My own Harlan Ellison story
Like many folks who have spent some amount of time in science fiction fandom, I have my own Harlan Ellison encounter to relate. I've told this story a few times before, but have yet to write it up for posterity, so I'll do that now for your amusement. You'll find no outrage in it, but perhaps you'll get a laugh out of it.
So, as doissetep is wont to say, set the WABAC Machine for 2000...
I was working at Compaq, and was finally pulling down enough of a paycheck to justify a weekend con roadtrip and not have to sleep on someone's couch or have to fret about finances afterward. So, when I heard that Harlan was the guest of honour at that year's AggieCon, I booked a hotel, packed a bag and some books to get autographed, and gassed up my shiny new car. In a fit of goodwill toward my ex-husband, who at the time was merely my estranged husband, I agreed to let him come with me and split the room. Leo and I set out for College Station in the late afternoon, and arrived just in time to catch the opening remarks.
Harlan had just taken the stage in the ballroom of the Memorial Student Center as we crept toward the empty seats on the far right of the room. He was somewhere between Storyteller and Full-On Rant mode, and shortly began a lament about snacks from his childhood that you just can't get anymore: the Hydrox cookie, bought and shut down by Nabisco to remove competition for Oreos, various sorts of candy, and those pink-white-and-brown coconut bars that are about the size of a pack of cards.
Some switch in my brain tripped, and the Do Not Interrupt Famous People While They Are Talking filter failed to engage. "But I've seen those!", I blurted out, and Harlan swung around to face me.
"Where?" he demanded.
"A-at the Hobby Lobby on I-10 in Houston," I stammered.
"You mean those tiny ones that Brach's makes, don't you?"
"No, they're the real ones..." By this point the filter was making up for lost time, and articulateness was not my strong point.
"Sure, kid," Harlan scoffed. "Tell you what. My wife Susan's right over there, and she can give you our mailing address. If you find one, go ahead and send it to us." He went on with his talk, and I dutifully accepted a flyer from Susan with their P.O. box printed on it.
(As a side note, I think Harlan was perfectly justified in being dismissive: some early-twenty-something had just interrupted him out of the blue with what, for all he knew, was nothing but a just-so story intended to attract attention. I was embarrassed, but I still think I deserved it.)
That night, Leo and I drove over to one of the local malls to grab a bite to eat. (I think he also wanted to hit a toy store or something.) One of us spied a candy store, and just for shits and grins, we decided to check it out. Within five minutes, lo and behold: pink-and-white coconut bars, about the size of a pack of cards. Okay, not completely perfect -- they were bicoloured, not tricoloured -- but still, I could prove that I wasn't just making it up. I bought two and handed one to Leo. We agreed that whichever one of us ran into Harlan first would give him a coconut bar, and we headed back to the MSC to catch some of the evening panels.
Our luck continued to hold: it was about nine-fifteen, and there was a nine PM panel called "Bedtime Stories with Harlan Ellison." We slipped into the room and found chairs toward the rear of the circle that had been assembled. Harlan related a story about dating the ex-girlfriend of a mob boss's son, having his life threatened, and so on and so forth. The audience ate it up, and when the tale was done, Harlan and Susan excused themselves to go back to their room and crash.
Leo smelled opportunity. He stood up and followed them. I did too, trying to quell the sudden sense of impending doom, or at least impending ex-husband-about-to-get-his-ass-chewed.
Harlan and Susan were already halfway across the empty lobby when Leo called out, "Hey, Harlan!"
They kept walking as if they hadn't heard him at all.
Now, Leo's a pretty big guy, solidly built, baritone voice. He can muster up some volume when he wants it. He took a breath and bellowed, "Hey, HARLAN!"
The Ellisons stopped, and Harlan turned around, finger extended, clearly intending to tear Leo nineteen new assholes --
-- just as Leo reached into the inside breast pocket of his leather jacket.
Harlan froze solid.
"Were these what you were looking for?" Leo continued, closing the distance between them and holding out the coconut bar in his upturned palm.
I have never seen anyone go from furious to terrified to relieved that quickly before. Harlan melted. I truly believe he expected some crazy fan jackass was about to plug him right there in the student union, and instead it was some crazy fan jackass bringing him candy he thought didn't exist anymore. He also noticed that the brown part was missing, but he didn't give a damn. He even offered to pay me for them.
"Seriously, don't worry about it," I told him. "They were a buck-fifty each."
He already had his wallet out, and was starting to count out bills. "Are you wealthy?" he asked.
"I'm a tech writer for Compaq."
"Okay, I guess you are wealthy," he said, and put the wallet away. I gave the other coconut bar to Susan, and after another minute or two of small talk, we wished them a good night and headed back to our own hotel.
That was about the extent of my interaction with Harlan that weekend. I skipped out on the charity auction, but Leo attended it, and bid on a few things that went up during Harlan's auctioneering session. He observed that although Harlan ribbed and harrassed plenty of other bidders into raising their bids when they were about to put their wallets away, he spared Leo any public insult. It might have been chance, though I like to think it was a deliberate thank-you.
I don't think I ever made it back to the Hobby Lobby on I-10, but I've seen white-pink-and-brown coconut bars since then, and I hope Harlan's tracked down a supplier.
So, as doissetep is wont to say, set the WABAC Machine for 2000...
I was working at Compaq, and was finally pulling down enough of a paycheck to justify a weekend con roadtrip and not have to sleep on someone's couch or have to fret about finances afterward. So, when I heard that Harlan was the guest of honour at that year's AggieCon, I booked a hotel, packed a bag and some books to get autographed, and gassed up my shiny new car. In a fit of goodwill toward my ex-husband, who at the time was merely my estranged husband, I agreed to let him come with me and split the room. Leo and I set out for College Station in the late afternoon, and arrived just in time to catch the opening remarks.
Harlan had just taken the stage in the ballroom of the Memorial Student Center as we crept toward the empty seats on the far right of the room. He was somewhere between Storyteller and Full-On Rant mode, and shortly began a lament about snacks from his childhood that you just can't get anymore: the Hydrox cookie, bought and shut down by Nabisco to remove competition for Oreos, various sorts of candy, and those pink-white-and-brown coconut bars that are about the size of a pack of cards.
Some switch in my brain tripped, and the Do Not Interrupt Famous People While They Are Talking filter failed to engage. "But I've seen those!", I blurted out, and Harlan swung around to face me.
"Where?" he demanded.
"A-at the Hobby Lobby on I-10 in Houston," I stammered.
"You mean those tiny ones that Brach's makes, don't you?"
"No, they're the real ones..." By this point the filter was making up for lost time, and articulateness was not my strong point.
"Sure, kid," Harlan scoffed. "Tell you what. My wife Susan's right over there, and she can give you our mailing address. If you find one, go ahead and send it to us." He went on with his talk, and I dutifully accepted a flyer from Susan with their P.O. box printed on it.
(As a side note, I think Harlan was perfectly justified in being dismissive: some early-twenty-something had just interrupted him out of the blue with what, for all he knew, was nothing but a just-so story intended to attract attention. I was embarrassed, but I still think I deserved it.)
That night, Leo and I drove over to one of the local malls to grab a bite to eat. (I think he also wanted to hit a toy store or something.) One of us spied a candy store, and just for shits and grins, we decided to check it out. Within five minutes, lo and behold: pink-and-white coconut bars, about the size of a pack of cards. Okay, not completely perfect -- they were bicoloured, not tricoloured -- but still, I could prove that I wasn't just making it up. I bought two and handed one to Leo. We agreed that whichever one of us ran into Harlan first would give him a coconut bar, and we headed back to the MSC to catch some of the evening panels.
Our luck continued to hold: it was about nine-fifteen, and there was a nine PM panel called "Bedtime Stories with Harlan Ellison." We slipped into the room and found chairs toward the rear of the circle that had been assembled. Harlan related a story about dating the ex-girlfriend of a mob boss's son, having his life threatened, and so on and so forth. The audience ate it up, and when the tale was done, Harlan and Susan excused themselves to go back to their room and crash.
Leo smelled opportunity. He stood up and followed them. I did too, trying to quell the sudden sense of impending doom, or at least impending ex-husband-about-to-get-his-ass-chewed.
Harlan and Susan were already halfway across the empty lobby when Leo called out, "Hey, Harlan!"
They kept walking as if they hadn't heard him at all.
Now, Leo's a pretty big guy, solidly built, baritone voice. He can muster up some volume when he wants it. He took a breath and bellowed, "Hey, HARLAN!"
The Ellisons stopped, and Harlan turned around, finger extended, clearly intending to tear Leo nineteen new assholes --
-- just as Leo reached into the inside breast pocket of his leather jacket.
Harlan froze solid.
"Were these what you were looking for?" Leo continued, closing the distance between them and holding out the coconut bar in his upturned palm.
I have never seen anyone go from furious to terrified to relieved that quickly before. Harlan melted. I truly believe he expected some crazy fan jackass was about to plug him right there in the student union, and instead it was some crazy fan jackass bringing him candy he thought didn't exist anymore. He also noticed that the brown part was missing, but he didn't give a damn. He even offered to pay me for them.
"Seriously, don't worry about it," I told him. "They were a buck-fifty each."
He already had his wallet out, and was starting to count out bills. "Are you wealthy?" he asked.
"I'm a tech writer for Compaq."
"Okay, I guess you are wealthy," he said, and put the wallet away. I gave the other coconut bar to Susan, and after another minute or two of small talk, we wished them a good night and headed back to our own hotel.
That was about the extent of my interaction with Harlan that weekend. I skipped out on the charity auction, but Leo attended it, and bid on a few things that went up during Harlan's auctioneering session. He observed that although Harlan ribbed and harrassed plenty of other bidders into raising their bids when they were about to put their wallets away, he spared Leo any public insult. It might have been chance, though I like to think it was a deliberate thank-you.
I don't think I ever made it back to the Hobby Lobby on I-10, but I've seen white-pink-and-brown coconut bars since then, and I hope Harlan's tracked down a supplier.