Dave Cockrum, co-creator of the new X-Men, died this morning from the effects of diabetes. (Here is the posting from his friend Clifford Meth.) Cockrum, with writer Len Wein, created the characters of Storm, Colossus and Nightcrawler, relaunching the moribund X-Men and building a new dynasty for Marvel Comics.

I knew Dave Cockrum. As a boy I would see him at comic conventions and interview him for fanzines. I remember during his stint on X-Men, which was initially bi-monthly, that he once told me that Marvel would like to make the book monthly but that he didn’t think he could make the deadlines. I remember thinking, “Uh oh” — and soon thereafter Marvel replaced Cockrum with John Byrne.

Cockrum also told me that Storm was his fantasy woman and that Nightcrawler was he himself. At the time, being raised in the household I was being raised in, it seemed incredible to me that this white man was fantasizing about this black woman. Fantasizing about being a teleporting obsidian elf with a tail and cloven feet didn’t faze me.

Several years later when I was in my late teens, I put on my own comic-book convention. Here was my thinking: my business partner and I were selling comic books every weekend at comics shows and making money doing that — how much harder could it be to run the convention, too, and make money not just at our table but from admission and renting tables to other dealers? Not hard at all, it turned out.

To guarantee attendance at the con, we needed a comics celebrity. I called Marvel Comics and asked for Dave Cockrum. He was no longer drawing X-Men — in fact, I can’t remember what he was drawing — but he agreed to do the show, and here’s what I agreed to pay him: the cost of a round-trip train from Manhattan to New Jersey (around ten bucks), and lunch. I promptly slapped Dave Cockrum’s names all over our flyers and ads, sold all the dealers’ tables in advance and for the first time in my life, I made money before walking out the door (with the admission fees still to come in). It was a great feeling.

About 150 fans showed up for the show, which we named Escape (bouncing off the name of the Creation Con, a name that made no sense whatsoever to me — weren’t comic books about escapism?). All day long, Dave sat at his table and patiently answered fans’ questions and sold original artwork and pencilled sketches. He was incredibly gracious. I sent out a hireling even younger than myself to buy Dave his preferred lunch: Burger King. Total investment in his attendance: $13.

At the end of the day, Dave had made about $3000. I was astonished. Even now I’m astonished. That’s $3000 in circa 1980 dollars. At the time it seemed like enough money to retire on. He asked me if we were going to do another Escape Con and told me he’d be glad to come back. I wanted to, but my partner told me in a very snippy tone, “You can do that if you want to, but I’m not.” Maybe I should have kept it going, but other things began to intrude, like college, and theatre, and an even greater focus on writing, so that by the mid-80’s when I was no longer selling comics and had stopped writing about them for The Comics Journal, comic books were becoming less important to me.

It’s difficult to explain just how much of a star Dave Cockrum and artists and writers like him were to me, or how important the relaunch of X-Men was. It’s sad to read of his death, and sadder still to read that he was stuck in a VA hospital for so long and with such financial problems until Marvel finally agreed to help out the artist who, perhaps more than any other, is responsible for the remarkable resurgence of their comics, both on the page and on the screen. Although for a long time they figured they didn’t owe him anything, they finally realized they owed him a lot. Just as I do.

This blog isn’t about politics, but a good friend sent me this message, which elicited a response from me that I thought I’d post here.

Lee: You and I have agreed, I believe, that as wrongheaded as it was for the U.S. to invade Iraq, we can’t simply leave now. Have you read Michael Moore’s letter suggesting we do just that? (Click here.) I’m swayed by his argument. What do you think?

No, his argument doesn’t sway me a bit.

First of all, Michael Moore always plays fast and loose with the facts. Does it indeed cost $35,000 to get a cab ride from the airport to the Green Zone, as he claims? I don’t know — probably not — and since he doesn’t offer any citation, I’m going to say almost assuredly not. I wouldn’t base any conclusion upon any facts presented by him.

Even accepting his facts, though (the 71% or whatever who supposedly support insurgency and want us to leave), unilateral disengagement would be even more disastrous than this hunkered-down guerrilla war.

The history of the 20th century (and no doubt farther back) shows that once an occupying force pulls out, another force moves in. Look at Vietnam, to offer just one example. Whom do we think those occupying forces will be? Iran? Syria? If we’re “lucky” it would be Turkey. The odds that a local power base could hold this already fractious “nation” together are slim. It will splinter, and people we don’t like will wind up with more of it.

Add onto that its enormous bounty: Iraq is the world’s fourth-largest repository of oil. Set aside for one moment how much we want that — and think about how much others want that. It’s hard to believe that anyone is going to just let it sit there.

Finally, we made all sorts of promises (again!) to the Kurds and others. We left them to be slaughtered in 1991. Now we would do it again. Perhaps we should not be the policeman of the world, but when you promise to patrol a beat, you owe it to the people who entrusted their safety to you to do it.

We’re not going anywhere soon. We’ve built, I think, 20 FOB’s (forward operating bases) in Iraq. These are huge, huge permanent facilities. Our government, several of our major corporations, and tens of thousands of influential individuals all have enormous investments in these bases and in Iraq. To think we’re pulling out immediately is not only wrongheaded, it’s naive. Even key Democratic leaders like Pelosi and Biden understand this and aren’t promising immediate withdrawal.

Do I think we have tens of thousands (hundreds of thousands?) more troops to invest, up to the number needed to “win” this war? No. Do I think we should have invaded in the first place? No. But we cannot pull out and allow neighboring terrorist states to control Iraq and its oil deposits and its insurgency and then act upon us elsewhere.

Evidently, they’re comparative morons.

Considering some of the relative achievements of adults (World War II, the Spanish Inquisition, and “Who’s the Boss?” to name three), I reject this research and its conclusions.

According to Skeptic magazine’s Michael Shermer in today’s LA Times, you’re a racist too. And so am I. And so is he.

So does this finally answer a question posed by many (including me, in my play “Animals”): Given our animal nature, are we doomed to behave like animals?

I guess the answer would be yes.

You decide. Take the quiz here.

This would have come in handy at MOMA’s Dada show earlier this year.

For quite some time now, my daughter Emma and I have been writing a song about Abraham Lincoln. Today after a long dry spell, we were able to add a verse. So here’s the current standing of the song. (And no, I can’t convey in words how the tune goes, but melodically it would remind one of a song by They Might Be Giants.)

Abraham Lincoln’s dead.
John Wilkes Booth shot him in the head —
That’s what the newspapers said.

Created Thanksgiving
But didn’t go on living,
Won the Civil War
After year four,
Abraham Lincoln’s dead.

Timothy Noah would like to read OJ’s book and makes a good contrarian argument for it.

I just don’t want OJ making any money from it.

Ditto with Rupert Murdoch and Judith Regan.

Hey — maybe I can sue these people! I feel violated.

It used to be that an apology counted for something.

“Just say you’re sorry,” we were told as children. And then it would be over.

Now, though, even the most seemingly heartfelt of apologies is meaningless. For the hecklers who were the poor victims of his inflammatory attack, nothing short of hiring a news-camera-chasing lawyer like Gloria Allred and demanding millions in settlement will suffice.

So Michael Richards is either angry, or racist, or both. Who was really hurt by his outburst? Himself. And in subsequent interviews, he’s been the picture of genuine contrition. He’s been banned from the Laugh Factory. He’s been vilified by fellow comics. If his career isn’t over, this is at least a very costly setback.

None of that is punishment enough. No, he must pay the hecklers and their attorney, and it won’t be cheap.

If or when he settles up, will that be enough? Or will it take more? Maybe we could find a pretext for sending him to prison. Surely someone’s civil rights have been violated. I know I’m outraged by having seen that video — maybe he should have to send each of us ten bucks. And then have to clean up after Thanksgiving dinner.

I hope this goes far, far into trial, that both sides wrack up enormous legal bills, and that the final judgment is on behalf of the plaintiffs to the tune of: one dollar. Then both sides will learn not to be greedy, hateful, and stupid.

Recently I talked about opening lines here, going on to express my ongoing fascination with the opening of “True West” here. Playwright EM Lewis responded by asking what was my favorite opening line from one of my own plays… and that, ladies and gentlemen, leads us to an example of how a writer spends 90 minutes doing something more “fun” than working on his current project.

Those ninety minutes later, I have to say I don’t have a favorite opening line. In fact, I’m not even sure I can find evidence of one good opening line. (And having the “True West” line as an example doesn’t help.) The ones that immediately stood out in my mind did so because of the spin the actor put on it, and the overall context of what was happening and what was going to follow. Once you’ve seen it produced, it’s hard to extract the experience from the written line. Here’s an example, in the form of the opening of “The Size of Pike”:

(The apartment of a fortyish working man bachelor – the basics, and displayed none too well. A TV, empty beer cans of a notably cheap brew, a pizza box, a recliner. Not a pig sty, but arbitrarily unkempt. There are two doorways, one to the kitchen and one to the bathroom, and a closed door leading outside.

At rise: JOHN and ROD surrounded by camping and fishing gear: a tent, a sleeping bag, Coleman lantern, fishing rod and tackle box, an ice chest and the like. They each hold a bag stuffed with more stuff. John carefully sets down his bag. Rod lets the one he’s carrying drop with a thud. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his
arm, then looks at John sorrowfully, shaking his head with disapproval.)

ROD
Izzat it?

(John looks around.)

JOHN
That’s it.

Great opening line? Mmm… probably not. But it sums up a lot of the theme of the play: that Rod views himself as a manly man and John as someone who is too pampered and bringing too much stuff on this fishing trip. Does the opening line signal that the play is also going to be at times comedic? No — but the director and the actors were smart enough to get that, and to get a laugh out of the first line.

What I noticed in dipping into a couple dozen of my plays was that most of them start immediately (whether they’re short plays or not). This habit probably comes from my formative years of reading bad pulp novels, where someone with a gun comes in in the first three pages. An example from my play “Speedy”:

(A woman, MINDY, addresses us.)

MINDY
(To us.)
It started with a vicious argument with my husband Rob. I don’t know how it turned that way – it happened fast – but it was about the Millers coming over.

(Lights come up on a table and Rob seated at it. Mindy seats herself in the other chair.)

MINDY
(To us.)
I didn’t want them to.

(She calmly places her hands around Rob’s throat, then this remembered scene starts and she shifts into violent emotion.)

MINDY
You prick! You fucking asshole! This was supposed to be our night out! Now you’ve got these goddamn assholes coming over and screwing everything up! I hate those fucking Millers! If I hear one more story about Jim Miller!
Who are these people who eat our snacks and drink our wine?

ROB
(Gasping.)
Sandy’s… your best… friend….

MINDY
(To us, hands still around his throat while he freezes.)
It’s true. Since college. Sandy studied biochemical engineering. I studied anthropology. We’re both managers at Barnes & Noble. I like her a lot. But this time I felt differently and said:

(To Rob.)
Best friend? Best friend? It seems to me that Caesar’s best friend was Brutus. Look how that turned out! I would gouge out the eyes of her aged grandmother with a paring knife.

ROB
(Struggling to pry her hands off.)
I think you’re –
(As he frees himself:)
Over-reacting!
(He gasps for air and rubs his neck.)

Great writing? No. Fun on stage? Yes, if done right. It also shows an attempt to stave off my foremost fear: boring the audience.

Although I haven’t come close to having a great opening line, I think this, from “Three People, According to Sociologists,” is probably closest:

Scene One

(A basement band set-up. A huge acoustic drum kit with a massive bass drum, kettles, toms, hi-hats, percussion blocks, everything imaginable but twice over. A stool behind it. To the side, a guitar in a stand, a beat-up old amplifier, another, but in better shape, distanced from it. A battered refrigerator rescued from a junkyard or garage sale. Beside it, a couch with its stuffing showing. Also, a stereo with stacks of records and tapes, all dusty, and a profusion of cables, leads, and wires leading everywhere: to the two microphones in their stands, to the stereo, to a separate small tape deck, to phase shifters and the like for the guitar. In short: a cluttered, mossy, dusty basement music set-up. Down left, a phone atop a small desk with chair. Everywhere: empty beer cans with stamped-out cigarette butts atop them, and stray trash: junk-food bags, greasy pizza boxes, empty cans and bottles.

Hard, punkish rock and roll music rises, then fades, as the lights come up on:

ROOG, thick with muscle, wearing a sweatshirt with the sleeves ripped off, jeans, and sneakers, sits at the desk by the phone, thinking earnestly. A clutter of paper scraps — names and phone numbers written on bar napkins, matchbooks and the like — is scattered atop the desk. SPIKE, anorexic-thin, with black t-shirt, black leather jacket, black sneakers, and ripped jeans, noodles around with another guitar, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He plucks stray notes, tries chord changes, etc., while he talks, his amp off the entire time.)

ROOG
(Exasperated.)
I dunno. I’m runnin’ outta guys.
(Pause. No response from Spike. He picks through the scraps, finds another phone number.)
How ’bout Jess Hames?

SPIKE
Thinks a C’s an E. Bad thing in a bass player.

As with “True West,” the audience sees the set, sees the actors, hears the first line — and immediately understands what this play is going to be about. That’s not the only mission of an opening line. But it is, after all, your opening — and so it should open the play.

Why could Richard Pryor say “nigger” and Michael Richards isn’t allowed to? Because it was in the context of Richard Pryor’s angry blackness, and Michael Richards is Jewish.

Why can Chris Rock say “nigger” and Michael Richards isn’t allowed to? Because, again, it’s part of Rock’s act — and evidently not part of Richards’.

Why can George Carlin say “nigger” and Michael Richards isn’t allowed to? After all, Carlin’s “act” is how genuine he is — when he says “nigger,” he means it. Michael Richards isn’t allowed to because of what he means by it — a hateful slander — and here, the fact of its genuineness is what will shadow his career.

Attacking people by type doesn’t get you far any more.