04/20/97 (Guest Ranter: Steven Prete)
Deities exist in many forms. They are often nebulous and
ethereal, existing just beyond the veil of our reality. We see
them moving and doing, just beyond our reach, and we strive to
touch them, to know they are real. We dare to become like them,
to do what they have done, yet we always fall short. We cannot
rise above the level of humanity. We cannot change who we are and
become an immortal of flesh.
On April 4-6, 1997, I was given a chance to see a deity up close.
I would be able to interact with him for a limited amount of
time. He would sign my books and lecture to me, maybe offering up
that secret which is so coveted by mortals. And maybe, he would
cast his light down on me and acknowledge my puny existence.
Maybe Harlan Ellison would know my name after that weekend.
ICON is held every year at the State University of New York
(SUNY) at Stonybrook. It is a science fiction, fact, and fantasy
convention. I hadn't been there in a few years, but when I heard
that Harlan would be attending I vowed that nothing short of
death would stop me from going. I came home to Long Island from
Boston where I go to school. I skipped some classes just so I
could get home early and make some money working with my dad
before the weekend began.
A few weeks earlier, one of my friends who attends SUNY
Stonybrook said that he was going to be on the ICON staff this
year, and maybe, just maybe, he could get an interview with
Harlan. "That's cool," I said. "Can I hold the
microphone for you?"
"No, you'll be doing the interview."
I was shocked. My friend actually was going to try to get me to
interview Ellison, God, All-Powerful Oz. He said it was only
tentative and not certain. They would have to ask Harlan first,
of course. But I really did not want to do it. I wouldn't know
what to ask him. I knew most of everything that he didn't want to
hear, therefor cutting down seriously on the questions that I
could ask him. And meeting him would be awkward. I might try to
act like we could be friends or like I know even one
one-millionth of anything about him.
I don't know him. He doesn't know me.
Fortunately, Harlan doesn't do much without getting paid. And
with ICON being in debt, they couldn't swing it. I was safe. I
would not have to be in the presence of the light. My image of
Harlan as an impeccable being would not be shattered. His
delicate, glass flesh would not be sullied by my presence.
Yet, that image hung over my head as I drove to the convention. I
desperately wanted to see Harlan, but I did not want my
expectations to be too high. I had heard people say that he is
rude, and obnoxious, and downright inconsiderate. People have
told me that they once saw Ellison as a god, but after meeting
him, only kind of liked him. Their image of him had been
shattered, dashed to the wind, utterly demolished. I was nervous.
I did not want my image of a perfect Harlan to disappear just
yet.
I seriously admire Harlan. No, admire is too weak of a word.
Deify him is more like it. He has inspired me more than any
single person in my whole life, all 20 years of it. Not only as a
writer, but as a human being, HE makes me strive for more. He
shows me things that I would normally have my back turned to. If
there is any one person whom I will always revere, it is him. If
I could only read the works of one author, it would be him. If
there ever existed a god in my agnostic-atheistic mind, it is
him.
But seeing him at this convention was going to change that. For
good or bad, my image of Harlan would forever change. He would
most likely curse me out, or shove me aside, and I would be
crushed. He would stamp me out like a cigarette with his sharp
wit, make me feel like a simpleton. But I had to know if he was
real, if he would shed some light down on me.
The first event that Harlan was scheduled for was on Friday
night. It was entitled, "Home is the strangest place of
all." It would be a panel with HE, J. Michael Straczynski,
Nancy Kress, and Barry Malzberg. I had no idea what it was about,
but HE was going to be there.
I got there early and there was another seminar in progress.
People were already filing into the room for the next event and
were disturbing the current event. As more and more people came
in, it got louder and louder. The speakers of the first event had
to keep shouting and were lost to the din of the crowd. A
particular group of people were being exceptionally loud. One guy
was shouting and rambling on, very rude, I thought. His voice
crescendoed with something like, "God is a werewolf." I
had no idea what that meant, but at this point I turned to see
who this rude, inconsiderate man was.
It was Harlan.
I knew it was him out of the corner of my eye as my head turned.
His silver hair, dark sunglasses, and not-as-short-as-I-expected
stature. Oh my god, I had just considered Harlan to be the rudest
person in this whole convention. I jumped, my heart skipped a
beat. No, it froze, refused to let anymore blood pass through my
veins until I resolved this conflict of God being Rude. I quickly
told myself that it was okay, this was Harlan and he was allowed
to do these things. Heck, he was a major guest at the convention
and these people were probably running over schedule and should
have been wrapping it up. All right, problem solved. My heart
resumed its normal job, and I calmed down. Harlan kept yacking
away loudly, but it was okay. But maybe it wasn't. Deep down I
knew that the portent of Harlan being shattered would come true.
But I suppressed those thoughts, saving them for a time when I
was alone, and cold, and could cry until my body had no more
moisture to give to my eyes.
The first event ended and Harlan began corralling people down the
aisles. "Giidyap!" he said, or something cowboy-like.
It was chaotic, as certain people tried leaving while others were
scrambling for their seats. Someone said something about a
moderator, and Harlan came walking back up the aisle. He stopped
halfway up, cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled, "Hey
Malzberg! You wanna moderate this fucker!" The audience
paused at the first statement, then went into wild applause at
the second. My heart softened a bit. It was funny, but I liked
it.
That was a wild panel, but I had to leave early to help my friend
with the convention a bit. Suffice to say, Harlan and the rest of
them couldn't figure out what it was about, so he renamed it,
"The most embarrassing thing that ever happened to you, and
you have to tell the whole audience." Harlan started off and
told a great story, which I won't repeat here else I take up ten
pages just for that. But I left early and missed some great
antics I'm sure.
But I was safe for now. His image would not be shattered that
day. Not until the next day, when he was signing books.
I was scared waiting on line. Hundreds of people were waiting,
some impatiently, for Harlan to get to it. Sign our books. I had
brought three books, since my friend told me that Harlan would
only sign one per person. So I gave one to my friend, and I had
one. We waited and waited and then I saw him enter. I got nervous
again, for surely this encounter would bring me right next to him
and possibly allow me to say a few words. Harlan set up his table
of books he had brought to sell and the line started moving. Some
guy came down the line and announced that Harlan would sign three
items, unless you bought something from the table then he would
sign unlimited items. Damn, I knew I should have brought more
books. But it was cool, because they had some great books for
sale at good prices. I bought I Have No Mouth,
and Memos From Purgatory paperback for six bucks
each. Mint condition, it was great. So I let my friend hold I
Have No Mouth along with Deathbird Stories,
since one guy had come running back to buy something because
Harlan had called him a cheap bastard.
The line was moving slowly and time was running out for the
signing. People were getting rowdy and restless. Many were making
snide remarks, trying to act as witty as only Harlan can be. But
then Harlan himself came waltzing down the line, wearing his nice
denim jacket with the "Space Cases" logo on the back,
and he screamed out that everyone would get their books signed
since he did not have to be anywhere afterwards. And he had been
right there, next to me. I could have touched him if I had
wanted, but would he have fractured and fallen like so many idols
of the past?
I dared not think about those things as we neared Harlan. We
passed by John K. Snyder III, who did the cover for Edgeworks:
2, and he signed my program book, since I hadn't brought
my Edgeworks. But he had on display a great piece of artwork
which will be the cover for volume 4. The we passed Jill Bauman,
who did volume 1, and who also had volume 3 on display which I
really, really, really liked. You'll see it, and you'll love it
too. And then you'll drool and whimper until volume 5 comes out
which will hopefully, if you are lucky, have artwork by Bauman on
it. (Ed Note: It will. Bauman is doing all the odd-numbered Edgeworks
covers)
The ladies in front of us were getting their books signed and
Harlan was really nice. They joked and one of them told Harlan a
joke that he said was really sick. "I wish I hadn't heard
that," he said. But me and my friend had missed it, so we'll
never know what that joke was. I was in good spirits. Harlan was
great, and happy it seemed.
Then came the day of judgment. My friend went first and plopped
the two books on the table. Harlan greeted him and signed I
Have No Mouth, then when he saw Deathbird
he claimed that he was going to take it if it was the second
edition. It wasn't.
Then I stepped up into the light. He signed my Memos From
Purgatory then saw my copy of Sleepless Nights
In The Procrustean Bed. "What copy is this?"
he said. "This is unfamiliar to me." He scanned the
back cover and then inside. It was the fourth printing.
"Hold on a sec," he said, as he jumped up and ran down
to his lovely wife, Susan. I looked to my friend, "Oh my
god, he's gonna take my book away from me cause it isn't
authentic. Cool!" And it would have been. I would have loved
it if Harlan had stolen one of my books. But he came back and
signed it. "Is it authentic?" I inquired. "Oh yes,
just that I hadn't recalled receiving the fourth printing, but my
wife says it's okay." Wow, Harlan had just spoken to me,
directly, and I was still alive. All my skin was there, my ego
was intact, my spirits were high. Harlan was great. Some dealer
came over and wanted Harlan to sign a print he had because he
couldn't wait on line all day since he had to man his booth.
"What makes you more important than all of these people who
are so patiently waiting on line?" Harlan said to him.
That's why I love Harlan, he really cares about us fans. But he
did sign the print for the guy, which shows how big his heart
truly is.
So we walked away and I was happy. Later that day I attended a
Babylon 5 panel where Ellison was appearing. He was a little late
and everyone cheered when he came on stage. It was such a great
time at that seminar. Marvin Kitman showed up and had us all
rolling, along with Peter David and Straczynski and Michael
O'Hare. I was loving Harlan more and more. He was everything I
expected him to be. But he wasn't being rude, not really. He was
just having a good time with the audience and using some unclean
language to do it. Heck, that's all of my friends right there,
why should I hold Harlan to a higher standard. Because he is God?
That same day--yes, so much Harlan in one day may stunt your
growth, but I did not care-- Harlan did a reading. At least he
was supposed to. He ended up schmoozing with us. He even taught
us what schmoozing meant. It was so great. He blasted Wes Craven
and played his take on the Heaven's Gate cult which ran on the
Sci-fi Channel. And he told some great army stories and every
other kind of story. The audience loved him. I loved him. We
didn't want it to end, but it did. And I was supposed to go the
next day to hear Harlan read "Paladin of the Lost
Hour", which he promised would leave not one person in the
audience with a dry eye, but I missed it. I had stayed out until
2 a.m. which had immediately become 3 a.m. due to daylight
savings time (and it was at that point that I realized why Harlan
was going to read "Paladin"). I overslept and missed
the reading on Sunday morning. But I didn't care much. I could
order the CD from HERC and it would still be as good, well,
almost as good.
But, the best thing of all was that I had had the most amazing
time on Saturday. I was inundated with Harlan and not only did he
hold up solid, but I didn't have to look up at him. He was there,
right in front of me. He was flesh, and bone, and human! He was
everything that I expected him to be. I wanted to know that he
was real, and indeed he was. He was more real than most people I
know, in the respect that he says what he feels, and he feels
what he says. That last part is most important. He knows the
impact he'll have on you with his statements, and even when he is
caustic, he knows how to do it gently. His passion flares out in
all directions, but he knows where it hits and where it hurts.
This is not to say that I know Harlan. Most certainly, I know him
less now than ever, for I have seen that he is human. And being
human means having a myriad of facets. But being able to see just
one more of those sparkling, jewel-like sides of Harlan was all
it took to make him real. I don't know him. He doesn't know me.
Yet I know that he is human.
Harlan did not shatter like all the idols I had previously had.
For the first time in my life, I had touched a god and lived. His
fire did not burn me, for he knew how to control it. His glass
body did not shatter, for it is not glass, but flesh. I found out
that a god could be human. But he really isn't a god. He is a
man, like you and me. He is human, like you and me. He is real,
like you and me. And perhaps more real, in that he unleashes his
passion, not without check, but with all of his heart. His light
does not radiate down onto us, but from the same level as us. And
it shines brighter than any human has ever shone, and it guides
us through the dark.
The maintainer of this site regrets that he knows
nothing of Steven Prete aside from what is contained in this rant
and his e-mail address (Yalzton@aol.com).