Neither Your Harlan Nor Mine:
The Morning, Afternoon, and Two Evenings of Delicate Terrors
By Shane Shellenbarger


Harlan Ellison is mannerly, cordial, and courteous: In the two days that I 
spent enjoying his company, I never saw Ellison treat a clerk, cashier, 
waitress, or manager with anything less then a respectful or gentlemanly 
manner.

Harlan Ellison is puckish, charming, and winsome: Whether he's trying to 
convince a waitress to commit a felony, talk a short-order cook through 
the best way to prepare a cheeseburger, or surveying an elderly couple's 
opinion about my paying for breakfast, Ellison radiates feelings of 
alliance and connection with his new acquaintance.

Harlan Ellison is forthright, blunt, and direct: Ellison doesn't hesitate 
telling an audience member to stop biting his nails, a litter bug to pick 
up his trash, or a group of rowdies at a restaurant to take it down a 
notch or ten.

Harlan Ellison is a storyteller. I've read his work since the 
mid-seventies and I first heard him speak at the 1978 World Science 
Fiction Convention, IguanaCon. Whether his words are printed on the page, 
he is reading his work aloud, or he is extemporizing for an audience, 
Ellison captivates, fascinates, and enthralls. For those reasons and more, 
I decided to bring Ellison to Arizona.

In January of 1998, I contacted the William Rainey Harper College in 
Palatine, Illinois, to get some information about an upcoming appearance 
by Ellison. After he had spoken, I contacted the college again for more 
details. I worked with the chairman of the Speakers Forum at Glendale 
Community College, Hannes Kvaran. Then my wife, Lauren, found out about 
the LodeStar Grant, which was sufficient to cover Ellison's speaking fee. 
Kvaran wrote the grant proposal, Ellison agreed to the venue, and the 
stage was set. Fast forward to 11 a.m. March 10th, 1999.

While he can speak on any number of topics off of the top-of-his-head, 
Ellison wasn't constrained to any single subject and so he spoke in 
stream-of-consciousness. He started by requesting his check and then told 
the story of a Chicago talk where the coordinator breached the terms of a 
contract by not having Ellison's fee in hand before he was ready to go on 
stage. The president of the college wrote a personal check, which he had 
delivered (along with his identification), to Ellison. When the bank 
opened the next day, Ellison cashed the check. 

Language was discussed and Ellison warned the audience that some words 
might offend them, but as a writer he knew of only one obscene word: 
Nixon. 

After loosening up the crowd with a couple of jokes, Ellison talked about 
his recent return to acting on the syndicated show, PSI FACTOR and his 
early career as a child performer in minstrel shows. This lead to Ellison 
voicing his despair for the future of the film industry due to the upsurge 
in movie remakes and films based on old television programs. He was down 
on GEORGE OF THE JUNGLE, couldn't understand why the animated KING AND I 
was made, and the inherent illogic of WILD, WILD, WEST just made him shake 
his head in disbelief. He felt that FARGO is about, "Stupid people doing 
stupid things." He states that Quentin Tarantino is a poser (he could 
learn a few things about dialogue from the 1955 film, PETE KELLY'S BLUES) 
and relayed a story about how he went PSYCHO on copycat director, Gus Van 
Sant. Ellison wasn't totally down on Hollywood. He had praise for A BUGS 
LIFE, SHAKESPEARE IN LOVE, LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL, Stanley Tucci in MONTANA and 
Christian Slater in THE TEARS OF JULIAN POE. His final comments concerned 
the growing age discrimination against writers in Tinsel Town. Sixty 
year-old producers are telling thirty year-old writers that they're too 
old to write scripts and teleplays for modern audiences. Ellison allows 
that he hasn't suffered from this rampant state of ageism, although 
producers usually come to him as a last resort.

Ellison spoke about designing the computer game I HAVE NO MOUTH, AND I 
MUST SCREAM. He gloats a bit that he's never used a computer, doesn't use 
an electric typewriter, types one hundred and twenty words per minute on a 
manual typewriter, and that his computer game has received an industry 
award. He laments existing in a world where blotting paper and fountain 
pens are so esoteric that mentioning them gets you looks from people as if 
you were speaking Esperanto. He pointed to writer, James Sallis, sitting 
alone in the back of the audience and spoke about Sallis's work in poetry, 
jazz, and crime fiction. Ellison talked about the honesty that is owed to 
the work and how it prevented him from writing an introduction for a 
collection of old stories by mystery writer Bill Pronzini that didn't live 
up to the stature of his current work. 

Ellison's feelings about his writing can be boiled down to, "You are 
responsible." He doesn't write about science fiction, he writes about 
friendship, courage, ethics, and living your own life to some purpose. 
When asked what he would do if he had to do it all over again, Ellison 
remarked that he is as famous as he cares to be, that he has a great 
marriage, people buy his books and come to hear him talk. He said, "I'm 
either lucky or skillful enough that I can fall into shit and come up 
smelling like a rose."

Ellison wrapped up his talk and was quickly surrounded by autograph 
seekers and well wishers. After posing for a photograph with a woman, 
Ellison told her that she stank of smoke and that cigarettes would kill 
her. He told her that he had smoked four packs-a-day since the age of 
thirteen. These were unfiltered coffin nails: Camels, Lucky Strikes, 
Philip Morris, and the like. In 1962, he accompanied a girlfriend to her 
doctor's appointment and corrected galleys while he waited. After the 
doctor noticed Ellison coughing up his lungs, he led the author to a room 
where he took an x-ray of his chest. When Ellison saw the picture and the 
black shadows where his lungs should be, he made a decision. He pulled the 
cigarette pack from his pocket, crushed them, and never smoked another 
cigarette. After telling the story, Ellison directed the woman to get her 
cigarettes, took them out of the pack and sank them into a half-filled 
glass of water. He returned the empty pack and bid her to smoke no more. 
Harlan Ellison is concerned, involved, and uninhibited.

It's been said that if you confuse the work of the writer with the life of 
the writer you'll be disappointed. I couldn't tell you what I expected of 
Ellison before his visit to Arizona but I can tell you that it was an 
extraordinary experience that I won't forget.

Part II will continue with Harlan Ellison speaking at Arizona State 
University West