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…)

As news of Anne McCaffrey’s death at 85 started coming out this afternoon and bouncing around Facebook and Twitter, most commented on her work, on the words on the page, but what first popped into my mind, even though, yes, the stories were wonderful, was instead a moment at the 2005 Nebula Awards weekend in Chicago.

Because of the ocean that stretched between us during our fannish and professional lives, even though I’ve attended hundreds of conventions over the years, I only got to chat with Anne McCaffrey a handful of times. But among those times were some of my favorite con experiences.

One took place that Chicago weekend, which included a moment with me, Anne, and Joe Haldeman that was captured below.

She’d been named a SFWA Grand Master that weekend, and was in high spirits. Even though I’m no longer sure exactly what led up to me and Joe each giving her a smooch, I do very much recall her smiling, laughing, joyful.

Another encounter I remember fondly took place back in 1994 when I was editing Science Fiction Age and had been contacted by the Make-A-Wish Foundation to help a young boy’s dream come true. He wanted to meet his science fiction idols, chief among them Anne. I reached out to her, and even though she had many demands on her time that weekend, she spent a couple of hours with the boy answering his questions and giving him writing advice.

It’s times like those I choose to spend my time thinking about tonight. There’ll be plenty of time for mourning later.

I wish I could share many wonderful memories with you about my encounters with Jeffrey Catherine Jones, but I can’t, even though I’m pretty sure our paths must have crossed dozens of times from the early ’70s through the early ’80s. I have a couple of scraps of proof of that, too, in the form of autographs I collected when I was one of those annoying kids with a sketchpad you see at comic conventions.

I started attending cons in 1970, started on staff at Marvel in 1974, and burned out on it all by around 1982, but between the beginning and the end, I can picture chatting with Jones many times, even remembering the rooms in which we spoke. I can see her now scribbling her name on the sheets of paper below, and in front of one of her massive paintings at a Phil Seuling con as I said how much I loved it, and at a 1973 Cosmic Con in Toronto, where I bought one of her drawings which had been a spot illo in an issue of Amazing. (Art I’ve been fruitlessly trying to locate for years, BTW, and another quick search today continues to leave me puzzled.)

But as to the content of what we said … nothing. It must have all been inconsequential small talk.

Which bothered me at first, until I started thinking …

In the long run, does it really matter? Because with her art, she moved me. Her paperback covers made me buy books that I would never have otherwise bought. Her comics, particularly a Wonder Woman cover that sticks in my mind, showed me that comics could be done differently. Her career choices proved that a comics creator could expand beyond the limits of the comics themselves, and evolve to encompass greater ambitions. And her bravery regarding gender issues opened minds, spread understanding, and taught tolerance.

And wouldn’t she, wouldn’t any artist, rather I remember all of that than any trivial anecdote of a brief encounter at a con or at a party? I’d like to think that she would.

I’ve been somewhat silent on social media this week, because my mother-in-law of 36 years, Margaret E. Vartanoff, passed away Saturday morning, the day before her 96th birthday. So my mood has been glum, and there hasn’t been much I’ve felt like sharing. But I thought I should pop up to share this.

Here’s how she appeared in yesterday’s Washington Post, with information on Saturday’s Requiem Mass, should any care to attend.

Here’s the full photo from which that image was cropped. It’s her formal portrait taken at Christmas in 1931. (more…)