Back in January, a friend of mine posted a news story on Facebook that prompted a longer extrapolation from yours truly which I meant to undertake here on this silly blog, but time got the better of me, the moment passed and it never came to be. This summer, however, revived it by way of a paperback book, so here it is. Let’s see if I can connect the dots and coherently conjoin it all.
Some weeks back, I found myself in The Strand, the magisterial Broadway bookstore, with my son, Oliver, who -– fittingly, given the surroundings -– was about to embark on a new chapter; going off to sleepaway camp for the first time (see these weepy updates for details). Being that he’d be gone for four weeks, he’d rightly asked if he could pick up a new book to read over the duration of his time away. This, of course, may have been politely suggested (read: mandated) by his mother, but I’d like to believe otherwise. This struck me as a way more enjoyable task than, say, spending hours buying last-minute sundries like batteries, underwear and socks, so I happily volunteered to tackle it with him and off we went.
Whilst roaming those crowded aisles, however, Oliver admitted that he had no particular title in mind, and asked what I might recommend. Almost immediately, I started enthusiastically zig-zagging around the vast store, grabbing suitable contenders. He shot down “The Martian Chronicles” by Ray Bradbury, as he’d already read half of it, and expressed that fact in a tone suggesting that my favorite book of all time failed to ignite his imagination in the same manner it had done for me. I’d grabbed Salinger’s stalwart masterwork, “The Cather in the Rye,” but put it back, figuring it would already be on his school reading list in the next year or two. He’d already paged through all the Tolkien and C.S. Lewis favorites, and my suggestion of Mervyn Peake’s “Ghormenghast” trilogy (which, I recently learned, was a favorite of The Cure’s Robert Smith) left him somewhat puzzled. The stack of books in my hand thinned accordingly.
Eventually, we settled on that old sci-fi warhorse, “Starship Troopers” by Robert Heinlein. I remember reading it when I was roughly Oliver’s current age during a family trip to the Berkshires and loving it. My boy snatched it out of my hand at the description (some cool cover art certainly helped), and that was that. There were still two books in my hand, though, specifically “Elric of Melnibone” by Michael Moorcock and “The Call of Cthulhu & Other Weird Stories” by H.P. Lovecraft, two ominous titles inexorably linked to the news item I alluded to in the first paragraph of this post. Given that we were about to spend four days in the wooded wilds of H.P. Lovecraft’s native New England (Oliver’s camp is in Vermont), I decided to buy the “Cthulhu” collection for myself and re-visit an old, slimy favorite.
I’d love to expound here on the singular, distinct brilliance of the dark prose of H.P. Lovecraft, but that’s really a post unto itself. Suffice it to say, if you’re fond of richly worded depictions of unspeakable horror (“unspeakable” being a preferred descriptor of ol’ H.P.’s), you are hard-pressed to find a more seasoned practitioner. This said, after re-steeping myself in some of his signature stories like “Nyarlathotep,” “The Whisperer in The Dark” and the rapturously repulsive “Herbert West – Reanimator,” I felt a bit of relief that Oliver hadn’t chosen this particular book, as some of the scenarios Lovecraft so evocatively describes are quite literally the stuff of indelible, bloody-tentacled nightmares. Moreover, certain bits of the troubled author’s work are brazenly racist, even for the brazenly racist era in which they were first published. That particularly unfortunate element does not diminish the power of his macabre storytelling, but it remains problematic. Again, with that in mind, it’s probably for the best that Oliver waits to discover Lovecraft.
But Lovecraft and Michael Moorcock -– less problematic than his forebear, unless you’re offended by an affiliation to Blue Oyster Cult -- are the sci-fi/fantasy authors that triggered that early story, which I’ll awkwardly jump to now.
Back in the late 70’s, like many of that era’s snot-nosed “tweens” (although I don’t believe that word had hatched, as yet), I was an avid acolyte of “Advanced Dungeons & Dragons.” This is an admission I’m relatively certain no one who knows me will be shocked by. Given my pronounced antipathy for sports and the slack-jawed oafs that played them, I took to comic books, science fiction and the nascent subculture of gaming like a pencil-necked duck to water. Mind you, this was well before the advent of “geek chic.” There was no irony in the appreciation my (few) friends and I fervently harbored for these strenuously nerdy subcultures, and there was absolutely no love lost between us and the jocks who failed to understand these predilections. But, y’know, fuck’em.
In any case, upon immersing myself in the then-still-largely-misunderstood practice of “AD&D” (this was when it was it was still laughably dogged with accusations of occult-affiliation), I somehow managed to spark the otherwise largely dormant attention of my father, then an editor at Forbes Magazine. Just as a quick explainer, my parents had divorced immediately upon the happy occasion of my birth, and -– as such -– my father and I never had a particularly conventional relationship. We both tried, though.
Anyway, curious as to the financial backstory of this burgeoning cultural phenomenon, my father proposed to both the largely suspicious 12-year-old me and his magazine the notion of flying to Lake Geneva, Wisconsin to visit the corporate headquarters of TSR, the company that had given birth to “Advanced Dungeons & Dragons” (as well as several other comparable titles like the excellent “Gamma World,” “Top Secret” and “Boot Hill,” to name a few) to do an in-depth story on the creative minds and entrepreneurs behind the whole thing. As a bonus, I would get to tag along.
Obviously, I was thrilled to bits. Dad and I may have had a somewhat stilted, inorganic relationship, but this one act of kindness did quite a bit to engender my considerable appreciation. In small a matter of weeks, Dad and I boarded a plane to that unlikely Midwestern city to visit the source of my preoccupation.
Forty years later, I have to confess that my memories of it are a bit foggy, but there are vivid instances. I remember going into the surprisingly banal-looking TSR office building --- what was I expecting? A castle with a moat? -- with my father to meet with TSR head honchos Gary Gygax and Brian Blume and sitting quietly next to my dad in Gygax’s office while they conducted the interview. I do remember affable Mr. Gygax directing many of his answers to me, given that I was ultimately the very personification of his company's target demographic. After that, they gave us a tour of the whole facility, and -– most importantly -– the art department.
Given my bug-eyed affinity for the visual trappings of all things "AD&D," meeting fabled illustrators like Jeff Dee and the inimitable Erol Otus, for me, was like meeting the fucking Beatles. As I remember, everyone was exceptionally nice to me. As a parting present, they gave me a brand-spankin' new copy of the as-then-yet-unreleased new tome, "Deities & Demigods." My little mind was duly blown.
A handsome collection of new, fearsome characters based on the mythologies of various factual and fictional cultures, floridly drawn by the gentlemen I'd just met, I absolutely treasured my copy of "Deities & Demigods," and could not wait to get home to show it off and share it with my friends. More about that in a bit.
Here’s a quick aside about “Deities & Demigods.” Not only were my friends and I excited about the book, as it ushered it a whole new realm of potential characters and scenarios into the game, it also finally wed “Advanced Dungeons & Dragons” to some of our other parallel passions via the influx of figures and names from the mythoses of Michael Moorcock’s “Elric” series and -– wait for it -– H.P. Lovecraft’s chronicles of Chthulu, each lovingly brought to life by the art department of TSR. Erol Otus’ stylized depictions of the otherwise-unimaginable and deliberately repugnant creatures from Lovecraft’s shadowy texts were especially notable. While I’ve never been the tattoo type, were I to ever committ to one, I might select Otus’ portrait of Hastur the Unspeakable (above).
Anyway, as soon as the trip had begun, it was over, and Dad and I flew back to New York. With my coveted new copy of “Deities & Demigods” in hand and fresh memories of the experience of meeting my heroes in my head, I started giving my Dad a bit more slack than I was normally prone to … or at least until his article came out a couple of weeks later. More about that in a second.
A day or so after I returned, I remember heading over to my friend Pogo’s apartment (not his actual name, incidentally). Pogo was a similarly inclined geek as myself and our mutual friend Spike (also not his actual name -– but immortalized here). Upon my unveiling of my copy of “Deities…,” both of my cohorts let out audible gasps and immediately started poring over the pages, much as I’d been doing for the prior few days. While both took turns studying its minutia, Pogo was especially transfixed with the book, and asked if he could borrow it for the weekend. I wasn’t entirely thrilled by the prospect, but … he was my friend. I’d already read everything in it. What could be the harm? I said yes, and left it in his care.
You probably see where this is going.
The following week, I saw Pogo back at school and asked when I might be getting my book back. He dodged the question a few times during the course of the day, and I started to get antsy. By Wednesday, I was furious, and confronted him again. “I don’t know … I don’t have it anymore,” was Pogo’s response. This was not the answer I was expecting. I was practically vibrating, at this point. Bear in mind, I was still 12 years old. This stuff meant a lot to me.
Later that day, I popped over to Pogo’s house unannounced. This wasn’t really that big a deal. He literally lived on the same street as me, and the doormen in his building regularly saw me come and go, so getting in there wasn’t a problem. That said, Pogo wasn’t prepared to see me at his front door, let alone storming into his home with such a sense of purpose. I was there to get my “Deities & Demigods” back, goddammit.
Pogo’s stammering excuses started the second I walked in, but in moments, I recovered my book in his room. One of its edges was damaged as if it had been used as a bludgeoning tool. That was certainly a bummer, but the shock to my system really arrived when I opened it. On one of the opening pages was a signature Erol Otus illustration of various mythological beasties and heroes engaged in a battle. Someone --- possibly Pogo or maybe his little sister? -– had started to color it in with a felt tip pen. Not to sound too histrionic, but -– to me –- this was like discovering someone had used the Shroud of Turin as a fucking tablecloth. I was incredulous. I took my book –- and may have thrown something of his across this room with great, dramatic aplomb -– and left. Unsurprisingly, Pogo and I stopped being friends for a little while, after that.
Still reeling from that unfortunate chapter, my day was soon brightened by the publishing of my Dad’s article in Forbes. I remember my mom buying several copies, for me. I loved that I had an official document of my trip to Lake Geneva to meet the fabled TSR guys.
Then I read it.
While he probably thought it was a fun lark, my father had actually inserted me into the text of his article (although failed to inform his readers that I was his son). Some of his botched descriptions of my fandom were a little embarrassing, but nothing I couldn’t handle. No, it was when my father described me as “never what you’d call a zealous student” that I needed a moment. I’d like to believe he didn’t mean for that to sound as backhanded as it did to me, regardless of the veracity of the claim. The average Forbes reader might not have connected the dots, but peers in my immediate circle knew the specifics of the dynamic. I didn’t make a big deal of it, at the time, but privately, I was a bit hurt by that.
But, life goes on.
I can’t remember the specifics, but Pogo and I ended up mending fences and resuming our friendship. In short order, Pogo became one of the first genuine “punk rockers” in my grade school, dying his hair a disarming shade of orange, at one point –- much to the pronounced chagrin of his parents. He may have been the first kid I know to own a copy of Never Mind the Bollocks by the Sex Pistols (which, I believe I borrowed and returned intact). I vividly remember him introducing me to the joys of Gang of Four, early on.
In later years, “Deities & Demigods” came out in a new edition that found the Moorcock and Lovecraft passages removed. We all assumed it was because TSR never obtained the proper permissions from the authors, but -– it turns out – that was not the case. Regardless, that only made the original editions of “Deities & Demigods” --- like mine, despite Pogo’s alterations to it -– arguably more “valuable.” I still have my copy, and have zero plans to part with it, in any case.
One thing I did end up unwittingly parting with, however, was my last copy of the Forbes issue with my Dad’s story in it. I’d long searched for it online, but could never put my hand to it. Earlier this year -– inspired by that news about the Moorcock/Lovecraft omissions in “Deities & Demigods,” I reached out to one David M. Ewalt, author of the 2013 book “Of Dice & Men: The Story of Dungeons & Dragons and The People Who Play It.” Just as a shot in the dark, I asked Ewalt if he might be familiar with the article, or at least have come across it during his research for his book. Here’s what he wrote back:
Hi, Alex! It's great to hear from you. Not only do I recall your dad's article, I made a copy of it while I was working at Forbes HQ and still have the file.
I never made the connection that the "Alex Smith" quoted in the article is the author's son, though in hindsight it's obvious. I can only imagine how awesome that trip was for you. I wish I could have visited TSR back in the day and would love to hear more about it. Do you still have that autographed DMG and Rogue's Gallery? TSR collectibles have become very valuable and Blume autographs are especially rare.
Thoughtfully, he included a PDF of the original article. If you’re at all curious, you can download it and read it here.
Anyway, almost FORTY YEARS LATER, this particular episode still resonates with me. As mentioned above, I made my peace with Pogo and we both moved on to other interests. I either blocked or glossed over that arguable slight in my Dad’s story, and we soldiered on, although there were many hills and deep, deep valleys to our relationship in the following decades. Not to end this on a down note, but part of the reason I am probably so wistful about these anecdotes is because that most of the key players are no longer with us.
TSR founder and “Dungeons & Dragons” creator Gary Gygax passed away in 2008. My friend Pogo died in 2010, and my father followed suit in 2011.
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