Weekly Briefing from the North Texas Apocalypse Bunker, 1/17/25

Fallen Heroes edition

The mood has been somber this week at the Bunker, as the Geek Subculture has imploded and also exploded over the detailed and horrifying report regarding Neil Gaiman. I have thoughts about this. Furthermore, they are not set in stone and could be altered with new facts coming to light. I’m no expert and no authority on any of this. All I can do is talk about how it looks to me.

I don’t have to explain myself to you.

Weaponized Charisma

My first interaction with Gaiman was at a Dallas Fantasy Fair, back in 1990 or 1991, I can’t remember exactly. At the time, Sandman had been going on for about a year and a half. He hadn’t done very many conventions, but from the reaction and interest of the fans in attendance, Sandman was already a critical darling and a fan favorite.

The first thing I noticed—that anyone notices—about Gaiman is his effortless charm. He’s got a deep voice that is both pleasant and soft, and when coupled with a British accent, well, that’s just butter. He was funny, charming, gracious, self-effacing; all the things you kinda expect from him.

We were young pros, very new to the other side of the table, and we had a chance to rub elbows with the other pros, including him. Again, the adjectives: gracious, funny, etc. We left that convention feeling like we’d made a connection. As we were leaving on Sunday, we were walking through the lobby and I saw him sitting in one of the lounge chairs in an area built for conversation, between the bar and the front desk. He was leaning forward in his chair, talking animatedly, to seven or eight young goth girls, ages 17-23. They were all sitting on the floor in front of him, staring up at him with rapt adoration, and I thought (remember, I’m 19 years old here), “Holy shit, that guy is going to get laid tonight.”

Gaiman gave off (especially back then) rock star energy, with his black Members Only jacket (he’d replace it with a leather jacket as the series went on and he was photographed more), black T-shirt, his mop of unruly black, curly hair, pale skin, and a palpable charisma about him.

A decade later, I’d have to opportunity to meet him again, this time at an ArmadilloCon, where he was the special guest, because of his novel, Stardust. One of the conrunners was really miffed, because of all the extra people who showed up with a stack of comic books in their hand—don’t those kids know Gaiman is a novelist? They hadn’t planned on it, and it caused some problems.

I was part of Clockwork Storybook, a group of writers who put out monthly updates in a shared world of urban magic. Bill Willingham was one of the members, and he was in the process of developing his series Fables, but it hadn’t hit yet. Nevertheless, he went around the convention staff to arrange a meetup in the morning (in the guise of an interview for the site), wherein we’d ask questions and eat breakfast and cozy up to a New York Times Bestselling Author. It still makes me shake my head that one of the con chairs was really upset—she had NO idea he had a second, separate fan base that would want to interact with him at a literary science fiction convention.

As it turned out, Gaiman was grateful for the breakfast, because the line was so long at his signing (see above) that they kept him there for over two hours. At one point, he grabbed a staff member and asked, quietly, politely, if someone to go to McDonald’s and bring him back a sandwich.

Walking by one of the several lines that formed around him that weekend, I again noted that there were a number of pale young women with dyed hair and a black ribbon around their necks, hovering in place, waiting for their chance to stand in his presence. It looked like a Tori Amos cosplay convention, I swear to God. But it reminded me of that earlier encounter and I thought to myself, “Well, he’s older now, and these girls surely wouldn’t...” He was 30 back then. He’s 40 now. Older, wiser, right?

As it turns out, he was nothing more than Urban Fantasy Wooderson. “I get older, they stay the saaame age.” And also, they wear the same clothes, have the same hair, and apply the same make-up. Because they are teenagers trying to figure some shit out. You know...like teenagers do.

And now these reports have come out. I reluctantly read both of them with a mixture of shock, horror, disappointment, and a pinch of resignation, because my 20-year-old self was on the verge of the truth, but didn’t go all the way there because it never occurred to me that he would have to coerce anyone. And 30-year-old Mark had the wisdom to think “with great power comes great responsibility,” and instead I just silently judged the parents of the young women for not providing stronger guardrails.

Gaiman’s reply to all of this was illuminating. Before I talk about it, let me tell you that I condemn his actions in the strongest language possible. He’s terrible, and broken, perhaps permanently so. I’m no therapist, but my mother is, and I could probably pass a quiz on Cognitive Behavioral Therapy with flying colors, having observed it first-hand for years, and having utilized it myself to address my depression, et.al.

I told you that to tell you this: I think he’s telling the truth insofar as he sees it in his head. He’s wrong, of course, but I’ve seen first-hand how people can take a shared memory and alter it in their head to fit the story they keep telling themselves. That doesn’t mean the incidents didn’t happen—Gaiman acknowledges that it all did happen—but in his brain, his internal narrative, it was all consensual.

That tendency to change your memories to fit a particular narrative is called dissociative recall. Rewriting a memory to heal old trauma is a powerful tool and can help people move past horrible events. Our brains are way more malleable than we think. But it can also be used to change memories to fit a narrative, a point of view, or even a public identity, like, say, if a big part of your public “brand” is built on proclaiming yourself a feminist, an ally, and an all-around swell guy, then it would certainly behoove your brain to protect that and thus rewrite any instances, interactions, and memories to reposition yourself so that you weren’t the aggressor, the predator, the abuser, the monster.

This does not excuse what he did, not at all, because despite any and all mitigating circumstances (and we can pile up all sorts of things at his feet to offset what happened, i.e. his Scientology-based upbringing), the thing that damns Gaiman is this: he weaponized his charisma to attract, lure, and ultimately groom a bunch of girls/young women who were damaged, fragile, and star-struck. He knew how he came off to other people; he’d had years of seeing that star-eyed adoration up close, first as a rock critic, and then later as a best-selling author.

He might not have known any of the girls were in therapy, but come on. That article mentions the victims coming together for the first time and looking around the room and thinking these women could all be siblings, they look so much alike. They were all pale, waifish, and oh-so-very-young. They have read these books and comics and taken them into their being, made it a part of their identity. And along comes the AUTHOR of the thing that lives in your secret heart, and suddenly, all of that charm, that charisma, is being pointed at YOU and no one else (in the room). Now he’s asking things of you, this adult man who holds a piece of your soul in his hand, and how on Earth are you going to say no to The Dream King?

Well, a lot of fans probably wouldn’t, regardless of whether or not he was married (he was) with three kids. If he’d been merely a creep, he could have spent his whole career engaging in consensual relations with women up to and including 8 years younger than him (presuming that the women were 21 and older) and I’m sure no one would have said anything about it, other than maybe, “Ew, he’s a creep.” I think most rockers and authors could have weathered that criticism with a shrug, saying, “Everyone’s an adult. No one got hurt.” Gaiman, it turned out, did the complete opposite of that. No one was an adult, not emotionally, and they all got hurt as a result. In Gaiman’s case, it’s hard to know if he’s just permanently kinked up, or if he was trying to pass on his own damage and trauma. That’s not for me or anyone else to unpack, except Gaiman and whatever court-appointed therapist he ends up with.

Now what? Everyone is getting rid of their books, their comics. Some people are shutting down. We all feel a sense of betrayal and anger at getting played like that. It’s a big, messy, complicated situation that no one knows how to navigate. Of course, there are calls to cancel all of his projects, but I think this is a mistake, for one reason only: they aren’t just his projects.

You want to cancel his forthcoming book? Fine. But those TV shows have collectively employed hundreds of actors and technicians who would benefit from royalties on those projects in perpetuity, or as long as SAG-AFTA is around, and they don’t deserve to get nothing for something they had no part in and no control over.

Janice’s idea is pretty good: she posited that instead of Gaiman’s royalties and residuals going to him, they would go to the victims to pay for therapy and whatever else they need to recover and move on. Everyone else gets their residuals and royalties as per normal. Whether or not this coincides with Gaiman getting extensive psychotherapy to try and repair some of the damage done to him in his formative years, and whether or not anyone would buy a book from him after all that is not for me to say.

I know some folks want him drop-kicked to the moon, where he can harm no one else. I’m not personally comfortable with denying him money to buy food, shelter, and clothes. He can always sell a house or two and live frugally—oh, who am I kidding. If you have a second or a third home and one of them is in New Zealand, then you’re already too far gone to ever try and live like a normal person ever again.

There’s a lot to unpack, and I’m sure we’ve not heard the last of it, nor the worst of it. I hate that this is our distraction, with everything else going on right now. It’s an added stressor for so many people, and I wonder what our collective path forward looks like. While we all figure it out, let’s go buy other books by other authors who maybe never got their day in the sun. We can start with Tanith Lee.

---

Absent Friends

On top of everything else, my substrata of geekdom was rocked by the passing of Howard Andrew Jones this week. The outpouring of tributes is a testament to how well he was liked and what a genuine and good and kind person he was. I mentioned it last year about his sudden diagnosis of inoperable brain cancer, so we all knew it was coming, but no one wanted to sit with that info and do nothing. It’s cold comfort, of course, but one thing I am grateful for is that Howard got to see firsthand how much of an impact he had on people. The family has been comforted by all of the wonderful things being said about him.

From Robert E. Howard Days, last year. Jeff Shanks, Howard Andrew Jones and Jim Zub. We were playtesting the forthcoming new Conan RPG.

On the same day, no less, it was reported that David Lynch passed away. Again, we knew he was in declining health, but it was still an “end of an era” moment. He changed both movies and TV with his quirky, personal, sometimes even transgressive works. Eraserhead. The Elephant Man. Dune. Wild at Heart. Blue Velvet. Twin Peaks. Favorites, all, with writing and visuals that have stuck with me from the first time I saw them. He was a singular talent and I loved his works.

Rest in Peace, Howard. You deserved better. Rest in peace, David. Thanks for all of the great stories.

---

Update from the Bureau of Health and Wellness

Some of you have a vested interest in my ongoing health journey. And some of you might have noticed since going off of my really restrictive program of broccoli, cauliflower, and regret, that I’d put on some pounds, a side-effect of getting married and being happy again. My mini-depression last year didn’t help things, either.

I’m pleased to report that as of Tuesday, I am down 11 pounds, my blood pressure is lower, and I’ve got more energy. I don’t know that my various chemical levels are lower yet, but I suspect that my good cholesterol is up and my bad cholesterol is down. In the interest of accountability and transparency, my goal is to drop 50 pounds this year. We will see how that plays out, but I’m off to a good start.

---

Weekly Report from the N.T.A.B. Division of Media Review

Note: we’ve been reading up on this thing called “art therapy” and in this spirit, we’d like to recommend the following TV series.

Shrinking (AppleTV)

Jason Segel is a therapist, struggling to process the death of his wife. His colleagues, Harrison Ford and Jessica Williams are trying to help him get his life together.

I think most of you can understand why I initially gave this show a pass, despite it being crammed to gills with people I like, about 90% of which is Harrison Ford. We started the show after Season 2 wrapped up and I think this is one of the things that will assuage our collective shattered spirits.

The series was co-created and written by Segel and Brett Goldstein (Roy Kent from Ted Lasso) and it’s a brilliantly written and poignant exploration of someone coming back from grief with the help of his friends and family.

Honestly, I feel that that should be enough for anyone to give it a try, but okay, here’s a bit more. There’s a lot of “therapy” in the show, and it’s all pretty accurate. That’s nice to see, but it has the added attraction of being something that other people might benefit from hearing in a more neutral, less emotionally charged space, like someone’s marriage. Shrinking seems to take great pains at showing progress, forward movement, acceptance, and so forth, without being preachy. You find yourself genuinely rooting for all of these characters, and some of the patients are out there, you know? But even the difficult people are likeable. Which brings me to Harrison Ford.

It's such a pleasure watching him from episode to episode, and it sure seems like he’s playing an only slightly exaggerated version of his true self. He’s funny without trying to be. Most of the humor is situational and watching him being grumpy in a room full of happy people is pretty hilarious.

I think everyone on the show knows they are doing something different, something special, and you can tell. I mean, for a show that deals with death, suicide, and all of the other things that warrant one of those “If you’re struggling, reach out to this toll-free number” kinds of messages at the end of some episodes, it’s weirdly upbeat and funny and still manages to feel grounded and real.

I didn’t shed a tear until episode 9, wherein Jimmy going through a box and comes across a photo album of him and his wife. Those unexpected “grief bombs” are things I’ve written about before and again, it felt genuine and honest. I can’t say enough good things about Shrinking. It’s replaced Ted Lasso in the “Feel Good TV” slot. If you’re not subscribed to Apple TV, it’s the best value in any streaming service. I don’t want to watch everything they put out, but everything that I have watched has been uniformly high quality.

Mark Finn is one of the most opinionated and influential experts on Robert E. Howard in the state of Texas. He’s an author out of largesse rather than as a vocation and writes stories because he can’t play the guitar. He loves gorillas, values a well-placed conversational movie quote, and treasures the picaresque in literature. Annoyed with people’s misunderstanding of popular culture, he took it upon himself to buy a movie theater so he could lord it over every obnoxious film student on the Internet. He likes to say, “If three people tell you you’re drunk, go lie down.”