Date: Mon, 29 Sep 1997 19:06:56 -0500 (CDT) From: Scott A Gilbert <[g--b--t] at [is.rice.edu]> To: Trondheim Zombies <[c--m--x] at [world.std.com]> Subject: SPX: THE SEARCH FOR SPOCK (too long!) -Poster: Scott A Gilbert <[g--b--t] at [is.rice.edu]> Didn't sleep the night before flying from my Houston home to BWI-Baltimore (and had foolishly fatigued myself mega-cleaning my apartment earlier in the "day"), so slept in a cramped, stacked chair fashion on the crowded flight. Thank god for earplugs. Unbroken dual industrial psychologist discussion in row behind me (in mixed loud Puerto Rican Spanish and English) would have driven me to inflight homicide without them. BWI airport was surprisingly petite, and the toy-scale MARC train station even more so. The MARC train was swell, with massively comfy chairs and a beautiful corridor of East Coast forest and sub-rural townships for a view. Penn station in Washington was just about as nice as folks often say it is, though, as I am a clueless barbarian from mass transit-free Texas, I was severely challenged when confronted with the rites and rituals of buying fares, picking correct corridors and turnstiles, dealing with fare-cards, etc. Also, having to heft my 150 pounds of luggage (strapped to my little rolling dolly apparatus) over each turnstile, down and up each set of stairs, and over my head into each train and bus was a bit miserable after my sleepless night. On Metro ride to Silver Spring (and here, first of many kudos to Chris "the bomb" Oarr for his excellent and minute directions) I was actually able to perform my single act of touristing in DC: I could just make out the top of the Washington Monument momentarily as we pulled out of the first station. Silver Spring was kind of blank-- sort of reminded me of a cross between small Florida cities (medical supply stores, weirdly empty storefronts and old strip centers, plus a goodly amount of Art Deco architecture) and Seattle (hilly streets, coffee shops). The big benefit was the hardcore Italian deli down the street from the Quality Inn where I ate several cold-cut heros over the course of the next 2 days (and was baffled by the sale of balls of some kind of cheese that had to be fished out of a bowl of milk-- very Woodring). The Quality Inn, I must sheepishly admit, is probably the nicest hotel I have ever stayed in as an adult . I gauge the quality of a hotel by the grade of shampoo they provide, assuming that they do in fact provide shampoo-- Quality Inn even provided what I at first thought were hideous condoms, but which my roomie Mack White soon convinced me were actually shower caps. After a flawless check-in, I naturally hit the hotel bar and sucked back a couple of Nature's revitalizing drink, the Vodka-7, while watching an inexplicable TV tennis match. I hit the street to absorb more cool, moisture-free (by Houston standards) Maryland air and to seek basic local necessities (a liquor store). Slightly puzzled by Silver Spring's "mall in a tall building", I quickly found my objective and bought the 1.75 liters of the ambrosia known as Ezra Brooks bourbon. I also asked for a civilizing factor, seltzer, but was informed that liquor stores may no longer sell anything but liquor in Maryland (due to some overly literal local politicians?). Back in hotel, I was pleased to find Mack "the Bhoddivista Bubbha" White had arrived, and we shared a little Ezra and the first of the cold cut sandwiches I had also picked up. We caught up on things generally, went over basic plans for the con, and Mack clued me in on the assassination of Princess Diana. As usual, Mack's theories are so dazzlingly illuminating metaphorically that their veracity matters little. In the case of the pulverized people's princess Mack showed me that there was far more involved than merely another massive spasm of the Late Capitalist Spectacle(TM). Di's death apparantly involved a settling of debts between surviving members of the Merovingian dynasty (who claim descent from Christ via Mary Magdelain) in a tunnel underneath a field where such disputes were often settled in old France. Also this area was dedicated to the goddess Diana in Roman times. Peripherally, the family relationship of Dodi to (arms dealer and Iran/Contra figure) Adnan Khoshaggi and the recent move towards the secession of Scotland (where the Merovingeans apparently moved after France) added to the spin. Shaking all that off, we headed down to the first actual EVENT, the Friday night party. I am not entirely clear on what all happened, but things accelerated with lurching progress, more and more players arriving in bursts as party events sparked and fizzled in the background. As so often happens my name was left off some list and there was no printed ID badge for me (although entry was no prob due to the presence of Chris Oarr and Lisa Lippman), so I had to write up my own: "Scott A. Gilbert / your dad". Brenner provided weird little tickets which could be exchanged strictly for a beer or a shot of tequila, and were probably the only thing Brenner has successfully printed in the last couple of years. The "food" at the party was a bit dismal-- remember folks, keep the cheetos OUT of the chex-mix-- but the cheese and veggies were fine and the tiny Mexican lady bartenders were very amusing and swift. Sad accompaniment to the news about the Supreme Court refusing to hear Diana's case and the Planet Comics plea, however. Me and Mack introduced ourselves to Mike after his incredibly shy and plaintive "community service" narration of his harassment by our legal system. I told him that I was a former Largo, FL resident myself (1982-83), but that any comics I drew there then were pretty tame. He was a strange mix-- an incredibly contrite and shy fellow with a little boy's tow-head of long hair, but with an extremely Iggy-like, buff figure-- in fact he is now living in NYC and exotic dancing for a living! His work can only get more interesting in years to come, I think. I suddenly met Scott McCloud for the first time and was instantly engaged in a friendly, but intense discussion of his book, the upcoming Beaty-driven mega-analysis of his book in _The Comics Journal_, and mainly of comic's exodus to the Web. He had a number of intriguing, yet highly optimistic new ideas about the internet, which I support, yet kind of doubt. I was getting increasingly loaded and exhausted as I met Larry Rodman (whom I have been corresponding with for years, and whose work on the _Thringst_ comic I admire greatly), re-met Scott Faulkner, and finally met Bart "Coma Baby" Beaty face to face. Glenn Carnagey showed up soon, sporting the high fashion, tank-top look that thrilled many waitresses. With the arrival of Dean Haspiel, Robert Boyd and some others (and the sudden apparition of James Kolchaka Superstar's band and his "Magic Finger" after a very quiet and pleasant "filk-song" set by Jon Lewis & friends), we retired to the hotel bar again. Mark "Sketchbook Boy" Nevins showed up, as did Reverend Rich and Kurt "The Tequila Pipeline" Gelhausen and the ever-ebullient Brian Biggs. My physical resources failed about this time, and I clumped over to a nearby Mickey D's for some bolstering chow before collapsing in the Texas Mutant Room of the Dead (next to the previously expired Mack White). Next morning I leapt out of bed at the crack of 11 and the cracking of my skull and raced down to just miss the overpriced breakfast buffet. Ignoring this, I moved on to my table and the already overwhelming swarm of dealers, fans, artists, and mutants that actually was SPX. No admonishment from Oarr for my tardiness (he was already deeply involved in a growing relationship with his walky-talky), and I was pleased to see that while Mack and I (we were table-mates as well as roomies) would be ensconced next to Bill Willingham's and Shannon Wheeler's attendant hordes, we were also directly across from my man Joe Zabel's table of multitudinous wonders. Joe is the greatest-- buy _The Trespassers_ today!! Wheeler's table was pretty amazing, in terms of the assortment of products he had available, from Too-Much-Coffee-Man Coffee and lighters to, I kid you not, toilet paper. He was also the only retailer I could see with a charge-card embosser. Bill Willingham was a nice guy, and extremely popular, but his breath was reminiscent of many dead walruses. Remember, kids: no pemmican before the con. The order of the day was pandemonium. Tons and tons of folks filed past, bought books, chatted and frightened us by their appearance (dig it: there were only 2 people in costume at the con, and they were both connected with a couple of the more stupid-assed titles represented). I dueled cameras with Matt Madden at one point (and yes, a webpage of shots is in the offing). I did get a slight edge of "con-lag", but this was offset by the fact that these people really had come to see _me_, the alternative cartoonist. As has been thoroughly repeated, I must repeat again: I sold more books in the first 2 hours of SPX than I have ever sold at _any_ comics convention. Beyond that, the gratification of dealing with people who were not puzzled, but were in fact delighted by my work was worth every effort involved in attending this event. The only problem with the con was that I was given so many freebies and trades that for all the books I sold, I would still have to haul home an equivalent (if not greater) load of new books by other folks. So many people came by my table that I must apologize in advance for not mentioning your name here if I saw you, 'cause I can't possibly remember to list you all. Mike Rhode, Janet Hethrington, Bebe Williams (who I was re-meeting after 20 years), Jim Ottaviani, Jeff Smith, Bob Kathman, Brett Warnock, Tom Hart, Charles and Michele Hatfield, Chris Mautner, Dave Lasky, Tom Devlin, Colin Upton, Roberta Gregory, Joe Chiappetta, Ivan Brunetti and an effervescent, boiling horde of other good folks all stopped by to say hello. I managed to slip away from the table for about an hour and make a round of all the tables and met two of my all time favorite comix people: Jon "Root Hog or Die" Porcellino and Jenny "Hypnotic" Zervakis. What a thrill! Robert Boyd's mountain of product was actually frightening, even without the military looking backdrop containers he was unable to deploy. You know why comix people are so large? We have to carry these giant masses of books, that's why! Robert was in "the really cool room" with Lasky, Biggs, Hart, Ed Brubaker, Lisa Maslowe, James Sturm, Sam Henderson, Joe Matt, Drawn & Quarterly, James Kolchaka (who was really pushing that Magic Monkey CD), Brett Warnock's amazing Top-Shelf "bar" (an actual plush wooden bar, fully equipped and covered with Top Shelf product), Spit and A Half, Jenny Zervakis & Marc Cunningham, Madden, Jessica "Drum & Bass" Abel, Millenium Comics, Dean Haspiel, Upton, Gregory, Donna Barr, Jon Lewis & the Alternative Comics Krewe, and just a few others. Eventually the day wound down. The retailer hour where fans were pushed out of the dealers rooms and books were offered at a 60% reduction didnt pan out too well for Mack and I, at least, but it was a good idea. Finally after we did our minimal packing up and secured everything in our room, everybody , and I mean everybody, bypassed the Ruby Tuesdays bar and grill in the Tall Mall for the Ho Express, a Chinese take-out place that went from no customers to approximately 50 in a matter of 30 minutes. Everybody was a little giddy, and the MSG went a long way towards putting us all back together. Much hysterical dialogue ensued, including a poll about which cartoonist most resembled his work, which Sam Henderson, with mixed feelings, won. There was much worrying about us not getting back in time for the Ignatz awards presentation, but since all the cartoonists were with us, I knew the awards couldnt progress without us, and would be (as they were indeed), a little late getting started anyway. The Ignatz awards were exactly what Bart said they looked like from the podium: The worlds worst prom. Cornball early 80s dance tunes blasted the crowd before the awards as we searched for chairs, dazed by our MSG intake. The awards rolled out comically, the height of hilarity being Chris Oliveros, upon accepting the third Ignatz for a Drawn and Quarterly artist, saying in his tiny Canadian voice: these shipping costs will bring down our company. The incongruity of Mark up on the stand giving out an award when practically nobody knew him (but you know, he makes a great presentation) was funny-- the weight of the list, comicdom's Illuminati or Freemasons on the con was really humorous overall (maybe not so much if you didnt know what the list is). At dinner, Shannon Wheeler got pretty panicky when I wouldnt reveal what the list was. Dave Sim had looked out of place at the CBLDF table, but his inability to apply his oily charm to the SPX crowd from the dais was particularly jarring. I dig Dave, but this was like seeing Mel Torme drop in on a Pixies show. After the awards blew over, the real parties began. The hospitality suite, with the bathtubs full of beverages and ice were booming. The floor was slippery with beer bottle-caps, and the atmosphere was slick with sweating cartoonists. No matter whether they are indie, alternative, or mainstream, when you get enough comix geeks together get sweaty. Much sketchbook trading ensued, pressed on mainly by Mr. Nevins who was hooked into this Beak and Clemmy thing of Boyds. My addition to the B & C secondary (yes, secondary) story, an Alex Toth tribute, seemed to send Nevins into paroxysms of disbelief. Brian Ralph continuously and with forceful simplicity slammed the story back into gear. I met two interesting cartoonists in the hospitality suite, Greg Bennett (who does the interesting book _Hummingbird_ and is a fairly successful NYC illustrator) and Marc Cunningham, the editor of the much esteemed _Zoomcranks_ anthology, as well as a fine cartoonist in his own right, author of the recently released _Natch_, and Jenny Zervakis spouse. Marc was yet another sizeable cartoonist, who has been a bouncer and a doorman at bars, and currently bartends for a living. Lots of spiralling discussion and boozing went down, and eventually I was forced to go fetch the mega-bottle of Ezra Brooks from my room. This was much appreciated, even by Mr. Nevins (who had left all his Brazilian booze in the limo, apparently). The effect of these hillbilly spirits sparked arm wrestling between Nevins and Dean (and yes, this was the height of the much touted ass-kicking activity at SPX). I wont say who won, but lets just say that working a Nautilus machine regularly pumps you up a little more than 12 hours a day at the drawing table. Bart revealed to us his athletic and dangerous side with tales of concussive youth hockey and a current obsession with water-skiing (its true!). Brian Biggs became very agitated and began compulsively circling the tiny, sweaty room we were in, until ordered to chill out happily in the lap of the North Carolina lady cartoonist whose name eludes me (Kris Dresden?). An international smuggler in the group (no names, please) broke out some Havana cigars which were ecstatically puffed up by Nevins, Oarr, Wheeler, Warnock, and Boyd. Pyschological accusations were cast about, but it was agreed overall that, to quote Robert Boyd, sometimes a tube is just a tube. The madness shifted slightly around 4 AM when the remains of the hospitality suite party moved up to the Tarantinos Moms room party, where much bed-sprawling and wrestle-baiting occured. As my ability to move my face was becoming impaired, I finally peeled out and went back to my room to collapse, utterly, happily. I took it easy the next morning, in order to regain complete motor control of my body, and got up just in time for the alternative weekly comic strip panel. This deathly exposition was moderated by James Sturm, Ted Rall, and Ruben Bolling. They advised would-be weekly strip cartoonists to forget it because the market is so constricted currently, and getting into new papers is nearly impossible. Their best suggestion was ya gotta be an animal! , and they claimed that there was no money to be made in internet comics. In sum: youre doomed, give up, stay out of my way, the end. I think I will tend to ignore any info this panel offered up. Best things about the panel was that, after it broke up, I found out that lister and fine cartoonist E. Fitz Smith was sitting behind me. Fantastic meeting this talented Savannah native, at last, and encouraging her to do tons more new comics. Somewhat haphazardly we made our way, then, via carpools over to the site of the SPX picnic and ballgame. This trip allowed me my only views of Silver Spring beyond the hotel environs. Nice town, overall. The park the picnic was in was extremely green and quiet, except for all the pesky cartoonists, and the bunches of tree-hopping crows who lent a definite Poe-vibe to the scene. Chris and his crew were hard pressed to feed the ravenous mob, but gamely grilled burgers and hot dogs, and doled out soft drinks, and barbeque sides. After eating, there was much sprawling on the grass, and I engaged Ed Brubaker, Art Baxter, and Jon Lewis in a fine, manly debate over drawing tools. Jon eventually accused the rest of us of worshipping office supplies. Midway through the event, the highly anticipated roast pig arrived in full, golden brown glory, supplying our pork needs during the great ball game. The game was odd, but glorious, and everybody reverted back to their old high school era social roles on and off the field. Screened t-shirts were supplied the cartoonist team by our opponents, Diamond, and we all looked like 13 year olds. Contrary to a previous report, Jeff Smith was _not_ the only cartoonist who brought his own glove-- I had packed my old mitt with care in anticipation of this event. Our rather crushing victory over the Diamond team was a surprise, considering how much I had heard about their prowess (and the rumored presence of Oriole minor-leaguer ringers on their team), but I think everybody had fun. 2 images stick out from the game: Brian Biggs hollering , bouncing, non-stop excitement at the whole thing and the most exemplary figure of athleticism Glenn Carnagey displayed, poised on the mound with the perpetual marlboro dangling from his lip. Bart Beaty swung heavy wood, but managed not to put anyone into a coma. The end of the picnic was pretty much the end of SPX, at least as far as this narrative is concerned. As Jessica Abel put it, SPX had been very much like a condensed summer camp, and everybody was sad to the point of tears at parting company that evening. But the success, psychologically, economically, and tactically of SPX was clear. I look forward to future annual ventures to Silver Spring or Bethesda with great anticipation. The remainder of my trip was spent over the next 4 days travelling up to New Jersey and New York City to visit old friends, gape at the big city, and do a signing at St. Marks Comix. I saw magnificent Picasso prints, Times Square, and Paul Socolow. I saw gasping ranks of catfish in Chinatown, chi-chi artwork in Soho galleries, and Sinatra-overload sports bars. With great joy I rode the 6, N, R, and PATH trains repeatedly, got 5 blisters on my feet, bought a black police shirt at Canal Street Jean Company (though I was looking for an XXL M-65 army coat), and pulled a muscle in my right knee. In other words, I had an incredible time, and would like to thank all the folks I met for helping make it such. Ill be back! --Scott Gilbert Nomansgone, TEXAS _________________________________________________________________