I haven’t been to one this century — matter of fact, I haven’t been to one since 1974 — but there’s this annual California-based science-fiction convention called the Westercon. As I understand, it alternates between Northern California and Southern California and has been doing so since 1948. I went to the ones in ’72 and ’74 and I had a swell-enough time but for a problem I always had at gatherings of science-fiction fans.
Many comic-collecting friends in my age bracket have stories to tell of being ridiculed or criticized or merely looked down upon for their interests. I doubt that happens much these days when Marvel movies and other components of the field are so mainstream but back in the late sixties and for a decade or so after, fans of my generation often told of such incidents. It only happened to me in one situation: When I was around people who proudly called themselves science-fiction fans.
You’d think they’d be the last ones to look down on someone for what they read but no. I got a very snotty, nose-in-the-air attitude from some of them — not all, not even the majority but some. One time, it was from a guy at my second n’ last WonderCon who was wearing Spock ears and a “Beam Me Up, Scotty” t-shirt while he was brandishing a plastic toy Star Trek phaser that fired little plastic discs. He was having a wonderful time shooting the discs at everyone while making little BRZAPPP! sound effects with his mouth.
That guy thought my interests were childish.
But this story isn’t about any of that. If you have a blog, you’re legally allowed to wander off topic whenever you like. The first part of this story took place at a Westercon I didn’t attend — the one in 1969 held at the Miramar Hotel in Santa Monica. We didn’t have a meeting of our local comic book club that Saturday because most of our members attended the Westercon.
I didn’t go for three reasons, (1) being that I was going through a phase of avoiding s-f fans due to…well, I just explained why. (2) was that I had just made my first professional sale as a writer and that editor foolishly wanted more from me A.S.A.P. And (3) was that I had a girl friend who was moving outta town and that weekend was one of my last chances to be with her.
So I wasn’t there but Jack Kirby and his wife were. That amazed anyone at the con who knew who Jack Kirby was. Something like 98% of everyone who wrote and/or drew comic books then lived on the East Coast. Until very recently, the Kirbys did but they’d just moved out here. A lot of our comic book club members were on the premises and they were thrilled to meet anyone who worked on a comic book they followed. That it was Jack “King” Kirby was almost too much to process.
Jack was not a guest of the con. He was interested in finding some young writers and artists for some projects he had in mind. The Westercon seemed like a good place to start — and if you’re wondering why Jack didn’t hunt for talent at the San Diego Comic-Con it’s because there wasn’t one. This was 1969 and the first San Diego Con — what’s now called Comic-Con International — wasn’t until 1970.
So he and Roz showed up and paid admission and he was surrounded by a flock of our club members and some of them got an invite to visit the Kirby home and though I wasn’t there, I was included in that group and that’s how I met Jack Kirby and my life changed a lot, only for the better, but that’s not part of the story I wanted to tell you either, it’s all just laying down the background.
The story I wanted to tell you started at the Miramar during Westercon. It began when Forrest Ackerman — a significant individual in the history of science-fiction and science-fiction fandom — arrived at the con with a box. The box contained copies of the first issue of a new magazine that had not yet reached the newsstands. The magazine was called Vampirella and my story will be told in its entirety in the second half of this series. This was just the first part. Thank you for your patience.
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