The first time I saw Carmine Infantino was at my first comic book convention back in 1970. Or so I assume. After all, he was one of the Guests of Honor there. But being for the first time in the presence of my tribe, I was in a daze, so much of that weekend is a muddled explosion of joy, and I don’t specifically remember meeting him.

The last time I saw him was forty years later at the funeral of Mark Hanerfeld, coincidentally the guy without whom I’d never have made it to that first convention. We chatted a bit, mostly about Mark.

I have no great anecdotes to share about the man who drew the first comic book of the Silver Age, and whose work both in that issue and for decades to come imprinted itself on my soul. I wish I did. And you can find the details of his life and plenty of examples of his talent elsewhere.

But I thought the least I could do to say thanks at a time like this was to share his biography as printed in the program book for that 1970 con which changed my life …

… as well as the back cover, which featured his artwork.

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Angel Arango, one of the founding fathers of Cuban science fiction, died recently at age 86. We met in 2002, when I was lucky enough to attend Cubaficción in Havana. He’d been publishing science fiction since the ’60s, and seemed a piece of living history.

I took to him immediately, and looking back on it now, I suspect that, as he was the Jack Williamson of Cuba, my love for Jack bled over a bit into my feelings for Angel, which is what caused, I think, that instant connection. He’d seen a lot over his decades writing science fiction in that country, and I wanted to learn what his time had been like.

I’m not fully conversant with the details of his life—I’ll leave the telling of those to others—but I did want to note his passing, and to make sure you took a moment to think of him as well.

So I’d like to share what’s perhaps his most famous short story, “El planeta negro,” originally published in his 1966 collection of the same name. I’ve scanned the version below from the 1983 anthology Cuentros Cubanos de Ciencia Ficcion, a copy of which I picked up at a book stall during my time in Havana.
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I never met Edward Brinkerhoff Taylor, Jr., who died a few days ago at age 76, but I’ve got an idea he was a hoot.

I only know the man through his obituary that appeared in today’s edition of the Washington Post, which I read because, hey, I always read obituaries. I like seeing the shorthand of a life, and in this case, those final words made me laugh.

Because “despite his best efforts to the contrary,” Taylor “was honorably discharged from the Army,” owned “a series of convertibles bought and wrecked in his retirement” and regretted that he’d “outlived a number of the more venerable restaurants of the capital region and Midtown Manhattan, of which he was a habitual patron.”

I suspect, though I could be wrong, that Taylor had a hand in crafting his death notice, because of the wit that made it stand out from the other far more traditional notices which filled three pages today. Perhaps it’ll turn out that instead was due to his daughters having inherited his spark, but I’ll bet he gave them a few wry tips before lifting that glass of Tanqueray and saying, “end of story.”

Makes me want to start taking notes for that eventuality which I hope is still many decades off. Why leave it up to others, who in their attempts to be respectful might be far too circumspect to tell any sort of truth?

One of my favorite parts of a newspaper is the obituaries page. I love seeing how lives are summed up by friends and family (and sometimes, the deceased themselves), how a lifetime can be condensed into paragraphs. And often, I’m reminded that science fiction is everywhere.

Take this obituary that appeared in yesterday’s Washington Post for Evelyn Offutt, who died on September 2 at age 94. It states that, “Her parents divorced when she was young. Fred, a professional athlete, moved to California and made a new life as an actor.” Note the phrasing, how he didn’t just try to make a new life as an actor, but he actually did make a new life as an actor.

As you can see below, Evelyn Somers led a fascinating life, but the question I was left with after reading that sentence in her obituary was …

… who was this Fred Somers? (For Somers was Evelyn’s maiden name.) Should I have heard of him? Have you? (more…)

I’m so sorry to hear that Josepha Sherman, writer, editor, and owner of a vivacious laugh which echoed above the din of many a convention party, died yesterday. Unfortunately, her final years were not easy ones.

I’ll let others tell you of the charms of her writing (which included Star Trek and Buffy the Vampire Slayer novels) and of her editing skills, but as for me, my fondest memory was off the page and in the flesh—the time we sang “Great Green Gobs of Greasy, Grimy Gopher Guts” (because she’d co-edited a book on such songs) at one of the many parties in one of the many strange hotels in which our tribe gathers, part of the ongoing convention I’ve been attending with you all for decades. It was a moment of laughter and joy, and I wish she’d had more of them during her last years.

Here’s a photo I snapped of her at the 2007 Nebula Awards during happier times.

I’d prefer to remember her that way.

There will be a memorial on Wednesday, August 29 from 6:30-8:30 p.m. at the SoHo Gallery for Digital Art at 138 Sullivan St., New York, New York. Please RSVP to 212-228-2810 if you plan to attend. I’ll be in Chicago for Worldcon that day, but I’ll be sure to think of her. I’m sure you’ll be thinking of her, too.

One thing Science Fiction Age could do during its run that no other science fiction magazines could—since it was a large, full-color publication—was include a six-page gallery each issue, usually focused on the work of a single artist. It was inevitable that the visionary Jean Giraud, better known (well, to some) by his pseudonym Moebius, would be one of those artists.

Giraud, who passed away earlier today of cancer, was a part of the magazine from the first issue. Though we never commissioned original artwork—he was out of our league in terms of paying for anything new out of our budget, so I’d go through his vast portfolio of existing work in attempts to match up pieces with stories that suited his spirit—I enjoyed working with him.

Check out the gallery below from our September 1996 issue as you—as we all—mourn the great artist today.

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… I hope it’s with the same timing as shown by this couple, whose death notice I spotted in today’s Washington Post.

Considering the fact I spotted a similar story exactly two days ago, I wonder whether the universe is sending me a message that when the time comes, it intends to fulfill my wishes, and neither of us will be lonely for long.

It would be nice to think so.

Robert Hegyes, who played Juan Epstein on the ’70s TV series Welcome Back, Kotter, died yesterday of a heart attack. I never knew Hegyes … but boy, did I know Epstein!

In fact, because I grew up in Brooklyn, I felt as if I knew all the Sweathogs. (Which, for those of you who never watched the show, was the name for the gang of kids in Kotter’s class at James Buchanan High School.) And I’ve got a feeling that one reason I was given the assignment of writing a couple of issues of the Welcome Back, Kotter comic for DC back in the late ’70s was because Joe Orlando thought I was a Sweathog.

Oh, I know that the two issues I wrote list Larry Hama as the editor, but as I recall, all of my interactions on the title were with Orlando. I can remember him laughing as we worked out the plot for Welcome Back, Kotter #9 because I was embarrassingly just as ignorant as Vinnie Barbarino would have been about certain historical events. (And no, I’m not going to tell you what they were.) I think that tickled Joe. (more…)

I was saddened to learn this evening of the death of Lister Matheson, whom I’d met in 1999 due to his role as director of the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers’ Workshop when I was invited to be Guest Editor that summer. He died on January 19 of complications arising from a form of aplastic anemia. I remember him as warm, witty, and generating an aura of amusement at life and all its pleasures.

An online obituary described him thusly:

Lister was a natural host whose large heart, expansive soul, and mischievous sense of the silly and ridiculous endeared him to those who knew him and made strangers feel immediately welcome and appreciated. He was a gifted raconteur, actor, reader of poetry, singer of inspired and inane songs, and connoisseur of haggis and single malt Scotch. He lived a full life, travelled widely, and absorbed everything. He cherished his family and friends and was always the animating spirit around any crowded table, sharing good food, drink, and lively conversation. His family and a very large crowd of admiring friends shall miss him terribly.

Yes, I thought, reading that. Yes.

But time has a way of getting away from us, and I regret to say that the last time I saw Lister in the flesh was probably at the 2003 Worldcon in Toronto, where I snapped this photo of him with Amelia Beamer as we chatted in the hallway outside some riotous party.

Remember the line from Auntie Mame that “Life is a banquet and most poor bastards are starving to death”? Lister knew that. Oh, yes he did.

He will be missed.

The last time I saw Jerry Robinson—who created The Joker and suggested that Batman’s sidekick should be named Robin—was in July at the San Diego Comic-Con. He was in Artists Alley, surrounded by admirers. I unfortunately had work to do, with no spare time to wait in a line, so we didn’t get to speak. But he looked happy, and I was glad to see he wasn’t being ignored. Luckily, that happens a lot in both science fiction and comics—our elders, our living treasures, are often swarmed.

The last time I had a substantial conversation with Robinson, however, was in 2008, also at the San Diego Comic-Con. And one of the things I did during that conversation—without meaning to, I assure you—was make him feel old, by telling him about the first time we’d met—on January 5, 1972.

If you’re a comics fan of a certain age, that date will have meaning for you. If not, let this refresh your memory …

Robinson wasn’t there to be part of the show. Instead, he was in the audience, likely looking forward to a relaxing evening with his peers watching the Marvel Bullpen crack themselves up on stage. Until the annoying 16-year-old that was me came along to mess up his plans. I assume I recognized him from one of the two comic conventions I’d been to previously—the 1970 and 1971 Phil Seuling July 4th weekend cons—and so I came forward, thrusting my sketchpad and marker toward him. (more…)