to the left, etc. — and got us here more directly.

These things are fine if you have some idea where you're going. Follow them blindly and they'll have you in Ethiopia before you know it.

We could have used some guidance in selecting a place to stop for dinner. We picked a place called the Overland Grill not far from the convention center. Sergio ordered a Prime Rib Dip and I ordered the BBQ Chicken, and though the joint was nearly empty, it took a full hour for entrees to appear before us. Near the end of that hour as we waited impatiently, the waiter began telling us, "Your meals will be right out. The chicken takes a long time." Gee, thanks for telling us that 52 minutes after I ordered it. I'll bet it doesn't take that long when the restaurant is full.

Finally, chow arrived. Sergio thought his was pretty good. I thought mine had been lingering in the kitchen since the previous WonderCon.

The con yesterday was quite enjoyable…full of folks but not packed wall-to-wall. I suspect in about an hour, it will be packed wall-to-wall. Due to my knee problems, I haven't been walking the length and breadth of the hall but dealers seemed to be doing a brisk business and attendees seemed to be very happy to be there. I did two panels which went well and seemed to be appreciated in the right way.

Outside the con as usual, there were these folks with big yellow signs telling us to accept Jesus Christ into our lives. A year or two ago, I had to laugh: One of the fellows holding one was telling everyone who passed him, "We are not the Westboro Baptists! We are not the Westboro Baptists!" Yesterday, because my knee needed a rest and my right shoe needing tying, I sat on a bench not far from the outdoor festivities and one gent with a Jesus sign sat down next to me to rest his feet for a moment. He turned to me and this is approximately how the exchange went…

HIM: Have you recognized Jesus Christ as your personal saviour?

ME: No. Have you recognized that not one single human being has ever been affected by one of those signs? The only thing you change is the route some people take into the convention so they can avoid you.

HIM: (A deep sigh, then…) I know. I just feel I have to do something.

ME: Heed the words of Jesus. Sell all that you own and give to the poor and the needy.

That's my new answer to all who preach the word of Christ. But at least that fellow with the sign could be easily ignored. As I write this in my hotel room, I can hear the annoyingly-amplified voice of someone outside the convention center, yelling at attendees that they are nerds who must accept Jesus Christ or spend all eternity in Hell. That's not the kind of thing that has ever concerned me…although last night, I did fear I would spend all eternity waiting for BBQ Chicken.

At the moment, the guy with the portable loudspeaker seems to be directing most of his wrath at the folks in costume, telling the they will feel like fools if they show up at the feet of God dressed as they are. Apparently, if you die while dressed up as a Storm Trooper, your armor carries over into your next life and God, who isn't usually depicted wearing a three-piece suit and tie, is very judgmental about your attire.