Novi, Michigan. I'm sitting between Bill Loebs and Jim Ottaviani.

Bill just came back from England and is unaccountably ahead of schedule on his much anticipated BLISS ALLEY. He has the first issue with him, and it is a HUGE pleasure to read his personal work again. Jim has a couple of flyers and a tidy, thick, stapled xerox book of his upcoming tpb anthology TWO FISTED SCIENCE. It's all together, save for my Bohr-Heisenberg story, David Lasky's Feynman story and the unassigned one pager that Jim is hoping to pitch to an artist .

I've got a pile of original art that would fill a couple of filing cabinet drawers, a bunch of color and B&W prints, a scattering of xeroxed sketchbook minis, an art bin overflowing with crusty pens and brushes, several dozen comics I've drawn, a stack of checklists, a file case full of xeroxed samples and give away sheets, some color posters, two signs and a loose pile of Hershey's miniatures. I glance at Jim and Bill and realize that their displays look like Japanese gardens. Mine is more like a firetrap flea market in Chinatown.

A lot of people want sketches and my dance card for the day is quickly filled. One request is for"some character holding up my daughter."

A trip around the con takes me to the DC booth where Stuart Moore and Maureen McTeague are arranging preview booklets. One of them is speaking in short sentences and measured, reasonable tones to a spotted, twitchy guy asking something unnerving about Krypton. Mike Carlin is positioned in front of the DC bullet and for an unfocused moment it looks like there's a halo with stars around his head. Shira from marketing stands surveying the horizon. I spend a few minutes drooling over the make-ready of a John Totleben illustrated issue of VERMILLION. I don't think I've seen Tottleben's storytelling since Miracleman in, what, 1988? However long it's been, he certainly hasn't lost his chops. Warren Ellis' TRANSMETROPOLITAN looks like fun, too.

I return to my table to find that my comics sell better when I'm not there to autograph them. Jim runs off, and comes back smiling like he's just won the lottery. Turns out Collen Doran has agreed to illustrate that one-pager for him. Shortly thereafter, Techno-Destructo from GWAR wheels by, growling and snorting, bare-assed on roller skates. Jim doesn't even blink.

There's a never ending supply of Pruetts staffing the Caliber booth. At least four of the ugly bastards, and three of them are out to get me. I'm sure of this.

When the time comes for dinner, Jim and I tag along with half of the DC contingent. Seven of us pile into a sub-compact to find the middle-eastern place that Shira heard about. Despite a disspiriting strip-mall location, this is a fine choice. The servings are huge, and what we leave on the table could feed most of the industry for a week. Stuart Moore talks about his southwestern travels, James Robinson tells us where we can see Hitler's car, and John McCrea caps off the evening with a story that leaves the entire table convulsing with wild laughter, choking, breathless and teary eyed.

Later, Jim and I are at hanging in the DoubleTree lobby, waiting for our ride to show up. We chat briefly with Tara Jenkins, whose GALAXION is looking sharp. Some guy is playing the piano but he stops when a thick brute n a tight suit tells him to knock it off. The brute is huge and squinty, with a blocky head and big roll of fat on the back of his neck. He's sort of Ditkoesque. Jim and I try to come up with the name of the supervisor in Reid Fleming that he also strongly resembles. (It's "Mr Crabbe.")

It costs seventy dollars to take a cab from Novi to Ann Arbor. Remember that, kids.

Saturday.

The busy day. Don't even TRY to make small talk with Michael or Gary. Their lives are hell.

The big names from Star Wars are packing the crowds in. People are getting all sorts of weird stuff autographed. Willing to do my part, I scratch my name on a metric buttload of Hawkman action figures. Everyone wants to know what I think of the Baby Ruth commercial. Haven't seen it.

David Mack stops by and I give him the latest sketchbook mini. He gives me the latest KABUKI. I won that trade.

A woman takes a look at my name tag, says "I know who you are!" and runs off. Several hours later she has a copy of the new Captain America number one that she wants me to sign.

There's a guy selling Doug Wildey original art insanely low prices. I score two great pieces, and pick up a third for Jeff Parker.

Harlan Ellison is signing stacks of books that are taller than me. Keeping up his line of patter is playing havoc with his voice, and he asks if anyone has a coughdrop. I offer an Altoid, which he takes, then spits out when someone comes up with a Riccola. He does like my pages though, and asks "Why aren't you working for me?" Julie Schwartz, curious, looks over and says, "Good job on dat nine panel grid. Dat's hod." Perhaps I've chosen the right career after all.

Sean Bieri's got a new issue of Cooljerk and Homogal with him, and a new Five O'Clock Shadow as well. Matt Feazell has assembled a mini wherein each contributor illustrates and/or violates one item of the old comics code. (Sergio Aragones offered up a nude Groo.) Rachel Hartman has completed three issues of a delightful little mini called AMY. Robert Lewis has another NED out. and Joe Chiapetta has a whole mess of SILLY DADDY's that I've never seen before. Good small press turnout.

There's a fourteen foot albino Burmese python working her way into my suitcoat. The snake was pregnant. While most of her has that typical snake feel, she's got an area about the length of my hand that feels like a ziploc bag full of warm cough syrup. This is the amniotic sac full of little baby pythons. I would love to see her give birth at this show.

Paul Grant stops by and chats. He mentions that he's involved with the Don Thompson awards. I assure Paul that I'm sending by ballot Monday morning. Paul nods appreciatively, then reminds me that the awards will be handed out in about an hour.

Bill's taking a long lunch, so I offer to doodle the Maxx or Wonder Woman for the kids with the big stacks of books and the desperate expressions. One of them squints at the sketch, then at me and says, "You aren't Sam Kieth." I let the straight line go.

After much debate, and a little friendly harrangue from Michael Goldman, whose life we are making unneccesarily difficult, we cap Saturday off with a trip to a neighboring town, where Sean Bieri & Sophia Raptis lead an enormous group of small press people to an Indian restaurant named, inevitably, The Taj Mahal. Matt Feazell tells funny stories, Sean shows his astounding travel sketchbooks, and Todd McMullen cracks the table up with a quick summary of his next mini-comic "Superman's Pal, Todd McMullen." My girlfriend Sara has driven out here to join us. Right before leaving for the restaurant, she'd finished reading a big stack of Chiapetta's autobiographical comics and she's taken aback when she realizes that the guy she'd been reading about is sitting across from her at dinner.

Sunday is the quietest of the three days. A surprise snowstorm that morning scares a lot of people away. Many cars have skidded off the road. Despite the awful weather, a bunch of peole do attend and are generally rewarded with shorter lines and more flexible prices. I find a copy of my first effort for DC in the front of a five for a dollar box and spend a few minutes shaking my head, cringing, reminiscing.

Sean Bieri is an extremely talented and versatile cartoonist, but he's not into mainstream spandex stuff. That's what's in demand at this convention, though, so for five bucks he'll draw a color sketch of any superhero sitting on the john. He surprises me with a gift of a Hawkman, squatting on a telephone wire, a passing motorist giving him the finger for what just landed on his windshield.

Sean's also assembling a neat mini. He transcribled the lyrics of the song "88 lines about 44 women," and is having 44 cartoonists each illustrate one of them.

Dan Mishkin and I are talking with Julie Schwartz in the hospitality room. Julie is telling one of his Strange Schwartz Stories when a spike-heeled, mammoth-breasted, blonde amazon in a leather bra comes in, squeaks "You must be Julie!" and plants a big sloppy kiss on his mouth. She exits. Julie continues his story.

Sean gives a drawing of "Techno-Destructo on the Toilet" to someone from GWAR. They are impressed and give him a complete set of their comics, which they did in fact draw themselves. They want to know if they can put the drawing up on their website.

Bill Loebs is humming to himself as he works on a sketch. Two tables behind him, there's an inker with a walkman playing air-guitar.

The PA system, disguising its voice as that of a very hoarse Gary Bishop, informs us that the con is now closed. Time to head back home, go to the gym with Sara, scrape some kind of dinner together, and then, somehow, sit down at the drawing board and get a few hours of work done.

Steve Lieber
life drawing gallery | portfolio| ranting | appearances | Comicspace site | home