Christmas in February

Originally published October 21, 1994, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1092

Assorted stuff:

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I never know what’s going to get a reaction from one week to the next. But one of the biggest reactions I got was when I blew off Native American concerns over Peter Pan. Some people seem to regard me as insensitive.

Well, in order to show just how sensitive I am, I—and my family—have decided to take on Native American names in the spirit of Dances With Wolves, a film that proved that the only thing more coma-inducing than Kevin Costner’s acting is his voice-over narration.

As alluded to in a previous column, I will henceforth answer to the name, “Runs With Scissors.” Ariel will be “Sleeps Like a Baby.” Shana will be “Cries Over Spilled Milk.” And Jenny will be “Quick Brown Fox Jumps Over the Lazy Dog.”

If you care to join us in this great broadening of sensitivity, here are other possible names you can take for yourself:

Paints by Numbers

Eats Like a Bird

Walks Like an Egyptian

Skips to the Loo (appropriate for someone with a bladder problem)

Goes Around and Comes Around (good for Siamese twins joined at the hip)

Walks Like A Duck, Talks Like a Duck, and Must be a Duck (good for triplets)

Jumps to Conclusions

Throws Like a Girl

Takes a Flying Leap

Rocks Around the Clock

Thick as a Brick

Bends over Backwards

There are many, many more possibilities, I’m sure. We’ll be happy to hear any suggestions you have.

(Please be able to take a joke. Please be able to take a joke. Please be able to take a joke.)

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My suggested offerings for the upcoming Yuletide season:

1) Schizoid Pooh Bear. Marketed as “Talking Winnie the Pooh,” the claim on the box is that Pooh has 1700 different phrases at his fingertips—pawtips—whatever. Now when I was a kid, talking stuffed toys had about eight phrases at their command. You pulled a string, the doll would talk at you in a slightly scratchy voice, and that would be that.

Now we’re in the age of microchips and squeeze activation. In Pooh’s case, you squish his ample tummy and he proceeds to tell you a “story”—each story averaging about ten to twelve words—assembled with mix and match computerization.

The problem is that it mixes, but it doesn’t match. Random words are strung together to form “stories” making little to no sense, such as: “One morning Piglet went dancing in the rain with Heffalumps in a tea cup for ice cream.”

Now we all know Pooh has very little brain, but, good God, this wretched bear is practically incoherent. Even McFarlane makes more sense than this (marginally.) And since his random babblings are so splintered (Pooh’s, not McFarlane’s) I have dubbed him “Schizoid Pooh.” A must-have item for any serious Pooh collector—or any serious schizophrenic, for that matter.

2) Canon Deskjet Computer. A hëll of a lot more upscale than a talking Pooh, I’ll grant you, it’s the only laptop I’ve ever seen with a built-in bubble jet printer. That’s right, a built-in printer. It’s not particularly heavy. Feeds 10 sheets of normal, every day laser printing paper (no rolls or stuff like that) at a time. Some lazy computer store people will tell you it doesn’t exist. Trust me, it does, and it’s tremendously convenient.

3) Collected Comics. Of recent vintage, there’s the hardcover collections of Sandman (The): Brief Lives (focusing on the Sandman’s wonky sister, Delirium—who, now that I think about it, would probably do nicely with a Schizoid Pooh) and Marvels, the award-winning limited series which captures—for the first time in ages—that sense of wonder we all felt as youngsters first discovering the world of superheroes.

4) Red Dwarf Video Tapes. If you have not discovered this utterly wacked British SF series, where in hëll have you been? It’s sort of No Exit in space. The storyline focuses on the (very likely) last human being left alive—a lower class, amiable slob named Dave Lister who (due to his being in suspended animation at the time) survives a mishap that wipes out every single crew member aboard the titular space-going mining ship.

He must now make the endless journey back to Earth (or whatever is left of it), trying to stay sane with his only companions being a holographic representation of a long dead, but still insufferable, bunkmate named Rimmer—and a humanoid life form evolved from the ship’s cat. (This is a black character who was, in the early seasons, uncomfortably racist in tone—and if I think it’s racist, you know it must really be over the line. He was toned down somewhat in later seasons.) Plus the ship’s somewhat discombobulated computer, Holly, usually represented via a disembodied and mentally disjointed head.

In the third season, the series acquired a new regular (an insufferably polite android named Kryten) and a bit more of a budget. Frankly, the new and improved look wasn’t nearly as attractive as the low-budget, scruffy atmosphere of the first two seasons, and the show lost a bit of its focus as well. But the series is nonetheless frequently innovative, oftentimes hilarious. And, once you watch the series, you will probably get the decided feeling that some Star Trek: The Next Generation writers were viewers of the show; some Next Gen episodes “tribute” Red Dwarf episodes rather closely.

5) Marvel Hildebrandt Trading Cards. The Alexander Gallery ads in recent CBGs prompted me to check out the 100+ paintings by Greg and Tim Hildebrandt (not to mention Tim and Greg Hildebrandt). Some of them are merely adequate (Wolverine, Spider-Man), but others—Thor, Odin, the Silver Surfer—are absolutely dazzling. Many stores sell collated sets, or boxes so you can collate them yourselves. Very nice job.

6) J. J. Sachs statue. The first foray by George Perez and me into mail order, and I will tell you honestly, folks—it’s driven me stark-staring nuts.

In order to keep the retail price down on the Randy Bowen/Clay Moore rendition of our sexy Sachs & Violens heroine, we decided to bypass the traditional route of solicitation and distribution and handle the shipping ourselves. I did what I thought was the smart thing: I contracted the work out to a local fulfillment house.

It’s been a nightmare since then.

The half-dozen bounced checks have been the least of our concerns.

We would process orders, give pre-printed labels to the fulfillment house, and it would be like tossing it into a black hole. At least a dozen people claimed they hadn’t gotten the statues, and neither the fulfillment house nor UPS seemed able or willing to provide proof of delivery. UPS managed to break three of them in transit—a remarkable feat considering they were packed in form-fitting foam core. The fulfillment house packed up an entire shipment of the limited prints—and forgot to ship them. Plus, naturally, they neglected to stamp little things like “DO NOT BEND” on them. That’s just what you want to give the post office: an excuse.

At any rate, we’ve made some changes.

The fulfillment house is out of the loop, for starters.

The limited prints are now going out Priority Mail in stiff-backed envelopes. I’m stamping them. I’m shipping them out.

I am not sanguine about more statues going MIA in the clutches of UPS (even a Blue Label shipment to Alaska that was supposed to have gone out in June has vanished; UPS will only give us an alleged date of delivery, and no signature). So from now on we’re shipping via the only reliable, guaranteed traceable means of shipping I know: Federal Express. Who’s making out the labels? Me. I’m making them out even as you read this.

What I would like for the holiday season:

I’m reluctant to put anything specific, because I know there’s going to be enthusiastic fans out there who will immediately send it off to me—which will make me uncomfortable.

So what would I like? Well, I read that there’s discussion of reuniting the cast of Hill Street Blues, my favorite dramatic TV program of all time, for a TV movie. So I’d like a shot at writing it. Because I’ve got this really great idea for an opening that anyone who remembers the series should appreciate. Now keep in mind that quite a few years have passed since last we saw the men and women of the Hill. What things have changed, and what’s remained the same? Well—

Establishing shot, a slow pan across the squad room. Busy as always. Many new faces. We pull back into the office of the Captain, but we are seeing things from the Captain’s point of view, so we do not yet see who is seated behind the desk. Lieutenant Lucy Bates sticks her head in the door.

Lucy: Captain, Mayor Furillo on line one.

We push in tight on the telephone with the blinking light. A finger reaches into frame and pushes the button, and then picks the receiver up off the hook. Angle around to reveal that Frank Furillo is seated behind the desk, just as we left him years ago.

Frank: (sounding tired) Hello, Fay.

Fay: (filtered, over phone) That’s “Hello, Your Honor,” and don’t you forget it. And you are in major trouble, mister—

(If you never watched the series, the above will make no sense at all. On the other hand, if you never watched the series, I feel really badly for you.)

I also figure that Davenport has gone into private practice, and that she sometimes utilizes the services of a private detective named Neil Washington, formerly of Hill Street Station, who resigned the force after the violent death of his partner, J.D. LaRue, which Washington still blames himself for.

Hey! Bochco! Make my holiday!

(Peter David, writer of stuff, has heard that Paramount is hurriedly reshooting the end of Star Trek: Generations, reassembling the cast of Patrick Stewart, William Shatner and Malcolm MacDowell. Having read the script and being aware of what the rearrangements entail, he can only say: Thank God.)